by C. Dennis Moore
Pastor Mullins and Billy Ray worked outside that day. Pastor Mullins had decided it would do the two of them good to work together on Saturdays, mowing, repairing, gardening, or whatever else he’d thought to do around their place.
“Hand me the nails, please.”
Billy Ray grabbed the paper bag from the edge of the porch and carried it to the other end where his father knelt, hammer in hand.
“I think we’re going to have a nice place to sit outside once it gets hot,” Pastor Mullins said. “Once we get the roof up, yes sir, it’s going to be a right shady spot. What do you think?”
“Yes, Sir.”
The Pastor nailed into the boards while the boy stood at the other end of the house sawing more boards to size. A smell came to him and he stopped, looking up, trying to find it.
Was that smoke? What was burning? Then he remembered and suddenly guilt burned in him. He dropped the saw and ran to the pump behind the house, then inside, trying not to lose all the water before he got to the stove, and threw it at the growing fire.
He had forgotten to close the stove after lighting the fire. All he’d wanted was to make his father’s coffee for him. And the day he tries to do something nice, his father decides not to bother with coffee. The fire was still small and had only begun to spread to the woodpile next to the stove. Most of it went out with that first splash and what was left, he stamped out with his feet.
He felt a moment’s relief at having stopped the fire before it grew too big. The relief lasted until he heard his father behind him ask, “What’s going on in here?”
Billy Ray stood silent, trying to figure out what to say. Finally, he said, “Nothing, Sir.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing to me. Looks like you almost burned down the house.”
“No, Sir. I just forgot to close the grate. It’s nothing. I got it in time.”
“You know what could have happened if you hadn’t ran in here in time?”
“Yes, Sir.” And his father was right. He guessed he should be proud of himself for having smelled the smoke and acting quickly enough.
His father’s flat palm stung his cheek. He was flung around with the force and almost toppled over the damp woodpile.
“I don’t ever again want to see you near that stove. I’ll take the blame for your negligence once. I should have forbade you to mess in there in the first place. But the next time, I won’t blame anyone but you. And since you’ve been warned once, the punishment won’t be light. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Sir,” he said hoarsely.
Pastor Mullins walked back outside. In a few seconds, Billy Ray heard the whap of the hammer coming down on the nail heads. He looked at the wood pile dripping water, the soaked stove interior, the floor, and wondered, first, what he’d done wrong, then how he could have thought he was doing good in the first place.
He was drawn out of his thoughts as the rustle of a buckboard came up the lane leading to their house. A horse puffed air and a voice–Mr. Anderson’s, he could tell–whoaed for the horse to stop. He went to the doorway, trying to see what Mr. Anderson was doing here, and to see if he’d brought his daughter with him.
When he caught sight of the buckboard waiting outside, empty, he backed up a little. He didn’t want to get caught listening. He didn’t need any more punishing this day.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson,” Pastor Mullins said, standing and wiping work dust from his hands. “What brings you out this way?”
“I lost a couple sheep last night. I wondered if you’d heard of any other animal attacks?”
“No,” Pastor Mullins said, shaking his head, “no, I don’t recollect anyone mentioning anything like that.”
Billy Ray kept himself hidden in the house, trying not to listen. His father said people should mind their own business when adults are talking. By that, he meant Billy Ray. So he looked around, trying to find something to occupy himself until Mr. Anderson left. But the wet floor made him rethink this. What if he did something wrong again? His father would have no problem punishing him in front of Mr. Anderson. And he’d get it again later for making his father discipline him in front of company.
Before he could make a decision, his father came inside.
“Get the tub. We’ve got to clean you up. The Andersons have invited us to dinner tonight.”
***
They were greeted by the smell of food when they stepped into the Anderson house.
While Pastor Mullins wasn’t a bad cook, their best meals came from parishioners who invited them over for a weekend dinner or a holiday celebration. And Carol Anderson was one of the best cooks in the parish. Next to Rebekka Harney. But Billy Ray liked visiting the Anderson’s better; Rebekka Harney, he thought, had her eyes on Pastor Mullins.
The meal tonight was simple. Stew, mashed potatoes, and rolls. Pie for dessert. The smell from the cooking meat made his mouth water. Then he saw the Andersons’ daughter, Delia, and he forgot about the food.
She looked up from a needlework and smiled.
“Good evening, Billy Ray,” Jack Anderson said, and shook his hand.
