CHAPTER FIVE
Darkness enveloped the House on North Lane, the air thick with rot and decay. It was as though the House had been abandoned, even with the four souls living inside.
Silence followed me down every corridor, broken only by the groan of shifting beams and the creaking of floorboards.
The Devil’s eyes followed me through the portraits on the walls. Watching. Waiting. For what, I did not know.
While my father worked, my mother barricaded herself in her room, shutting Auden and I out like we were the Devil’s children, not hers.
She emerged only to attend church, dragging Auden and I along with her. Neither of us dared make a sound in fear of punishment.
We sat in the front row of pews, heads bowed, and hands clasped together in prayer. Our mother sat with Father Andrej on the pew across the aisle to our right, a rosary in each of their hands.
I could hear her shaky voice, the sharp intakes of breath, the quiet slap of her hands against her thigh every time she dropped them into her lap. She was discussing Auden. And me.
My attitude.
His silence.
My disrespect.
His tantrums.
Not wanting Auden to overhear, I directed his attention to the statue of Jesus on the cross. I told him how much Jesus loved him. How much I loved him.
“You’ll never be alone,” I whispered, “because you have Jesus to pray to. And you have me. I’ll always be here. Always.”
His lips spread into a small smile, eyes on mine as he took in every word. My voice seemed to calm him enough to nestle closer, his head resting on my upper arm.
I ruffled his hair gently, forcing a smile of my own as my mother complained about how difficult we made her life.
We weren’t the perfect children she felt she deserved as a loyal servant of God.
Father Andrej didn’t dispute her, telling her that God would not have entrusted her with us if He didn’t believe she could guide us to Him.
“I am not who He thinks me to be, then,” my mother sniffled, “I wish I had never had children.”
A blade through the heart would have hurt less.
I swallowed the pain, keeping my eyes clear of tears for Auden’s sake.
Unlike my mother, I would not give up on him.
He was not a burden. He was the light I would follow out of the darkness.
The light I would protect when the shadows tried to drown him out.
The drive home was quiet except for the radio. Auden was asleep, security blanket glued to his chest in a warm embrace. I glanced past him, gaze on the row upon row of trees that followed us to North Lane, a blur of green, brown and grey.
I thought about what my mother had told Father Andrej—about how much of a burden Auden and I were. Auden was battling through his inability to communicate, and I had the Devil in my head. I needed to be good. Be better. Make my mother’s life easier.
That will never happen, the Devil hummed.
“What did Father Andrej say?” were my father’s first words as we stepped through the door.
“He thinks we should see a doctor,” my mother answered.
“A doctor?” my father frowned. “Why?”
“It doesn’t matter. Because he’s wrong. A doctor isn’t going to heal our children from sin.
” She dumped herself onto the couch while Auden and I approached the staircase.
I let Auden climb up, but I remained, listening as my mother added, “I need God’s guidance, and Father Andrej has sinned terribly for suggesting we turn to earthly means for a solution. ”
“What? Mary, no. Father Andrej is right. If there is something wrong we need to–”
“God is testing us, Marcus, don’t you see?
We’re failing. Augustus is disrespectful.
He resorts to violence when he’s upset, he always talks back and thinks he knows it all.
And Auden…” Her voice trailed off as she glanced toward where I hovered by the staircase.
I slipped away before I could endure a scolding, heart hammering in my chest as I went.
I didn’t get to hear the rest of the conversation, but by the following Sunday, we were attending a new church.
***
Our new church was a small building with a large cross plastered on the front door, floorboards cracked and splintered with age. Our new priest was a man with self-appointed authority to speak on God’s behalf, his allegiance not to the Pope, but to himself.
My father did not approve. He had been hesitant to leave the St Augustine community—a community that had welcomed him in Rose Chapel when he was freshly nineteen, looking for work in a small, honest town.
My mother disagreed. She believed St Augustine’s had betrayed her, that Father Andrej was no longer a trustworthy advisor. That was why we joined the God’s Soldiers Church. Here, she said, we would be saved.
But it didn’t feel like we were being saved. My mother had lost a lot of weight, blue veins protruding from her pale skin. Sleepless nights darkened the circles around her eyes, bottom lip speckled with dried blood from her incessant picking.
