Of the Blood | ✔️

Nineteen

"As you're all aware, several weeks ago, Mrs. Lloyd received a letter from Rhode Island. It claimed the deceased are rising from their graves at night to feed on the blood of the living."

As his gaze sweeps over the congregation, it lands on Mrs. Lloyd in the second row. She gives him a nod and encourages him to continue. 

After a long beat, the pastor's chest rises with a heavy breath. "I admit, I didn't believe it at first—not until the unthinkable happened here, in South Harbor—our hardworking community that has long been a symbol of loving our neighbors as our ourselves. But when that child's corpse took a breath...well, it changed everything." His head shakes pitifully as candlelight from the altar gleams off his scalp. "For those of us who witnessed it, there was no denying the truth. Evil walks among us. And now, we're left with the decision of what to do next."

I squirm in my seat. What more can be done? The measures taken thus far have not improved our situation. Things have only gotten worse. Surely they see that? They're searching for solutions to a problem that doesn't exist, when what they need to do is focus on the person responsible.

The man in the mansion on top of the hill—the one who killed my best friend.

As the pastor carries on, my eyes drag over the churchgoers. Some hold onto one another's hands. Others fight back tears. And some are angry, brows slanted inward, their fear growing into a rage they're unable to contain.

Mr. Baptiste isn't here. Of course, he wouldn't be. He's not afraid—but then, he never comes to church. Every Sunday morning, the entire town fills these pews. Everyone, except for him. The only time Mr. Baptiste has been here was that Saturday in the cemetery, when I watched him stomp out the front door and stalk down the road. He wouldn't even accept the cross Papa made. If not the Lord, who does he pray to?

Unless...

"The Bible tells us to be watchful: because our adversary, the devil, prowls like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour." Every eye follows as Pastor Turner steps away from the podium. When he speaks again, his voice is fiercer than before, his gestures sharper. His arms stretch wide as he looks us over. "Satan is everywhere. He's in our homes, he walks our streets. He whispers in our ears. His will is accomplished through trickery and deception. And in extreme cases, he's been known to inhabit the bodies of the innocent...much like what we're experiencing today."

Next to me, Papa stiffens. His arm grinds into mine as Honor grabs a hold of my hand, the nightmares he'll most likely have tonight already taking root in his brain. I press my free hand to my mouth to stop the tremble in my lips.

Pastor Turner continues. "Today, I am calling each and every one of you to—"

Just then, the doors behind us swing open, and a frigid gust surges down the aisle. It lashes against the back of my head, and makes the candles flickering along the altar bend sideways. Several of the flames blink out completely as ribbons of smoke rise from their wicks.

Everyone turns to stare. Mr. Baptiste enters, his black cloak beetling around his boots like an inky, black curtain.

The pastor's eyes widen like they want to pop out of his skull. After a tense beat, he straightens his shoulders. "Well, if it isn't our new neighbor. What brings you here today, Mr. Baptiste—in the house of our Lord?"

The sentence lingers in the air like a phantom.

Mr. Baptiste removes his hat and pins it between his arm and hip. He steps further into the aisle and runs a sleek, black glove, similar to ones he gave me, over his snow-white hair. "Pardonnez-moi. I don't mean to intrude, but I've been summoned for a meeting."