Abilene

Prologue

It may look alive, It may sound alive, but dead things will always smell dead.

I learned the hard way. I learned when I resurrected someone for the first time. I was thirteen years old, and while I thought I was making the right decision, resurrecting my father from his grave was the beginning of something monstrous.

My mother told me that from the moment I breathed my first breath, I was a strange, intriguing child. She told me, I didn't cry when I was born, I giggled. As I got older, I kept to myself. I minded my own business, helped out on the family farm, and tried my best to be the best daughter I could be. I led a quiet life up until I turned thirteen.

On my thirteenth birthday, my father and a local family, the Arsons, negotiated a wedding between me and their eldest son. His name was Dreikel. He was kind, but his family was crude and selfish. The head of the Arson family wasn't pleased with what he was trading for me. He wanted more from us.

That was the night the devil stole my innocence. That was the night the women in my family, including me, were raped by the Arson men. My father was murdered. My brothers were beaten. My house was burned to the ground.

The next day, despite our battered bodies, my family buried my father. We took him to the Old Oak, at the edge of our property. This tree was my praying grounds, and a sacred place for my ancestors. All but one of my brothers immediately left home to find work. Lyall, my oldest brother, became a father-figure to me in the months following the attack. He vowed to protect us, my sisters, mother, and me.

Several months passed and my mother discovered she was with child. Though she was ashamed, she refused to attempt to get rid of the child. I was the angriest out of my siblings. I loathed that the spawn of once of the Arson men grew inside her, his blood flowing through her veins. I desired for all living things with Arson blood to die a painful death. Cruel, I know, but those men had stolen every part of my childhood and family.

On the eighth month anniversary of my father's death, I went to the sacred Oak. I prayed to my ancestors to rid the impurities from my mother and restore our bloodline. I prayed for the strength myself if they refused to.

Weeks had past and nothing happened. Until one night in October. That sixth night of October she went into labor, and I watched her from outside the bedroom window. I remember it so vividly. Her screams... Her screams still haunt me. Not one person slept that night because of her screams. She screamed as if her insides were being ripped out of her. She screamed and cried, her veins in her neck bulged. She was drenched in sweat. The midwife had left the room and returned with two of my three sisters, Farrah and Kaesha. Each passing minute only fueled my anger. I wondered how my ancestors would allow this abomination into our family, but allow my father's innocent life to be claimed.

I faintly remember hearing a deep hum in the wind that night, but I ultimately ignored it. The icy wind slapped my face and it began to sting. I remember ignoring the pain, the feeling of my freezing fingers, because I was too focused on the scene before me. My mother began to fall in and out of consciousness and I saw panic spread across Kaesha's face. The midwife squatted down, preparing for the birth.

I remember feeling the fire boil within me as I watched. I didn't even realize I said something until I recalled the moment really hard.

One word, one simple, frightening word.

"Die."

At that moment, the wind picked up, and suddenly, my mother stopped pushing. I looked that the midwife who had a sympathetic expression and then I saw it...

The limp, grey-blue body of the baby. I felt myself smirk. I'm so disgusted that I smirked at that moment. I remember hearing sobbing and moaning. I looked at my sisters, teary eyes, red faces. They were at either side of my mother, sobbing and speaking low to her. It was then I realized she was staring right at me... except she was dead.

I remember feeling my heart drop.

I remember feeling a cold hand on my shoulder, gently turning me around. Lyall kneeled and cupped my face with his hands. I stared into his blue eyes as he wiped my tears. I remember pushing him away. I remember running from our newly built home, the sky opening up and down-pouring on me.

I remember the rumbling and tumbling of the thunder, drowning out my brother's shouts. The thunder pounded like my heart.

I remember running toward the edge of our property, to the Old Oak.

I remember suddenly feeling the hair on my skin prick up, a flash of light, a BOOM, a CRACKLE of wood, a fire erupting inside the tree from the lightening. I remember the heat radiating off the tree; heat from the depths of hell.

I remember the rage, the pain, the sorrow. My screams.

And in the midst of my tantrum, the soil beneath my feet rumbled. I jumped back moments before it caved in.

Do You Accept? The wind whispered to me.

"Yes." I recall answering angrily. At the time, I didn't know what, or who I was accepting. There was a familiar laugh from below me.

I leaned over the hole and a foul stench filled my nostrils. I gag every time I remember the smell: decaying flesh, like old cabbage. I recall a burning branch fell into the hole, and barely illuminated the hole. I remember my body stiffening. Looking up at me were grey, glowing eyes, and despite the tiny bit of fear that coursed through me, I remember smiling as he opened his mouth and spoke to me.

"Hello daughter."

The next morning, a neighbor stopped by and told us the horrible news: The entire Arson family was mascaraed in their home. I pretended to feel remorse, but I was only pleased. Later that day, we took my mother's body to the Oak tree. I recall feeling anxious about my siblings' reactions once they discovered my father's demolished grave. However, when we arrived, the grave was as we left it before the storm. I remember reminding myself to remain calm, to act normal.

My siblings and I kneeled down to the tree and prayed. "Blessed are the Dead," Lyall whispered sadly. I watched him, his light brown hair lightly moving in the wind, his expressionless face, but sorrowful eyes. He placed a hand on Kaesha's back, "For they are free from the chains of desire, pain and suffering." Farrah had pointed out the tree's new appearance, grey, ashy-toned bark, and burnt crumpled leaves falling from its branches.

"It was struck my lightening," I told her as I admired its bark. My siblings glanced at me as I patted my father's grave. Kaesha began to dig a small grave next to my mother. For the baby. I didn't stop her. I got the vengeance I wanted.

Or so I thought.