She meets my eyes.
“We should’ve,” she says.“You and I.”
I look at her, older now, bruised, dangerous, beautiful in a way the Reverend would’ve tried to punish out of her.
“We didn’t,” I say.“And we’re sure as hell not those kids anymore.”
“Good,” she says, voice trembling.“Because those kids were too scared to look under the church.To go down in the basement.”
“Where the demon leaper might get us,” I say, remembering stories kids tell.The ones they hear from the grown-ups.
“Not anymore.”
Becki leads us to the basement like she’s been there before.Her key works.We push open the door together.And this time, we don’t run.
We hunt.
The stairs creak under my boots as Becki goes ahead of me into the basement, her shadow stretching long on the stone wall.
And just like that, I’m not here anymore.
I’m fifteen again.
Knees on cold chapel wood.Hands locked behind my head like I already confessed to something.Candlelight flickers, making the altar breathe.The Reverend’s shadow swallows me whole.
“You filthy little bastard.”
His fist tangles in my long hair, jerking my head back until my eyes burn.“Looking at her like that?You think I don’t see you?You think God don’t?”
“She’s mine to give,” he hisses.“Not for trash like you.Not damaged goods.”
The word still cuts.
The bucket tips.I detect the snake before I see it.Copperhead.Coiled.Alive.
“Pick it up.”
The strike is fast.Fire explodes in my wrist.I scream.
“No hospital,” he says calmly.“You’ll sit with it.Pray.Let the Lord decide.”
I remember the poison burning.The room emptying.My body shaking against a pew.
And then a hand on my forehead.Cool.Gentle.
“Breathe,” a woman whispers.
“Don’t tell.Just live.”
Mama Crowley.
I wake later, bitten but alive.The Reverend never speaks of it again.They call it God’s will.
I call it her.
She comes back after that.In dreams.In the quiet.Sitting at the edge of my bed like smoke with a face.
“Watch over Becki,” she tells me.“Don’t let him break her.”
