Vacations from Hell

She looked at him for a long time. “None of the old ones can stay up past eleven, eleven thirty. That’s to our advantage. We’ll round up the children and take them to the church around midnight. When we’re sure it’s safe and there are no old ones around, we’ll give you the signal: a lantern in the front window. It’s going to be quick, so you’d better be looking for it. We can’t afford to do it twice. When you see it, haul ass to the church.”



“And then what?” John pressed.



Mariana’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Then we get the hell out of here.”



We tried to act normal. At dinner we sat in the tavern, pushing meat around on our plates with our bread. If the old-timers noticed, they didn’t say anything. Then we went up to our room to sit by the window with its view of the church pressed against the ominous forest and waited. The moon rose, a red wound in a dark sky. I’d never seen a moon that color before. It was exactly the kind of sight that we’d hoped to take pictures of and post on our Web pages—AWESOME RED MOON OVER NECURATUL! But right now it just gave me the shivers.



“What time is it?” Isabel asked.



“Midnight,” I answered.



“Where’s the signal?” Baz peered into the night-hushed town.



“Maybe we should just go,” John said. “They know the score.”



“We promised,” I said, but I honestly wanted to run.



My watch showed five minutes after, then ten. Every passing second seemed a lifetime. Finally white light strobed across the front window of the church, once and out, just like Mariana had said.



“Come on,” I said.



We sneaked down the stairs with our shoes in our hands, careful not to make a sound. Dying firelight came from the kitchen. Mariana’s mother, the tavern keeper, the old woman at the gate, and several other old-timers sat at the table. Their voices were hushed but urgent, like when your parents are having a fight they don’t want you to know about. We held our breath. How could we get past without being seen? I motioned for Izzie to go first. She made it to the door and gently lifted the latch, nudging the door open by degrees. John tiptoed out next, followed by Baz. A little gust of wind banged the door shut after him.



Chairs scooted across the kitchen floor. Mariana’s mother and the tavern keeper hurried over, and I sank down and huddled in the shadowed staircase. Satisfied that everything was okay, they headed back to the kitchen and their discussion. Whatever they were talking about, it was full of passion and fervor, and Mariana’s mother seemed like she was trying to convince the others of something. I wasn’t sticking around for more. Quickly I slipped out after my friends, and we raced to the church through empty streets, the darkened houses like sleeping guards that could come awake at any moment. Up on the hill the church loomed.



The door had been left ajar, so we slipped in. A few prayer candles burned at the back of the church, but their pool of light wasn’t very wide. I didn’t see anyone.



“Mariana?” I whisper-yelled into the gloom. “Vasul?”



A soft moan came from the front of the church. We followed it. “It’s from behind the iconostasis,” I said. This time the door opened easily.



“Holy…” Baz said. This part of the church was painted too. But it was a different history on these walls. Murders. Hangings. Mob violence. Enemies crucified upside down. The gruesome goat’s head—the Soul of Necuratul that was supposed to have been destroyed—had been propped up inside a niche in the wall like a treasured relic. A candle glowed beneath it, casting light up, making the hollow eyes seem alive with a strange fire. The plaits of child’s hair fell to the floor and pooled several inches thick.



The moan again. Izzie flicked on her flashlight and swooped it around. The light fell on the altar. Mariana had been tied up and stretched out there. Her mouth was gagged, but she tried to speak anyway. Or scream would be more like it. She was looking at something just behind us.



I never saw the blow coming.



Above me the ceiling of the church came into focus. Those children cowering in fear in the lake, their parents readying the stones to weigh them down. My head felt like it had skidded along the pavement for a mile.



“Can you hear me?” Mariana’s voice.



My head throbbed as I turned it in her direction. Mariana stood a few feet away, a blur of red. I blinked and she came into focus. She wore a hooded red robe.



“It’s called devil’s cloth,” she said as if I had asked a question. “It was worn by the priest who would consecrate the sacrifice to the Dark Lord. Of course, traditionally that priest was male, but we’re trying to marry progress with tradition here.”