The Vessel

Chapter 1 - The Hanged Woman

1. The Hanged Woman

It was Woodwell, 1983; a large, rural township of several thousand residents in northern Pennsylvania, bordering on the southern side of Allegheny State Forest. The sun stabbed afternoon light through the clouded, late autumn sky. The prototypical American Dream was born in a place like this - replete with white picket fences, sprawling front lawns, and a perfect balance of privacy and knowing everyone's name for miles.

It was a Saturday in the sleepy town; by now most folks had ventured out and about, performing their weekend routines. At least a quarter of Woodwell spent every other Saturday in the Holy Trinity Church, led by Pastor John Hagerty. It was the central attraction in town, and the primary cause for the surge in Woodwell's population in recent years. Religious consorts and believers in things wondrous and magical ventured from places near and far to attend the recorded - and later televised - sermons. The sanctified exhortations were spectaculars themselves; they included faith healings, music, and reenactments of biblical scenes, more often than not lasting from sunrise to sunset.

...Alone, Melissa clung to the last vestiges of her life. A thick, curly curtain of golden hair, soaked with sweat and dripping, covered her red and swollen, tear-stained face. Viridian irises bereft of vitality faded into darkness, pupils widening to capture the waning warmth of the light that evaded her.

A purple exercise band clung to her throat; pallid skin stained into a blue hue, constricted by the squeezing violet snake that was to claim her existence. Haphazardly tied around the stopper found on the top of the foyer door, this was not the work of an experienced hangman. In her haste to meet death, Melissa decided her husband would see her like this, to know what it was like to fall from grace...

Not long before Melissa affixed the plum tension band as a jury-rigged noose, she answered a knock, knock, knocking at the front door.

How unusual for anyone to knock today, she thought.

Melissa had not attended one of those Saturday sermons of John Hagerty's in quite some time; it was past noon and she had only risen from bed less than an hour prior. Mel was in her late twenties, with skin that reflected moonlight; she was dressed for the occasion of sleeping until noon, with plans on spending the rest of the day inebriated and ignorant to the world outside.

Melissa's house was uncharacteristic for Woodwell; more than double in size than most, it was lined with marble and exotic hardwood floors, vaulted ceilings and chandeliers, and came equipped with rare silk and leather upholstered furniture. Complete with all the comforts most dreamt about, no expense was spared in her lavish, designer home.

"Mornin', George!" She said with a southern drawl, opening the door to find the mailman waiting out front.

"Hey, Mel!" The mailman replied.

George was an olive skinned, jovial man, excited for human interaction in his often solitary days. Balding and in his mid-forties, he knew everyone in Woodwell by first name.

"Something wrong with the mailbox, George?"

"Nope! Got a package you need to sign for. Got your husband's name on it." George spoke in a Philadelphian accent that was a mishmash of something between the northern parts of the south and the southern parts of the north.

"Oh...that's weird. We weren't expecting anything. What is it?" Mel and her husband had a PO Box set up at the local post office for the sole purpose of avoiding deliveries to the house.

"No idea. Some kinda envelope or somethin'," George said, shrugging. He handed Mel the carbonless copy paper tracking form and a pen. "Sign right there for me."