Crafting for Sinners, page 23
“I refused,” Abigail said. “I was an adult by then, and she couldn’t make me go. That was probably our worst argument, and she still wouldn’t tell me why she wanted so desperately to leave.”
“Why did you want to stay?” Ruth asked. “I mean, why stay in Kill Devil?”
“Because of you,” she replied. “I didn’t want to leave you here.”
Ruth’s hands had squeezed against the steering wheel.
“Even though I was still engaged?”
“I could tell there was something going on with Charlie,” Abigail said. “He was acting different than when we were in high school. I don’t know how to describe it—I just got a weird feeling in my gut every time we hung out. I was worried about you.”
A silence permeated the cold air. Comfortable, yearning.
“Even then, I loved you,” Abigail said. “I would have supported whatever you wanted to do, but I couldn’t just leave you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“I’m glad too,” Abigail. “And I’m glad Mom stayed. I couldn’t imagine not being together at the end. She stayed for me.”
Even then, even when faced with the evil once again at her doorstep, Abigail’s mom had kept everything hidden—and now Ruth understood why.
After Judy’s death, Abigail started looking for her dad in earnest. And now she’d finally found him. Abigail’s search was over, and even though her father had kidnapped her girlfriend, had laid her out on the ritual table to kill and devour her, Abigail, apparently, was fine with that. It was a price she was willing to pay—in Ruth’s blood. This blood was thicker, this blood that gave both Abigail and Gideon—James—the same blue-gray eyes, the same curved nose and eyebrows.
“Abigail, help me, please,” Ruth whimpered. “They’re tricking you—they are lying, they’re using witchcraft or hypnosis or some fucking spell to make you trust them. Listen to me—the money jar we use—remember the weird stuff inside? That was one of their spells. I don’t know how it works. But they’re doing the same thing to you now—”
Ruth craned her neck, trying to meet Abigail’s eye. But Abigail wouldn’t look at her, her shining blue eyes fixed on her father’s face, drinking in every word. It was as if Ruth was already dead, already a ghost—as though she screamed into a void, as though they’d used some spell or artifact to mute her words.
“Abigail, please, it’s me,” Ruth said. “I love you. Please.”
Gideon now lifted the dagger, ready to plunge it into her flesh.
“Let us begin,” he said.
The entire room recited the rites in unison: “Sin has a thousand treacherous arts she uses to deceive, while the heedless wretch believes she makes thy fetters strong. On a tree divinely fair grew the forbidden food; our mother took the poison there and tainted all her blood.”
The blade of the dagger dazzled in the candlelight, hovering above her chest. On the table, Ruth tried once more to catch Abigail’s eye, but she was avoiding her gaze, cutting her eyes away every time they came too close to meeting. Like she was pretending Ruth was not there, right in front of her, beaten and bruised and bleeding and about to be killed and eaten by her new friends—her family.
“Thy tarnished flesh our souls have eat and here we drink thy sinner’s blood; thus we create a nature pure within and form thy soul averse to sin. The holy joys, our Creator, restore and guard thee so that they fall no more.”
“Abigail!” Ruth yelled. The ropes scraped her skin raw. She hated the desperation in her voice. “Abigail, please! It’s me!”
“Thy flesh is food and physic too, a balm for all our pains; and the red streams of pardon flow from these, thy pierced veins.”
The whole crowd—sans Abigail—recited these last lines at twice the speed, the syllables running together as if it were all one single word. The deadline must be close. Abigail’s father hoisted the dagger higher, the blade cleaned and sharpened.
“How can you be okay with this?” Ruth pleaded, her voice cracking around the lump in her throat. “How can you just stand there and let them do this? Let them take me from you?”
