Page 33 of The Preacher's Pet

She flashes me that beautiful smile. “I’ll be quick.”

17

OPHELIA

I stumblea little as I step into the short corridor. The walls are all made of stone, and it’s dark. I shiver and wonder if I should ask Malachi where the light switch is, but my bladder has suddenly made itself known, and I’m desperate. I grapple at the door handle and slap my hand against the wall on the inside of the room, trying to find the switch. My fingers locate it, and I flick it on. I hurry in another couple of steps before I realize I’m not in the bathroom.

The space I’m in is small and cramped, and there isn’t a single surface that’s not covered in some horrifying curiosity or another. My eyes prickle with tears born of terror, not sorrow. I take it all in as I try to control the fear building inside me. This seems like a bad place, where dark things lurk. At the farthest end of the space is what I can describe only as an altar, and there are a number of framed photographs—mainly of men—positioned on top of it. Around the photos are black candles, with what appears to be blood dripping down the sides. I can’t help myself. I’m too curious, and I step closer. No, it’s not blood. It’s wax, thank the Lord, but in this low light it appears like blood, and either way, it’s morbid.

My heart thuds, adrenaline making my stomach lurch violently, and I’m suddenly completely sober again. All the fizzy, vodka-induced happiness deserts me.

What on Earth is this place?

Something else catches my eye. Hung on the walls, as though on display, are the masks I saw Cain and the other two wearing on that first night. One is completely white and smooth, with only eyeholes cut out. The other is a skeletal mask. The third is a black hood, with a piece that comes across the face so only the eyes are visible. There is no world in which these masks aren’t scary. No reality where they could be said to be just a bit of fun. There’s a darkness to them, which is echoed in this room. These are the kinds of things I was taught were dangerous, not only to one’s safety, but to a person’s immortal soul.

What do Cain and his friends do here?

Why do they feel the need to wear masks? It’s something I haven’t asked. When Cain came to talk to me, I should have asked him about the masks. Instead, I was far too preoccupied with not letting him find out about me and my past. Perhaps, I ought to have been a lot more concerned about him and his present.

But I’m not going to be asking anything right now. I don’t know Malachi the way I do Cain. Sure, he helped me after a panic attack and was kind, but what does that mean? It doesn’t mean he’s a good person in general.

People can wear masks that are less obvious than the ones hung on the walls. They wear masks of friendship and kindness and empathy, all the while hiding the monster beneath.

Seeing this altar, with all the framed photographs and the candles, is way too close to the world I’ve been trying to mentally escape for the past twelve months. I’m supposed to be putting all this stuff behind me, and instead, I’ve stumbled into the grasp of the same kind of people. Well, different, but the same in somany ways. They believe things most others don’t, and they wear masks, maybe robes, and have rituals, and that’s similar enough. I can’t believe Cain is into this, too, but the proof is right there in the mask I’d seen him wearing.

Malachi had said Roman liked herbal medicine and stuff, but this seems way beyond that.

My skin washes with a cold chill, and I know I must get out of there—not just this claustrophobic space, but the whole water tower. I don’t want to be here, even if it means I won’t get that other kiss with Malachi. That’s probably a good thing. I shouldn’t be kissing boys who are into things like this.

I shouldn’t be kissing anyone.

The voice that’s been haunting me threatens to push its way back in. I put my hands over my ears and shake my head, trying to keep it out. I don’t want to hear it. Not now. Not ever. I especially don’t want to hear it tell me how rightheis. That I’ll never be free and always be a sinner.

Staggering back out of the room, I pull the door shut again. I really do still need the bathroom. I want to leave, but I also don’t want to have to pee behind a bush or a tree when I’m halfway back to the college.

I find the bathroom Malachi had directed me to and quickly relieve myself. I’m in a rush, hurrying to wash my hands, and I just dry them on the front of my dress. My only focus is to get out of here.

I go back into the main room to find Malachi. He’s holding a glass out to me.

“I found you some vodka. It’s only a small one.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

I can’t even look at him. My cheeks burn with shame. What am I doing here? I should never have come.

His expression falls, and his brow creases in concern. “Is everything all right?”

I should ask him about the room, but I’m not sure I want to know. Besides, asking him about it will mean I also have to explain my own reaction to it, and I don’t want to have to talk about the commune. Then again, wouldn’t anyone be scared by that room? This is one of the things I struggle with. Not knowing when my reactions are justified and when they are over the top. It makes it hard to keep myself safe when I have no idea if what I’m feeling is considered normal and well adjusted. Right now, though, I have the strong instinctual urge to leave, and I’m heeding it.

I’m already heading to the door. “Yes, I’m sorry. I’m just not feeling well.” I offer a weak smile. “Too much vodka.”

He takes a step toward me, but I must flinch, as he jerks back again. His dark eyebrows pull together, and a muscle ticks along his jaw.

“Let me walk you back, at least.” He gestures to the dark and the woods outside.

I reach for the door. “No, I’m fine. Really.”

“I promised Camile I’d watch out for you.”

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