Page 62 of Beneath the Dirt

Harlan laughs and the notes of his baritone rattle my eardrums. “So pathetic, and you’re so close to escaping.”

I look forward to the door.

“Let me go,” I grit out.

Harlan surprisingly listens, withdrawing whatever he was playing with inside me. He inhales loud, sniffing the remnants of what I left on it.

“What was that?” I ask again.

“Who cares? Open it,” he instructs. His lips make their way to my inner thigh. He clamps down and his bite feels harsher than the fucking. Hard enough to draw blood this time and with my senses still in hyper-drive from the drugs, I swear I can smell the iron tinge stifle the air.

With my hand already on the knob, I turn it. The light, no longer sneaking past the crevices of the crawl space door, is now burning in my view. The red I had mistaken it for is in fact a deep flickering rust accompanied with shades of burnt orange and amber riddled throughout.

This isn’t right. No. This. Is. Not. Right.

This is impossible.

I glance back, past Harlan’s eerily calm stare, to the darkened tunnel we just crawled through, to do a double take. Ready and desperate to blame what I just saw on the drugs. However, the heat from the open flames is as real as the sweat it’s causing on my skin.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Harlan’s voice commands my attention.

I swallow thickly. Pushing down a wad of saliva that might as well be a shard of glass with how it tears at my esophagus.

“What is?” I whisper, still dealing with the assault my own throat is having on me.

“How a little truth dust can put it all into perspective.”

My brows furrow at his vagueness.

“Harlan, what did you fucking give me?” I grit through a heavy and clenched jaw. This kind of feeling of being transported to another time, another place, has never happened with any of the numerous drug trips I’ve taken myself on. I should be impressed. This is what I’ve always wanted. An escape. However, this feels too real. Too frightening. Too much like a precursor to the protective and possibly ignorant wool about to be pulled from my eyes.

“What I gave you and what I’m about to give you are two different things. But what you are currently giving me is a fucking headache.” He stops to move back into the dark pit, and for a second, I lose track of his movements. It’s only as his foot emerges, pressing down on my body that I realize he’s contorted himself once again, this time turning around and laying back, all so he can kick me, and nudge me forward. “Let's get a move on.” He kicks me again. Harder this time, it forces me to turn my head and move fully out of the crawl space. The main line from the house that the crawl space provides goes from his room, under the ground of the cemetery, to the main sanctuary. It’s been like that since the house was built well over a hundred years ago. Yet, what’s staring back at me isn’t another structure, it’s the open air. A damn near perfect replica to where Harlan and I spent Halloween together…at Heathen’s Cross.

As I rise to my feet, there’s no missing the surplus of filth covering me. My hands, my arms, my shirt and what’s left of my pants—since Harlan took it upon himself to tear them so he could have better access to me—are all covered. Stained in shades of red and inky black. Though, the blackness that steals the showis the fabric draped over Harlan’s body as he slips out of the crawl space after me.

He rises to his feet, blood flirts with his skin, visibly staining his shirt yet he looks unaffected by the very open, very real wound I caused from stabbing him. None of it makes sense. Either Harlan has built an impenetrable pain tolerance —likely with the help of drugs—or his need to fuck with me surpasses him addressing his wounds… or reality. Though what really has me confused is what he’s wearing. The very cloak the workers at Heathen’s Cross wore. Which, now that I think of it, is the same thing the two men who met his dad after the Devil’s Night service wore. Long, draping, all-black cloaks with brimming hoods, and the distinct patchwork on the sleeve of a slithering snake wrapped around a cross I thought was upright. Though, as I inch closer to Harlan’s towering frame, I notice the cross is upside down.

I extend my hand out near his arm, wanting to touch the patchwork, but he flinches away before stepping in front of me, seemingly aggravated by my advance towards him.

“Why are you wearing that?” I ask.

His back now facing me as I turn around to where he stands, his shoulders stiffen in aggravation before he turns his head to me. “This is what we all wear on initiation night.”

“Initiation night?”

“Yes,” he huffs, clearly growing bored with my questions. “Now follow me.” Harlan holds out his hand for me to take, but I don’t take it. Not yet. I want to.I have to.However, that word—initiation—repeats in my head. Impatience trickles to his veins and the large, already protruding one that wraps from the top of his palm to his wrist bulges more. “We don’t have much time,” Harlan quips, pointing his inked hand to his open palm, condescendingly so I can grab hold of his hint. “Hand. Now.”

“Will it hurt?” I ask another question that is the result of my mind running faster than my body can catch up.

“No,” he responds, unconvincingly.

“Fine, then.” I cross my arms, ignoring his invitation, orrather, command to hold his hand, as I try to maintain some form of dignity that’s clearly up for grabs this evening. “I’ll follow you.”

The old Harlan wouldn’t have liked my refusal, but he would’ve accepted it. But this Harlan? The one who has taken the boy I knew, and turned him into a man I’m not sure if I want to fuck or kill… or both? He takes my refusal as an invitation to do what he wants, unapologetically.

He steps closer to me, taking my hand in his. “This way,” he groans, yanking my arm as he leads the way through rows of hooded people sitting in pews similar to the ones in the sanctuary, but these are made of hay. They all look forward, not sparing us any looks, though the closer we get to the main cross that’s centered in the hay, I notice it isn’t empty. Silence that somehow speaks louder than words, or chanting, ever could, infects the air as we walk closer to the occupied cross. Flailing wrists adorn the coarse wood cross. The person’s backside mirrors my own with deep round scars scattered throughout their naked skin. The only difference is that the number two is etched into their backside.

Panic unexpectedly trickles into my veins as adrenaline makes my hearing go dull. I move forward, needing to see, even though I don’t want to. Rounding the cross, the naked, gagged person is none other than my stepfather. His naked front is just as bad as his backside…if not worse. Fresh cigarette burns mar his flaccid penis and they continue up his abdomen, in a distinct pattern that I’ve seen before.

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