Abigail still wouldn’t look down at Ruth, glancing around the room, but never at the table—at the relics lining the wall, now with noticeable gaps on the shelves, shards lining the floors; at the velvety cloaks around her; at the shining blade; at her father. She seemed almost enamored with the whole process, watching every step intently, like it was a special moment of father-daughter bonding, and not the ritual murder of her girlfriend, who she’d lived with for years—her best friend, the girl she’d grown up with. The girl she once refused to leave. The girl who had fought for hours to get back to her, who had been so close to freedom, but returned because of her deep love.
Ruth’s heart dropped. Why wasn’t Abigail fighting? Why wouldn’t she look at Ruth? Why did it seem like she was enjoying this? Even if she’d finally found her estranged father, how could she put a man she didn’t even know, a man who wanted to kill and eat her girlfriend, over Ruth herself, who had been by her side their whole childhood? Their whole lives? Who had been there during her mom’s death, had been there during her grief, who had devoted herself to her?
She understood now why they picked her. She was the perfect sacrifice. Not only did they need a sinner to complete their ritual, but Ruth had an added bonus—they could use her as a way to bring Abigail into the fold. Get rid of Ruth, and it’d be easy to seduce Abigail, who’d be left with no one. A family reunion, estranged daughter meeting estranged father, was all it would take for Abigail to forget Ruth entirely.
Had it really been just this morning that Abigail had been so concerned about leaving this place, worried that they’d be targeted? So worried that she’d nearly been in tears over it? Willing to leave Ruth over it?
Unless—
A terrible thought wormed its way into Ruth’s head. She didn’t want it to be true, but the thought wedged itself into the front of her mind anyway. Any fight left in her disappeared as the realization settled in: that Abigail, too, had been in on it. Maybe not for the entirety of their relationship, but, like the police, she must have been playing a part too. Maybe her fear and worry this morning was all an act, a performance to push Ruth to accept the early deadline for that commission that had been made by one of the cult members. The whole thing was a setup.
James had probably been grooming her since they met at Judy’s funeral when he showed up unannounced. He must have recognized Judy—and, by proxy, Abigail, his long-lost daughter who had been just a couple miles away, all this time.
Ruth’s heart couldn’t take it. She gave up, releasing her muscles. There was no point in continuing to fight if they’d already ensnared Abigail, if she had been part of this the whole time. Ruth was so tired. She didn’t have anything left to fight for. Not even herself. She couldn’t foresee a future without Abigail in it.
So fuck it.
They’d won.
She relaxed on the table, waiting for the dagger to drop.
Chapter 29
Gideon held the dagger above Ruth, ready to plunge it into her flesh, ready to complete the rites at last. It hovered above her, the sharp blade waiting to carve into her body and dole out the pieces like birthday cake. Ruth imagined the hierarchy, specific portions going to specific people or ranks, like how the birthday girl always got the first slice, the corner with a big buttercream rose. Which parts of Ruth would be the most valuable? Which piece would Abigail get to chew on?
Defeat settled into Ruth’s bones, nestling against the lingering pain, the missing chunk of her thigh spilling sticky blood onto the stone table, into the fibers of the oversized shirt. Ruth felt herself fading, even before the dagger broke her skin. She closed her eyes, leaned into her exhaustion. Maybe she could pass out before they made the first cut. Maybe it could at least be painless for her.
Then Abigail spoke.
“Wait,” she said.
Ruth’s eyes popped open. What was she doing? Was she having second thoughts?
Confusion settled between the wrinkles on her father’s scrunched face, the parts visible beneath his hood.
“What is it, my darling daughter, Elizabeth?” he asked. “Our time is almost up. We must move quickly.”
“I just—I feel so bad about my sins,” she said.
“I know, my child,” he replied. “But you have already completed the atonement ceremony. Your soul is cleansed. Your sins are gone. You wanted to repent, and now you are right with the Creator.”
“I know, Father,” she continued, blushing, like she was so happy to be able to say that word, “but I still feel like I haven’t done enough to atone.” She looked at the dagger. Gideon followed her gaze but didn’t seem to follow whatever she was thinking.
