𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇

𝟎𝟖. 𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟔𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟔𝟔𝟔

You marched up to the meeting house with Solomon on your arm. The townspeople, folks you had known your entire life, were practically foaming at the mouth, banging their fists against the windows and double wooden doors like a pack of wild animals.

Solomon paused a league away from everyone else. You saw Abi Berman red in the face, pacing in circles behind her father who was roaring along with the masses. She was choking back tears, not bothering to dab them away.

Before you could think to approach her, Solomon yanked you in the opposite direction. His grip was firm and his fingers interlaced with yours neatly, albeit desperately.

"Brother! What is happening?" he called, somehow louder than the rest. His youngest brother, Elijah Goode, was the mayor of Union. Self-elected, though no one thought to question his natural authority at the time. That made it all the more concerning when Solomon first decided to turn away from the settlement to live on his own. 

Mayor Goode turned around, his face as pale as snow. "It's the pastor. He's locked all of the children in the meeting house. A dozen at least."

Your blood ran cold and you choked back a broken sob. Solomon spared you a regretful look, but you didn't register it. Pastor Miller? What did he need with a dozen children?

"(Y/N)!" Sarah forced herself through the crowds, latching onto your shoulder and shaking your shoulders as she clung to them for support. "Have you seen Henry? I can't find him anywhere!"

"Not I," you choked, dropping Solomon's hand to pry her arms off of you. "What of Johanna? Are they together, do you suppose?"

But Sarah needed not reply. Her eyes became glazed over and you knew somewhere in the back of your mind that yours had also. Henry and your Johanna were in that building with ten more children, the second and only other generation of Unionborns. You both knew it.

"Johanna!" You sob, praying once more for the first time in the span of your entire life that she could hear you above the roar of other voices. 

Solomon left your side without a word and you didn't hesitate to follow him. Sarah joined you because if she's learned anything by now, it's that fortune rarely turns a blind eye to friends of the Goode's.

You make it to the edge of the surging crowds and stumble around to the other side of the building adjacent to the front doors. Of course, you laughed hopefully. There was a back door.

You and Sarah stood back as Solomon rolled up the sleeves of his tunic and got to work prying open the ancient-looking door. "Cyrus!" He called warningly. The mayor rounded the corner and jumped up onto the steps to help.

Caleb, Issac, Thomas, and a handful of other capable young men joined in to break down the doors. You hadn't realized that you and Sarah had been forced to the outskirts until you heard the force of the door caving inwards behind a cloud of brown sawdust.

Solomon stood hesitantly in the dark doorway, like Moses before the newly parted Red Sea. He tensed, turning around to nod at his brother. "Keep everyone back," he ordered solemnly.

Fear pricked at your arms and legs. Johanna was right there in that house. You could almost feel her reaching out to you. "Solomon, wait, please!"

You nearly made it to the steps before you were swept up into Thomas' arms. He seemed shockingly sober after his outburst in the market that morning. How convenient. 

Solomon looked back and met your gaze, grabbing a nearby pitchfork before disappearing inside the shadowy church.

"Johanna!" you wailed, struggling to escape his grasp. Thomas didn't coddle you like he often tried to do when you ended up crying in his arms.

"Shh, girl. Be still." His voice was bitter like stale honeydew and all the same sickeningly sweet. The people surged once more around you and the mayor stepped away from the door to convince them to move back. You felt secure in the cage of Thomas' arms.

But you needed to find your sister, so when the people finally overpowered Mayor Goode, you wriggled out of his protective hold and slipped inside.

The inside of the meeting house was blisteringly hot and dark. The smell of sawdust and rotten meat instantly attacked your nostrils. Alone at the very center of the room, bathed in soft yellow and blue light, was Solomon Goode, the pitchfork was abandoned at his side.

There was a pile of pink meat discarded on the floor in front of him, but he looked on ahead to the pastor who was mumbling incoherently to himself at the podium high above your heads. The flesh glistened in the light from the stained glass window, casting prismatic shadows across the dusty floor.

You peered closer, instantly wishing you hadn't. "Oh God," you swore, clutching a hand over your mouth, but it was obvious that God had no role in what transpired here. The fleshy pile, upon closer inspection, was a collection of human eyes.

From far behind you, a mother broke down sobbing in front of a pew. The seats were all filled with the missing children, advancing in age toward the front of the room. You spotted a familiar head of hair and hiked up your skirts to approach the very front row.

"Johanna," you gasped in relief. She was sitting upright, pale hands clasped neatly in her lap. "Are you—" you crouched on the floor in front of her and your hopeful smile melted into a horrified frown.

Her body slumped forward—her skin ice-cold despite the hot stale air that filled the church. Her face was painted with blood that fell in fat teardrops from her empty sockets. Two black empty pits where her eyes used to be.

You heard the screams of the others. Other mothers, sisters, wives and daughters. Every woman in Union cried out at once in a horrible, sickening wail. Johanna was dead. So was Constance Berman, who had fallen over in her pew just behind this one. So was Henry Fier, who you couldn't see but Sarah's sobs were unmistakable. Their eyes were somewhere in that visceral pile of flesh that was now staining the floorboards of the church.

You heard footsteps behind you—heavy and hollow, but you were too busy petting back the hair out of your sister's tiny lap. You assumed it was one of the other men. One of those left unhindered by grief, if there were any such people left.

"(Y/N)!" you heard someone shout. You wouldn't know until later that it was Isaac. You spun around to see Pastor Miller standing over you with his sickle drawn high over his head, ready to strike you down. But right as you thought he might slash you, his body went still and he slumped over onto his side.

Behind him, Solomon stood with his mouth agape. He stood there, frozen in time, long after the prongs of his pitchfork slid out of the preacher's torso. He was panting, dropping the tool as if suddenly realizing what he had done. He killed Pastor Miller to protect you.

A pool of thick red blood grew around his body and the flies were quick to begin buzzing around his defeated form. "Oh God," you murmured, crawling backward to avoid kneeling in the fluid. "Oh my God."

"Witchcraft!" Caleb Abery shouted from the doorway, drowning out the cries of mourning. He was one of the lucky few spared from your grief. No children or siblings to speak of. You hated him for that. You would always hate him for that.

"Witchcraft!"

(A/N: Uh oh the W-word. I think I messed up the update schedule for this book aha. It's pretty fast-paced from here on out. Thomas is not in my good graces right now. I feel like I messed something up in this chapter so just comment if something is wrong grammar-wise).