This is the ninth chapter of a story I have been working on for some time.Evil takes over where good is supposed to reside, apathy is the vehicle. Demonic possession not of a person but a church. The chapter opens as the Priest of the church returns home from a date (Anglican priests do have dates!!) The date has been ruined and has ended in unaccountable acrimony.
Chapter 9 - Surprise surprise.
It was after midnight when Haynes returned home. His mind, full of the events of the past hour, did not register the peculiar cold or the fact that the massive bulk of the church was hidden from view, shrouded in a pall of shadow. Without using the entrance lights, he went straight through to the kitchen where he prepared himself a coffee mixed with a generous measure of whisky. Carrying the hot cup through to the lounge, he settled in his armchair. The laced coffee failed to revive his spirits; he sat in the darkness the almost full cup ignored on the small Jacobean table.
The central heating clicked on as the night temperature fell. The heavy, soporific ticking of the hall clock measured his fall into a half sleep. In this state his mind played over the events of the evening, like a badly edited film. Questions for which he had no satisfactory answers haunted him. Why had the man appeared so far from the environs of the church, was this a sign of growing power? Why had Liz changed so drastically after the 'accident', had she seen him suddenly as a weak-minded idiot? Why had his feelings for her disappeared in an instant?
Stirring himself, he grimaced as he sipped from the now cold coffee and wondered what had awoken him. A sudden squall thrashed rain against the window, rattling across the silent room.
The whirring of the hall clock's mechanism startled him for a moment then he relaxed as, two deep, sombre notes announced the hour. Still sleepless he rose and, in the kitchen, mixed another coffee, robbing the biscuit tin as he passed. This time, he drank the coffee and ate the biscuits. The rattling windows reminded him of the rain outside and he settled more comfortably in his chair. He reached across and switched on the radio, pleased by the soft tones of Brahms drifting into the room. He sat in the dark, allowing the music to take over from the chaos in his mind.
Almost an hour later, he was dreaming that someone was hammering. The insistent rapping finally invaded his sleep. He opened his eyes, becoming aware that Rachmaninov had replaced Brahms. The rapping however was not coming from the radio. Someone was knocking urgently on the door.
A blast of cold, wet air took the breath from his body as he opened the door. For a moment he saw nothing, the blackness reached almost to the door, which he was about to close, convinced the knocking had been part of a dream.
"Please, John, let me in." Liz' voice came from the gloom.
"Liz," he said in complete surprise, what on earth are you doing?"
He stepped back and she entered the house. She was not wearing a coat, her clothing, skin and hair were streaming with rainwater. His eyes avoided her almost transparent blouse as he said. "Go into the lounge where it is warm for goodness sake. What possessed you to be wandering about at three o-clock in the morning."
"I really don't know. When I got home, I could not sleep at all. I decided to go for a walk to let the air clear my mind, It was such a lovely night, Then it began to rain"
"Liz, he interrupted her, "I shall go upstairs and get my bathrobe, at the same time I shall run you a bath. When you have taken your things off, you can put them in the tumble dryer. By the time you have had your bath, they will be dry. They may be a little crumpled but at least you will not catch your death wearing wet clothing. So, please excuse me a minute. By the way, you will find a bottle of whisky in the kitchen, help yourself." Glad somehow to remove himself from her presence, he set the bath taps to ensure a good temperature, found and set out a towel and folded his clean bathrobe over his arm. As he descended the stairs, he noticed Liz had found the light switch, the yellow glow flooding out into the hall.
She had removed her blouse and bra and turned to him with her arms outstretched.
Embarrassed, he averted his eyes and placed the robe over her arms.
As she pulled the robe round herself, she said in a small voice. "John, I came to apologise to you, for the way I reacted this evening. I am truly sorry."
"There is no need to be, I assure you." Even to him, his voice sounded cold and unfriendly. "The bath should be ready by now. I have something to do in the study. The tumble dryer is just through the kitchen, you will see the door beyond the 'fridge. If you set the timer for about twenty minutes, it should be enough to dry and air your clothes. Afterwards, I shall run you home." He could not understand. Why was he being so cold? If Liz had been a complete stranger to him, he would have behaved in a much more civilised manner. As he walked towards his study, he was aware of her moving across the lounge. He heard the click of the light switch and the corner of his eye caught the white flicker of the florescent light.
