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“I loved growing up in our town, in our church,” he says, voice quieter now, reverent. “I looked forward to every weekend. For most kids, it was because of the two days without school. But for me? It was Sunday. It was the hymns, the lessons, the sense of being seen.”
He exhales, steadying himself.
“It was lonely in my house. Even when Cindy was alive, it was quiet. Cold. But here? Sunday mornings were full of noise. Singing. Laughter. Scripture. This pulpit. It felt like the closest place to God. I would kneel right there for hours, just hoping to feel His love settle over me.”
He looks up toward the rafters, the same ones that used to creak under strings of sanctuary lights and seasonal decorations. The ceiling is freshly painted now. The stained glass is clean. Everything looks whole.
But the rot never left.
Not really.
He glances back at me. “When Cindy died, my mother stopped singing. She stopped existing really, but my faith never wavered. But I turned cold.”
“You lost your sister,” I say again, softer this time, the words tasting hollow in my mouth.
Clyde’s lips twist, the corners barely lifting. “We all did. The grief…” His gaze flicks up at me, shadowed. “It’s not loud, Lydia. It’s quiet. It crawls into the walls. It sits at the dinner table and doesn’t leave.” He straightens slowly, brushing his hands on his jeans like he’s dusting off more than dirt. His eyes glint beneath the moonlight, fractured through the chapel’s glass. “After Cindy… the house stopped breathing. My mother barely left her chair. The lights stayed off. And him”—he nods toward Warren’s body, lying stiff beneath the fractured light—“he stopped pretending. He didn’t bother playing the good man anymore.”
The chapel groans around us, old beams shifting like tired bones.
Clyde comes toward me. “But your house…” His voice softens, threaded with something heavier. “Your house didn’t go silent, did it? It got louder. You’re still living with it. Still living with him.”
A cold pulse climbs my spine. I swallow.
“You’re still carrying it every day,” he says, closer now, his voice pitched low, intimate. “Feeding him, dressing him, listening to his breath rattle through those halls at night. Watching him rot, inch by inch, while his sins stay fresh in your hands.”
I flinch, the words sharp and cutting. He sees it, leans in.
“You’ve been carrying this alone,” Clyde says, his voice quiet, weighted. “All this time. And he’s still in that house, breathing. Still taking from you.”
I swallow hard, throat tight. The air feels heavy in my chest, thick and stale.
“He’s still got his claws in you, Lydia. Even now. You’re feeding him, washing him, keeping him alive.” He shakes his head slowly, gaze steady beneath the fractured moonlight. “But for what? For him?”
I look away, my fists curling at my sides. I will not cry.
“You’re not keeping him alive because you owe him,” Clyde continues, softer now, like he’s offering me a secret. “You’re keeping him alive because he made you believe you had to. That’s what they do. That’s what they’ve always done.”
I stare at Warren’s lifeless body, my pulse thudding in my ears.
“I’m not asking you to betray him,” Clyde says, closer still. “I’m asking you to let it go. Let him rot in that bed. Let what he’s built die with him.”
My chest aches, a raw, splintered thing.
“You don’t have to protect his secrets anymore,” Clyde murmurs, his voice smooth as silk, but laced with something harder beneath. “Show me, Lydia. Show me where they’re buried. Let me help you burn it down.”
A chill rolls down my back. I lift my gaze, meeting Clyde’s. His face is calm, open, waiting.
Something twists in my gut, a flicker of warning, a curl of doubt. But it’s swallowed by the heaviness pressing in on all sides.
“I’ll show you,” I whisper, the words tasting like rust.
His smile is soft, relieved. “Good.”
CHAPTER
FIFTY-FIVE
The porch groans under our weight as we step onto it, the old wood bending like brittle bones beneath each footfall. A single bulb flickers weakly above the door, casting a sickly yellow glow that barely touches the dark. The house looms against the night, its silhouette jagged and hollow, a place that never truly belonged to the living.