“Can I make the first cut?” she asked. “I think that would really allow me to atone, even if only within myself. It would be like cutting that dark part of myself away to make a clean slate.”
Now her father smiled. He shone with pride, like Abigail had won a major award, as if she were parading on a stage, holding a golden trophy. He’d finally found his daughter and she was truly his now, truly on his side.
Discontented murmurs spread among the cloaks, hissing whispers wondering why a woman was present at all, let alone being allowed to perform such an important part of the ritual.
Gideon hissed back, yelling for silence, the complaints cut off at their crescendoed peak. He kissed her on the forehead and handed the dagger to her.
Abigail raised the blade high in the air while her father stood in awe. Ruth braced herself for the incision, now wide awake. The cut would hurt even more than she could have imagined, because it was coming from Abigail.
“Now, my child,” her father instructed.
Chapter 30
Abigail
A sharp knock at the door startled Abigail from sleep.
She groaned. The only people who ever showed up at the door were those pesky missionaries, those starched freaks from the church beyond the trees. They had just been here, when Ruth left. Did they want her to sign off on a ticket to hell?
Still trapped in the groggy grips of sleep, she plucked gunk from the corners of her eyes and checked the time on her phone. It was late, the tiny sliver of sky between the bedroom curtains dark. Had it really been that long since Ruth had gone? Shouldn’t she be back by now? A tightness formed in Abigail’s chest, bony fingers stretching up from the acid boiling in her stomach to squeeze her heart, to cease its endless beating.
The fingers clenched tighter when she slid the metal disk away from the peephole and glanced through it. Distorted in the fishbowl lens were two uniformed police officers, their badges centered inside the funhouse effect. Abigail worked quickly to undo the column of locks, the metal ephemera leftover from her mother. Looks like Ruth went and got herself caught, she thought, just like she’d warned her when she left. She loved Ruth, but damn if she wasn’t stubborn.
The last lock slid out of its holster and she cracked the door, her hand secure on the knob, only her face peering out. An old habit.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Are you Abigail Hobbs?” one of the officers asked.
“Yes. What’s going on?”
“Your roommate, Ruth Bishop, was apprehended for shoplifting at the New Creations store. We need you to come with us.”
Abigail did not budge, did not inch the door open any further. She hadn’t received a phone call from Ruth, from anyone at all. Since when did the police personally escort your emergency contact to the precinct?
“Is she okay?”
“Yes, she’s fine,” the other replied. Both officers seemed to inch closer to the sliver of open door. Their hands rested on their belts, their fingers twitchy and jerky, as if they were pondering which handy little gadget they would deploy for this situation. As though Abigail herself were complicit, too, and they were at the doorstep of a perp who needed to be subdued with handcuffs and batons and Tasers and who knew what else.
“We need you to come with us,” the other said, his toes scooting forward, the rubber scratching against the splintering wood beneath. His fingers danced against the tools at his waist.
Abigail hesitated, wondering what might happen if she just closed the door and snapped all the locks back into place. Something inside her screamed. Something deep in her gut was stabbed by premonition. Something told her they would not accept that response, that there would suddenly be a whole army of shrill sirens and spinning lights and screeching tires and bullhorns at their dead-end street. Or maybe they’d be more covert—maybe they’d try breaking a window or knocking down the back door, breaking through the same number and arrangement of locks there. Either way, something told her she’d end up in the back of their cruiser.
“I know this is unusual,” the first said, seeming to read her thoughts. “Usually you’d just get a phone call, but our lines are down—for maintenance, squirrel chewed through the wire outside, and it’s a slow day for us, and she seemed really distraught and worried about you, that you wouldn’t know where she was and would be frantic looking for her. The charge really isn’t that big, either, and we felt bad, so we just decided to come ourselves.”
