The sounds of more running feet through the house, and this time they didn’t sound like rodents. She tried to breathe calmly and think about exactly what had happened, slowly, rationally. There was a dead woman in the attic and she may have been drugged and hallucinating. She broke out in a cold sweat. She looked at the time on her phone—it was two in the morning. She dialed 911 again—nothing.
Gretchen paced the room, trembling. She was also starving—the last thing she’d eaten had been a bag of pretzels Janine gave her for the trip. She was feeling everything she’d been ignoring—hunger, terror, pain—and somehow she had bumped or bruised her side. She lifted up her dress to look at the spot. And with a sickening clarity realized it was exactly where she’d been bitten in the dream she’d had at the piano bench. There was a red round bruise in the shape of a mouth. Individual tooth marks were clearly visible.
That was enough—body or no body, cell reception or no cell reception, she was getting the hell out of the house, even if it was two in the morning and there were strange creatures outside the door and there was nowhere to go. She grabbed her bag, threw the door open.
The little girls were gone. In their place was a tall thin man with dark eyes and dark skin holding a book. Behind him were several other men and women, a small group talking among themselves in southern accents. Two women were passing a baby back and forth trying to hush its crying.
She shut her eyes and went to push through the crush of people and tumbled to the floor. No one was there at all. No bodies in her way.
She sat for a minute in the hallway breathing hard, trembling, rubbing her bruised elbow and knee. When she heard whispering she scrambled to her feet, grabbed her suitcase firmly by the handle, and tore through the house, turning on every light as she ran by it. She could still hear murmuring and animals scurrying. She tried to find a telephone in the kitchen and found only another nest of insects—this time an enormous anthill on the tile counter, the black ants moving steadily forward, carrying the contents of a box of cereal that had spilled across the floor. There was no phone in the parlor, and she was not going to go upstairs again and look around. She ran into the front room and saw the same group of people descending the long stairs, a massive silent crowd now, as though they were at a solemn event. She stood directly in front of them to frame the shot. Not believing she could even do something like this—never in her life had she been that brave or stupid or possibly completely out of her mind—she took the picture, then ran outside and slammed the door.
The silent night surrounded her and the forest loomed in the distance. She raced off the porch, dragging her bag. There was only one house—that little white house nearby. And only one light, a small square window at the back. Esther had said who lived there. That piano tuner, some kid and his sister. There was no other option. She began running desperately down the road, her new camera bumping against her chest, the stars overhead shining as brightly as stars had ever shined.
* * *
NOTICE:
Mayville Community Picnic and New Member Meeting
* * *
Our children, our race, and our Nation have no future unless we unite and organize White Christian Patriots.
As we light the fires of truth to dispel the darkness around us and bring light to the night, so must we dispel those who would bring darkness into our midst.
This Order will strive forever to maintain the God-given supremacy of the White Race. To preserve the blood purity, integrity, culture, and traditions of the White Christian Race in America.
“Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? And what communion hath light with darkness?”
—II COR. 6:14
Come this afternoon to hear the truth and Join the
Traditional Knights of the White Christian Patriots
3 P.M. Village Grange at Axton Road
Dear James,
Now more than ever I know there is no going back. If we are not committed to this struggle we are committed to nothing. Thank you for bringing me with you. It was the most terrifying night of my life, and the most worthwhile. Those hours in the woods waiting for the dogs to pass, those horrible men with their lanterns. Hunting people as if they were prey. I saw the true face of evil in those men that night. It was a miracle we were able to bring anyone to safety. I was so certain we would all be caught. And in that certainty I knew that this is something I would die for and that I would be a coward and a hypocrite if I did not do even more. And when you held my hand, I knew that you felt the same.
All of this is to say: of course I will be there next week. I would be nowhere else but by your side.
Yours,
Fidelia
PART TWO
TWELVE