To exorcise the lie, he switched on his reading lamp and stared without seeing at his notepad.
The image of her half-dressed, too fresh in his mind, disturbed him. He was not a prude; nonetheless, the image annoyed him as an obvious stratagem. It annoyed him the more because one half of his mind accused his actions of being those of a spoilt child refusing to accept the olive branch. Exasperated, he threw the notepad to one side. After checking his watch, he walked out to the tumble dryer, anxious to remove the clothing before it creased too much. Everything was dry and he hung the items carefully over the backs of chairs. Then, as a second thought, he gathered them over his arm and carried them upstairs where he laid them out on his bed. He tapped on the bathroom door.
"Liz, when you are ready, you will find your things on my bed, I have some hot coffee downstairs when you are finished.
He was re-entering the lounge when he heard her call. He returned to the foot of the stairs.
"John, please come here."
"Liz, I am rather busy, we will talk when you are dressed."
"I am dressed. John, I think I can see someone in the church."
She was standing by the window, gazing intently through the blackness outside. The fingers of dawn were beginning to lighten the sky, intensifying the shroud of the building.
"Liz, it is impossible from here, you cannot possibly see anyone in the church."
"There," she said insistently, "up in the tower."
Reluctantly, he moved to her side and focused his eyes on the place where he would expect to see the solid rectangle of the tower. He could see nothing at first, then his heart lurched as the merest glint of light flashed through the wooden slats of the belfry. He held his breath, concentrating on the spot. Again, he saw the glimmer of light, flickering as the slats broke the beam. He jumped as he felt her hand on his arm.
"Who could be up there at this time?" she asked.
Moving away from her, he said, "Probably thieves after lead, call the police, Liz, I am going across there."
"Are you sure that's wise, it could be dangerous."
"Just call the police Liz, they should be here before anything dangerous develops." He said tersely.
He collected the iron, four-inch key from the hall stand and crossed the graveyard against the howling wind, the rain taking just a few moments to soak him. The key, reluctant to turn in the heavy lock, occupied both his hands and it took almost all his strength to push the door open. It crossed his mind that the thieves had propped something against the other side. With his shoulder tucked against the sturdy oak, legs braced as in a scrum, he heaved until the door swung slowly on its hinges. Inside, the air was ice-cold. The beam of his powerful torch barely adequate to pierce the gloom. The silence, implacable, as in his nightmares hovered brooding.
Most church bell towers are built in a similar fashion, consisting of four levels, the porch, the ringers' or bell room. In the galleries, vertical wooden chutes guide the long ropes; the belfry is above. All these rooms are connected by a narrow, stone spiral staircase set in a corner of the tower, accessed via the smallest of doors. John Haynes knew every inch of his church; however, the bell tower was not a place he visited with any frequency. He felt for the door, ducked his head and stepped out onto the spiral stones, glad of the thick rope banister some thoughtful person had caused to be installed years earlier. Each step was steep and narrow, less than two inches wide where they met the central column. They forced an unnatural, mincing gait upon anyone mounting them, keeping the climber to the wall side. Constrained to feel his way through the darkness the wet trouser legs uncomfortable against his skin. He felt he had entered a giant vacuum tube, drawn by the wind above, a cold current of air sounded a low-pitched moan. At the bell room door, he reached in and switched on the light, the single bulb throwing shadows grotesquely against the rounded staircase. The bell ropes, all looped as the ringers had left them swayed slightly in the moving air. He continued upwards, ignoring the gallery, his own body and the shape of the staircase soon blotted out the light he had left burning. At last, he came to the top of the spiral. Here a century of dust and accumulated bird droppings dried the air, leaving a musty, neglected scent. He reached up and felt for the flat Jacob's ladder set in the stonework. Simply a plank with stirrup-shaped holes for hands and feet, this ladder took him to the massively heavy trapdoor and thence to the belfry. He had to abandon his torch; the ascent of the Jacob's ladder demanded the use of both hands. He was breathing heavily as he felt for the trapdoor. He intended to raise it and call out that the police were on the way and advise the thieves to come down quietly avoiding injury on the treacherous stairway. Instead, he gave a cry of alarm as a panic-stricken pigeon buffeted his face in an attempt to pass him and escape. His right foot slipped out of the rung, he was losing his balance; a mental picture of himself crashing down the spiral flashed across his mind. Desperately, he clung to the ladder, scrabbling until his foot found the rung again. He pushed the trapdoor, which fell heavily against the stone of the wall, a small trickle of dust sliding over his collar and the skin of his neck and back. Still clinging to the ladder, his head and shoulders inside the belfry, the lower part of his body hidden in the gloom, he attempted to pierce the darkness. Here the wind wheezed and groaned reminiscent of tortured lungs. The bells hung silent, their long stays just visible in the feeble light from the sound boards. He heard a movement, a rustle of leaves blown in a wind, but stronger. Trying to pick out the cause, Haynes lifted himself into the room. The criss-cross of massive beams supporting the bells hindered what little view he had.
