Brimstone Baptism

I cupped my face in a failed attempt to steal the bitter pain from my jaw. The cold taste of copper rolled off my tongue like morning dew on cabbage. I had broken one of God’s laws, and in return I was permanently silenced.

“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.”

Father warned me to keep my devil-tongue sealed lest he hack it off, and he proved himself a man of his word. It was then I decided I would no longer be held down by the weight of his devotion. For me. And for my sister.

#

The rooster shrieks early in the empty hours of the bleak winter morn. The bedroom door clings to life by its hinges, ready to collapse with the rest of the dilapidated house. I feed the woodstove a log, and it roars back to life—obliging enough to keep my sister warm. Her tiny frame shivers beneath the blanket, barely long enough to cover her feet. I strip my bed of my own and wrap her in a cocoon of comfort.

I pull on my woolen breeches, tuck in my linen shirt, and shrug into a heavy, padded jacket. Stiff leather shoes force their way onto my icy feet—feet that want to hide beneath the warm blanket they just wrestled from.

The splintered stairs ache under my steps. At the bottom, musty air and stale beer crawl up my nose. Father hovers over his plate at the dining room table, slopping through his breakfast with manners befitting the barn.

His burgeoning shadow engulfs the room. With his eyes fixed on his trough, he gestures for me to sit. The unwelcoming chair wobbles beneath my discomfort. Beer pours into his mouth, cascading down his chin and onto his linen shirt. A belch ricochets off the wall, and he hammers the table with his empty cup. He opens his Bible with grimy hands—staining its pages.

“But whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit will never be forgiven;

they are guilty of eternal sin.”

I nod like an obedient dog. He slams his book shut with a heavy thud, and my reflexes betray me. His eyes crinkle, giving way to a crooked smile.

“Take your sister breakfast.”

I stare at the empty chair across the table. Mother’s chair.

She adored the forest as much as her children. With us, she shared its secrets—its magic. She told us stories of the gods of the woods—wondrous spirits who would guide us if we were lost, show us the freshest herbs, and keep us safe. But she wasn’t safe from—

“Go. Now.”

My hands shake beneath the bowl of porridge while it threatens to spill across the rickety steps. I hear my sister’s coughs long before I reach our door. I find her curled in a ball, desperately clinging to both blankets. Relief finds her face when she sees me—sees her breakfast. Her smile steadies my hands, and I set down the bowl and sit at her bedside.

The sun casts viridescent hues that sparkle within her eyes. Long, flowing locks of golden wheat accentuate her fair complexion. With the passing day, she takes after Mother all the more.

Suppressing a cough, she sits against the headboard. With her eyes fixed on my swollen face, she gently presses it with her petite hand.

“Father?”

All I can do is mime to her that I am alright. She pulls away, coughing—shaking her head in disgust.

“How could he?”

The white in my eyes lays my dread bare; I cannot utter so much as a shh. Forcing a smile, I take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Our eyes meet in quiet understanding. She lets out an exhausted sigh before eating her meal. I wait for her to finish, kiss her forehead, and carry the empty bowl to the kitchen sink.

A hand clamps onto my shoulder, and my entire body tenses at the thought of its owner. The bowl leaps into the sink, and I expect my final thoughts to be the tiny fragments scattered across it. My vision blurs, and my lungs forget their purpose. My shoulder erupts with a familiar warmth—only then do I settle into my body, knowing it’s not my callous Father.

A tranquil garden opens before me; daffodils and daisies claim the grassy slopes at the precipice of a pine forest. Mother and sister dance in circles around a small campfire beneath the trees.

A worn satchel hangs from Mother’s side. After removing handfuls of fresh herbs and a fine white powder, she tossed everything into the fire. The women chant. Ascending flames carry their voices overhead as the fire reflects the emerald gleam in their eyes—until all is silent. The fire quietly settles into the ground. She wraps me in her embrace, brushing a faint whisper against my ear—

“Pocket.”

A lone tear trickles down my face as I stare at the bowl—not even a scratch.

Pocket.

I withdraw a silver medallion marked with a double-lined star and hold it above the sink in disbelief. Three words are etched on the other side.

Keep Me Safe.

The warm presence is gone, driving an unnerving pulse through my veins. Father’s dark cloud hangs over my shoulder. Cautiously, I palm the medallion, hiding both of my hands beneath my clothes, and turn to face the towering giant. He stands only feet away, but it feels as though he could not be any closer. Our eyes lock and hold steady.

“Go outside and prepare the firewood. Once it’s chopped, stack it next to the barn.”

I nod with the blank expression my broken jaw wears. He stands completely still with his eyes affixed upon me. I grip the disc so tight that it breaks my skin.

I hold Father’s gaze—prudently side-shuffling past him. I step backward toward the door and it greets my shoe with a resounding thump. My trembling hand blindly searches for the handle before I open the door and fumble my escape into the bitter cold.

#

The frigid air punctures my jaw with its apathetic breath. Clenching silver, I think of Mother and the fire’s invitation at the edge of the forest. A place of laughter—and love. Her warm affection floods my body, momentarily subduing the torturous weather.

