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“I’m afraid I don’t have the energy to dig a grave, but this old well will do just fine.” He walks over to the bus parked on the property and pulls out a shovel from a compartment in the bottom, returning to Mama’s new grave, and stares down at her. I find the strength to walk over to him, and he begins throwing dirt over her frail dead body.
“They are all coming for me, aren’t they?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No one’s coming for you, Diana. Not for your mama, and not for that evil bastard lying on the floor of the bedroom. But for your safety, you need to hide. If they find you, I reckon they will kill you.”
I blink softly down at Mama’s lifeless body. “Marty, I don’t have anywhere else to go. This is my home now, but I can live in the shadows if I need to. I’ve been doing it my whole life.”
I gather my thoughts as he continues shoveling. Right before he covers Mama’s face entirely, I place my hand on his arm and he stops. “I have an idea.”
He waits while I gather my hair still lying on the dead grass a few feet away. I walk over and drop it down the well so all that’s visible from above are the white strands. From this angle, it looks like me, and all I can do is pray that no one cares enough to dig me out. “What about the priest?” he asks me, as if I’m the one in charge. “Do you want him in here, too?”
“No. I’ll find a way to burn him. I want him to burn in hell.” Mama can at least rest in peace, and this is the closest thing I can find to a grave, even if I need to use it for dual purposes of faking my death. “You’ve done enough for me, Marty.”
He gives me a firm nod. “Take care of yourself, Miss Diana. I’ll be watching over you.” He steps toward the rusty bus.
“Marty,” I call out, and he slows his walk to a halt. His shoulders hang as if his soul is tired, along with his mind and bruised muscles.
“What is it, Miss Diana?”
I swallow, and my eyes gloss over. “Who is going to kill me? You said they, but who are they?”
He pauses before he says, “Those boyfriends of yours, Miss Diana. It was destined the moment you walked into town.”
TALIA
At sixteen, I lost my soul, and with it, all the true emotions that made me a normal teenage girl. My faith used to be strong, especially when my father dragged me to church every Sunday after my mother passed. He said we needed to find Jesus, and that he and my mother had failed us. The church became my new home, the teachings were the reason I woke up in the morning and prayed every night. Father Malcolm was a prophet, the spiritual leader of our humble town. And I’ve known him all my life.
The summer I turned sixteen was the summer I turned into a woman, and it didn’t take long for Father Malcom to notice. He quit treating me like a child and instead, treated me like a lady. At first, I thought I was special, that I was holier than the others—even holier than his own daughter and his dreadful wife, who didn’t appreciate him the way I did. He invited me to special prayers, where he would praise and pet me. And one day he slid into my confessional and started kissing me. His lips were like rapture.
My father would invite his family for gatherings at our estate and would turn a blind eye when Father Malcolm would take me into the woods for more prayers.
I was in love with him. I believed his affections made me invincible, and I worshipped him more than God Himself. Until the day his wife found out, and everything changed.
That was the day I died.
It wasn’t long after I lost myself that I found myself again through the writings of the Codex. And now, I believe scripture is the sole authority for doctrine above all else. Even above the church itself.
Because of scripture, I now serve someone—something else. In the darkness, I found the light, and power lives in chaos. Now I worship death.
Oddly enough, I still have a fascination with life, specifically what makes us alive—thoughts, emotions, reactions under undue stress. Rather than caring about where our soul goes after death, I am fascinated by how people act when faced with their own mortality.
That’s what led me to major in psychology—my desire to learn the intricacies of the human mind. My passion for it even got me a coveted research job as a sophomore. My focus being the darker side of human nature—pride, greed, and lust. All the deadly sins that make up Christian theology are, of course, the most interesting.
It’s evening now, and the bright stadium lights blaze over the track and field at the high school where the entire town is present to cheer on Tommy and Remy, the parking lot bustling with pop-up concessions, music blaring from the creaky stands overlooking the field. Popcorn, drinks, and cotton candy—pink cotton candy being my favorite—are abundant. Yet, beneath this veneer of joy and festivity, a thick shadow of death looms.
The palpable fear at this stadium is sickeningly sweet as my father and I take a spot in the front row of Remy’s track meet. The boys, who are warming up a few feet away, haven’t noticed me yet.
I’m met with solemn smiles and fearful eyes as I pass by. Everyone already believes either Remy or I killed Daniel.
I hear the whispers of my return among the heartbreak this town is facing tonight. As the eldest daughter and heir to the Vital fortune, there are certain expectations I must meet.
Although the track meet proceeds as scheduled, the breaking news of Father Malcolm’s disappearance and presumed death overshadows the event. Father Malcolm is the second Shadowface victim in recent weeks, ending years of tranquility when the story was nothing more than a myth. I was more than delighted to hear about it when I returned with the perfect alibi, considering I arrived after he disappeared from the church.
Tomorrow, at the crack of dawn, they will send out the search party, deep into the woods, but they won’t find him.
My father’s informants already found his body inside that dreadful slaughterhouse outside of town, brutally slashed, lying in a pool of his own blood. Given the nature of his death and my sordid past, I don’t blame my father for questioning me about it. I denied it vehemently, of course, since I wasn’t the one who did it.
So, the question is, who did?
