Darling Belle

Nineteen

MAISIE BELLE GRAHAM
BEFORE
CHURCH

Every soul is marginally splintered, and capable of diabolism; some more than others. But the priestesses digress—in everyone, lies the devil. And you are no exception.

Sunday.

Gwenda Jones had been dead for several hours before her rotting body was discovered; it was the putrid scent of death that'd lured the priests to her brutalized carcass; not the voice of god as they liked to claim when they later used the incident as a lesson to invoke fear.

In the walls of the chapel, behind a vast, religious print of The Coronation of the Virgin; her corpse had been stored. Amidst prayer, a church boy and a duet of priests peered behind the frame, moving it slightly to pinpoint the grotesque odor, fully expecting some kind of spreading mold or starved animal. Instead, the weight of the body broke through the painting, leaving an almost human-shaped hole behind as it descended upon the unlucky people seated beneath it.

With her little hands together, and a flower crown of black roses stitched into her hair—on the other side of the pew—Maisie Belle had been so engrossed on the ruby-glow that slanted across the dais, the stained glass windows creating a rainbow stream of light. But then, she'd heard the sound of swift tearing, followed by a thud and shrieking, she whipped her head just in time to watch as a crimson splatter plopped down like heavy rain.

Nobody but one was harmed: William. The church didn't like him, but they couldn't deny him entrance, either. He was a sinner, the folk would whisper, they would croon about this a week later. That was what happened to nonbelievers.

Crookedly, his body bent on the floor.

Gwenda's bloated corpse covering his own.

Now there were two dead bodies.

At fifty-three years of age, Gwenda had been a victim of manslaughter. She loved to knit and sing, pretty much like any other old lady. Not to mention, she was a God-fearing woman. She wasn't judgmental at all, really—she was kind.

There was this one time that Maisie had been overwhelmed with choir practice, and Gwenda—being their instructor—hadn't been frustrated with her allowed her to step outside to calm herself down. Later, even going as far as checking on her well-being. That was rare in the church.

Little Maisie blinked away the memory. Gwenda's glazed over gaze reminded her of green grapes. Maisie was always fond of her eye color. A bleached green.

So, It was a spontaneous kill, no known motive attached to her case. She was nice to everyone. Yet now, she bore numerous deep, vertical cuts on each arm, with rigor mortis evident. Her mouth stuffed with a blood-soaked sock, hands tied behind her back so tightly it bruised, her eyes wide open in terror. And it may've been for eternity if death didn't have such a distinct smell—pungent and foul.

So, maybe it didn't matter if you were kind or not.

Clearly, the killer wanted her to be found unless they were completely oblivious to the process of decomposition.

William Rogerson. All she knew was that he was in his seventies, and, while under the influence, he had been charged for a brutal assault a year prior to this incident. And even though all kinds of abuse were common in the church, people decided to act righteous and make William an example. Who physically inflicted his abuse—everyone else was subtle about their mistreatment—but you couldn't hide facial bruises.

But when the higher-ups of the church got away with similar scenarios, it instilled in all the children, with their naïve, impressionable minds, that if you were cunning enough, you could even conceal your sins from God.