Page 66 of Corpse Roads

Searching for something to protect myself with, my fingers wrap around the handle of a knife protruding from the kitchen block. It cuts the air with a metallic swoosh, thrust out in front of me.

Pastor Michaels’ face darkens into an ugly shade of red. I can see the enraged fog perfusing his entire being, transforming the appearance of a normal, friendly man into a monster.

“Stay back!” I scream at him. “I won’t kneel for you. I won’t fucking kneel for anyone!”

“We don’t use that kind of language here,” he yells back, his spittle spreading across the floor. “Perhaps the time has come for you to move on, heathen child. I will free you from this sinful place.”

Darkness oozes across the floor as he lunges towards me, like the devil himself is breaking free from Pastor Michaels’ mortal shell. I scream and race across the kitchen, attempting to flee.

When his hand grabs my shoulder, I gather whatever scraps of courage I can find and grip the blade tighter.

“I’ll kill you! Get away from me!” I threaten.

“Harlow! Stop!”

The words don’t resonate, nor does the different voice throwing them at me. Spinning back around, I take advantage of the momentum and launch at Pastor Michaels.

We both tumble to the tiled floor, the impact jarring my broken arm. I grit my teeth through the pain. I won’t die here.

“I hate you!” I shout, out of control. “You’re a monster!”

“Harlow, it’s me. Stop!”

“No!”

My one good hand sails into his face, and I savour the sharp crack of his nose. Slick blood coats my knuckle, spurring me into a frenzy. Each punch feels like salvation.

I’m breaking free, smashing the prison of my childhood to pieces. My punches rain down, albeit weak and feeble, but I don’t stop.

“Harlow… please! Fuck, I can’t hear anything.”

This voice doesn’t sound right. It’s high and panicked, but underscored by a warm, honey-like quality. Pastor Michaels doesn’t sound like that.

Snatching my knife back up from the floor, I ignore the niggle of anxiety at the back of my mind and press the blade against his throat.

One slash.

That’s all it would take.

“I hate you,” I repeat, sobbing.

“Harlow,” the man beneath me repeats. “Drop the knife. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

This isn’t right. Pastor Michaels doesn’t have a thick, chestnut beard, or glossy hair that tickles his shoulders. The processional robes on the chest I’m straddling disappear, leaving nothing but bare, tattooed skin behind.

Pastor Michaels’ face morphs before my very eyes. Harsh lines and bitter hatred become wide eyes and plush, inviting lips that are stained bright red.

The knife is heavy in my grip, cutting skin to release more blood. The moment I realise who I’m pinning to the floor, I immediately toss it aside, terrified by the blood soaking into me.

“Oh my God,” I exclaim in horror. “Hunter!”

His eyes pull me into their chocolate depths as he frantically searches for the hearing aid that fell from his ear during my attack. The longer he can’t find it, the more panicked he becomes.

“Fuck,” he curses. “Where is it?”

Spotting the tiny black device under a kitchen counter, I quickly pass it over to Hunter. He slots it back into place, and when it connects, the fear on his face dissipates.

“Okay,” he says to himself. “Okay.”

---