"Whose there?" he called, voice overloud and harsh.
He could see a darker patch against one of the sound boards. Thinking this could be a bag of tools left hanging by the thieves, he hauled himself up onto the centre beam and, reaching out to an upright, balanced himself along the beam. Rocking gently to maintain balance, he reached in his pocket for his torch.
The maggot ridden body of a cat, hanging by its hind legs turned its eye less head towards him and hissed a foul smelling breath of dead air. The claws on what remained of the forepaws reached for him. Haynes let out a cry and dropped the torch, which shattered unheard. He edged back followed by the cat's unearthly whine, horror turning his skin to parchment. Loud in the blackness, the dead claws scrabbled against the cord. Yet, there was a new sound, a rhythmic creaking as something heavy began to move. He jerked his head in that direction, James the Great swayed back and forth in an ever-increasing arc. The clapper of the bell contacted and the rich, tenor note rang out, shocking in its nearness. Peter began to sway, then Andrew, Thomas, James the Less until all eight bells were turning almost full circle, their sounds building into an air shattering, drawn out crescendo.
The long stays battering against their respective stops, threatening to smash themselves, sending the bells whirling the full three hundred and sixty degrees. His body and senses buffeted cruelly by the sound waves, Haynes clung to the upright, nose and mouth full of the choking dust whipped up by the increasing wind. In the dark, he dare not move, his equilibrium ruined by the assault on his nerves, a fall could send him crashing into the heavy, fast moving bronze of the bells. He sensed rather than saw or heard, a light thud as the body of the cat fell onto the crossbeam. His sense of direction destroyed, he reached out in his fear, finding another upright. Transferring his weight to his questing hand, he shuffled along away from the cat. Passing the upright took all his courage; he could feel the heavy bell as the mouth passed scant inches from his back. Trying to time it so that the oak stay did not come round to crush his skull, he reached despairingly for another guiding upright. His fingers found nothing, groping into a void. Something tore at his leg, pulling the material of his trouser leg viciously. With a hoarse cry of fear and revulsion, he kicked out, connecting with something softly solid. There came a muffled note as the cat's body hit a bell, accompanied by a howl that almost tore the remainder of his nerves from him.
He had to get out, get away from the raucous cacophony of the bells, from the mind jarring fear that gripped him. He reached out for anything, wall or spar and found nothing. Beyond his point of balance, he tried to recover, twisting in despair to recapture the upright he had held. He fell. His lower body hit the dust of the belfry floor, catapulting his head and torso backward through the aperture of the trapdoor. His outstretched right hand caught in a rung of the Jacob's ladder, only to be torn from that hope of safety by his own weight. His plunge checked as the pocket of his jacket caught and held against the bolt staple. The check was long enough for him to find the rung again, his injured right fingers sending a shaft of pain through his arm. Gripping with both hands on the single rung, he pulled his legs from the aperture, crashing the wind from his body as he struck the ladder full force. He hung there for a moment, brain too shocked to order movement.
