No one would suspect the great difference between the two small houses on that lonesome, Los Angeles one-way street, not from a single glance. The houses were similar in exterior features, both had only two residents each, being a mother and a child, and both had a foundation set in religious beliefs. But past the windows, through the wooden walls and behind the front doors, there was one difference that was so similar it was frightening. One house was holy and the other wicked, but who was to say which house was which. One prayed to the Father in the sky and the other prayed to the Father down below. One had a mother that appeared light and wholesome that was anything but. The other had a mother that appeared as hard as nails but was supportive and nurturing. One had a daughter with an untidy appearance that bottled everything up like a boy. And the other had a son that brushed his golden curls and was open with his emotions like a girl and often cried himself to sleep when the terrors in his mind became too much. A stranger walking by would never know the differences or similarities between the two houses, but they were there, hidden yet so striking. Both starkly opposing each other, but so close too. So close that they shared a pole, a connection, a spectrum. Day and night. Good and evil. Heaven and hell.
For the next week or so, Michael Langdon walked Carrie Moore home from school. His days became long stretches of time just waiting for the sun to start setting over the city of angels so he could return to Carrie's side, holding her backpack and smelling her natural perfume of honey and blood that hummed in the lining of her skin and flourished through the air with each thump of her heart. Sometimes they would talk about anything and everything and other times they would just share the silence of the afternoon as the last ray's of the day softened all the harshness of the world.
Yet each day, Carrie believed that that day would be the day he wouldn't show, that he had found something or someone better than she. The doubt was heavy in her chest, weighing her down all day, until she spotted him outside the school gate, leaning against a tree, just waiting. Waiting for her. And then her lips would split and her cheeks would ache from being high and hued with a pink blush. But he hadn't let her down, not once.
The afternoon rapidly became Carrie's favourite time of the day and she hated going home to the floral wallpaper, to the classical music Magaret listened to on an old record player while she cooked dinner. Carrie wasn't very enthusiastic about classical music, but it was the only music she knew.
The pair walked a lot, just wandered around their neighbourhood and often visited the graveyard, to sit with the weeping stone angels. It was blissful and there was never any expectations of what their friendship was or should be. Both Carrie and Michael had found a slice of peace that wasn't fragmented by the expectations of other people or the expectations of what the world and society told them they should be.
No boundaries. No expectations. No judgment or contempt and no cruelty. Just them and each other's company. It was new to them both, but both were coming to rely on the other's company, which was a dangerous thing for two outcasts that only knew brutality and neglect. Whom both had more experience with the sourness of the world than the sweetness.
Nighttime was Carrie's second favourite time. The darkness and the shadows provided her with the perfect opportunity to practise her power. She's often cross her legs and move the objects she had gathered and placed out before her. Books and her stash of food and knick-knacks from her childhood. She never pushed herself too hard, wasn't even sure she wanted to know what her limitations were.
But there was one night at the beginning of April that she did test her power. It was a moonless night and the shadows that stretched across her bedroom floor were only broken by a single flame from the candle on her nightstand. Carrie was sitting cross-legged on her bed, her faded sheets soft under her thighs. Six hardback books were spread out before her, each rather heavy and fat. The teenage girl took a deep breath, extending out her arms to hover over the books, palms faced down. Usually, when Carrie practised her power in the dead of night, she used anger and rage to bring forth the raw energy that lingered in her blood. She'd imagine her mother hurting her while muttering out prayers. Angel of God, my Guardian dear, to whom God's love commits me here, ever this day be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide. Amen. She'd imagine the laughter and the sniggers from her fellow high school students. Above all, she'd remember her skin red from humiliation and blue from bruises. Then her blood would boil, spilling out that raw energy and objects would fly.
But that night, Carrie didn't imagine or remember the moments that made her rageful. No, that night her mind conjured something else, someone that made her heart fill with splendour. That night Carrie Moore imagined that Michael Langdon was sitting across from her on the bed, his blond curls tousled from sleep and blue eyes that were both so light and so dark simultaneously gazing at her, a small smirk picking up the corner of his lips.
Carrie closed her eyes, letting out a fragile exhale, letting the scene in her mind dance behind her closed eyelids. Carrie turned her palms around, facing them upwards instinctively, and her skin felt alive, sparking with energy and power. Michael was nodding now, encouraging her onwards, reaching out to brush his fingers across her jawline. A secret smile worked at Carrie's lip and when she opened her eyes to spy Michael on her bed, no one was there. But the books were hovering around her face now, but that wasn't the only thing hovering in the air. Carrie's whole bed was floating in the air, nearly four feet off the floorboards. A gasp fell from her lips as she leaned slightly over the edge of her bed and she laughed, completely in awe. She had never moved so many objects before and certainly never that high before. And there wasn't a speck of anger or rage tainting her blood at that moment and she knew that was because of Michael Langdon.
—
It was a Thursday when Winn Nelson came for Carrie Moore again. Winn Nelson was the same boy that had pushed Carrie in the hallway weeks ago, but this time, the blonde girl didn't have Ava Gold around to help pick her up.
