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A white envelope.
Snatching it, I rip it open.
Tick tock, little rabbit.
Only one person calls me rabbit.
* * *
I geta series of messages later that morning. News sites that flash ‘Killer Caught’ and messages from the dean saying campus will resume tomorrow. He made a statement, but I didn’t care to read it. What I care about is the supposed killer they caught.
Steven Keens, fifty-seven-year-old janitor, was caught lurking on school grounds early this morning. Holding a knife. The article says he confessed to all the killings. But that doesn’t make any sense, because whoever is doing this is pinning it on The Misfits and are after me. This Steven guy may be a sick bastard, but he’s not the killer.
* * *
I runto clear my mind. To not have to deal with what should have been my clean shot, only to end up in a shit show. I venture off the trail, recklessly running into the depths of the forest. I’m not sure why, but something—a feeling, maybe—is leading me this way.
I come to a dead stop at an old, abandoned church. The church is hidden from the main trail, camouflaged by trees and dense smoke this early in the morning. A view straight out of a horror film that would have most running, but me being me, loving the darker things—the things that make your skin crawl and your blood grow chilly—I decide to take a closer look.
The white brick is spalling, years of assault by the heavy rain in Washington. It’s uneven and jagged. Though it looks as if someone has been doing repairs here and there, but never taking the years away from it. The door is a simple arch, the same molding of the campus, except the color is all a white, as if they needed to keep this one building pure. There is a stained-glass window high above the archway of the door. The colors are the same as the ones at the library. The building isn’t big, it’s simple. Made when having huge spaces wasn’t important in the time of worship. I push on the heavy door, freezing as I take in the room I’ve been in before. The room where the initiation took place that first night. I look around at the old church pews, the worn floorboards, the bloody cross. Walking farther into the room, I look up and take in the simple, yet beautiful mural painted on the ceiling. New additions added over the years. Angel wings now dusted in black and charcoal gray. Black eyes peering down from the stormy clouds.
The door slams shut behind me and I jump, heart racing as I turn around. Beckett rests against the door, arms folded as he watches me. “What’s your first thought when you see this place?” he asks.
“It’s dark, but beautiful.” I look around some more, noticing there is no satanic worshiping things which has me feeling at ease a bit. I’m not into any type of religion—each to their own, but I would hate to be forced to participate in any. And as I’ve already started the initiation, I have to finish. “At first glance, you would think Satanism, but after looking more closely, it’s more like fallen angels.”
His lip twitches as he takes a step toward me. “It’s our clubhouse—hangout—whatever you want to call it if you need a label on it. How did you find it? It’s been here for decades and no one outside of The Misfits has ever found it.”
I watch him watch me, shrugging. “Just a hunch.”
“Just a hunch?” he whispers.
I swallow. “How did any of this start? Why a church?”
He walks up to me, his hand coming to the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair as he lays a small kiss to my forehead. It’s… unexpected and sweet. And leaves me momentarily dazed until I feel his hand in mine, leading my down the aisle and into a hallway that ducks off at the back of the room. I watch his eyes as he punches in a code. I should be watching the code but his eyes, they seem to pull at something in my memory that I can’t seem to remember. But that’s crazy.
The door unlocks with a suction-like sound. He pushes it open, nodding his head for me to enter first. The lights flash on as soon as I cross the threshold. As if maybe they have a motion sensor. This room has been updated. Polished wood floors, textured wall painted a sleek black with a glossy finish. There are a few simple couches on each side of the room, a large, imposing desk at the front. Behind the desk are floor-to-ceiling wood cabinets, a lock on each of them. I tilt my head, studying how each lock is a different size; it would take multiple keys to get into each one. Insanity, but also, very smart.
Beckett takes a seat at the desk, patting the smooth surface in front of him. “Come take a seat.”
“I could just sit on one of the couches,” I motion toward them.
“Where is the fun in that?” he says, almost daringly.
I lick my lips, walking around the desk and hopping onto it. My legs brush his knees as he scoots closer, bringing my legs to rest on either side of his thighs. “This school hasn’t always been so forthcoming with The Misfits, in fact,” he begins, pulling a drawer open and grabbing a first aid kit. His hands cup the inside of my knees, pulling them to spread wide, and I’m forced to the edge of the desk. “They used to despise us, single us out. A long fucking time ago—I’m not even sure of the year—there was a group of people, what you would call your modern-day group of deviants that everyone is so obsessed with. Back then, it was basically a crime. They came from poorer families, the minorities of America. They participated in shoddy activities, as well as mingling with drugs, alcohol, same-sex relationships. Which wasn’t necessarily a rare thing, but they didn’t hide it like others did.”
Beckett’s hands run over my thighs, before he removes them to grab some alcohol wipes. He begins cleaning the wound he left there the night before with gentle strokes as he continues.
“The Misfits ran amuck and tarnished the prestige college’s name, so they brought them here, to this church, to be cured.” A shiver racks through me. I’ve read articles about how churchescurepeople, and it’s downright inhumane. Those who inflict those punishments should have experienced them as well. See how they like it. An eye for an eye.
Beckett lathers cream on my wound, making me flinch from the sting just a bit.
“What they didn’t realize was that they were inspiring a group to become enraged. Made a gateway to crime families. It didn’t take The Misfits long to form a little group, overthrow the priest and set him on fire on his own altar.” Beckett shrugs. “The families in the group grew close, creating a small, organized crime group that grew with each new decade until they became some of the most powerful families in the nation. Then everyone wanted to come to this college, get a taste of the power. Eventually, The Misfits became something of folklore. We were forced to hide our group so no one could use a member for leverage or be a secret spy, reporting our secrets to our enemies.
“The modern-day Misfits are nothing close to the OG group. We basically just build connections with powerful families now. Each generation brings in new members to either strengthen the group or just to simply help someone rise above and become something great. Which is why each selection is important.”
I try to digest all this new information; it’s not that it doesn’t make sense, but as Beckett said, it feels like folklore, like Robin Hood for the crime world. And it’s intriguing. “So, why me?” I ask.
Beckett’s arms brace around my waist, pulling me onto his lap as his nose runs up my throat. “To rise above and become something great, my little rabbit. Aren’t you tired of fighting so much? Wouldn’t you enjoy a simpler life, if only for a moment?”
