Page 36 of Obsession

She gets to her feet and looks at herself, slowly raising her hands to eye level. Apparently coming to the same realization I have, that she appears mortal and the same, she looks at her god in confusion. There is hesitance in this confusion; she has questioned him already and fears retaliation on his part.

Aris just raises a hand, uncharacteristically patient. “Bring him in,” he says to two cultists by the doors.

They must have been briefed beforehand and were expecting this signal, for the pair immediately swing the doors open. Again, as if rehearsed, members of the Following walk forth from behind the doors, muscling an individual with them. With a bag over the person’s head, I can’t make out any distinguishing features, but they’re in a suit with an American flag pinned to the front. From their build, it looks like a man, one who fights the cultists on every step, digging his feet in, shouldering his weight into his carriers. The followers struggle a few times to exert their dominance, and at one point it even looks like the man will get free. Still, no one comes to aid; everyone else is still, watching.

Finally, the group gets a tight grip on the man’s arms and passes by me, the kidnappee grunting and hissing all the while. They approach Elizabeth and Aris, tossing the man at their feet. Happy to have finished their workout, the cultists join their brothers and sisters, sliding into a pew to watch.

Hands and feet unbound, the prisoner jumps to his feet. Aris doesn’t move to stop him, and Nora follows his lead, just watching. The man pulls the black sack off of his head and breathes quickly, shortly cropped hair scraggly and standing from static. His expression is wild as he looks around to gauge his surroundings. When I see his face, I don’t recognize him, but his eyes narrow on me with recognition.

Sneering, he turns and comes face-to-face with the scourge of the earth, Aris the Devourer. For a moment, fear overrides anger, and he just stares as he realizes the gravity of his situation. It’s not the cartel who’s gotten him or some sicko who could hurt him using human and practical means. What he is facing is something beyond his understanding.

Aris’ smile widens, and that does something to the man. He knows he can’t win—he must know that—but that is a dangerous person, someone with nothing to lose. Fury flashes across his reddening face. Despite who is before him, he opens his mouth with something undoubtedly nasty on his tongue.

But Nora reaches out, resting her hand atop the man’s broad shoulders. There’s an inquisitive look on her face, as if working through a puzzle. For a second, he just stares at her in outrage and goes to shake her off, but then he stills. Relaxes.

His tense, defensive stance goes to one of a marionette hanging limp. His head falls down, as if his neck is too weak to support it, his expression blank, eyes listless, hate abandoned.

And then, he crashes to the floor, falling to his knees. He bows his head low before Aris. “Dark One,” he murmurs reverently.

I sit so straight and lean so forward in the pew that Elizabeth shoots me a glance. The man sounds like a worshiper.

Aris smiles and turns to Nora. “You see now?” he says like a patient father.

She nods, the glee on her face turning my stomach. “Yes,” she murmurs, lowering her own head. “Yes, I see.”

Aris turns from her, looking back at his congregation with sweeping eyes. “Who is next?” he asks, voice carrying across the room, bouncing against the walls.

Almost everyone stands, murmuring joy and excitement. They’re about one second away from hip, hip, hooray!

I’m one of the only ones to stay seated, head buzzing as I stare at the man on the ground. Already forgotten, his head turns to the side, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. Now that he is no longer speaking, he looks absolutely empty. Wiped clean, a shell.

I wonder who he is, for a moment. The American flag makes me think he’s a politician or someone working for the government. Well, that was who he was. Now, I don’t know what he is, and I have no idea what Aris will do with him.

Perhaps all he was meant to be was a demonstration. Once mass is over, he’ll be tossed aside like a jacket shed upon entering a home, stuffed into a closet until it’s cold outside again.

I imagine roaming the halls and opening a random door to find this man staring blankly at the ground. The thought is painful, striking, after watching him fight the cultists with such fervor.

A few followers behind me raise their voices, their elation and devotion uncontainable. It draws my attention, making me shudder. I’ve known for some time that they worship Aris, but seeing them pray and bow is just… something different.

Something familiar.

I was raised Evangelical, but my mother was the faithful and reverent one, never missing service. How these people regard Aris, their deference and awe, reminds me of her.

She would hate to hear such a comparison. But, as I see the tears in the eyes of these people, as I watch them shake with awe in Aris’ presence, I can only see how my mother would react to meeting her God.

“Hallelujah,” I mutter, looking back at the man.

This goes on for an hour, Aris bestowing gifts. He chooses five others from the dozens gathered, bringing them in front of everyone like show animals. He wants their transformations to be a performance.

Of the five he chooses, most change physically. Others, like Nora, retain their mortal looks. I find the latter to be much more disturbing; if something looks like a monster, a monstrous nature is expected. Expectation provides comfort.

The physical changes are entire, a full alteration. The inspiration for many are clear; Aris likes elements. A woman becomes born of storms—cornstalk hair turning to strands of lightning, clothes morphing into dark, nimbus clouds as she is granted the ability to form tornadoes and earthquakes with the twitch of a finger. One morphs into a creature of shadow and ravens, another into something with flames for legs and a molten core. Another, younger girl falls to her hands and knees and remains quadruped as the vertebrae of her spine erect into needle-sharp, stone masses that shoot lava like miniature volcanoes.

With each transformation, the crowd becomes rowdier, desperate for their own turns, until Aris raises his hands. The crowd then silences, bowing their heads. A new tune on the organ plays, and they slowly, obediently, file out.

It takes twice as long for the crowd to disperse as it did to form, as feet drag. Those Aris bestowed with gifts are obvious with their desire to stay, lingering and offering gracious vows of servitude. They almost hang off of him, simpering. He doesn’t push them along with the others, instead lounging on his throne with a mighty grin as they fawn.

I can only watch, disturbed as I understand the game Aris has been playing. He is not gifting them; he is dismantling them. They are endowed with chaos now, what made them human stolen.

---