The school day had ended, which usually meant that Carrie was in the safe zone, but bullying and harassment didn't really have a safe zone. She was padding down the school steps, just outside the entrance. She had a spring in her step, eager to see if Michael was waiting by the tree for her. Her backpack bounded between her shoulder blades and Carrie was almost skipping towards the school gate, just a little up ahead.
She'd had a good day. Her classes were a breeze and Ava had met her at the bleachers, where they shared lunch together while Ava chatted about the Republic of Pirates that ruled Nassau on Providence Island in the early 1700s. Carrie had barely gotten a word in, but she didn't mind—she liked listening to Ava Gold chat on and chat about her fascination with pirates. It wasn't often that Carrie had a good day at school, and she had nearly gotten away with it. Nearly.
There was a cluster of Westfield High's popular teenagers chilling at the bottom of the stairs, including Winn Nelson, Christabelle Slater, Deliah Snell and Tommy Ross. They were laughing and joking around, sharing around a silver flask, but Carrie didn't notice any of this, for she was too busy trying to look over the crowds of teenagers to see if Michael Langdon was by the tree.
She was passing them when something struck against her ankle and she fell forward hard, her balance completely vanishing her as the earth leapt up to met her. Carrie's bones slapped against the concrete paving and her reflexes weren't fast enough, so her hands didn't reach out in time to stop her face from colliding with the ground. Pain echoed through Carrie's body and her long skirt flashed up, revealing her skin, more skin than she had ever let the light of day see. Laughter spiked through the air, poisonous and malevolent.
"Jesus, Winn!" Tommy Ross muttered out, but he didn't unravel himself from Deliah to help her up.
"Sorry, didn't see you there, Crazy Carrie," Winn Nelson sniggered out, pulling his ankle backwards. "But I definitely see you now." This was a whole new level of mortification for Carrie Moore. No one had never seen under her skirt before and her heart was smashing against her ribcage painfully as she hastily pushed her skirt back over her stinging knees.
"Does your mother still buy your underwear?" Deliah questioned meanly, turning in Tommy's arms. Her long, dishwater blonde hair blanketed her exposed shoulders but the cheerleader was fine with showing off some skin. Carrie scrambled to stand up, her own peach-blonde hair even more dishevelled than usual.
"So embarrassing. And look—" Christabelle extended her index finger towards Carrie's face. "She's bleeding. Again!" More laughter littered the air as Carrie reached up one hand to her face. Her fingertips found the bleeding almost instantly. A stream of bright blood leaked down over her lips from her sore nose.
"What is it with you and blood?" Deliah Snell asked, her lip curling in revolt.
"It's fucking disturbing, that's what it is," Winn echoed, swigging from the silver flask. Carrie wiped at the blood that now stained her lips and her pale skin. In reality, she had only made it worse. With a burning face, Carrie hurried away from them, her backpack still bouncing on her back.
"Go back to the freakshow, Crazy Carrie with a blood fetish!" The roar of laughter followed Carrie Moore out of the school gate and straight into Michael Langdon.
Michael's body was tense, solid like a statue. He had witnessed the whole thing form under his tree and it made his bones clench and his stomach twist.
"Oh... hey, Michael," Carrie said in a weak voice and she tried harder to wipe the blood off her skin, even used the edge of her long sleeve. But just as the blood, the mortification stained her skin red. She hadn't wanted Michael to see her like this. Not ever. And that hurt her heart more than the laughter and public humiliation.
"That was awfully rude of them." Michael stared at the group of teenagers, committing their faces to memory as his eyes bore down into them with the fires of hell. "Why would they do that?"
Carrie just shook her head, unable to answer that question. She didn't know why they bullied her, she had never done anything to them. Maybe it was just the way of the world, or maybe Margaret was right. Maybe those teenagers bullied her because she was touched by the Devil and they knew it somehow.
"Let's just go." Carrie tugged at Michael's shirt, pulling his eyes away from the group of teenagers still laughing. He nodded with a tight jaw and wrapped his fingers around Carrie's hand. Their fingers weaved together perfectly, and Carrie was growing used to the incredible warmth of Michael's skin.
They walked for a long while before Michael said anything. He had been lost in thought, but his thoughts had only revolved around those mean teenagers. And they were dark thoughts, so very dark. "Those teenagers, do they hurt you often?"
Carrie shrugged her shoulders. "Sometimes," she lied, letting her hand drop away from Michael's.
"Then you should hurt them in return," Michael's voice was cold and sharp, like steel. "But tenfold." The seriousness of his voice made Carrie shiver.
"Revenge isn't the answer," she replied, shaking her head. She could smell her own blood drying on her skin and it made her stomach swirl with nausea.
"Not revenge. But punishment and justice," he rebutted.
"It would only make things worse for me at school." Carrie was sure that trying to get payback would only cause her more misery in the end. She only had to wait a little bit longer and then she'd be free of Westfield High and Deliah Snell and her friends. Patience is a virtue, she reminded herself as the afternoon drenched them in golden and diluted light.
