Horror Stories

The Church of the Sacred Way

On the drive home for Spring Break, the very first thing I saw of my town was an enormous and many-spired church that had not been there before. I did a double-take and drove by on my way in; each spire was formed of six separate bands of crimson metal spiraling upward in a motionless pirouette that crested in a wicked point slicing the air sharply enough that little trails of clouded moisture could be seen racing from their tips in the humid North Carolina afternoon. The six spires along the front of the otherwise bone-white church were higher on the sides and lower in the middle, forming the impression in my sight of the bottom row of some set of horrible demonic teeth.

Only the sheer mundanity of the surrounding environment kept me from immediately labeling the place as evil. Over there was a wooded enclosure for dumpsters, nearer was a wide parking lot with a scattered assortment of the run-down decade-old cars typical of my small town, and directly in front of my car as I sat staring was a garish child-made sign for a coming bake sale. I shuddered, and then decided that I would never buy cookies from such a horrifyingly poor choice of architecture—well, unless they were really cheap or unless they had the rare pistachio flavor I loved. It was just a building, I told myself.

Feeling strangely threatened, the next thing I saw after I shifted into drive and continued on was a raised axe chopping down on something behind an approaching row of bushes. Watching intently as the green angled past, I sighed with relief and waved at old man Kern. He smiled and waved back before continuing to chop wood; a small pile of split logs had already built up along the side of his house, and he threw another piece on top as I turned and lost sight of him.

Numerous children were playing in the yards on my street. I slowed to make sure I didn't accidentally hit any as they ran this way and that throwing balls or screaming. One was sitting on her porch looking downcast, and I watched her as I passed; she did not move. Frowning, I pulled into the driveway of my home and got out to begin grabbing my stuff from the trunk. Well, what could I do? I carried my backpack and duffel bag inside while bracing against the inevitable family rush.

But it never came. Wandering through the house in a daze of remembrance and happiness at being home after so long spent at college, I smiled as I found my mom in the kitchen. "Hey, I'm back!"

"That's great!" she replied, her tone genuinely warm. She kept her eyes on her work. "I'm making a pie. I'll be done in just a minute."

I watched her fold dough with flour-covered hands for a moment, surprised. My mom had always been a rather hardcore anti-traditionalist. "When did you start making pies?"

"A lot of things have changed since you've left me with an empty nest," she teased, still focused on the crust she was making. "I've had to pick up hobbies to fill the time."

"Claire doesn't keep you busy?" I joked right back.

She didn't answer.

Moving on through the house, I called out for my younger sister, but no reply came. Heading upstairs, I dropped my stuff off in my room, sat on my old bed, gazed around at all the stuff I'd partially forgotten about, and generally took in a refresher on my old life. Nothing in this room had changed a single bit, and it felt good to know that not everything was constantly in transition. Classes, friends, dorm rooms; it all changed regularly, and even that pattern would shift when I graduated. Nothing was solid. Nothing felt real—nothing except this unchanging room.

Even my sister would be different. I hadn't been able to make it home for winter break, so she would be half a year older now, and at that age half a year was an eternity. Getting up and heading down the hall with a smile, I carefully tapped on her door.

There was no response.

"Claire, I'm coming in," I called carefully. After another few beats, I pushed open the door—and gagged.