“Sure smells good, Mrs. Anderson,” Billy Ray said.
“Thank you. I may just give you the first serving.”
He was about to smile in appreciation until his father cut in with, “He’ll be just as glad to let you nice folks go first, won’t you, Billy Ray?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Pastor Mullins led grace and dinner was served.
Dinnertime talk started as Pastor Mullins told Mr. Anderson that he remembered this afternoon Mr. Martin, who owned a farm a few miles from the Mullins home, had found one of his cows slaughtered a few weeks ago. Then he realized the dinner table wasn’t the place for talk of butchered animals and he changed the subject. The rest of the meal passed pretty smoothly, Billy Ray thought. The talk he was able to ignore, focusing instead on Mrs. Anderson’s delicious cooking, and Delia Anderson’s pretty face sitting across from him.
They exchanged looks throughout the meal, but spoke only when spoken to. Soon dinner was gone, dessert a few discarded pie crust flakes on the plates, and everyone went their different directions. Mrs. Anderson cleared the table with help from Delia’s four year old sister, Amanda. Mr. Anderson and Pastor Mullins went to the front porch to discuss Mr. Anderson’s and Mr. Martin’s dead animals. Billy Ray and Delia went out back.
They started near the field, playing hide and seek among the corn stalks. The game moved into the barn and while Delia closed her eyes and counted, Billy Ray crept to one of the stalls. As he swung a leg over the top, the horse inside reared and shrieked in surprise. It kicked at the stall door and Billy Ray, terrified, fell to the ground, then scrambled backwards from the stall.
Hearing the horse whinny, Delia whirled around to see. They ran from the startled horse, to the other end of the barn, and up the ladder where the horse couldn’t get them. By the time they reached the top, fear had them laughing so hard, their chests burned and their cheeks ached.
They hurried to hide behind stacks of hay, away from the monster horse.
“What was that about?” Delia asked.
“I don’t know, but he sure scared me.”
They sat crouched behind a beam, listening for the hooves of the horse coming up the ladder to finish them off. All they heard were crickets and locusts and their father’s voices, very faintly, coming from the front of the house.
Billy Ray asked, “So one of your sheep was killed last night?”
“No,” Delia answered, “two. You wanna see them?”
“No.”
“You afraid?”
“No,” he replied, “I just don’t want to see. Why would I want to?”
“It was pretty bad,” Delia said. She seemed to want to talk about it, to describe the scene to him. He wondered what was wrong with her that she got pleasure from talking about slaughtered sheep. “There were guts all over the place. My dad doesn’t think I saw it before he got it cleaned away, but I did. He was in the outhouse. I snuck out there and looked at it before he came back.”
Delia’s talk made his mind work and he began picturing the scene. The sheep lay scattered across the field, white fleece stained red. In his mind, a sheep head lay severed and upright, blank eyes open and a row of gashes drawn through the flesh across one side.
He grimaced and a shoved the images out of his head.
“That’s gross. Let’s go play something else. I think the horse has calmed down.”
***
Pastor Mullins and Jack Anderson watched the breeze blow through the grass in the Anderson front yard. Jack kept finding flakes on the back of his hand, dried blood, and he scratched at it, taking it off a bit at a time. Pastor Mullins didn’t notice.
“As I was saying,” Pastor Mullins began, “Andrew Martin says he found one of his cows dead in the barn a couple weeks back. That may be the same animal took your sheep.”
“If it is,” Jack said, “it’s one hungry animal and it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere in a hurry. After I left your place today, I talked to Art Custer. Says he had a cow killed about two months ago. If something’s come to Angel Hill, we might want to think about getting some men together to get rid of it.”
“I don’t think I can be a part of it,” Pastor Mullins said. “To kill for food or shelter I can understand. But not otherwise.”
“That’s okay,” Jack said. “I didn’t expect you’d join the hunt. But we’ll have to do something. It’s only a few animals now, but what if we let it go and soon everyone’s farm has been attacked? Whatever it is . . . the farmers around here have got to survive and, while a couple of dead animals isn’t going to put us under . . .”
“I understand your need to keep your animals safe. Just remember, the thing you’re hunting is also a living animal.”
“Hopefully not much longer,” Jack said.
“And what if you track it down only to find it’s not an animal.”
“What else would it be?”
