Neva tilts her head and presses her cheek into the soft pillow as a cold, filthy sensation creeps along her toes.
A drowsy moan slips from her as fingers clasp her ankles, slithering up her legs while the stench of rot coils around her.
Hands clamp around her throat. A broken gasp tears from her as a suffocating weight crashes down her chest.
She chokes,
fingers clawing at her throat, grasping at nothing as her eyes burn with tears.
The ceiling shrinks and ripples—
silver bursts of light flicker, blinding—black spots blooming as her legs flail, her scream locked inside her.
Neva jerks awake, breath tearing from her lungs. She jolts upright, hands flying to her throat, her chest, searching for the burn.
She frowns, lifting her palms into the dim glow of the lone lantern, glazed and slick with sweat.
She glances at her son, cocooned in the duvet's warmth, his mouth slightly parted, breathing soft and steady.
She winces,
clutching her abdomen as a sharp pang tears through her, needle-thin, cruel.
Fear flares in her chest for the child within her. But before she yields to the whispers of darkness,
she stammers a prayer to the Lord.
She tries to calm her thudding heart, clinging to the thought that her Father is always here, that Rhett must be keeping watch with the other guards just beyond these fragile walls.
She's safe. Unharmed. It was only a nightmare. She can't—she won't let the ghost of the devil have her anymore.
She swallows past the dryness in her throat, fingers tracing the damp curls clinging to her forehead.
As overwhelming heat blooms through her pores, she pushes off the duvet,
grounding herself only as her bare feet meet the cold floor.
She moves toward the only window, her footsteps hushed, careful not to disturb the haze of sleep holding her roommates.
The window yields to her palms, and a cold, frosty breeze feathers her face, soothing the heat pricking her skin.
That's when a baby's wail cuts through the hush.
Confused, Neva turns, taking in the dimly lit guest room—Apphia and her grandson asleep in the bed across from her own son.
The wail only swells louder, unnaturally so, goosebumps chasing away the dampness clinging to her skin.
She looks out the window in search of the pained cry, but even the moonlight cannot pierce the thickening darkness of the night.
Her breath catches as another cry weaves the air, and certainty grips her.
It isn't beyond the town at all. But loud and shrieking from within the house.
"Rhean," she whispers, her steps quickening as she reaches for her son.
A chorus of wailing babies floods her ears as she pats his cheek, terror crawling like worms beneath her skin as she tries to rouse his unmoving form.
"Rhean, wake up," she pleads through breaking breaths, fingers trembling as they brush his pale, cold skin.
"Please, baby…" Her voice breaks, tears trailing down her cheeks.
"Nana," she mutters, then louder, "Nana—" She hurries to Apphia.
Her breath leaves her as her gaze slips to the child beside her.
The pale,
swollen body steeped in a dizzying, sweet-rot stench that turns her stomach.
She staggers back, then rushes for the door—only to find it bolted from the outside.
"Rhett!" she cries, pounding her fist against the wood. "Rhett!"
"Please—please—please…" Her voice breaks as the babies' wails swell, louder, shriller, terror wrapping her like barbed wire.
She crumples to the floor, palms pressed hard against her ears as the cries—the moans, the laughter—slam into her head, harder, harder, harder, an excruciating pain blooming behind her eyes.
"Father," she whimpers. "Father, save me..."
But He is silent.
Silent.
Silent.
Silent.
Like that day—
when His voice failed her,
and he forced his way inside,
crawling through her pores,
blackening her soul,
burying her alive in a grave of rot.
"Father…" she breathes, fingers tearing at her hair as agony rips through her,
cries stitching themselves into the ragged fabric of her soul.
But the needle only works its cruelty—
tightening, deepening, hardening,
until cries and grunts and laughter braid together,
a living nest of serpents
coiling and bleeding her out.
She looks up as a scream rips through her throat.
Tremors echo inside her as she batters the door, claws her way upright, and tears at the knob until the wood rattles.
The door yields and she stumbles forward, her head swimming, drowning in streaks of crimson and gold that blur,
echoing down the long hallway.
She forces down the hallway, fighting to escape the noise. The eerie strangeness of the place tightening around her.
Bile rises in her throat, the reek of meat, wine, smoke, blood clawing at her senses.
"Neva," Ishmael whispers, catching her as she falls into his arms.
She lifts her eyes to meet his.
And her soul hollows at the nothingness in those echoing depths.
"I want to show you something," he says.
She harshly shoves at him, and for a heartbeat his hold slackens. Before his hand clamps down on her wrist.
She shakes her head, tears falling down her cheeks, but he surges forward, dragging her along as she twists and wrenches at his grip.
