Page 123 of Horror and Chill
His eyes roll, wide and glassy, pupils blown so dark they swallow the color. He wants to scream. I can see it in the way his throat works, muscles straining under the skin, but nothing comes out. Just that awful silence, the kind that feels heavierthan noise. A steady stream of tears drips onto the table, mixing with the blood already pooled there, turning it thin and pink around the edges. He can feel every cut, every loss, and the horror of not being able to fight back must be a whole other level of torture.
“Does it hurt, Mark? Blink for me if it hurts.” Corwin pauses, and sure enough, Lundy’s lids flutter like he can’t stop them. “Good boy,” Corwin whispers.
Evander wipes the blood off the blade against Lundy’s shirt. Dark streaks smear into the fabric. “Do you recognize the smell, or maybe even the burn of peppermint oil? Thought you were teaching her something about obedience. Thought it was holy.”
I tip more from the jar and his body jerks reactively as the liquid hits the split dick he has now. It looks like a forked tongue just between his pasty thighs.
Garron snorts a laugh. “Not so holy when it’s you, huh? You don’t look cleansed. You look scared. Like the women you broke down and called sinners.”
“Look at him,” Evander says, stepping back like he’s admiring a piece of work. “Helpless. And he knows it. He feels every cut, and he’ll take every drop of it with him to hell.”
Corwin flicks blood splatter off his fingers and smirks. “Guess the paralytic works both ways. Can’t run, can’t fight, can’t even pray out loud. Just sit there, Pastor’s pet, and die knowing she’s watching.”
Lundy’s eyes snap to Garron’s face, wide and pleading. For a second I almost expect him to beg anyway, to find some way to force words through, but all that comes is the faintest whistle through his nose. Garron tilts his head as if he’s listening. “What’s that? Can’t hear you, Mark. Guess God doesn’t want to either.”
Minutes stretch. The sound of his breathing grows ragged, hitching, each inhale smaller than the last. The puddle beneathhim spreads wider, thin rivulets crawling down the legs of the table. I lean back against a pew, crossing my arms tight over my chest, and I realize I’m not sick watching this. I thought maybe I would be. But I’m not. I’m steady. I want him to see me calm while he falls apart.
Evander taps Lundy’s cheek with two fingers, light like a joke. “Stay awake. Don’t you dare die quietly. I want you to know how ugly you look at the end.”
His eyes open again, glassy now, barely focused. The whites are veined red, rolling like they cannot land anywhere solid. For a second I think he is going to pass out, but then his chest jerks. It is not a breath. It is something else. A spasm, like the body fighting itself.
I can see the pulse in his throat hammering, wild as a trapped animal. His veins stand out, purple-blue, straining against skin slick with sweat. Then it skips. Stutters. My stomach clenches as I watch it falter. His heart is giving up, I know it.
Another convulsion shakes him. His chest rises once, shallow, and then nothing follows. It is strange, the way it happens. Not loud. Not bloody. Just… stopping.
The vein at his neck goes still. No more hammering, no more fight. His eyes freeze wide, glassy and wet, like he died still looking for a way out.
I stand there, breathing slowly, my own heart pounding, while his has none left to give. It feels unreal that something so cruel and loud ends in silence.
Evander presses two fingers to the side of Lundy’s neck, waiting. His brow furrows, and then he shakes his head once, sharp. “Nothing. He’s gone.”
Garron smirks, but there’s no joy in it either. “We’ll call that justice served.” He glances around the chapel, eyes lingering on the blood, the cross, the mess of rope and tape. “Let’s clean this place up the only way that makes sense.”
I look at him, already knowing what he means. The smell of vinegar and blood is thick in the air, clinging to my skin. Fire would erase it. Fire would wipe it all away.
“We’ve got the evidence box. That’s what matters. Tomorrow we scatter it—doorsteps, mail slots, car windshields so people have to see it. No more secrets.”
Corwin grabs the bag from where it rests, throws all the tools into it, then tosses it over his shoulder. “Tonight, we burn this place to ash. Tomorrow, we bring the whole town to its knees.”
I feel my lips curl into a thin smile. The men move like they already know their roles: Garron pulls the jug of accelerant from the bag on his brother’s shoulder and slips out of the chapel, clutching it in both hands. Evander lifts the box of evidence and carries it toward the door, careful with every step. Corwin falls in beside him, waiting.
I stand still for a moment longer, staring at Lundy’s body, and Williams’ corpse, still nailed to the cross behind him. The church feels smaller now, as if death has eaten up its space.
Garron steps away for a beat, disappears out of the chapel with the jug clutched in both hands. When he comes back, he smells like petrol. “Basement’s lit,” he says.
He walks the rows slowly, tipping the liquid, letting it bead and run along the seams of the pews and the bases of the walls.
He drops the empty can into the bag and strikes a match, holding it steady for a breath. The flame catches the paper near the altar first, then the hymnals, then a pew. It moves quicker than any of us expect, hungry and bright, throwing orange up against the stained glass.
“Let’s go,” he says.
We move together, back into the night and watch.
Tomorrow, the town will find out the truth about their shepherds..
52
Garron