Pastor Mullins shrugged. “Maybe some poor soul, a vagabond perhaps who hasn’t had a good meal in weeks. Maybe an unfortunate family, storing up enough meat for a couple weeks at a time, making it look like an animal attack to keep suspicion from themselves?”
“No man did what I found this morning,” Jack said.
“That bad, was it?”
“That bad, yes.”
“You’d be surprised what a man is capable of,” Pastor Mullins said. “We’ve all got it in us, that potential.”
“Well, and I understand that. We’ve all got to let off a little steam now and then, it’s natural. But to do that–what I saw–on purpose, that’s not natural.”
Before Pastor Mullins could say anything else, a wail came from behind the house. The men were on their feet and running for the barn in a second, Jack leaping over the porch rail and Pastor Mullins following behind down the steps.
They reached the barn together and found Delia kneeling next to Billy Ray who lay on the ground, holding his ankle and bawling.
“What happened?” Jack asked.
Delia looked at her father and said, “He fell down.”
“I can see that, Dee. How did he fall?”
Delia hesitated; her father had warned her about playing in the hayloft. She looked at Billy Ray for an answer, but in his pain, he was oblivious and couldn’t have lied if he had to.
“Um, we were climbing down from the hayloft and he–.”
“What have I told you about playing up there?”
“Don’t.”
“So why were you up there?”
“The horse got spooked and we were scared so we ran up there to get away from it.
Jack looked at Pastor Mullins
“Was there another animal around here, Dee?”
“No,” Delia answered. “I don’t think so. Billy Ray was gonna hide in the stall–we were playing hide and seek–and he scared the horse.”
“Billy Ray tried to climb into the horse’s stall?” Pastor Mullins asked.
The boys cries had eased enough for his father’s voice to register and he looked up, his face showing he knew punishment was coming. He started crying at full volume again.
“I apologize for the boy,” Pastor Mullins told Jack as he scooped his son off the ground. “I should get him to the doctor. If there are any damages, you know I’ll fix them.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jack said. “It was just a game. And I don’t see anything broken in here. They’re just kids playing a game. Delia’s just as much to blame here. Maybe more. I’ve told her before not to play in the loft. It’s fine. Really. I just hope the boy’s okay.”
“Well, that’s kind of you. Still, I’d feel better if you let me know if you find anything damaged. And you can rest assured, he won’t be playing in your barn again.”
With that, Pastor Mullins loaded his son onto their buckboard and headed back home.
***
When they got home, Pastor Mullins made him walk into the house by himself, even though Doc Gladys said he should stay off his ankle for a few days. It wasn’t broken, but he’d sprained it and now he sported a thick roll of bandage around it. But the beginning of his father’s punishment was that he had to walk inside by himself.
While Pastor Mullins unhitched and put away the horses, Billy Ray limped to the door, each hobble flaring his ankle again. He wondered how he’d been so clumsy. He could still see the fall and he kept trying to figure out how it had happened, or how he’d allowed it to happen.
Delia was down and was telling him to hurry before the horse started up again. He looked down and saw he only had four rungs to go. Delia made a sound he took as fright. Was the monster horse about to attack again? He let go with the intention of dropping to the ground and dashing outside. He looked down and saw Delia standing there, calm. He tried to grab the ladder again and finish his descent, but he missed the rung, tried to turn and leap to the ground, his foot slid off the ladder and he fell.
Again he wondered how he could have been so clumsy.
He heard his father stepping onto the porch and braced himself for what was about to come.
“‘He who spares his rod hates his son, But he who loves him disciplines him diligently,’” Pastor Mullins said, quoting Proverbs 13. He closed in on Billy Ray who stood against the wall.
As he whipped his son, Pastor Mullins alternated Bible quotes with chastisements on Billy Ray’s clumsiness and disobedience. The boy tried to close himself off from his father’s tirade, but the sting of the leather against his skin was like burning wood laid across it.
Eventually, his father’s anger subsided and he was allowed to go to bed.
He lay awake for an hour at least, wondering how God, who was supposed to love everyone, could allow children to be beaten. More yet, how could God encourage that kind of punishment, no matter the extent of the wrongdoing? He was almost twelve, but he was still a kid.
***
The Mullinses didn’t go to any dinners for the next two weeks. Billy Ray’s ankle swelled the next day and he didn’t do much visiting. To his disappointment, however, a swollen ankle wouldn’t keep his father from putting him to work. He was given the easiest jobs, but he still had to complete them. He spent that first week on the porch, sitting in a chair with a sawhorse in front of him, sawing boards for the porch or doling out nails to his father, handing over tools, or some other simple, but still just as necessary job Pastor Mullins could come up with. This was all part of his punishment for going into the Anderson hayloft.
