TPoB (First Draft)

Chapter 2

Atwell stood in the barley under the pale moonlight, watching as it rolled through like an ever moving sea. He didn't understand how or why he was there, but felt he needed to go forward. Once he went back inside. Most all of the lights were off in the house and Edmond was no longer on the porch as he passed through. Once inside, before he'd even made it past the kitchen, he noticed that there was light coming from the chapel. As much as he had wanted to go somewhere, anywhere else, his feet disobeyed and carried him to the large double doors. He couldn't find any rhyme or reason as to why his body had decided to betray him like this, but not a moment later he found himself reaching for the handle.

Within he found one of the family's private sermon's in session. It was almost the same as they always were, with all of the family members in their little farming community in the rows, but something was very wrong in the room. He couldn't quite place his finger on it until he looked to the priests stand, where, in Caldwell's place, stood Edmond. Or at least he thought it was Edmond. This Edmond was not the withered old man Attwell had known and loved, but rather a much younger man, about the age Caldwell was now. Once he'd seen this, all of the little differences jumped out at him at once. Everyone had looked younger, Lillian was nowhere to be seen, none of the younger generations of the family were present, and the entire chapel was in much less disrepair than it was now. He scanned the rows for an answer to what was happening when out of the blue an unfamiliar face struck a chord in his head. He hadn't had much time to contemplate who this mysterious young woman was before he'd seen what was happening. Something was very wrong with her as the woman was clearly struggling to keep her conscious as she listened to Edmond and soon couldn't fight any longer. The woman dropped, her head hitting hard against the back of the seats in front of her. A few people turned to look, including some that Attwell had only seen in photos on the mantle before.

"It would seem our guest has fallen." Edmond's words rang out above the excited whispers of the congregation.

'No'. Attwell thought. 'No, I know what this is.' Just as he thought they would, a few members of the congregation rose from their seats and hauled her to the large wooden table in front of the priests stand. Attwell didn't want to watch. He couldn't watch, but he couldn't force himself to look away. Caldwell stepped out from behind Edmond now. He looked different. Younger, maybe even around the same age Attwell was now. He was hiding something too, he seemed to be keeping one hand behind his back or the stand the best he could. Attwell did, for a moment, manage to catch a glimpse of something shiny though.

"Now, family." Even Caldwell's voice seemed youthful as he proudly spoke to the congregation. "Now is my time." Caldwell rounded to the front of the table, no longer bothering to conceal the large carving knife in his hand. Attwell couldn't take it much longer. If he couldn't look away then he'd force his eyes shut, and so after a bit of struggle, he did. Still he heard every word.

"With the wine of a saint," a slit, he'd heard a slit. "And the blood of a sinner," blood. Not blood. Attwell hated everything about it, even the word bothered him. "I shall be deemed the next prophet!" At that last sentence confusion invaded Attwell. Why had he heard his own voice and not that Caldwell? While he did not want to, he made himself open his eyes. Attwell was horrified to see that he was now in Caldwell's place, standing before the congregation with a bloodied glass of wine in hand.

Attwell woke up in a cold sweat, having to look around to get his bearings. The details faded very quickly but what stuck with him was that young woman. She wasn't a part of the family, and he'd certainly never seen her at church or school, but she had a strangely familiar feel coming from her. 'But a dream?' Attwell pondered. 'A dream is no place to gather evidence.' An image popped into his head that cut right through his thoughts. He couldn't believe what Caldwell had done to that woman. He couldn't believe that he'd be forced to do the same in the coming year. He hadn't had much time to process it before he was interrupted by a slight tapping on his window, a pair of crows who were pecking away at a little mouse. His gaze then wandered outside and found that it was just before sunrise. 'What day is it?' crossed Attwell's mind as he crossed the room to the large handcrafted dresser in the corner. Before reaching into any drawers, he took a look at the calender hanging on the wall. Yesterday was the twenty seventh... Sunday! Seeing the word on the calender gave Attwell hope for the day. Sundays were usually good days. Not because it is a day for the lord, at least not to him, but because that's what it was for everyone else. The rest of the family would put aside their issues for the day and treat each other nicely, even Caldwell. He thought about this as he donned his Sunday best and headed off through the house.