“She’s diabetic,” Abigail replied, still clutching the doorknob, still ready to drag her head inside and slam it shut, “and hasn’t had her medicine in a while, so I’ll need to get a medical package together. I’ll head up to the station when I’m finished. Thanks for taking the time to stop by and let me know.”
She started to close the door when meaty fingers wrapped around the edge, just above the first lock, almost as if he knew their arrangement, as if he knew the exact right place for his fingers to fall.
“It will be better if you come with us,” he said. His fingernails were white from the pressure of his grip. “That way we can take you straight to her, and you can give her the medicine without having to deal with waiting in the lobby for the secretary to call back to us.”
“I thought it was a slow day.”
“For us, it is,” he said, his tone twinged with irritation and anxiety. “But she’s always got a million things to do. The paperwork never ends. Get the go bag together, and we’ll wait here for you when you’re done.”
Abigail closed the door behind her, the officer’s digits slithering out of the closing gap. Her fingers urged her to snap all the locks shut, to try to hold out until she could figure out what the fuck was going on, if there was anything she could do besides hand herself over. But if they were telling the truth, Ruth needed her. She tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail. She grabbed the small insulated lunch bag from the top of the kitchen cabinets and packed it with Ruth’s insulin, syringes, the glucose meter and its ephemera. She even managed to squeeze in some sweets in case Ruth was too low, draping it across her chest with a long strap.
Abigail’s heart pounded, slamming against her rib cage, as she locked the door behind her and followed the officers to their cruiser, an unmarked sedan. It felt like the bones in her chest cracked in time with the closing of the door behind her. What had Ruth done? Were these people even cops? Abigail forced herself to exhale, slowly. Whoever they were, they were taking her to Ruth. She had to hold on to that hope, that tiny connective thread. They’d take her to Ruth and they’d figure out what they needed to do, together.
The car rumbled away, down the long stretch of the road, turning right where it connected to the larger strip. Abigail’s brain rattled with worry, the whole journey spent forcing herself to breathe between panicked images of Ruth in handcuffs, in a cell, of Ruth fainting or seizing from too-low blood sugar, receiving no help. So she didn’t notice when the driver turned right, away from the main roads onto the newly paved stretch that led to the New Creationist church and store. When she finally lifted her head to look out the window, the driver was pivoting into the parking lot of the church.
“Wait,” she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them, “why aren’t we at the station?”
“They’re holding her here,” one of the officers said after a beat.
“Yeah, uh,” the other added, “she seemed sick or something, so we had them keep her here. Figured it would be better for her, you know—not to have to deal with all the stress and craziness at the precinct.”
“I thought you said it was slow today,” Abigail replied.
In the front, one of them grunted. The pair exchanged a tense look that made a ball of lead sink in Abigail’s stomach, the sound of their fingers rummaging along their tool belts clear even through the pockmarked steel divider. She needed to shut the fuck up.
“Precincts are always stressful,” one of them said finally. “Now, let’s get you in there so you can give her medicine.”
The pair led her to a set of doors at the side of the church, a massive structure Abigail had never seen up close, had never even seen from the road, her mother always warning her to stay away from those freaks. The building was a Frankenstein’s monster of a stadium, an office park, a mansion, and a school, with even more wings around back, it looked like. Before she could catch all of the angles and glass walls and architectural features, the officers handed her off to a different pair of men, who pulled her into the yawning mouth of the church, the carpet blue and puffy, like a dead, frozen tongue.
These men wore stiff, starched long-sleeve shirts tucked neatly into belted khakis. Each one held on to her arm with a grip so firm she could feel her own nervous sweat pooling in their palms, the same liquid that also stained the lunch bag clutched between her hands.
The trio followed the tongue of the carpet, curving around a few corners, until they reached a conference room. The men released Abigail’s arms and invited her to take a seat at the table, offering her refreshments, as though she were a client to be wooed. More likely a sinner to be converted, a fly to be sweetened with honey and cookies, to be lured in with kindness and false niceties.
