Rusty Nail

PROLOGUE

Indiana 1976

THE SOUND BEGINS. Again.

Alex, eyes clenched shut, pillow pressed to face, can’t escape the repetitive slap-slap-slap; it penetrates the thin apartment walls and saturates the cotton batting.

The wailing starts, the cry of a sick dog, increasing as the slaps come louder and faster.

Father will call soon.

Alex rolls out of bed and tiptoes through the door, every painful squeak of the floorboards hitting like a blow. Slowly, so very slowly, Alex creeps down the hall.

Beyond Father’s room is the back door. If Alex can make it outside, there’s a chance. Perhaps spending the night in the barn, or at a friend’s house to escape the…

“ALEX!”

Alex jumps at the sound, Father’s voice drilling in and pinning feet to floor.

“Alex, get in here!”

No choice now. Run, and Father will hear and get angry. Alex doesn’t want to be the recipient of God’s penance.

The child heads back to Father’s room.

As always, the sight is ghastly. Father is kneeling on the floor, clad in dirty jeans and bare from the waist up. His back is glistening with sweat and something else; streaks of blood leaking from angry red welts.

“I’m a sinner, Alex. A terrible sinner.”

Alex stares at Father’s hand, sees he’s using the scourge – a multi-tailed whip with tiny metal barbs on the ends. That one isn’t so bad. Father has implements that are worse. The one Alex fears the most is the old brush handle, the bristles replaced with thin nails, rusty from years of use.

“Take the whip, Alex. Show me God’s wrath.”

Alex hesitates.

“Now!” Father’s eyes burn, promising the threat of Redemption.

The eight-year-old holds out a hand and takes the scourge.

“You are the instrument of God’s vengeance, my child. Give me His penance.” Father’s voice trembles, cracks. “Punish me for my terrible sins.”

Alex swings the whip.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Father’s keening grows in volume, and Alex beats him faster and harder, wanting to get it over with, wanting it to end.

Finally, Father cries out for mercy, and then he pulls Alex next to him, both on their knees, and they both pray and pray and pray to the Lord for forgiveness and salvation and deliverance from evil.

Father’s sobbing eventually softens, then stops.

“Ointment.”

Alex fetches the salve and rubs it into Father’s wounds, coaxing whimpers.

“Reject sin, Alex. Reject Satan’s ways. Don’t end up like me.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now get the hell out of my room. I don’t want to see your ugly face for the rest of the night.”

Alex runs outside, hands pink with blood, brain awash with terrible feelings of guilt… and disgust…

… and something else.

The night is hot, the sticky summer air smelling like garbage, the field behind their house dark and quiet. The tears erupt, and Alex wails, head in hands.

A cat, a stray tabby that hangs around the farm, bumps Alex’s leg and purrs. Alex holds the cat close, wiping tears onto its fur.

Next to the barn is a rain barrel, half filled with foul-smelling water. Four rats, a squirrel, and a possum have all drowned in that barrel.

But never a cat.

A feeling of warmth grows within Alex, extinguishing the fear.

“Let’s go for a swim, kitty.”

Stroking its yellow and orange fur, Alex carries the cat over to the barrel.