Somewhere near his head, the cat growled. He cried out again and released the ladder, thudding the few inches to the solid stone of the spiral. He could not find the rope, without support he would crash down the twisting staircase. He felt a blow in the middle of his back; four sets of razor sharp claws tore at the thick material of his jacket. Stumbling, he missed the first step, his momentum throwing him forward and down. Again, his right hand and arm suffered in saving him as the limb fell between the wall and the rope, the iron hoop crashing sickeningly into his shoulder. His heels skidded off the step and he fell full force with his back against the step, even then, reacting with nausea as he felt the small body squash beneath him and the foetid smell of death enveloped him. Something small, hard and almost round rolled past him, bouncing hollowly on the stone steps in a peculiar accompaniment to the crashing sound of the bells above. He clattered past the gallery, hearing the frenzied whining of the bell ropes as they snaked through the wooden galleys. Then he was at the small door, fingers of fear poking into his back. His fingernails broke painfully as he searched the solid oak for the iron handle. With a sob of relief, he found it and thrust the door wide. Turning to his left past the silent choir vestry, through the still open doorway and out into the wind and rain lashed churchyard, fighting panic as he fought the heavy oak door, missing the lock, finding it, wrenching the ancient mechanism. His stumbling run inadequate for the progress he needed, he stumbled his way to his own door. Despairing, he searched for the light switch then progressed from room to room, flooding the lower half of the building with light, drinking it in as a man dying of thirst craves liquid. In the kitchen, reaction caught him, he stood leaning against the work top, hyperventilating, harshly and painfully not quite reaching far enough to ease his lungs.
There was no way to measure the time he remained in this position. The pale reflection of his face in the blackened window did not move, his open mouth reflected as a silent unending scream.
At first slowly, grudgingly, his mind began to recover. As his heartbeat lessened so did the fight or flight sensation of his adrenaline level. His back, shoulder and arm hurt abominably. Raising himself to ease the pressure on his right hand, he looked about.
Liz, he had not thought about her until now. Where was she, why were the police not here?
He called out and no voice came. He tried again. There was no answer. Panic seized him; as fast as his injuries allowed, he searched the house. There was no sign that anyone apart from himself, had been in the building. Descending the stairs, he heard a noise outside. Thinking of Liz, he dashed out almost full tilt into a blinding white light that snarled less than a foot from him. He could not avoid running into the front of a small, rounded car. It was a few seconds before he recognised the familiar form of Justin St Clair climbing anxiously from his battered old Austin and grasping his arm. There was a small crunch of metal on metal as Michael Denton's even older Ford slid into the rear of the Austin.
"My Lord, John, what in heaven's name is happening?" St Clair almost lurched into Denton in his anxiety to reach his friend.
Turning to Denton, he said, "Help me get him inside." The instruction unnecessary, the priest was already supporting Haynes' left arm.
The two men almost frog-marched Haynes inside and lowered the shaking man into an armchair.
"I'm all right." Protested Haynes, "Just give me a moment to catch my breath."
Denton disappeared in the direction of the kitchen while St Clair perched on the opposite chair, the concern on his face not lifted even when a breathless Maggie bustled into the lounge.
Haynes recovered sufficiently to ask, "What are you all doing here?"
Denton reappeared, bearing three cups.
"I couldn't find the glasses, but in these circumstances, whisky is as good in any container. Yours is just a sip, the big ones are for us, we don't need the medicine."
"Whiskey indeed." Maggie exploded, "Tea is the thing." Haynes, like a man in a dream, watched her march to the kitchen.
She paused, head on one side as Denton raised a finger as he leaned to pass the whiskey to Haynes. ”Listen!” he urged, “The bells have stopped.” The silent night air curled round them as they sat. “Are you sure you were not up there having a one man practice and lost control John?”
"He had the grace to smile at Denton's attempted humour, but found that his shaking hand could not be trusted to control the proffered cup. "Just leave it on there, Michael, I do not know how or why you are here, but if I am to see anyone at this moment, I thank God it is you three."
Maggie returned from the kitchen and fussed about his hand and arm.
He told the story of the past couple of hours to an increasingly incredulous audience.
At length, Justin St Clair said; "The bells woke me, I could not understand why they were ringing at that time in the morning. Maggie didn't hear them when I woke her. The strange thing is she didn't hear them on the way here. I knew, obviously that something was wrong. To cut a long story short, we got here as quickly as we could. When we arrived, I thought the church was on fire. The whole building was covered in black smoke. Then of course, you came out of the vicarage and almost jumped through my windscreen."
"It was pretty much the same for me, apart from the fact that I had just come out of the door from an urgent visit; last rites, you know. I heard the apostles having one heck of a fight. At first, I thought that for some reason, your team had left them up and a stay had collapsed. However, I realised that would not bring the others down and your bell captain would not leave bells up anyway." He turned to St. Clair, "Sorry about the bump, my brakes are obviously not as sharp as yours are."
St Clair waved his hand in dismissal of the incident. "I was expecting to see crowds here together with police, fire and ambulance crews.
