Scott Pratt - In good faith

I walked slowly up on the front porch and turned the doorknob. It was unlocked, but it squeaked slightly as I opened it. I crouched again and moved just inside the door. Another flash of lightning exploded above me, briefly illuminating an image of Marie Davis sitting in her recliner. I pushed the switch on the flashlight and panned the kitchen and den. Marie, wearing her flowered robe, was staring straight at me, her face as pale as white paper behind the tinted glasses. I moved towards her slowly, still in a crouch.

“Where is she?” I whispered.

She looked away for a brief second and I heard air rushing through her nostrils. When she turned back, she raised her right hand, her index finger pointing towards the back of the house. She mouthed the word outside.

I moved back out through the front door, went down the steps, and put my back against the front of the house. From there, I started sliding along the wall until I got to the corner. I peeked around the side, looking for any sign of Natasha or a dog, seeing nothing. I slid along the side wall until I got to the corner. I raised the flashlight and scanned the backyard. Still nothing. Just as I started to move, I thought I sensed movement behind me. I was conscious of another lightning strike and searing pain, and then I slipped into darkness.

I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but when I woke up I was flat on my back with rain pelting down on me, stinging my face. I opened my eyes and first tried to lift my head, but the pain in my temples was so intense when I moved that I nearly threw up. I closed my eyes and lay still, thoroughly confused until I suddenly remembered where I was. Hunting for Natasha. Trying to save my wife. But something had happened. Either I’d been struck by lightning, or someone had hit me.

I tried to sit up, but realized that my arms and legs were restrained. I turned my head from side to side and could see that my wrists were tied to something that had been driven into the ground. Tent stakes? I pulled against them with what little strength I had, but neither of them moved. I lifted my head and could see that my legs were both bound in the same fashion. As I laid my head back down on the cold, soaked earth, I could feel something warm running down the back of my neck, and I knew it must be blood.

The kitten. Natasha and her kitten.

I began to tug at the stakes again, ignoring the pain that was surging down my spine and radiating through my entire body.

C’mon, goddammit! C’mon!

I tried desperately to push the stakes back and pull them towards me. I thought if I could loosen them enough in the ground, I’d be able to pull them up.

As I strained against the ropes, I heard a snarl a few feet away. I turned my head just as a bolt of lightning flashed and could make out a figure standing beneath a small tree, wearing a hood. In its hand was a thick leash, and attached to the leash was a Doberman. A sickening chill overtook me. It was Natasha. My heart began to pound even harder in my chest. She wrapped the leash around the trunk of the tree a couple of times, tied it, took a few steps, and stood directly above me. I knew if I didn’t find a way to free myself soon, I’d be dead.

“I like you in this position,” she said in a calm voice. “If I had more time, I’d build a cross and do it right.”

She knelt down, her knees almost straddling my head. I watched as she reached with her right hand to the ground to retrieve something. She picked up a hammer, the one she must have used to drive the stakes into the ground. Slowly, she reached into a coat pocket and pulled out an ice pick. She began waving the pick back and forth in front of my eyes.

“Have you come to arrest me?” she said. “Or have you come to kill me? I think you’re here to kill me. And what does that say about you, Mr. Dillard? It says you’re no different than me. You came to punish me for violating your Christian laws, just like I punish those who deserve it. Or did you come to sacrifice yourself so others might live? Do you have a Jesus complex, Mr. Dillard? Do you?”

She bent close to the ground and put her lips next to my ear.

“I wish I could crucify you,” she whispered, “but since I can’t nail you to the ground, I’ll have to settle for this.”

She moved quickly to her right, still on her knees. I saw her hold the ice pick against my right forearm, felt the stab of the steel point. She raised the hammer and brought it down hard. I moaned as the pick drove through my flesh. Oh, my God, how’s it going to feel when she drives it into my throat, my chest, my eye? The pain was unspeakable, but I refused to scream or beg for mercy. The rage I’d felt before I was knocked out had returned. I hated her. I hated her and everything she represented. I put an image of blowing a hole through her with the shotgun in my mind, and kept straining against the ropes.

She pulled the ice pick out, sending another shock of pain through me, then straddled me and began whispering in my ear again.

“The smell of your blood will drive Zeus wild,” she said. “As soon as I finish, I’m going to let him taste you. He hates you anyway. Do you know why? Because I told him you killed his sister. How’s your daughter, anyway?”

She scooted to the left and drove the pick through my other forearm. A wave of nausea came over me, and I turned my head to the side in case I threw up. I didn’t want to drown in my own vomit, but the thought crossed my mind that it might be better than what Natasha had in store for me. She crawled around to my right foot, and I braced again for the pain. But as she lifted the hammer, I heard another female voice.

“Stop hurting him, Natasha.”

Was I hallucinating? Maybe, but when I looked at Natasha, there was a look of surprise, maybe bewilderment, on her face.

“You!” Natasha hissed as she slowly stood. “What are you doing here?”

I heard a squishing sound, footsteps, and looked back and to my left. Alisha was standing there, and in her hands she held Fraley’s shotgun. The dog continued to snarl and bark. I could see it pulling against the leash. Please, God, don’t let the leash break. Please.

“Leave him alone, Natasha. Let him go.”

“Or what? Are you going to shoot me?” Natasha started walking slowly towards her sister as she spoke. “You, the good daughter, the gentle soul, the Wiccan princess? You’ve never hurt anything in your life. You don’t have the strength.”

“Stop, Natasha, or I’ll pull the trigger.”

“Go ahead!” Natasha yelled. “You can’t hurt me anyway. Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know that I’m the daughter of Satan?”

She began to speak in the same language I’d heard at the courthouse, continuing to move towards Alisha. As she spoke, she quickened her step. Suddenly, she raised the ice pick and lunged at Alisha.

The shotgun belched fire and smoke and thunder, and Natasha was lifted off the ground. I heard a thud as she landed, and I strained to see if she was moving. Alisha dropped the shotgun and began working on the ropes holding my arms. As soon as they were free, I tried to help her loosen the ropes on my ankles, but my fingers wouldn’t work. Blood was pouring out of the wounds in my forearms, and when I tried to stand, pain and dizziness forced me back to my knees. I looked over at Natasha-she was faceup a few feet away. Her shirt was stained with dark blood.

She bleeds. I guess she’s human after all.

I crawled over to the shotgun and picked it up. The dog had suddenly grown quiet. I didn’t want to kill it, but if it broke free and came after us, I knew I wouldn’t have a choice. Alisha hooked her hand beneath my arm and helped me get to my feet. I noticed headlights coming down the road towards the driveway. I turned back and stood looking down at Natasha. My forearms felt like they were on fire, and my head felt as if it were about to explode with every beat of my heart. With Alisha still holding my arm for support, and using the shotgun as a crutch, I knelt back down next to Natasha and felt for a pulse.