SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

He stepped towards her.

That’s it , said the Holy Spirit.

"What?" she said.

"You heard me!" thundered Courchene, taking another step, his hand shaking as he pointed at her. He didn’t seem a towering knight of authority anymore, but instead, a frightened boy quivering awkwardly in a man’s body.

More , said the Holy Spirit.

But she did not understand, and so backed right to the far wall of her tiny cell, wishing she could melt and pass through the wood and stone.

"You, you were always a good boy, dear," she said, hoping that praise at this late stage would still turn his rage from her—the children were always so desperate for a kind word, that was why she and the nuns withheld them, as a rule, to keep the students in line—and allow her to appeal to his mercy.

He has none, for you, said the Holy Spirit; and in her heart she knew it spoke the truth.

He took another half-step toward her, his tall, broad-shouldered frame casting a shadow in the light of the electric bulb fixed in the ceiling. It also, for a moment, blocked her view of the crucifix, and suddenly she felt a leaden weight fall from her limbs.

Now , said the Holy Spirit, you must listen to me, or we will both perish. You are ready to attempt something that may deliver us yet.

She closed her eyes. What must I do? she said silently.

Allow me to take control for a moment .

Her eyelids flew open, her pulse racing. This was it. The test of her faith. The splinter of doubt in her grew too painful to ignore and she realized the truth. This was not the voice of God that had been speaking to her.

She felt jubilation at her discovery, even as the Voice said At last, you see—

Because she knew, with certainty, that it was the Devil who whispered to her. You cannot tempt me, she told it.

The Voice howled something silently within her, in infernal language she could not understand. She fell to her knees and began to pray. She ignored the looming officer over her and beseeched the Lord for deliverance.

It is your faith in your God that keeps you imprisoned, whispered the Voice.

She ignored it.

The sign, that symbol on the wall —here the Voice seemed unable to even call it what it was, a crucifix— means something very powerful to you. It focuses your thoughts and beliefs. But it must mean something very different to this man. Because your human minds seem capable of making the same depiction mean very, very different things. My kind cannot do this, and this clash of faith hurts us.

Margaret did not understand the voice at all. She kept whispering her Our Father aloud.

"That won’t help you," said Courchene. "All the years you made us memorize and repeat your white God’s words, it taught me and my brothers there would be no answer. A lot of kids never made it out of that place. Now there will be no answer for you, either, except the sunrise."

The voice was frantic now. If you stay here we will both burn. You’ve felt the sun’s touch before.

Her words faltered as she came to "…deliver us from evil." She remembered the time she had tried to leave the school in the early evening, years ago; a few seconds and her skin was a painful crimson. It had taken her weeks to recover. And as long as the school authorities let her stay and work in the basement, there was no trouble. She found she was very persuasive, even down to the suggestion to the nuns that yes, indeed, of course she wore a cross around her neck. Oh yes , they would say, staring at her neck, where no necklace lay, I see it now . And they were not lying; they saw what she wanted them to see. But now they had seen too much; Reverend William had caught her in the act of feeding on the little brat who had discovered the other girls' bodies in the locked basement room. He knew what she had done. It was too much, and he had sided with the little savage, calling the police. She could not go back to the school. She must escape.

I can help you , the voice said, and she could not tell whether the agitation she felt belonged to the voice or to her.

God will help me .

A second of silence, then the voice replied: if you do not take the help that is offered, what more can your God do?

She ran her tongue over her sharp teeth. What, indeed?

"What must I do?" she asked.

Courchene gripped his pistol in its holster as if afraid it would jump out of its own accord. "You can sit there in the light, alone."

Then the voice took control of her, just for a moment.

She felt an odd sensation, as of a long, deep, exhalation. The cell and police station faded to grey, become indistinct. Then she realized it was she who was changing. Her body lightened, diffused, lost all shape and spread to fill the cell. She had no eyes nor ears, but she sensed the shock and surprise from Courchene as she turned to mist. The Voice, saying nothing now, pulled her through the bars of the cell, a rolling fog to freedom on the other side. She wailed with exhaustion, being stretched beyond her limits without having permission to break. Her tendrils wisped through the air of the police station. Then the Voice inhaled all of her vaporous being back into her familiar, solid shape, right down to the black buttons on her dress and the leather soles of her shoes. She staggered. She was so thirsty.

Courchene retreated, clumsy thumping steps stumbling on the floorboards, and the crucifix on the wall loomed into view.

Down! snapped the Voice, and she crouched without thinking. Now the officer’s body blocked her view of the symbol again. Her throat was still parched, her tongue thick and pasty, but she felt her strength seep into her. I need…Communion… she thought.

Not here , said the Voice. You will lose everything as long as you can see that, that thing on the wall. Keep your eyes averted. If he has not locked the door there may still be time.

She crawled away from the mountie and when she got to the station’s entrance she clung to the brass doorknob. With a sob she twisted it and wrenched the door open.

Outside, the air was crisp and frost hung in the air. In the late autumn, winter whispered to the prairie grass. The stars filled the darkness above, but the sky to the east had lightened, just a bit. She was free. She just needed to make it to the train station, and she would find a dark, safe place to wait out the day. If aboard the baggage car of a passenger train, so much the better, but for now, she had escaped.

The she felt the constable’s meaty hand clamp down on her shoulder.

"Not so fast," he said, spinning her around and pointing his revolver at her.

Again , cried the voice.

Courchene cocked his pistol. He really meant to shoot her. Immediately, she let herself disperse again, even as the mountie fired, his bullets passing through her misty form leaving no damage but swirls. One, two, three, four, five, six…click, click.

She took her human shape once more, the change coming more easily this time, and grabbed the mountie’s wrist, keeping the gun pointed away from her. "Such a naughty, filthy boy," she said. "Shame on you, to shoot at a woman like that."

He shied away, throwing his free hand in front of his face, as if to ward off a blow. "Don’t!" he cried, his voice breaking. A little boy in a man’s body.

She furrowed her fingers into the knot of his necktie and tore it open. He slapped at her clawlike hand to no avail as she ripped apart the buttons of his collar. The skin of his neck and chest lay exposed. She was so thirsty now the night crowded its blackness in at the edge of her vision. His gun fell from paralyzed fingers and she slid her hand up the back of his neck, gripped the short hair and pulled his head back. Now she would take the Communion he offered, and be strong again.