The second week he had some mobility back. While he limped pretty much everywhere he went, he was able to get there and Pastor Mullins used that fact to the fullest. His days were spent tending the house while his father finished the porch. He cooked the meals, mindful to close the stove, did the washing, fed and groomed the horses.
By the end of the second week, most of the soreness had left his ankle and he was walking again almost normally.
Rebekka Harney stopped by on her way back from town. When she left, Pastor Mullins told him they were going to dinner at Ms. Harney’s house that night.
It had been so long since Billy Ray’d eaten a decent meal, he was able to ignore the way Ms. Harney looked at his father and all he could think about for the next few hours was What delicious thing will she be cooking tonight?
***
While Pastor Mullins went inside, Billy Ray tied the horses.
Inside, Pastor Mullins was already seated and Rebekka was spooning potatoes onto his plate. The food was served and Pastor Mullins said grace. The potatoes were delicious and so was the corn she made. But the pork chops disagreed with him. He wished he could ask for a smaller piece, but his father would take that as being unappreciative and he would have been punished. As he ate, Billy Ray kept wishing Rebekka had children to play with afterward and that led him to the Anderson barn and Delia and falling and his swollen ankle and his father’s punishment.
Once he reached these thoughts, he no longer wished there was someone to play with. In fact, he didn’t feel like playing anything at all. He ate in silence while Rebekka and his father talked. She lavished him with praise over last Sunday’s sermon and Billy Ray wanted to vomit from the sweetness dripping from her mouth. But he ate his pork chop and potatoes and thanked her for the meal after finishing off a piece of cake.
Billy Ray untied the horses while Pastor Mullins said his goodnights.
On the ride home, it passed through his mind to ask his father about Rebekka Harney. Did his father even know how she looked at him? If he did, did his father mind? Or did he only think she looked at him strange?
He wanted to ask, but to do so would be minding someone’s business besides his own, and his father hated that. Besides, he decided, he couldn’t be imagining it. He’d seen the way she was around him, different from when he’d seen her in town alone. She had a way around his father that was somehow weaker, more dependent than she was around everyone else. He wasn’t imagining anything. Rebekka was trying to reign in Pastor Mullins and make herself Billy Ray’s new mother, but he would pray tonight that his father was smart enough to see through that. After all, if God wanted him to have a mother, He wouldn’t have taken Maria Mullins in the first place.
“Did you thank Ms. Harney for dinner?” his father asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. She’s a very nice lady,” he said. “We should be polite to her.”
***
Billy Ray was awake for an hour, praying in his bed, before he heard his father rise. His father cooked eggs while Billy Ray sat at the table, reading his Bible. His father would stop sometimes and ask him a question. What did King Solomon ask for? or Who was Judge after Abimelech? And he would answer, Wisdom or Tola.
The smell of eggs made his stomach churn, burning with hunger. They were nearly finished before the sun brought full light to Angel Hill. Today, Pastor Mullins told him, was collection day. Once every month they made the rounds of the Angel Hill population, collecting for an orphanage two towns over. They collected clothes, food, blankets, toys, sometimes money.
Once he found a baseball among the donations, one that looked as if it had just been sewn. He asked his father if he could keep it and for his audacity, he was forced to donate two of his own things.
They had collected for three hours when they reached Rebecca Harney’s house. He had to push away the thought: Couldn’t we have got her donation last night? Pastor Mullins knocked on her door. A moment later, he knocked again. It was almost noon already, so she should be around somewhere, maybe in her garden or feeding her animals. She didn’t farm, but she kept some chickens and a pig.
Pastor Mullins called for her, but she didn’t answer. He knocked again, louder, but still she didn’t come.
“Stay here,” his father said. “I’m going to check around back.”
“Yes, Sir.”
His father disappeared around the house and he was left standing alone on the porch. It took almost a minute before he began to feel uncomfortable. His father’s voice floated to him, calling, “Ms. Harney? Ms. Harney, it’s Pastor Mullins, I’m collecting for the orphans.”
He had the urge to look through the front window, but that was spying, and spying was wrong. He had another urge to open the door and call into the house for her, but he hadn’t been invited and that would be wrong, too. Instead he knocked on the door again.
