Page 1 of Of Faith and Fangs

Chapter 1

1891. Exeter, Rhode Island

I knelt before God with bleeding knees. My soul ached as I prayed, desperate for Him to hear me. The words tumbled from my lips in a whispered torrent. My knuckles whitened as I clutched my hands together, pressing until pain shot through my fingers. Pain kept me present. Pain kept me faithful. And faith, as Daddy always said, was the only bridge between this world and salvation.

“Lord, hear my prayer,” I whispered, eyes fixed on the crude wooden cross hanging above the altar. Evening light filtered through the narrow windows, painting golden stripes across the austere stone walls of our little Exeter church. The emptiness around me felt right—just me and God in the dying light. “Strengthen my hands for your work. Make me a vessel of Your mercy.”

The church’s sparse interior suited the Puritan congregation that filled it each Sunday. Plain wooden pews, unadorned walls, and a simple pulpit where Daddy delivered his sermons on hellfire and redemption. No graven images here—just faith, raw and unembellished. The candles flickered in their iron holders, casting long shadows that danced like spirits along the floor. Each shadow seemed to stretch toward me, reaching with formless fingers.

I’d been here since the afternoon service ended, long after the last parishioner had gone home to supper. Time slipped away when I prayed. Minutes or hours—it hardly mattered.

The wooden floorboards creaked behind me. I didn’t turn. In prayer, I belonged to God alone, and whoever waited could wait a moment longer.

“The Lord is my shepherd,” I continued, softer now. “I shall not want...”

The creaking stopped. Breathing—two people waiting. I recognized Daddy’s impatient shuffle, the way his good leather shoes scraped against the floor when he was anxious to speak. The other person stood perfectly still, so still I might have imagined him if not for the weight of his presence.

“Amen,” I finally whispered, crossing myself before rising to my feet. My legs ached from kneeling so long, but I welcomed the discomfort. Sixteen years old, and I’d learned early that pain had purpose.

I turned to face my father, Reverend William Bladewell, his tall frame silhouetted against the dimming light. Beside him stood Mr. George Brown, one of our congregation’s elders, his face a mask of rigid control that couldn’t quite hide his anguish.

“Alice,” Daddy said, his voice softer than the one he used from the pulpit but still carrying that note of authority. “Mr. Brown needs to speak with you.”

I nodded, folding my hands at my waist like Mama had taught me before consumption took her three winters ago. “Elder Brown,” I said with appropriate deference. “How may I be of service?”

Mr. George Brown’s coat trembled on its hook in the entryway, as if caught in a breeze, though the air inside was still. I glanced at it, then back at the man. His face looked carved from stone, weathered by grief and something else—shame, perhaps.

“Miss Bladewell,” he began, then faltered. His eyes darted to my father, seeking permission, or perhaps courage.

Daddy nodded slightly. “Go on, Mr. Brown. Alice is strong in faith. She can bear what you have to say.”

Mr. Brown cleared his throat. “It’s my Mercy,” he said finally, his voice cracking on his daughter’s name. “She’s at the sanatorium. The consumption—“ He broke off, composing himself with visible effort. “The doctors say she hasn’t long.”

I felt a pang of genuine sympathy. I’d seen consumption’s slow, merciless work too many times. “I’m sorry, Elder Brown. I’ll pray for her recovery, and if it not be God’s will, her peaceful passing.”

“It’s not just her body that concerns me,” Mr. Brown said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. “It’s her soul.”

A chill rippled through me. Something in his tone—something beyond grief.

“Mercy has...” Mr. Brown paused, looking down at his hands. They were trembling. “She’s become a secret witch.”

The word hung in the air like a curse. I crossed myself reflexively, a habit I’d picked up from a faithful friend of mine, from the church down the road we were forbidden to enter. Daddy often scolded me for it as too Papist, but he said nothing now.

“Are you certain?” I asked, careful to keep my voice steady.

Mr. Brown reached inside his coat and withdrew a small, leather-bound book. The cover was worn, the binding frayed. “I found this among her things when I was bringing her some clothes at the sanatorium.”

He handed it to me with reluctance, as if the mere touch of it might corrupt. I took it carefully, opening to a random page. Scrawled handwriting filled the margins around strange symbols and diagrams. Words in Latin mixed with phrases I didn’t recognize. Recipes for potions and incantations. My stomach tightened.

“I didn’t know,” Mr. Brown said, his voice hollow. “My own daughter, and I didn’t know.”

The candle nearest to us sputtered and died, leaving us in deeper shadow. I closed the book and handed it back, trying not to appear too eager to be rid of it.

“She needs salvation before she passes,” Mr. Brown said, his voice breaking on the words. His rigid control finally crumbled, revealing the desperation beneath. “The consumption’s taken my wife, and now it’s taking my Mercy. But I can’t bear the thought of her soul ensnared by the devil forever.”

“What can I do?” I asked, though I already sensed what was coming.

Daddy placed a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve nursed your mother through her illness. Your cousins too. You’ve sat with the dying, read scripture to them, prayed over them.”

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