Bentley Little: The Collection

and heard Chrissie's soft whisper.

"Cal."

A wash of goose bumps arose on his skin as a wave of coldness swept over him. He closed his eyes, pulling the blanket up over his head. His heart was hammering in his chest. He was imagining it. He had to be.

"Cal."

The whisper was clear, only slightly louder than his mother's sleep-breathing.

"Cal."

He wanted to scream, but his mouth was suddenly dry. He plugged his ears with his fingers and shut his eyes tightly, but though he could not hear Chrissie's whisper, his mind filled the sound in for him and he knew that if he lifted the fingers from his ears he would hear the voice again.

"Cal."

What did she want? He thought of Chrissie's crucified body, nails driven through hands and feet, her head hanging down limply, an expression of lonely terror frozen on her face, and suddenly he was no longer afraid. Or not as afraid. He was still a little scared, but the fear was tempered with sadness and sympathy. She was his sister; she had been killed to pay for their mother's sins, and now she was alone, all alone in The Sanctuary with Father.

She had always been afraid of The Sanctuary.

She had always been afraid of Father.

He unplugged his ears and pulled the blanket from his head.

"Cal."

The whisper was not malevolently beckoning to him as he had originally thought. It sounded more like a plea, a plea for help. He slipped out of bed, careful not to make any noise. He walked slowly down the hall, past his mother's room, through the back bedroom to The Sanctuary.

He looked around the darkened room. Only one candle was still flickering, and like the others it was almost worn down. He could see, however, that the pewter bowls at the foot of the cross were full again, and the man Mother had murdered was now shards of bone, blackened and unrecog­nizable. A faint haze of smoke still hung over the room.

"Cal," Chrissie whispered.

He looked up.

"Kill her," Chrissie said. "Kill the bitch."

He went to school the next day as if nothing had hap­pened, but reading and spelling went in one ear and out the other, and he could concentrate neither on history nor on math. His mind was on his mother. Part of him knew that he should tell someone what had happened, but part of him did not want to tell. Besides, who would he talk to? Miss Price did not particularly like him and he wouldn't feel comfort­able telling her what had happened, and he would feel even more awkward talking to the principal, whom he had only seen a few times striding across the playground toward his office. He should go to the police, he knew. That was who would really want to know. But then they would take his mother away, and they would take Father and Chrissie away, and he would be all alone.

Besides, he was afraid of what his father might do. Fa­ther's wrath was great, and he had the power of God on his side. And what could policemen do against the power of God?

At lunch, on the playground, Cal stood alone, sometimes wanting to tell someone about his mother, sometimes not.

He did not even consider Chrissie's option.

He walked home slowly after school, taking his time, thinking. His mother would be praying in The Sanctuary- that was what she had done the last time The Rage came over her and Father had had to pay-and he didn't want to join her. He still wasn't sure what he wanted. His muscles were tense, he had a bad headache, and he felt trapped.

He walked down the street toward his house and stopped in surprise. His mother was not in The Sanctuary. Instead, she stood on the front lawn, hose in hand, watering the green lawn and the bed of flowers which grew beneath the kitchen window. The street was filled with the noise of out-of-school kids playing games in their yards, riding up and down the sidewalks on bikes and Big Wheels. Farther up the street, Mr. Johnson was mowing his lawn, the gas-powered engine a constant buzz underneath the more random noises of the kids.

Cal walked slowly forward, watching his mother. She glanced over at him and smiled, and then a change came over her face. Her eyes widened as if in fear, and the corners of her mouth flattened out. Her entire body took on a rigid robotic stance.

The Rage, he thought, panicking.

And then she dropped the hose and was running down the sidewalk. He ran after her, but she was already talking to a boy he didn't know, a kid from some other street. The boy nodded, then pushed his bike alongside as both of them headed back up the sidewalk. Cal stood lamely in front of them, not knowing what to do.

His mother shot him an unreadable look as she passed, a look filled simultaneously with tortured agony and mali­cious glee.

"Mother!" he cried, running behind her.

She turned, smiling, and slapped him hard across the face.

As he fell to the ground, he saw his mother lead the boy into the garage.

He jumped to his feet and followed them through the small garage door. The boy was standing in the middle of the room, looking around, confused. "Where is it?" he asked.

Cal heard the boy's chin hit the cement as his mother pushed him to the floor.

"No!" Cal yelled.

The boy was too stunned to cry, and he merely looked up in blank confusion as the shovel slammed into his back. He flopped around on the concrete floor like a fish, blood streaming from the long slice where the shovel dug into his back.

Cal staggered out of the garage, but he could hear the sickening, squelching sound of the shovel chopping into flesh with short quick bites.

And then his mother ran out, her hands bloody, a look of abject terror on her face.

Cal cringed, but she dashed past him, rushing around the side of the garage. He saw her take from the side yard two long eight-by-fours. She dragged the boards to the back of the house, and he heard the slow regular sound of wood being sawed. He stood there unmoving. The sawing stopped a few minutes later, and he heard the irregular whipcrack of hammer against nail.

She was constructing a cross.

He wanted to leave, to run, but something held him back. He stood, then sat alone in the front of the house listening to the sound of the hammer, as around him neighborhood life went on as normal. He was still sitting there when he heard the back door slam and saw through the front windows of the house his mother carrying the cross down the hall to The Sanctuary.

It hit him then, what was going to happen to him, and he quickly jumped to his feet. He was not going to let her have him. He would run if necessary, fight if he had to.

Bocephus barked once, loudly, a short harsh yelp that was immediately cut off.

Then there was silence.

"Bocephus!" Cal yelled. He ran into the house, down the hall.

The dog was already splayed on the cross, all four legs stretched in a pose of crucifixion, long nails protruding from his paws.

His mother dropped the hammer, and fell to her knees. There were tears rolling down her cheeks, but she was not sobbing. She began to pray. "Bless this house, bless our feet, good food, good meat, good God, let's eat. Blessed are the meek. Blessed are the peacemakers. In the name of the Fa­ther, the Daughter, and the Holy Dog, Amen." She genu­flected first toward Father, then toward Chrissie, then toward Bocephus.

Cal remained standing. She was gone, far gone, crazy, and he realized now that the only option open to him was to contact the authorities and turn her in. His insides felt stiff and sore and he had a pounding headache. Father might think his decision blasphemous, but Chrissie probably would not, and she sat at God's side as well.

His mother left The Sanctuary and returned a few mo­ments later, dragging the boy's mutilated body. She threw it into the pit and set it afire. Though the fan was on, The Sanc­tuary was filled with a black foul-smelling smoke, and Cal staggered into the bedroom, taking huge gulps of the fresh air. In his head he could hear the maddening drip drip drip of the blood into the altar bowl.