Page 74 of Beneath the Dirt

As most of you remember, it was on Halloween night, thirteen years ago that Pastor Harlan Rainey Sr.’s son, Harlan Rainey Jr., was found tied to a cross with unholy symbols covering his body as part of a sacrilegious ritual in the graveyard that sits on the Rainey property, just between the Rainey’s farmhouse, and Sacred Promises Church on Summerland Drive. Upon paramedics finding Harlan Jr. unconscious due to a suspected drug overdose along with his stepsister, Araceli Rainey, both were rushed to the hospital. Sadly, Harlan Jr. was pronounced dead shortly after his arrival at Allan Memorial Hospital. Araceli Rainey, however, did survive, but has been missing after she reportedly fought hospital staff and escaped in nothing but her hospital gown, and hasn’t been seen since. That is until the grizzly and unthinkable scene first responders were met with last night.

In the graveyard that once sat as a divider between the Suárez and Rainey portions of the Summerland property, authorities found an empty hydraulic trailer that appeared to refill the grave plot of Harlan Rainey Jr. After removing the newly poured dirt, Araceli Rainey was found, buried with the exhumed bones of her stepbrother, Harlan Jr. Araceli was found with multiple wounds on her body, so it is unclear if she died before or after attempting to bury herself alive.

Though the horror does not end there. Authorities also discovered Pastor Rainey, who was found dead on arrival. His body bludgeoned, covered in unholy symbols, and hung on a cross similar to how his son was found years ago. Nailed to Pastor Rainey’s hand was a note confessing to the murder of his two wives. His first being Ella Rainey, who is Harlan Jr.’s mom, and his second wife, Frida Suárez Rainey, the biological mother of his stepdaughter, Araceli, and ex-wife to Pagan leader and founder of the once beloved Pagan retreat, Heathen’s Cross that was once located on his portion of Summerland Drive, before Rainey Sr. took over the land.

There wasalso a list of others that Rainey Sr. admitted to killing. In an effort to protect the rights of the families involved, those names shall remain anonymous. Authorities do now have an open investigation to determine the legitimacy of these claims; however, with the amount of decomposition found in the crawl space that connects the Rainey farmhouse to Sacred Promises Church, I think it’s safe to say that the Samhain Killer won’t be hurting our town any longer.

“Such a tragedy, Joan.”

“Yes it is, Victor. Yes, it is.”

“Now in other less horrific news. We have started our holiday shopping guide early for all you eager shoppers…”

VICTORIA ELIZABETH

I stare at the television as I turn it off. The remote in my hand gets flung onto the couch as I sit in stunned silence, processing what I just heard.

Pastor Rainey. The pastor at Sacred Promises, the church I went to for years—that I used to be the secretary to for a brief time when my mom was sick—is theSamhain killer?

How can that be?

My head shakes back and forth in disbelief. The need to clutch onto my cross necklace becomes immense.

As if all of this news isn’t shocking enough, hearing Harlan’s name again feels just as painful as it did the day I learned of his passing. From drugs, of all things.

So tragic.

So.

Fucking.

Tragic.

Though somehow the tragedy of Harlan’s death and the horrors that happened on 333 Summerland Drive pale in comparison to what I discovered last night. That Harlan’s stepsister andmyliterary client, Araceli Rainey, just couldn’t help herself, and had to go home to see him.

To see my Harlan.

She already had her night with him that Halloween night thirteen years ago and look where it got both of them? He died, no thanks to her influences, and she has been a shell of herself for years. Depressed. Writing the most grotesque, morally questionable stories that people freaking eat up.

At least working with her was lucrative, while it lasted. Which is the only reason I offered to be her agent. That’s the beauty of the internet. I was able to pull from my full name, Victoria Elizebeth, and use the screen name Beth’s Writing Palace for my business, and she had no fucking clue I was the Tori that Harlan used to hook up with before she corrupted him.

We never had to meet face-to-face. All correspondence was done through social media and emails, so the dumb bitch had no idea. Lucky for me, Harlan’s passing weighed on her so heavily that whatever witchy garbage she used to read people failed her.

I may hate what she writes, but I suppose even I can admit that she is—orwas—objectively talented. I mean she is—ah, fuck,was—delusional and most delusional creatives make the best stories. There is, or was, promise in her work and I knew if I supported her enough, she would make the delusional decision to leave her fortune she amassed in her career to me upon her passing. It’d be the perfect payback for all the destruction she unknowingly caused me. Of course, I didn’t think it’d happen so soon. Especially not with the final installment of her Ferryman series set to come out.

Though lucky for me, I found the junky notebook she insisted on writing in. She loved it so much she tried burying herself with it. Well, she tried to. It never quite made it in the grave plot since I saw it in the graveyard and snatched it up. With the control I have over her estate—that she so foolishly gave to me—I own the rights to her notebook and its contents. Now that Ihave it, I can have an editor piece it together and once published, I’ll be rolling in the fucking money.

My hand lifts to my mouth as I stifle a yawn. Fuck, I’m so tired. It took forever getting back home from the Rainey property after I not only called in the tip, but I got what I needed before law enforcements swarmed the fucking place.

Walking from my living room, I take the filthy book and the othersouvenirI got from my excursion last night, and head to the bathroom to run myself a bath before crashing.

I lay both the book and the necklace on the vanity before running the water, setting it to warm. I undress and as my clothes fall to the floor. I hear the doorbell ring, and my heart skips a beat. I live on a secluded lot, so it’s a rare occurrence that I get any visitors, let alone so early in the morning. I decide to ignore it, but the bell keeps ringing.

“Hold on a second,” I call out, reaching for my robe, and slipping it on so I can see who is so insistent at the door.

The doorbell continues to ring, this time with less time in between rings, causing me to hurry my steps.

“Jesus Christ, I’m coming,” I mutter beneath my breath, though as my hand curls around the knob, I’m rendered motionless. My wrist goes to turn, but the frigid sensation on the brass knob feels paralyzing. Still, the doorbell persists, so I fight through the odd sensation and twist the knob, opening the door.

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