Nick Cutter - Little Heaven

The chapel was the focal point. The eye was drawn to the massive cross rising above it. The horizontal beam was almost as wide as the chapel roof. Looking westward, beyond the chapel and above the trees, Minerva could see a towering rock formation. The rock looked black, not the rust red of most of the igneous rock around there.

Charlie and Otis led them across the square. Minerva saw Ellen’s eyes zipping about in search of her sister’s kid. But the grounds were empty. They walked to a small, well-maintained lodge. Flower boxes were hung on the windowsills. The door was made of heavy oak with an ornate knocker.

The door opened as if in anticipation of their arrival. A man stepped out. He spotted the six of them—two familiar faces, four new ones. His skull rocked back in mild surprise. He recovered quickly and spread his arms.

“We have guests.” A beatific smile. “Welcome to our home under God’s eye.”

FUSSY.

That was the first word that popped into Minerva’s head.

Dickhole.

That was the second.

What a fussy fuckin’ dickhole.

There was nothing about the man that screamed dickhole! precisely. The fussiness, absolutely. His hair was oiled up in an elaborate pompadour—who the hell would do that out here, with the horseflies and tree sap? She suspected he cultivated the hairdo to make up for his diminutive stature; she wouldn’t be surprised if he had lifts in his shoes, too.

But a dickhole? Or a rat-assed bastard, as her father might have said? There was no definitive proof that he was, not yet. Just a marrow-deep sense.

The man wore a button-down shirt with wide lapels and cowboy boots of blue-dyed leather. Mirrored aviator sunglasses hooded his eyes. Minerva hated those—they were the sort of shades policemen wore, and you could never tell where a person’s eyes were looking.

He strode purposefully toward them. “Little Heaven welcomes you.”

Minerva said, “Little Heaven?” as if this was the first time she’d heard the name. They had roles to play now—the naïve hikers—and she hopped right to it.

“Our perfect slice of it, yes,” the man said. “I am Reverend Amos Flesher.”

He did not shake their hands—rather, he lifted his fingers limply toward them as if offering the blithest of benedictions.

“We found them in the pit, Reverend,” Otis said with a small bow. “They had fallen in.” A nod at Ebenezer. “This man’s hurt.”

Minerva caught the trace of an apology in Otis’s voice: One of them is hurt, Rev, or else we wouldn’t have brought them.

“Oh, boys. You and that pit of yours.” Reverend Amos tsked. “How did you poor folks stumble into Charlie and Otis’s pet project?”

“We heard it was a nice hike around here,” Minerva said.

The Reverend’s eyebrows lifted—a please, do go on gesture.

“We came up from the lowlands and across the Winding Stair pass ten miles north of here,” said Micah. “My grandfather made the trek. Said it was hard going, but worth it.”

“Your grandfather?”

Micah said, “Years back.”

“Before you folks were here,” Ebenezer said. “Or your pit.”

The Reverend scrutinized Eb. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ll be all right.” Ebenezer smiled warmly. “I’m not going to sue, if you’re worried.”

“You’re not dressed like any hikers I’ve ever seen.” The Reverend nodded at Otis. “I see a gun tucked in Otis’s waistband. Since I know he doesn’t carry one and it’s unlikely he found it under a rock, I take it that it belongs to one of you.”

Minerva thought: This guy might wear his hair like some discount Liberace, but he’s no dummy.

“It’s mine,” Minerva said. “Lots of animals out here.”

“There are,” the Reverend agreed. “Most hunters use rifles.”

Minerva lip-farted. “Wasn’t hunting. Just wanted to scare them if I had to.”

“Where are your tents?” Flesher said, flinching slightly at Minerva’s raspberry. “Your sleeping bags?”

“We had to abandon them last night,” Ellen said, speaking for the first time. “There was something in the woods. Some animal— animals . They chased us.”

The Reverend sighted her down his nose. “You sound like Otis. To hear him speak, the woods are full of man-eating bears and pixies and leprechauns, no doubt. Any animals in these woods are more petrified of us than we could ever be of them. That is how the Lord decreed it. My dear child, don’t you know that we are the highest order of life?”

My dear child. Did he just call Ellen that? Minerva tried to swallow her anger, but it lodged in her throat like a peach stone.

“Then why dig the damn pit in the first place?” she said hotly.

The Reverend’s gaze pinned her. She felt his eyes on her body, even if they were covered by those aviator shades—his eyes boring into her not in a sexual manner, but invasive in a different way: the feeling of sightless bugs crawling over her skin.

“Well.” He spread his hands again, signaling their conversation had come to an end. “I must prepare for the afternoon sermon. The Lord has brought you to our bower and it is our duty to shelter you. Charlie, Otis, they may stay in Greta Hughes’s old quarters. Have Dr. Lewis attend to this fellow’s ankle.”

He cocked his head at his visitors. Their faces were warped in the silver convex of his sunglasses.

“I would invite you to the sermon, but that is only for the elect here at Little Heaven. You will amuse yourselves, though, I’m sure.”

He hadn’t even bothered to ask their names. It was all this fellow and my dear child .

He really is a dickhole , Minerva thought, happy to have her first impressions confirmed.

Otis and Charlie led them to a cramped bunkhouse with two cots. They said they would send for Dr. Lewis. Their guns were not returned to them.

ONCE THEY WERE SETTLED,Ellen Bellhaven decided to take a tour of the compound.

“I’m going for a walk,” she announced.

“We’ve been walking for twenty-four hours,” said Minerva.

Ellen expected Micah to object. But he simply nodded. “I’ll stay close by,” Ellen promised.

The sky was scudded with clouds. A cool wind skated across the earth. The parade square remained empty. Apart from the Reverend and the woman who had opened the gate, Ellen hadn’t seen anybody since she’d gotten there.

She crossed the square. The tinkle of a piano drifted across from the chapel. The pianist must have been warming up for the service.

She didn’t want to hear the damn sermon anyway—Amos Flesher struck her as many men of the cloth had done over the years: a bully who had learned to fight with scripture rather than his fists. A wise choice on his part, as he didn’t look like he could punch his way out of a wet grocery bag. Still, her exclusion reminded her of the Catholic services she had attended with her childhood friend Susie Horton; she had to sit in the pews with the other heretics while everyone else enjoyed their tasteless wafers and watery wine.

The perimeter fence followed the northern edge of the forest. The light between the first cut of trees was thin, almost drowsy, like a summer twilight that falls through a girl’s bedroom window as she slips off to sleep. But beyond that point it grew gradually darker until nothing could be seen at all.

Ellen walked the fence line, trailing her fingers along the links. She noticed that the trees were green and healthy except for a stretch, maybe ten yards wide, where they were uniformly sick and dying. Their bark was the gray of dead fingernails, flaking away from the yellowed wood underneath. No needles clung to their branches. The ground beneath was ashen. Ellen could see no cause for it—unless someone had soaked the soil with gallons of tree killer, and who in their right mind would do such a thing?