Chapter 51
Agatha
The office is a mess. Corwin and I move quickly, pulling things from drawers and sorting them, dumping what we’re taking with us into boxes.
Receipts, photos, a hard drive. The more I touch, the colder I feel.
There is a page in a ledger that says first sacrificial blood in ugly handwriting, and my stomach does a back flip.
I chuck the book into the box. Don’t think about the meaning of it.
We find videos—files labeled with dates and places. Faces. Kids. Women with eyes that refuse to look at the camera. It all fits together like a map of how they used people. I feel sick and steady at the same time. That feeling is new, and it scares me less than it should.
Then I find his notebook. Pastor Williams kept a journal tucked into a drawer like a teenager hiding it from their parents.
He wrote down schemes, quiet little how-to notes about how to keep his flock in line, ideas that came to him in dreams of how to make the women cower.
The handwriting loops from print to cursive when he writes about me, about nights he spent watching my feed. He calls me a temptation.
I flip the page and there are payment dates, watch history of dates, and what I did in the video. I can’t believe he was User259.
I wonder if he used his own money to pay for his dirty little secret or if the church paid.
I could look from my portal, but my computer is back at the house, and honestly, it doesn't matter. We shove the files, drives, and brittle pages into boxes and tape them shut. Corwin lifts one and scowls at the weight.
“We drop these on doorsteps. We don’t give them time to bury it.”
I nod. “They’ll have to see it to believe it.”
When we walk back into the chapel, the light makes dust in the air. Williams hangs from the cross, slack and small where before his presence filled the room like a bad perfume.
He’s dead.
I expect regret to fill me; instead, I feel a cold clarity.
The rightness of tonight settles inside me, and I only feel relief.
I’m not sure when I became so unaffected by death.
Maybe it’s not death itself. Maybe it’s just whose deaths these are.
I felt bad and guilty in the woods when I found Jay, but standing here now, I don’t feel guilt or even the slightest unease about my parents or Williams. It makes me wonder if this darkness, this thirst for revenge, was always inside me and I just didn’t know it.
Since I left, I’ve loved everything spooky; horror, the occult, all of it.
But this is different. This is next level.
“How does it feel to know they can’t even think about you anymore?” Garron asks.
I shrug. “Good. I feel free. It’s strange because I thought I was free before, but this is different. This feels final. You know what I mean?”
Evander nods. “I do.”
"So, now what?" I ask.
“Now, Little Horror. You’re going to lure Lundy here. He gets to start his descent to hell,” Garron says.
“Okay. Tell me what you want me to do,” I reply.
“Go into the office and get Williams’ cell. Call Lundy, tell him it’s you. He’ll come. Then we pounce,” Evander adds.
“Okay,” I answer, setting the box down on a pew.
I beat myself up for not thinking of the phone sooner.
Maybe I missed it, I tell myself. Maybe I was rushing.
I go back and check the office again, slower this time, fingers running along file folders.
I rip through the desk, drawers, and cabinets, but nothing stands out.
Then I see a black android sitting on the desk of the church secretary.
I sit down at her desk and thumb the screen awake.
Of course it is Williams’ phone. His bird, Proverbs, is the lockscreen.
I can't believe that thing is still alive, but again, not the focus.
Lucky for me, Williams is one of the few in today's age who doesn't have a lock on his phone so I can get into it, easy as pie.
I don’t overthink it. I scroll to his contacts, find Lundy sitting in favorites, and hit call. My voice goes thin as I fake shaking and sinning, but inside I am steady as bone.
The line clicks and a voice comes through. “Pastor Williams, sir, is everything okay?”
I force a small laugh, high and nervous. “Hi, Mark. It’s me, Agatha Templeton. You didn’t forget me, did you?”
There’s a pause, then, “How could I? How did you get the pastor’s phone?”
“I’m at the church with him,” I say, letting my voice wobble like I’m some scared little girl.
“I came home, Mark. I need to be cleansed, and Pastor Williams thought you would help.” The words feel like glass in my throat.
I hate how easy it is to slip back into that role, like the obedient lamb they always wanted.
“Sure. Of course. Anything for a member of the flock, no matter how far they’ve fallen,” he replies.
“Thank you,” I whisper, biting down hard on the inside of my cheek. “We’ll be in the chapel.”
“I’ll see you in ten minutes,” he says, and then the line goes dead.
For a moment I just sit there, the phone heavy in my hand, bile climbing the back of my throat. Playing small again makes my skin crawl. But I push up from the desk, shove the phone in my pocket, and head back down the hall.
