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I let it go too far with Tommy.

I never should have let him touch me like that.

All my life, I’ve been pious, devout and devoted. I’ve been a good girl in the eyes of God, knowing how evil Mama thinks I am. But God didn’t exist while Tommy was touching me. Every fiber of my soul was on hellfire while he touched me, and I loved it.

The heat ignited in my stomach when he kissed me, and a throb pulsed between my legs as his fingers brushed against me. I desperately craved for him to continue, to keep exploring, to keep touching, to keep caressing me. My vagina was wet and pulsing, every part of me aching, and I was completely helpless. The tension was unbearable.

My stomach coils, thinking about how sinful it was and how my embarrassment from him discovering the belt might kill me.

Mama was right to worry. If it wasn’t for the belt, I would have let Tommy do whatever he wanted. I prayed until my knees were bleeding, and Mama came into my room and gave me permission to stop.

“God has forgiven you, girl. Clean yourself up and pull yourself together and get me more food. We’re completely out.” She heads back into her room, but not before grabbing a bottle of something dark.

I blow out a cleansing breath as my hair—damp with sweat—hangs over my face, and I peel myself off the floor.

Two full days of prayer, and I understand why Mama does this now. It’s freeing, almost an out-of-body experience. Like giving myself wholly to God and numbing the pain.

I stare down at my nightgown and pull the shoulder strap down, letting my breasts hang out and my nightgown falls to the floor. I’m lighter now than I was before, but something still lingers inside me—dark and insidious, a temptation that never goes away.

Mama didn’t ask what caused this, but she has her suspicions because she doesn’t offer to take off the belt as I head outside to wash myself.

The last of the evening sun peeks through the grass, the shifting light creating long shadows over the weeds as a cool breeze hits my nipples, hardening them. The only other sound is a crow somewhere off in the distance, cawing at me.

A nest must be close by.

Evil, vile creatures.

I ignore the symbolism.

It takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the light shifting as it ducks behind a cloud. I can see well enough to walk across the yard to the well.

Beyond is nothing but grass and weeds that span for miles.

Stopping before the black hole in the ground, I peer down and grab the rope, beginning to pry up the bucket. It takes all my strength to heave it up, but my callused hands are used to it. I immediately cup my hands and splash water over my face, then wash my entire body with a cloth.

I hear the crow as it swoops close to where I’m standing, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I turn to watch it fly overhead and catch a shadow in the corner of my eye over the ground beside me.

Someone’s watching… I can sense it.

A prickle of unease makes me snap my head around, and I stare at pure evil. My scream lodges in my throat as I gasp for air.

“Mama,” I choke out, but my voice is barely a whisper. I pause as my eyes adjust, my heart calms, and the panic fades. A scarecrow stands about fifteen feet away, hiding in the grass.

Did Mama put a scarecrow up without me knowing?

It’s possible, but I am one hundred percent certain this scarecrow was not here a couple of days ago because I would have noticed something that looked so vile and twisted.

The sun causes a long shadow, but I can see his eyes are black and face is a wicked grin.

From this direction, it’s as if he’s waving at me, beckoning me to come closer. I turn in every direction to see if there are any more of them. I’m exposed and vulnerable in these fields, naked and alone and oddly turned on from the thought of being watched.

Temptation comes in many forms, I suppose.

My lungs lock, and I walk toward it; the grass scratches my legs as I crawl to where it hangs from a wooden spike in the ground. I’m furious with myself for being so afraid of something so ridiculous. I kick it, half expecting it to crumble, but whoever built it did a good job. Straw sticks out of its arms and legs, despite its lifelike appearance. He’s even wearing suspenders, and a rope is tied around its neck. But that isn’t what terrifies me to the core—it’s the burlap sack pulled tight over its face, his head hanging heavy and lifeless.

Like the one Remy was wearing.

My stomach drops as I swallow a lump in my throat.