Religion became an obsession. It controlled her every waking moment. While she grew closer to God, we all grew further apart.
“You have the devil in you,” she’d tell me whilst securing rope around my wrists, the rough fibres biting into my skin. “This is for your own good.”
She’d then throw me into the linen cupboard, slamming the door shut.
Blood soaked into the rope’s frayed strands, droplets falling one after the other as I blindly reached for a towel to control the bleeding. This earned me further punishment when my mother opened the door hours later to find two towels soaked with blood.
Dragging me into the kitchen, she removed the rope and poured lemon juice over my open wounds, a scream ripping from my throat at the burning acidity.
I spent more time locked in that linen cupboard, fighting through panic attacks, than ever before. If this was what being saved entailed, then I did not want to be saved.
Another Sunday rolled around, red, orange and yellow leaves crunching beneath our feet as we piled into the car.
The gentle patter of rain fell against the windshield, blurring the multitude of trees that followed us to the God’s Soldiers Church. Upon arrival, we hurried from the car to the house, ducking beneath our coats as a fine mist chased us up the steps.
Joseph Kade—or Joe, as my mother called him—stood at the front of the dimly lit room, black hair combed away from his forehead, light stubble grazing his sharp jaw.
He spoke slowly, deliberately, each word casting a spell over the small congregation in attendance.
Heads tilted, eyes widened. They were starving and his words were theirs to devour.
“We are called to spread the word of God,” he said, colourless eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second before drifting to the entranced devotees digesting his every word, “and to silence those who speak against it.”
My mother had a small notebook on her lap, thin fingers curled around a pen to record each and every word that rolled off Joe’s tongue.
“God delivered you all here, to me. It is our mission to save the world, to repent, to free one another of sin,” he went on.
“Man thinks he’s Jesus,” my father mumbled under his breath.
I barely suppressed a smile.
It was no secret my father disliked Joe. He thought him to be arrogant and prideful, a false prophet claiming to be divinely chosen by God. But my mother worshipped him, hanging off his every word.
“The Devil is among us.”
Silence.
Not a cough. Not a whisper.
No one moved. No one blinked.
I held my breath, the Devil stirring at the threat. I closed my eyes, willing him to remain quiet, fearful of the consequences. My leg bounced up and down, a subconscious admission of guilt.
“You.”
I opened my eyes, expecting a finger pointed in my direction, cold eyes condemning me for my sin. But there was no finger. At least not pointed at me.
Joseph’s eyes were on a young woman in her early twenties. Trembling, she shook her head, the denial dying on her lips as all attention fixed on her.
“Come here, child,” Joseph said, opening his arms.
The woman exchanged a glance with the young man beside her before slowly rising, the gentle tap of her heels drowning out the silence.
Biting my lip, I forced my leg to stop bouncing as Joseph placed a hand on the young woman’s head, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. I don’t know what was said, but whatever it was, it conjured a tear that rolled down her cheek.
“Tell us about yourself, Angela,” Joseph said, one hand falling to her shoulder while the other gently wiped the tear from her cheek.
“I… I don’t know what to… to say,” she stammered.
“How about you start by telling us all why you are here?” Joseph suggested.
Angela nodded, brushing a single strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear.
“Okay. Okay, um. I… I was never uh… never religious. I mean… I believed in God and everything but… I didn’t really go to church or pray or anything like that.
” She sniffled, a second tear rolling down her cheek.
“And then a few months ago… I… I tried to kill myself. It was stupid. I was in a dark place. While I was standing on the edge, overlooking the Thames… I saw him.”
“Saw who?” Joseph asked.
“The Devil.”
A collective gasp filtered through the room, quickly silenced by Joseph’s raised hand.
“And what happened when you saw him?”
“He taunted me… laughing about how humans didn’t appreciate God’s creation… how worthless creation was when we just… threw it all away,” Angela said. “And that was when I realised… he was right. I wasn’t… I wasn’t appreciating the life God gifted me.”
“I stepped away from the bridge… went home… and found your videos on the internet” she added, giving Joe a small, shy smile, “and that’s how I found myself here.”
“God brought you here, my dear,” Joe said, “and I am so glad he did, because the Devil left that bridge, too. And he came here with you.”