AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Never who she was the night she hurt them. And the night she took her sister’s life.
The confession was lodged in her throat. Alive and waiting. So she steeled herself to go down into the dark, knowing that when the resurfaced she could confess her darkest night to him.
“I’ll be with you,” the Deacon said. “Nothing will happen. I want to show you the way the lake looks from beneath. It’s beautiful and serene. I can hear God there. And I think you need to listen to him too.”
Valerie nodded and let the Deacon lead her out of the room. They walked down a hallway to a staircase with a beautiful door.
“This is the basement. It’s in there,” he said.
Her heart thundered in her chest, and she wondered if she was incredibly foolish. Following a man into the dark. She gripped the knife at her side. She never left the house without it. Always felt the sheath biting into her skin. A souvenir from the last night on the ranch. She’d seen the wild-haired woman drop it. And she’d snatched it up for herself.
It always hummed in her hand, felt alive.
She touched it as she walked down the steps, then turned back, watching the Deacon. He was calm, moving down behind her step by step, so cautious. So silent. She wondered if he was ever worried he would misstep, fall down into the dark.
When she reached the basement floor, she stepped to the side, allowing the Deacon to pass her and lead her to the elevator door. It was covered with an iron gate. He pressed the button to the right, and she heard movement. The doors opened slowly, showing her a dated box.
“Is it safe?” she asked, wishing instead that she was walking into the confessional.
“Yes. I have it serviced regularly. It’s perfectly safe. I go down there quite often. Since Father Dodson passed. It’s quite lonely here,” he said. “For now.”
Valerie stepped inside and the Deacon followed, moving close. His scent was of the earth, copper, clean and warm. She wanted to touch him, tell him she was still thinking about his words, still trying to figure out how to broach the subject with Nicholas.
She shook a little as the elevator went down. She wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t trust the machinery, the Deacon’s closeness, or if the dreams she often had were frightening her. She saw rushing water in her dreams. Sometimes she saw the thing in the road. Sometimes she saw her sister. And sometimes it was a winged being with a crown covered in blood beckoning her to a seat beside him.
It was why she wanted to confess.
She was no artist, not a writer like Nicholas. She could not sketch her dreams into reality as he did. She had no talent to let the dark out. She had only this—her want for absolution; her wish for this man. She wanted a family.
When the elevator stopped, she jolted a little, reaching for the iron gate and for the Deacon’s arm.
He stepped forward, one arm reaching for the door, the other taking her hand. It felt cool to the touch, and she pressed close to him; she could hear the water and smell the lake. When they stepped out, she looked down at the rock surface. It glistened with moisture. She looked around, her mouth hanging open. It was a cave, stunning and dark and magnificent. There were torches lit, illuminating the shadows. She wondered if he’d been down earlier to light them, hoping she would be brave enough to join him.
Ahead of her, the mouth of the cave opened to trees and, beyond that, a sliver of water. She stepped closer, eyesight adjusting, nose inhaling the fresh scent of the earth. She was about to smile, but movement to the right stopped her.
When she looked at the thing moving in the corner, her eyes strung, her mind stuttered, and she tried desperately to make sense of what she was seeing.
It was a mattress on the cave floor. A chain hammered into the wall. And at the end of that chain, a girl. She had curly blonde hair, dirty clothes, and a blanket half thrown over her lap.
Her mouth was gagged, and her eyes bulged at the sight of Valerie.
Before Valerie could think, she whirled toward the Deacon, fear gripping her throat until it was his hand there, wrapped around her like a vice, like a caress.
She grabbed his arm, yanking it, but it did not budge. He felt like rock, the steel of a chain. Like her past. Every step leading to that moment flashed in her mind, and that voice inside told her what she always knew.
You’re stupid, Valerie. You cannot tell pure from poison.
The Deacon smiled, and for the first time, the smile made her want to scream. She tried to then, and before the sound could come out, the Deacon kissed her. Forceful, aggressive. She couldn’t keep his tongue out of her mouth, and it was long and hard, the muscle flicked, tasting every bit of her. She tried to bite down, and the Deacon laughed; she could feel it when he pulled his tongue out, blood around his mouth.
She went to scream again, but this time the Deacon reached up with his free hand and removed his glasses.
He repeated his words from the night in the church when she confessed. “Valerie, look at me.” And this time, she had no choice. His eyes were white, and around the edges, there was scarring. She could not scream. She could not move. She was limp in his hand, arms dropping to her side.
She was a tiny doll, and he was the puppeteer.
His wicked smile made her blood turn cold, and she shivered in his clutch.
And then he let her go. She did not run. She did not move. She stood still, staring into his eyes, transfixed. She felt warm all over.