"Not if you do it right. Not if you make them never forget who you are." Michael's fingers squeezed at Carrie's, but his voice was still so harsh, so deadly. "I could help you do it." There was a long pause and Carrie mentally scolded herself for even considering Michael's help to hurt those teenagers worse than how they hurt her. She reached for her golden cross, finding strength and grace there.
"It's okay, Michael. God will handle them, he works in mysterious ways, after all." That didn't sit right with Michael, not at all, but he didn't say anything more on the topic. He didn't believe God would lift a finger to punish those teenagers. He didn't think God was even listening to little Carrie Moore or any other soul on this damned planet. But Michael Langdon was listening and he believed his Dark Lord was listening too.
"I have something I want to show you," he stated with a tiny smile as they locked eyes. He wanted to let Carrie Moore into his life, to show her there was more to this world than the light of her heavenly Father, who wouldn't stop those teenagers from bullying her. "And my Miriam is making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."
—
Margaret Moore worked Thursday nights at the dry cleaners, so Carrie was free to spend the rest of the afternoon with Michael across the street. Instead of heading for her driveway, the pair walked over to the house across the way, with thick weeds and an old white porch that needed maintenance. Michael pushed open the front door and guided Carrie over the threshold with a buzz in his heart.
"Miriam, are those sandwiches ready?" Michael called out, leading Carrie further into the small house. "She uses this crunchy peanut butter that's amazing," he explained over his shoulders, smiling. He had never had a friend over before, and the excitement was fast in his bloodstream.
"Yes, dear. I'm in the kitchen!" Miriam Mead replied, the sound knocking against the white, wooden walls. To Carrie, the house was more homely and modern, whereas her house was outdated. Michael led the way to the kitchen and Carrie couldn't help but notice how hot the air inside the house was. Thick and humid and sweat was already gathering along her skin and beading on her forehead and temples. They rounded a corner and the open-planned kitchen came into view. There was a small table and on the top was a full plate of fresh sandwiches and Miriam was coming around the table to greet Michael, her ward.
But Carrie's eyes sought out something that turned her blood cold and ice suffocated her throat with freezing hands. On the wall behind the table was a black fabric tapestry showing an inverted pentagram. Black and red candles burned and flickered at a home-made altar.
"You—you worship the Devil?" Carrie's mouth was desert dry as she looked from the tapestry to Miriam to Michael. "You're a part of a Satanic cult?" Her eyes were wide with shock and her voice wobbled in the thick, sweltering air.
"We're called Satanists, girl," Miriam started in a clipped voice, all sugar gone. "And we serve the Dark Lord, yes. And he rewards us graciously." The older woman crossed her arms over her chest defensively. "What does your good Lord reward you with?" She jerked her chin towards the gold cross sitting at the base of Carrie's throat.
"A spot in heaven when I die," she replied automatically, her fingers clutching around her golden cross. The warm metal was a great comfort but it didn't ease her racing pulse. Miriam Mead let out a barking laugh, the sound vibrating through the house.
"You silly little girl," Miriam said between belts of laughter, shaking her head. Her dark lipstick matched the dark fabric she was draped in and around her neck she wore a pendant of Lucifer's symbol: A group of interlocking upside-down triangles and curved lines at the bottom that almost looked like horns over a small V.
"Miriam," Michael warned. He was a statue again, eyes narrowing. This wasn't going according to plan. Maybe it was a mistake to bring Carrie over when Miriam was home. Carrie had always been open with him but he could feel her was closing off from him and it ached his heart. Maybe he had expected too much of her all of the sudden, or maybe he just wanted more from her now. Or maybe he had just been too childish and naive.
"The Dark Lord brought me Michael, and it is my utmost honour and joy to raise him. For he will bring us the future of the world". The woman's tone was pointed yet protective. "And I won't let some little church girl ruin or sidetrack his bright and blazing future."
"Miriam!" Michael hissed out through clenched teeth. His blue eyes were growing dark as he looked from his guardian to his friend, who looked unsettled and uncomfortable. He was beginning to shake with anger.
"I apologise, Michael, but I should leave. The sandwiches look wonderful, Ms Mead." Carrie's voice shook like a leaf caught in a strong wind and she was already moving backwards on her heels. Her fear and shock were strong, stronger than her feelings for Michael. It was no lie that she cared greatly for Michael, but the reveal of their dark religious practices was jarring and her heart was conflicted, cracked down the middle.
"Wait—Carrietta," Michael tried, but Carrie just shook her head again, fumbling backwards, back down the hallway.
"She has no sense, but at least she has manners," Miriam muttered, picking up the plate of sandwiches as she moved back into the kitchen, ready to serve up the bounty and gifts of animal parts that were sitting in the fridge to the Dark Lord during the household's evening prayers.
Carrie fleeted to the door, her heart in her throat, and in her hurry, she didn't close door upon her escape. She dashed across the one-way street and didn't look back until she was safely behind her own front door, the lock secured. She peeked through the peephole and saw as Michael slammed the front door closed in a fury, and even from across the road, Carrie could hear the windows shuddering in their frames.