Fake Me To Church

Chapter 23.1 - What Ever Happened to Baby Lane?

- STEVEN -

That noise—what was that awful noise? Screaming? No...screeching. A frightened, terrified wail of agony. It wasn't pain; it was pure suffering.

And then it stopped.

Silence reigned.

Footsteps pattered.

...She giggled. A seventh-grader giggled with delight. "It's perfect," I heard her whisper.

More footsteps, this time coming closer.

"Steeeeven," an unabashedly girly voice crooned in my ear. "Waky waky, eggs and bakey. Steve's a fake; his dad's a snakey."

Little by little, I managed finally to open my eyes, to feel the thick length of rope securing my arms and legs to metallic pews velveted with plush cushions—pews I knew all too well.

The groggy blur before my eyes began slowly to dissipate, just as EdgeWay Church of Christ's main sanctuary came at last into full focus. At the edge of the stage, I spotted a tall and dingy bath tub, imposing in its own right as it sat precariously raised.

My eyes fled and swept to center stage, to the musician piano, the drums—and the podium situated medially before them. And the moment I saw it, I gasped, felt all the air bellow out of me.

Suspended by a stiff, wooden rod from the pointed edge of the stage's podium, my brother's severed head dripped blood onto the floored carpet. Its eyeholes rested in that eerie midpoint between tightly shut and bristlingly open, hair swaying to the side as its lips swelled in uneven purplish puffs.

Above the podium, the projector screen flashed to black and reset itself as the prattle of footsteps echoed out once more, this time behind me—accompanied by a slithering, sensuous voice.

"Steven," the words wisped through the air, "so glad you're awake."

"Where am I!?" I demanded, just as the projector in front of me began to play.

"Oh, Steven," Lane strode before me, stepping into view at last as the overhead video cut to a single frame—the bound and unconscious body of Glenn Clather, perched upon a flat stool of wood. "This is church."

She raised the remote in her hand to aim at the monitor, blasting the volume to its maximum as a blond figure ambled into view and jabbed a knife into Glenn's left shoulder to wake him.

He screamed, eyes and mouth popping wide at once as blood spurted.

"Welcome home, Glenn," the girl in the video spat.

"W-what is this?" I spoke up as Glenn squirmed on screen.

"Shh!" Lane screeched back at me. "This is my TV debut!" She giggled with delight, then tossed the remote to the floor. "So pay attention!"

"Who are you?" Glenn demanded of the blond.

"Oh, Glenny...don't tell me you forgot already?" She ripped the knife from his shoulder, flicked the blood from the blade as he screamed again. "I'm Lane...and you've been a very naughty boy."

Glenn's eyes grew wide. "L-Lane? No, that's impossible. You're...dead...Marcus said—"

"Marcus lied," the blond cut in. "But I guess that's no surprise, really." She raised her knife slowly, eyes teetering at the sharpened edge. "Do you know the Biblical punishment for lying?"

In a single swift motion, Lane jabbed the knife between Glenn's slightly parted lips, slicing through his tongue and embedding the blade in the back of his throat with a sick squishing sound. She crooked the knife to the right before yanking it from his mouth, blood sailing across the screen, then plunged it between his legs.