Hallowed Ground by David Niall Wilson, Steven & Wilson Savile Read Free Book Online Page B

his lips, The Deacon recited the words of the harrowing, his fingernails bloody as they dug into Mariah’s pale skin, clawing in deeper and still deeper as though they might somehow pare away the souls of mother and child from their corrupt flesh.
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    Creed hunkered lower, trying to see through the battering wind and the churning dust devils.   He pressed his hat down low over his face, using the wide brim to shield him from the worst of the elements.   There was no respite.
    He didn't know for sure what he was witnessing until The Deacon stood.   He cradled something in his arms, something small and very pale.   The darkness drained away the colors , but for some reason Creed saw blue.   The Deacon spoke softly, words of solace perhaps, a prayer for the lost soul, some last rite for a stillborn child?   The sound flew with the wind
    Before Creed could stand, shadows broke free of the darkness obscuring The Deacon and his burden.   Several of The Deacon’s misfits shuffled into view, surrounding him.   Their deformities both repulsed and fascinated Creed; it was as though corruption itself had tainted their flesh and bones, or some deep, integral part of them had been stolen and carted away.
    They knelt beside the woman.   They lifted her, shuffling, shambling pall bearers without a coffin to separate them from their load.   She hung limp in their arms.   Creed knew instinctively that they did not intend to help her.   Something in the way they pulled back from The Deacon, and the child, told him the mother's part in this morbid drama was played out.
    The group turned away from The Deacon without a sound.   They manhandled the woman, carrying her unceremoniously toward where Creed hid.   He remained very still, sure that if he moved, they would hear, and not certain they wouldn't catch his scent.   Something in the way they'd entered the clearing without being summoned gave the impression of acute awareness.   They stopped within a few feet of him, pulled back the tarp from one of the wagons and dumped the limp and bloody body into the flatbed.
    Still Creed didn’t move.
    He crouched, transfixed by the macabre theatre of it all, staring slack-jawed as The Deacon raised the child to his lips and kissed its death palled forehead.   The child writhed, then squirmed in his grasp.   Creed's stomach lurched.   The newborn coughed wetly, and then a moment later cried, announcing itself to the world with tears of grief and shock and horror.   There was no life or joy in that cry.   It was the voice of ultimate suffering.
    As The Deacon turned, Creed saw the hideous deformity that marred the child in his arms.   That child had no place on God’s green earth.   All he could think, seeing it squirming in The Deacon’s arms, was that it was dead.   No, not merely dead, soulless.
    And yet it screamed.
    The sudden lurch of the wagon startled him from his reverie.   It rolled forward, and Creed drew back involuntarily.   He watched, knowing that he should follow, that he should see what became of the girl, if only to be certain she received a burial, and wasn't dumped in the cold of the desert to feed the vultures.   He knew it was the right thing to do, but he turned away.
    He watched as The Deacon carried his burden to the back of his wagon, silhouetted against the canvas walls of his tent, beyond which candle flames still danced.   Those candles should have toppled in the wind.   That wagon should have gone up in flame. Now the wind died to a whisper, and The Deacon vanished through the entrance at the back of his home, joining the dancing shadows within.
    Creed turned, stumbled once, then caught his balance and ran.   He'd left his horse in the gulch.   He dropped over the rim and slid down the shale and gravel, digging the heel of his boot through stone and bones.   His breath was ragged, and his