His father came back alone, saying, “She’s not out there. Maybe she’s sick, and hasn’t gotten out of bed yet.” Whether he was talking to himself or Billy Ray wasn’t clear. The boy stepped aside and his father pushed open the door a couple of inches, pressing his face into the crack to call, “Ms. Harney, it’s Pastor Mullins. Are you feeling alright?”
He pressed further into the room, while Billy Ray stood back, his legs and butt pressed against the porch rail, waiting, wondering if the bad thoughts he hadn’t been able to push away last night might have hurt Ms. Harney. But they were just thoughts. A thought couldn’t hurt anyone. If anything, he was hurting himself thinking bad things. Ms. Harney was inside, sick.
His father came back a minute later, stumbling through the door and barely making his way to the porch rail before flopping over it to vomit on Rebekka’s flowers.
Billy Ray watched in silence, wondering what could make his father so sick. He turned around to peek past the open door, into the house. He didn’t see anything, so he took one step forward, leaning forward a bit, trying to get a glimpse.
His father leaned against the rail, panting.
He took another step before his father said, “Get back here.” He stopped in his tracks and turned to his father.
“Is she okay?”
“Stay out here. We’ve got to go get someone. God help her . . .”
He staggered down the steps and climbed onto the buckboard. Billy Ray was next to him, taking the reins. They drove away, heading into town.
He wanted to ask his father what he saw, but he knew two things that kept him from asking. First, he knew his father would never tell him. And second, he had seen. He didn’t get a full view of the scene inside, but he got enough to tell him Rebekka Harney wasn’t sick. If the blood on the walls was hers, she had to be dead.
***
Sitting on his front porch, he thought about Delia Anderson.
His father was at Rebekka Harney’s place, along with Sheriff Rothschild and Doc Gladys. He remembered his father and Mr. Anderson talking about some animals being killed, but that was weeks ago, the night he’d twisted his ankle in the Anderson barn. That had also been the last time he’d seen Delia Anderson.
They were at the Andersons’ for dinner at least every couple of weeks. Why hadn’t they been lately? Was this another punishment of his father’s for playing in the barn?
He flashed back to the glimpse he’d gotten of Rebekka Harney’s bloody walls. Whatever had done that, he prayed for Delia. He prayed for all the Andersons, but mostly for Delia. No, he chided himself, he couldn’t pray just for Delia. God didn’t play favorites, neither could he.
If only his father could see his thoughts, maybe he wouldn’t punish the boy as much as he did. All he wanted was to be good.
***
By the time his father returned, Billy Ray had cleaned most of the house and started dinner. He’d peeled potatoes and shucked the corn, concentrating on things that didn’t require lighting the stove. He smiled wide when his father walked in, hoping for praise at his hard work. But his father’s drawn face and tired eyes, told him he could have covered the floors in mud and manure for all the praise he was going to get. His father was in no mood to dole out good jobs.
His father sat down and stared at the walls.
Billy Ray waited, wondering what would be the best move to make at this point.
“So horrible,” his father said hoarsely. Billy Ray almost didn’t hear anything at all, just saw lips moving. He stepped closer so he could hear in case his father said anything else.
Pastor Mullins remained silent for a while, during which Billy Ray waited. What else could he do? He couldn’t predict what would merit punishment. If he went to bed, was he being indifferent? If he tried to eat, was he being insolent? So he waited.
Finally, his father said it again. “So horrible.”
“Is everything going to be okay?” he asked.
Pastor Mullins came out of his daze, like a thick fog had evaporated over his entire head. “Ms. Harney is in a better place, yes. Her worldly pain is over. But . . . it was so horrible.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You haven’t done anything, son. No person did . . . you don’t have to apologize for something that had nothing to do with you.”
“I know. But you looked like you could use something to make you feel better.”
Pastor Mullins smiled through tears that had begun to spill over and hugged his son.
***
Days flew by in sunshine and smiles for Billy Ray who had begun to see some light and love in his life. His father was busy for days, first arranging Ms. Harney’s funeral, then straightening her affairs. While preparing for the burial, he’d tried to find a next of kin, but had no luck. It seemed Rebekka Harney had been alone in the world. So Pastor Mullins took it upon himself to settle her accounts and close her books.
Then, the weekend after the funeral, he was called to neighboring Fairfield by Jack Anderson whose brother had been killed when a steam valve had been left closed and the resulting pressure caused an explosion, killing Jack’s brother and two others.
