The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,30

again, this time noticing a faint glimmer sneaking through the gap between the granite-blocked wall and the plywood. Intrigued and intimidated, she pulled harder on the handle, to no avail. Thunderclaps, louder than before, louder than she’d ever heard, rocked her almost out of her shoes, and a sudden gust of wind threw her against the doors with enough force to jar them open and let her slip her head in.

The tiny glow was extinguished.

“Hello?” she asked, her shoulder now throbbing along with her head. “Is there anybody in here?”

It was nearly pitch-black inside, and each movement she made was almost deafening. Like a blind person, she edged forward into the unfamiliar territory, arms outstretched, feeling ahead for something inside to bump into, to guide her. Through a darkened vestibule and second entrance into the church proper, she stopped. It felt like an opening to a cave. No sense of how high or how deep it went. It was cool, dry, and quiet, like she’d hit the mute button on the tempest growing outside. The space was oddly fragrant with the vaguest hint of decomposing fruity floral scents hanging in the air, like a wine tasting at a funeral home.

The sudden pall of silence was heavy and uncomfortable, just as her clothing had become. The lightning continued to flash, each burst exposing bits and pieces of the abandoned interior. She found herself in the midst of more scaffolding and other remnants of construction that’d been abruptly halted. Not just hammers and nails and tarps, however.

She saw things in slices. Like a slide show of random horror.

First bolt: a distressed statue of a cloaked woman stepping on the head of a serpent.

Second bolt: a splintered crucifix.

Third bolt: an elaborate fresco painted across the vaulted ceiling—angels crying, blood, bludgeoning. Supernatural suffering.

Everything felt out of place.

She was disoriented, looking up, feeling like she was part of the otherworldly mural, surrounded by empty pews and boarded-up stained glass windows. It was the feeling she got as a little girl going to church surrounded by gruesome statues spearing demons and angel wings flapping in stone—all ingredients for her lifelong nightmares.

Lucy was shaken and reached desperately for a metal holy water font beside her for support. It was empty, long since dried out, and only now refilled by the runoff from her designer dress. She grabbed on to it. Trying to keep her footing, but her soles were slick and gave way, sliding out from under her. The plaster split under her weight and the bowl came right off the wall, dropping along with her to the marble floor.

Lucy fell.

She hit the ground hard, forehead first, and lay there for a while—how long she couldn’t be absolutely sure. She was dizzy and moaning quietly but present enough to wiggle her fingers and toes.

She reached for her head to make sure it was still in one piece and felt something wet above her brow and realized instantly it wasn’t from her rain-soaked hair. She put her fingers in her mouth and licked, sitting up slowly. The trickle of blood from the steering wheel had turned to a tiny river running straight into her eye.

“Blood alcohol level?” she slurred. “Shitfaced.”

She couldn’t see a thing. For a second she wished she had her scarf back, but she knew there was no point crying over spilt Bloody Marys. Which sparked another childhood fear. She tried not to repeat “Bloody Mary” three times in her head, because that childhood game of looking in a mirror and doing so and having an image of the Virgin Mary appear in blood seemed like a real possibility now.

“Why did I quit smoking?” she groaned regretfully, fumbling in the pitch-black church through her pockets and her purse for her flint lighter—the one that led her through numerous dark VIP rooms. She’d almost given up hope when there it was, at the bottom of her handbag. Lucy popped the spring-latch cover and flicked. The thumbwheel sparked against the flint and the wick burst aflame.

“A miracle.” Lucy laughed to herself.

She blotted the gash and cleared her eye as best she could with her coat sleeve. She remained still for a while in the dark to get her bearings. The storm outside was deepening, reaching through the walls now, even into this fortified and forsaken space, goosing her back into reality. Her first thought was that this must be some vendetta for past sins; after all she hadn’t set foot in a church for years, and she was