At the mention of the emergency services, Haynes thought again of Liz. He could not understand why she had disappeared. It was a further mystery to him that she had not called the police.
"That is certainly strange." Denton said as he voiced his thoughts. "From what I know of the woman, very strange indeed. Perhaps a telephone call would be in order. At least it might clear up one little problem."
"Shall I call her?" Maggie asked, still busy with bandages.
"No, thank you, I have my second wind now."
Allowing Maggie to tie off the bandage, He smiled in appreciation then rose and crossed to the telephone. Liz answered at the third ring, her voice full of sleep. "Why, John" she said, "I know I am glad to hear from you so soon, but five in the morning is a little early, even for me. Thank you anyway for a lovely evening. Is your head better? I was a little worried about you as I drove home. However, I was sure you could cope with a headache, and I had the feeling you wanted to be alone."
Haynes was astounded. "But, your tyre, you had a puncture."
"Have you been taking something strong, John?" she said, her voice more alert, "Remember, you insisted upon checking all round the car before you allowed me to drive. The back tyre was a little soft but I shall see to that at a more civilised hour. Speaking of which, much as I would like to chat, please, let me go back to sleep. I was actually dreaming of you, at least your church bells. I could swear I could hear them ringing. John, I will call you later. Thanks for the romantic thought, but next time, make it a little later in the morning. Talk to you later. G'bye, John." she yawned.
In his confusion, he could only say, ‘Goodbye.’ and listen to the dialling tone.
Slowly, Haynes walked back to his chair, conscious of three pairs of eyes following him.
Very quietly, he said. "She was in bed. I am very confused, she spoke as if we had parted company at 'The Flag' and she had driven her own car home. Yet she was with me in my car, I know she was. Forgive me if this seems a little personal to you, but last night, both in my car, and when she came here early this morning, I did not have any feelings for her. I would go so far as to say I did not even like her."
"And now?" Maggie asked, her voice hushed.
Haynes cleared his throat and took a small sip of the whisky. "When I spoke to her on the telephone, my feelings were totally different." He looked at his three friends' anxious faces. "Am I going mad?"
Maggie crossed the room and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, then helped him to ease the jacket over his injured arm and away from his body. Wordlessly, she turned the back of the coat towards him. From shoulder to hem, the jacket was a mass of long, thin tears, almost shredded.
"St. Clair said, "Your imagination did not do that, John. Whatever did was physical and real. I think we need to take a look inside the church. Then, we can decide upon a plan of action." He looked hard at Haynes' pale and drawn face, "John, do you feel fit enough to come with us?"
"We will understand if you are not up to it." Denton added.
Maggie had been busy and his right hand and forearm were swathed in bandages. His shaking had subsided and he reached out again for the cup, draining the fiery whisky in one gulp.
With a grateful smile for Maggie, he said to the others. "I am a priest, I have been for over seventeen years. It shames me to realise that during the whole of that experience, not one word of prayer came to my mind. It is my church, I must go back. However, this time I think we should call on a little help. Solemnly, they bowed their heads and together said the Lord's Prayer. Denton crossed himself, St. Clair said stoutly, "Prayer in any language is still prayer."
A few minutes later, the three men stood aghast at the devastation in the nave of the church. Pews pulled from their places and overturned the carpeting torn up, the remains of flowers strewn everywhere.
In the chancel, torn parts of the music sheets set out for choir practice littered the tile floor. Fragments of the red glass container of the votive light crunched under their shoes. John Haynes felt a wave of despair wash over him as he looked around the building.
"Who or what could have done all this." Denton said, as much to himself as to the others. "There is a very sick mind at work here."
"Look by the altar." St. Clair commanded, "Am I seeing things?"
From the damaged tile black vapour, pencil thin and straight as a column rose to the high, vaulted roof where it spread as a dark ominous cloud. The air held a deathly chill. There was none of the extraneous noise associated with the inside of a building. No traffic noise penetrated from the outside. It was as if the building had changed to a silent, brooding capsule. The men found themselves moving if only to create sounds to combat the oppressive silence.
"We have to inspect the bell tower, John, do you feel up to it?" St. Clair laid a hand on Haynes' arm, a gesture of support. Haynes nodded grimly and the three men walked toward the western end of the church.
Denton stopped in his tracks. "I have just realised something, come back with me."
They retraced their steps to the chancel. "There," Denton said, "the altar, unless I am very much mistaken, it has not been touched. Check the reserved sacrament, John."