I skip out of the office to find the guys, breath quick from the thrill. “He’s coming,” I tell them, and the plan clicks into place.
We lie in wait until we see his headlights through the window at the front. They press flat against each side of the chapel doors, bodies hidden by shadow, ready to close in. I stand right inside, the bait in plain sight. The doors creak and open.
Lundy steps through, grin wide, like a mad hatter who’s just spotted his prize. “You’re all grown up, Agatha.”
I giggle. “You knew that already, Mark. Williams confessed he’s watched my channel. And so have you. Sometimes even together.”
Color rises in his cheeks. He shifts. “I can’t lie. It’s true. We did.”
“Come, Mark.” I lean closer, voice sweet as sugar. “I can’t wait for you to see our setup. Williams went all out for my return. Ooohhh, I should blindfold you—that would be fun.”
He tilts his head, curious, weighing it, but then he nods. He trusts me. Idiot.
I snatch a tie from the lost and found bin by the coat rack and loop it over his eyes, knotting it firmly at the back of his head. He chuckles under his breath; I’m sure he assumes this is some game.
I lead him by the hand down the aisle. My guys ghost behind us, steps feather-light.
At the front, I tug the tie loose. His eyes blink against the brightness, and then he sees Williams nailed to the cross.
“What the fu—”
“Ah ah ah, Lundy,” I cut in. “No swearing in the Lord’s house.”
His face drains. “What have you done, Agatha?” He takes one step forward, then freezes. His voice cracks. “Is he—?”
“Dead?” I smile wider. “Yes.”
He pales, all the blood draining from him. He whirls, trying to bolt for the doors.
But my men are already there. They surge forward, catching him before he makes it two steps. He thrashes when their hands close on him, arms pinwheeling.
Corwin catches him around the chest, squeezing the air out of him in one solid hold. Evander grabs his wrists and twists them behind his back until Lundy yelps, knees buckling. Garron moves in low, sweeping his legs, and the three of them drag him down like it’s nothing.
I stand a few steps away, heart hammering, but my face is calm. Watching it unfold feels like déjà vu, but this time I’m not the one being pinned. This time I’m the one standing.
“Let me go!” Lundy spits, kicking, but Garron drives his knee into his ribs, sharp and mean, and the fight drains out of him quickly.
Corwin growls close to his ear. “You’re not going anywhere, Pastor.”
He writhes, useless, glaring up at me like I might save him.
I tilt my head and smile. “What’s wrong, Mark? I thought you liked my little games.”
His face twists, veins standing out in his neck, but he can’t answer. Corwin yanks a strip of duct tape from the roll and slaps it over his mouth, cutting the noise to muffled grunts.
“Up,” Garron orders. They haul him to his knees, then to his feet, but instead of dragging him down the aisle, Corwin sweeps a hand across the communion table near the steps. Candles, offering plates, and hymnals scatter to the floor with a clatter.
They dump him on the cleared wood with no care, his body hitting hard enough to rattle the table legs. He bucks once, panicked, but Evander already has a syringe out. The needle gleams under the harsh church lights.
I lean closer, catching the way Lundy’s eyes flare wide above the tape. He knows.
Evander doesn’t say a word. He just slides the point into Lundy’s neck, depresses the plunger slowly, and watches the liquid vanish under his skin.
It doesn’t take long. Lundy jerks, shakes, then stills. Not dead—his eyes roll frantically, his chest still heaves. But his arms go slack, and his legs won’t answer him.
“He can feel it all,” Evander says, calm as stone. “He just can’t fight back.”
Corwin smirks down at him. “Perfect.”
I cross my arms and step closer, my stomach coiling with a mix of nausea and thrill. He wanted to play savior. Now he gets to be the sacrifice.
Lundy’s chest rises and falls fast, sharp. His eyes dart between us, frantic, the only part of him left that can still move. Sweat beads at his temple even though the room is cool. He’s trapped, aware, but helpless.
I step close enough that my reflection pools in his wide pupils. “Feels different now, doesn’t it?” I murmur. “When you can’t lay hands on anyone. When you’re the one pinned down.”
Garron digs in the bag, metal clanking until he pulls out a pair of heavy shears, the kind you’d use on barbed wire or stubborn bolts. He clicks them once, slowly, just for Lundy’s benefit.
“You cut down girls with words,” Garron says, pacing the length of the table. “Tonight, we see how you like being cut.”