Billy Ray’d been left at home to kill and clean that night’s dinner, a show of responsibility and trust on both their parts. He pulled the chicken from the coup and fought its struggles to the chopping block. He had the chicken in place and the ax above his head when a voice from behind said, “Billy Ray!”
He looked over his shoulder in both surprise and joy to see Delia Anderson climbing down from her father’s carriage. Without looking, he dropped the ax into the chicken’s neck, severing the head, then turned toward Delia.
“Hi, Dee,” he said.
“Your father’s in town,” Jack Anderson said from his seat above. “He said it would be okay if Delia visited for a bit while I took care of some family business.”
“Okay,” Billy Ray smiled.
“You want to play marbles?” Delia asked. “I got mine in my pocket.” She patted the pocket of her smock and he heard the clink of marbles tied in a bag.
“Play whatever you want,” Mr. Anderson said, “just stay away from the barn.”
“Yes, Sir,” they said in unison.
When Jack Anderson had disappeared, Delia said, “Let’s go watch the chicken die!”
Billy Ray frowned and wondered Why? But Delia had already skipped over to the chopping block and was gazing at the dead bird. He came up behind her and looked over her shoulder. He’d seen dozens of dead chickens and didn’t see what pleasure could be derived from it again. But Delia seemed mesmerized.
“Do you think if we poked the head it would still feel it?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, turning away and heading for the porch. He’d forgotten his bucket there and he didn’t want to carry the chicken back dripping blood through the yard.
When he returned to the block with his bucket, Delia was squatting with the chicken head between her feet and a thin stick in her hand, testing the resilience of one wide black eye. Billy Ray scooped the headless chicken into the bucket and said, “Come on, let’s go play something,” trying to lead Delia away from the head. He set the bucket on the edge of the porch, then turned around to find Delia still in the yard, poking at the head.
“Dee, let’s play marbles.” She dropped the stick and stood up, nudged the head with her foot, then ran to the porch where Billy Ray was drawing a circle in the dirt with his hand.
He shot first and when he looked up, Delia was staring over her shoulder at where she’d left the chicken head
“Why are you so interested in a dumb chicken head?” he asked.
“I dunno,” Delia answered. She hadn’t turned around yet.
“It’s just a dead thing now, you know. I’m sure you see them all the time at home.”
“Not really,” she said. “My dad doesn’t let me help him much. Except stupid stuff like milking the cow. But I never get to do any of the fun stuff.”
“What’s the fun stuff?” He could already tell what Delia considered fun stuff.
“All I ever get to do is baby jobs. I’m a big girl now. I’ll be twelve in three months.”
“So you have to milk cows. Why does that make a chicken’s head so interesting?”
“Don’t you think it’s kind of neat? I mean, it’s not every day I see something like that.”
He was thinking, It’s not every day I see someone torn up all across their own house, either, but I don’t need to stare at it.
“Well, I don’t wanna play if you’re not gonna play, too.”
Delia smiled, then squinted at him and took off across the yard, back to the severed head.
“Delia, wait,” he called.
When Pastor Mullins arrived home an hour later, the chicken head stood on the chopping block. A nail had been driven through it to keep it upright and one of the eyes was pushed out of place, bulging black from the socket. The blood around the base had dried. A swarm of flies buzzed around the head, lighting on the crown and then taking off again.
Pastor Mullins heard the children in the house.
Billy Ray stood over the stove, stirring a pot. Delia sat behind him at the table playing with marbles. The door burst open with an angry shove and a slew of condemnations in Pastor Mullins’s angry voice. “What is that blasphemy out there?!”
Billy Ray jumped, splashing boiling water on his arm. He screamed, “Good God!” and brought his arm to his mouth, sucking at the burn. Delia’s marbles fell from the table.
Pastor Mullins stopped in his tirade and asked, “What did you say, boy?”
He realized his slip and knew punishment was inevitable. But that didn’t mean Delia had to see it. He turned and darted around the table, past his father, and out the front door.
Delia looked up at the pastor, dumb struck.
Pastor Mullins looked down and said, “Gather your toys, Delia. I’m taking you home.”
Delia scooped her marbles into their bag and stuffed them in the pocket of her smock, then hurried out to the Mullins buckboard.