A blood-dark door looms at the corridor's end, carved in labyrinthine patterns of forests and monstrosities. From within, whispers of snakes and the hissing of men seep out, echoing like muffled nightmares.
She whimpers, twisting weakly as his hold tightens, her back crushed to his chest.
His breath feathers her ear as he says, "You say I'm a liar…"
The door yields without warning, and scarlet and fire burst through fuming white smoke— a rushing tide of stench of meat, wine, and blood clawing into her insides.
"This," he murmurs, brushing his lips to her temple, "is the world.
This is what I wanted to save you from."
The fight drains from her body. Newborn terror floods her eyes as she beholds Satan upon a throne—
human flesh fused with horned beast—
fallen humanity rots around him—
devouring children and infants,
gorging on creation until all that remains is
rot—rot—rot—rot
Beloved
A voice reaches her, distant... yet sound, threading through the fog of numbness—
Come forth, beloved.
But she remains still. Unresponsive.
"Come... to me," he whispers, "only I... can give you peace."
A dark-grey ghost of wind whirls around her.
Serpents coil at her feet,
climbing her legs,
hissing tales of sins and warnings and judgments.
An earthquake of every atrocity in the world bleeds through her heart and spirit—
Neva, do not be afraid.
"Lord... Lord..." she breathes, tears tracing down her cheeks.
I will raise you up.
"Father," she cries, and a distant, trembling voice threads through her terror.
This maze of darkness coils to smother her,
violence searing to scorch her,
but within, the Lord's presence is a still
water, serene and steadfast,
streaming light across the ocean in which she struggles and drowns.
The voice calls, distant and unwavering,
but she thrashes,
water bubbling as she chokes,
a hand clamped to her ankle dragging her under.
Her strength fading,
lungs burning,
water consuming, a hand reaches through the dark—and she grasps it—
Clutching at the silver threads of reality,
she gasps awake—
Water, darkness, serpents slithering in the edges of vision...
Strong arms enfold her, the familiar scent of cedar, the steady heat of him, soothing every raw edge of her fear.
She buries her face in his chest, crying, breathing a verse in her heart again and again: Even though I walk through the valley of darkness I will fear no evil,
for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.
"Shh… it's alright," he murmurs, pressing his lips to the crown of her head.
"It's alright, Angel. Breathe…"
It takes long, expanding moments before her pulse steadies.
And her tears slow, his warmth melting the loneliness that had consumed her.
She nuzzles her face deeper into her husband's chest, sniffing back her tears.
His fingers move gently through her hair, each stroke anchoring her, until the final echoes of her night terror slip away.
"Mama… you're okay," the small voice murmurs, soft and soothing.
She draws her son close, pressing kisses to his soft, warm face. Letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his bubbling giggles, and the morning birdsong anchor her in the presence of peace.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Rhett murmurs, fingers tucking free strands of curls behind her ear.
Neva shakes her head, clutching her son a little closer, desperately seeking comfort in his warmth.
She meets her husband's eyes—soft, warm, melting her with a flood of relief so agonizing that her lips tremble as tears burn anew.
He leans close, his lips, soft and sweet, pressing gently against hers, a quiet reassurance, a lingering promise of his love.
"Where are the others?" she whispers, the fog of night finally clearing, dawn revealing that Apphia and Adam, who had slept in the guest room with them, are gone.
"They left us for a bit of privacy," he says, a soft smile easing the last traces of tension from his features.
"Did you sleep at all?" she asks softly, her fingers grazing the rough warmth of his stubble.
"We both know I can't sleep without you in my arms." A playful glint lights his gaze.
A faint smile tugs at her lips, though worry still presses at her chest.
"We have a long day ahead." She sinks her head against the bedpost, the cushion warm and comforting beneath her.
"Don't worry," he says mischievously, "I've got enough preserved energy to keep you safe… and maybe a little extra."
She lets out a soft chuckle, and their son yawns, nestling his sleepy little head against her chest.
"Was he awake this whole time?" A small frown tugs at her brow as she watches their child's eyelids grow heavy and close.
"He was worried about you," he says, giving the child's button nose a playful little boop. "And the others, too," he adds softly.
"Oh… I suppose I made a bit of a mess before our hosts," she murmurs, her fingers drifting softly through her son's curls.
"Of course not," he says gently. "You can rest now, if you want. There's still time before we have to leave."
She lifts her eyes to meet his, tears gliding down her cheeks. "I miss the twins, Rhett," she whispers. "I miss my babies so much."
His eyes soften, and he draws closer, arms wrapping around both his wife and son.
She sniffles, pressing into his chest, and he lays a lingering kiss on her hair. "I'll get them back," he says. "Soon. I promise."
She holds fast to that hope, to his promise, and to the steadfast truth and grace of God.