A log rests on the chopping block as I grip the long, curved handle in both hands. I battle against its weight, struggling to maintain balance. The blade glints in the sun, and I heave it with all my strength.

It’s stuck.

I bash the log-bound blade as hard as I can, but it refuses to budge. I pummel it into the block with a series of heavy strikes. The wintry air invades my lungs, and I swing once more with all my might.

Finally.

The axe is free.

Struggling for breath, my vision narrows on the log. It reeks of condescension as it transforms into Father’s head. His eyes stare me down with contempt. My jaw locks at the provocation, and I clench his hair, slamming the bastard onto the block.

My head is plagued by the old man’s voice. Passages from his holy book slither into my ears, feeding on my brain like carnivorous insects. Stop. Stop! Stop, I cry—pleading, begging for mercy. Together, the axe and I are one. I grit my teeth and lean into the swing. It races through the old man’s skull, splitting his face into two equal halves. They fly onto the driven snow, bathing the ground in a pool of red. A clean kill.

I close my eyes and clutch the medallion in a panic. I open them to find two pieces of wood—two pieces claimed by the frozen ground.

I swing into a rhythm, focusing on getting this goddamned wood stacked. I trudge through coarse snow, stacking it beside the barn. With each plank chopped, I near the end of my task.

I lean against my hard work for a moment of respite, and catch two sparkling emeralds as my sister waves from our bedroom window. Another set flashes behind her and above her left shoulder—exactly the same if not duller. She notices something shift in my expression and turns around to look. They are gone.

Maybe the cold is getting to me. I should check on the animals in the barn.

#

Immediate relief finds me among the animals and hay. The cows moo, and the sheep baa with excitement. I nestle into a haystack, petting the sheep as we share a quiet moment.

The warmth of the forest erupts from my pocket, and I pull out the medallion in awe. The star pulsates with the glow of my sister’s eyes as the animals back away in bewilderment. Rich shades of green illuminate the middle of the hay-laden floor. The medallion’s light beckons me to a matching glow in the center of the room. Someone had carved the same star I found on the disc into the floor.

They are…reacting.

I press the silver disc into the groove in the floor, and it locks with a weighty click. Brilliant sparks race counterclockwise from point to point, triggering a faint metallic clack just beneath the haystack. Moving frantically, I fling the hay aside toward the adjacent wall.

A trapdoor?

The wooden door groans as I strain against the iron latch. The disc cuts through the black as I slump down the ladder while verdant flames fuel my descent.

The air reeks of sulfur that sears the lining of my nose. Cobwebs paint the room in shades of grey, and dusty shelves line the stone walls—crowded with half-empty vials and books inscribed in strange writing.

Rats feast on festering rats. Tears coat my eyes, blurring the jade glow into thick, painterly strokes as my stomach roils in agony. I cannot take it another second and spew my guts into a colossal puddle at my feet.

#

The dark room opens up to a claustrophobic set of stone steps. Soft whispers goad me deeper as black gall creeps up to the back of my tongue. I barely reach the bottom when two dull emerald lights seize my vision from the musty floor. With each step forward, the lights bring the sulfuric air to a boil.

At the end of the room, I find a woman lying naked on the stone floor. Purple bruises had marred her yellowed skin, and a deep gash had split the center of her throat, leaving a claret clot in her golden-wheat curls.

The medallion chars my hand, and it falls to the floor in a series of sharp clinks and clangs. The metallic bite reverberates through the stone room until the disc comes to a rest.

As the woman sits up, her eyes snap to the relic, causing her head to jerk in erratic, twitching bursts. Her bones creak and crack as lifeblood seeps down her neck from the open gash in her throat.

A drummer’s song pounds in my chest.

She blinks once, and her placid smile disintegrates into a vacant stare.

The bones in her neck give way. They snap like frail twigs as her head twists, not stopping until her head remains fixed toward the ceiling. I flee the room backward on my hands and knees. One by one, her limbs dislocate before she stands on them like a spider. The light in the medallion recedes, and her jeweled eyes fixate on the only thing left in the room.

Me.

My body remembers what my brain forgets, and I crawl away until the damp stone steps are under my hands. The creature heaves after me, staining the floor with a river of red, bathing me in shades of green.

I struggle against the sulfuric air and force my legs to retreat. I stumble up the stairwell as she looms behind me. I hurl myself to the top and panic into a full sprint, plunging into the black. My feet fly through the air, and I slam onto the ground—landing directly in my steaming mess. The wind rushes from my lungs as I search for breath through the narrow passage of my nose. The only passage left after Father’s beating.

I lie there helpless as the looming clicks and clacks haunt me. Its verdant light claws through the dark, encompassing the room as it drags itself atop me. Cold lifeblood drips on my lips, causing me to gag back more of my wretched effusion.

The creature mangles itself again. It snaps its head back into place with a grating shriek that makes me shiver. Its eyes roll back into its head until only the whites remain.

In the cellar, Mother kneels in front of an open leather-bound book with fragile, yellowed pages. She reads from it aloud in a foreign tongue—the words on the page matching the glow of her eyes. She’s oblivious to Father standing behind her, white-knuckling a Butcher knife.