Billy Ray stood in the dark around the side of the house as his father snapped the reigns and took off. His father had known he was there and Billy Ray understood the unspoken command to be inside and ready for his punishment when he returned.
***
When his father came home, it was late and he’d begun to doze off. He sat in front of the stove with his Bible in his lap. He was praying for God to forgive his disobedience–even though he really hadn’t done anything wrong. His father had told him to fix dinner and Billy Ray’d been in the middle of that when the door flew open. Granted, he had taken the Lord’s name in vain. He asked forgiveness for that.
He didn’t wake up until he heard his father’s boots clomping on the floor. He shot up and looked around. His father took off his coat and hung it on the post by the door. His hat went on top of it, then he turned to Billy Ray.
“Come here.”
Pastor Mullins smacked him across the face and yelled, “How could you commit such sacrilege as what I saw out there?”
He didn’t know at first what his father was talking about, then it hit him. And Delia hadn’t bothered to tell him it was her who’d done it.
“I told you to start dinner,” Pastor Mullins said. He backhanded Billy Ray, who fell down. “I didn’t say to desecrate the remains.”
Pastor Mullins stood over his son, pulling off his belt and quoting the Bible.
Billy Ray wanted to defend himself, to tell him it was Delia who’d done it. But he didn’t want any kind of punishment to come to her, so he kept quiet. He looked at his Bible lying closed by the stove and thought It’s the right thing to do. I can handle Delia’s punishment.
The belt came down, buckle out, onto his back. He yelped and twisted around, hoping the next hit would land on the other side. It did, and he decided it didn’t matter where the next one hit, it would hurt like that all the same.
“I’ve tried to raise you,” Pastor Mullins roared, “to be a good Christian person, and you’ve done nothing but fight me the whole way. The Devil is somewhere inside you, and by Jesus Christ, I’ll banish him from here if it’s the last thing I do.”
No, Billy Ray thought from his pocket of pain on the floor, I’m not a bad person. I’m not. I’m good and I don’t deserve any of this. I only wanted to do what I was told.
His father brought the belt down again, claiming as he did so that a father who loves his son will discipline him. The belt came up again, then was flung down onto his flesh. His shirt ripped, and the metal buckle bruised his bare back. The belt came up again and was flung down.
The pastor yelled and cursed the evil in his son while Billy Ray wished for it to be over, wishing he could just be the perfect person his father wanted him to be. The belt came up again and was flung down.
The belt came up again and was flung down into the outstretched hand, caught by the furious creature on the floor.
Pastor Mullins looked at his son in shock, first at Billy Ray having the gall to defend himself, then because the boy’s hand had been replaced by a horrible claw, clutching the belt.
“I’ve done nothing but try to please you,” he said through the thorns in his throat. His father looked at him and saw Billy Ray’s eyes had filled with blood. The boy’s teeth protruded from black gums, forming yellow spikes that bit into his lips. “I’ve tried to be good. But how could I when you wouldn’t let me?”
The last part was lost to his changing face and Pastor Mullins dropped his belt, backing up to hit the wall, crossing himself, praying in quick whispers for God to save him.
The claws tore the remains of his shirt from his hairy back. He stood on his haunches, and howled. Pastor Mullins closed his eyes tight and turned his face from the hot fury pouring from the beast’s black mouth. “God help me,” he said quietly.
The thing advanced and Pastor Mullins pressed himself into the wall, wishing he could pass right through it. The red eyes focused on him, boring into his head. If possible, he thought for a second, the look alone would have torn him to pieces.
“Thou shalt not kill,” Pastor Mullins croaked. “Billy Ray, honor thy mother and father.”
Billy Ray roared, a ferocious sound. Pastor Mullins’s ears popped, just before his head under the assault of a devil’s claws and teeth.
***
Delia Anderson sat with her family in front of a fire, doing a needlework. Her father played a guitar while the voice that drifted outside must have been Carol Anderson’s. Amanda watched their parents, smiling and clapping. They seemed happy.
A wolf stood in the dark outside, watching the happy people. Its heart sank with despair as it’s eyes flashed red, reflecting the moonlight, before it howled and turned away, loping into the woods at the edge of the Anderson property where it disappeared. No more cattle turned up slaughtered, nor people for that matter.
About the Author
C. Dennis Moore has published over 50 short stories in and around the horror genre, including 2 novellas and a short story collection, TERRIBLE THRILLS. By day he works as an inventory control clerk.
©2009 C. Dennis Moore