Automatically, Haynes crossed himself and inspected the interior of the aumbrey. Nothing had been disturbed.
"I find that puzzling." Denton said, "In most cases of church vandalism I have read about, the first thing the vandals, sick as they are, seek to do is to desecrate the altar and steal or befoul the reserved sacrament. Very often this is tied in with so-called devil worship."
"I am too confused and upset to speculate at the moment. On a practical level, I know that we have about an hour before we must all get on with our own work, You have both busy parishes to run and I can't monopolise your time."
"That is true , John," Denton said, "however, I feel we should do whatever we can to restore things. If nothing else, it should prevent unwelcome speculation which would do none of us any good."
"Bad as it looks, I think most of the damage is superficial. With half an hour's work, we can replace the pews and carpets." St. Clair said. "But first, the tower."
Haynes, reluctant as he was to re-enter that dark place, led the way. There was still a faint moaning of air currents; the temperature reminiscent of December rather than late August. The light was on in the bell room, the ropes trailing their tails on the floor. Denton looped them quickly. With a smile, he said, "I used to watch my ringers as often as I could in an earlier parish, picked up a few tips."
They did not inspect the belfry, which was a job to be undertaken in the company of the Bell Captain, possibly in the guise of an insurance inspection.
They turned after making certain the belfry trap door was re-closed. A few steps down St. Clair stopped. "I think I am standing on something," he said quietly.
Denton shone his pocket torch at St. Clair's feet; the white bones of a small animal about the size of a cat glistened in the pale yellow light. There was no sign of the skull.
They descended, switching off the bell room light as they passed. Within six feet of the bottom of the spiral, all three men halted in confusion as the access door crashed back on its hinges, the sound rising in rapid shock waves.
"Whose up there?" a deep voice demanded, "You'd better come down quietly. And don't do any thing silly there are four of us here."
Haynes found speech difficult; his heartbeat reverberated in his throat. "Is that you, Harold?" he called out at last."
"Father?" the voice held a huge note of relief. He turned to someone near and said, "Nip and tell Jack it's all right, Father Haynes is here. Best be quick or he will be calling the police."
As the three priests came out into the comparative light of the West porch John Haynes introduced Harry Wheelwright, one of the regular sidesmen.
"We were on our way home from the nightshift when we saw black smoke round the tower, so we came to investigate." Harry Wheelwright explained as he nodded to his two companions by way of introduction.
"Did you say there were four of you?"
"Bit of bluff, Father, we didn't know what to expect.
"Wise under the circumstances, I would say," smiled St. Clair.
"We have seen the mess in the church, Father, do you need a hand?
For the next half-hour the six men worked, replacing displaced pews and removing the worst evidence of the ravages of the night. The dark pillar diminished to be lost in the shadows of the chancel.
"We are going to have to call a P.C.C meeting, Father, we can't let these yobs get away with things like this. Who is to know where it will all end? Conscious of his friends standing nearby,
Harry Wheelwright basked briefly in his own importance. "I really feel that in view of this, the second incident, something should be done."
"You are right, of course, Harry. I shall make an announcement on Sunday, meanwhile, perhaps it would not be wise to speak to too many people, there is always the danger of copy cat crime to consider."
This appeal to his confidentiality and complicity seemed to please Harry and it was not long before the three men were heading for their car.
"I, too must go. Time and tide, y'know. Give me a call if you need me." With that and a rueful examination of the front of his car, Father Denton acknowledged the waves of the other two men and steered in the direction of the street.
The two men walked back into the church, surveying the hastily repaired nave from the porch.
"John, there is something here that I do not understand. It is also something that frightens me for your sake as well as my own." St Clair's pale blue eyes were sweeping the massive tower.
Haynes looked into his friend's troubled eyes. "Justin, many things have happened during the past few weeks that I cannot understand. What I can say is that I feel I have not yet reached the end of the matter and I fear that the end will be a long time coming. Noticing the door to the belfry was still open, he walked over and reaching into the darkness of the small doorway, found the iron ring and pulled the door closed, the crash of wood on stone covering the lighter noise as a small round skull was crushed to tiny fragments.
Chris has been fostered at the Crowley boot camp since he turned seven. At sixteen, he is finally ready to run away because his foster father is an abusive person who works Chris and the other children to the point of exhaustion. All he has left of h