He grabs a fistful of hair, yanking her head back to expose her neck as he stands above her. In one swift motion, he drives the knife into the center of her throat—sawing through her vocal cords. Lifeblood floods the room while her chants dissolve into the gurgling sounds of a dying animal.

It all makes sense. This creature is Mother. She tried to protect us with her magic—and he killed her for it.

The felling axe slices through Mother’s head, failing to make a clean cut. Her skull opens like a Venus flytrap as the blade crunches into her jaw. Father yanks the axe free, kicking her aside with a chilling indifference.

Father towers over me as if I’m an insect that needs to be squashed. His heavy breaths dominate the cellar as I stare up at a man I no longer recognize—a man consumed by a wrath of biblical proportions. He turns his attention toward the house where my sweet sister lies. Sick and helpless.

Father walks toward the ladder like a man with conviction, dragging the axe across the floor. It takes all my strength to stand up. All I can think of is protecting the only light left in the house.

#

I stumble toward the ladder and begin my climb. My grip fails me. Sliding on the slick rungs, I haul myself up. With one heavy pull after another, I reach the top.

I’m out of the dark.

Hay sticks to my sour clothes as I crawl out of the barn. My eyes follow the trail of blood leading to the house. Clawing at the snow, I force myself up. I’m weak, and the snow is dense. I stretch my arm toward the open door, stumbling back into my home.

I made it.

I follow the trail throughout the house. The Bible I was scolded with—gone. My stomach churns. What’s left of it rises to my throat, and I choke it down.

I look up the stairwell, hoping to catch him before he can harm her.

Nothing. I breathe deep, tasting the iron on my tongue.

My body aches from two days of work as I hang from the railing with dead weight, heaving myself up—one step at a time. My sister screams for help, breathlessly calling my name. Father’s striking hand against her delicate face echoes through the soles of my shoes.

“You son of a bitch.”

Gasping for air, I make it to the top. My jaw throbs as if it housed a nest of hornets while the room sways around me. Only a crooked door stands between me and my sister. Father opened his Bible and began reading.

“And these signs will follow those who believe:

In my name they will cast out demons;

they will speak with new tongues.”

I crash through the door shoulder first, collapsing in a heap, choking the air with dust. I struggle through ragged breaths. Father wears a mask of horror.

#

His voice falls silent—echoing the verses I’ve been berated with as he creeps toward me. Is he suddenly afraid? Am I not the weak pest who needs to be punished for disobedience? To honor thy Father? My strength is gone—dead as the door beneath me. He kicks me over and kneels beside me. Blood drips from my nose down my chin. This is it. There is no stopping him. He will kill us both and call it retribution.

“Pfft, stupid boy.”

With a calloused hand, he grabs my throat and drags me from the door. I kick at the dusty air, straining my lungs for a sound—any sound. My neck feels like it is about to snap as he carries me across the room toward the wall. Darkness leaks into the corners of my eyes, and lifeblood pours from my mouth like sour wine.

Is this penitent enough for you, Father?

A sharp bell rings through my skull. My thought slips away—taking my body with it.

#

The sun paints my face with delicate rays of light.

Mother?

Her face appears: beautiful, loving, kind.

“It is okay, son. I am here.”

Mother’s love fills me with courage. I know I gave everything to save my sister.

A violent flash of light bursts behind Father, washing the room in waves of green that ripple across my face. The color restrains him, crushing his grip. I plummet to the floor—barely clinging to life. With wide eyes, he turns in disbelief, praying they deceive him.

My sister floats above her bed with Mother’s old leather-bound book. Her eyes glisten with a blinding light. She radiates warmth: pure, powerful, familiar. It wraps around me like a blanket pulled from memory. The book hovers open in front of her, and with a flick of her wrist, the pages flutter, stopping on her command. Father watches on—powerless.

She calmly chants in the foreign tongue, and the felling axe hovers in front of her with its blade tilted at Father’s head. She reads a passage, and the axe floats beside her. A smile tugs at her lips as she utters the final syllable. The axe sails across the room, and Father’s last breath escapes in a curse.

“Burn in hell, demon!”

It lands between his eyes, coating the walls in crimson. He sways in silence, staggering across the room with the axe lodged in his face. In a final act of desperation, he reaches out to grab my sister. He collapses mid-step, dropping to the ground face-first. The room shudders as Father falls onto the Bible, splitting his skull straight through.

She closes the book, and the glow recedes from her eyes.

She hugs me, and I feel the warmth of our Mother. The mess I’m wearing is of no concern; she simply wipes it away with the sleeve of her nightshirt. Tears stream down my cheeks. Holding my face in her gentle hands, she brushes away my tears.

“It’s my turn to take care of you,” she whispers.

END

BIO: Seth O'Neal writes dark poetry and fiction from North Carolina’s Outer Banks. A musician and horror enthusiast, he often composes original music to accompany his work. His writing has appeared, or is forthcoming in Exquisite Death, SCAB and Belladonna’s Garden.

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