still living in North Carolina.
After church one Sunday afternoon, he and Terrell, the two youngest boys in the choir, had snuck down into the church basement to see if the rumors were true—if the Reverend really did keep young white girls chained up in some old, rat-infested cell. It was something they’d heard whispered among the white boys on the school bus. As they had slowly crept down the old wooden stairs, as terrified of what might be in the darkness as they had been of being found out, they’d thought they could hear the soft sobbing of a girl.
“You hear that?” Terrell had whispered.
“Yeah. Let’s git outta here.”
But when they turned to run back up the steps, the white boys’ tales confirmed, the door had slammed shut, sealing them in total darkness. “Whatta hell was that?” Terrell’s voice had cried out. “Hey, watch yo’ mouth. We in church, Terrell! The Good Lo’ gonna strike ye dead for swearin’ like that in His house.”
But Terrell’s voice had grown cold, and just thinking about it now gave Marcus gooseflesh. He’d said, “This don’t feel like His house.” And it had not. There had been laughter, barely audible, ascending from somewhere below, and as they’d stood motionless on the steps, it had grown louder, closer. Marcus remembered clinging to Terrell, scared to death that Satan himself must have some kind of gateway that linked the basement right to hell. It was a good plan, he’d thought. Who would ever look for such a device in a church? But as the laughing—a strange, sickly gaggle—had continued creeping up on them, the girl’s sobs also turned to laughter. And they’d felt it . Never talked about it after that day, but in the moments afterward, they had acknowledged that feeling. Darkness. Darkness darker and of a different sort than just the absence of light. Something else. Something sinister, a presence. Satan.
Big James had heard them banging on the door and let them out, and there they’d told him about the voices. Skeptical, James had ruffled their hair with his big hands, switched the light on, and descended. Marcus and Terrell hadn’t thought they’d ever see him again and waited to hear his screams when Satan pulled him through the portal to hell. But Big James had come bounding up the stairs a minute later, and if it wasn’t for their trembling, he would’ve thought they were toying with him.
“There ain’t nothin’ down there, fellas,” he’d said. “You was probably just scared of the dark. Or listnin’ to those white boys at school again.” When their eyes had responded to the latter diagnosis, James laughed. “You don’t listen to that stuff, ya hear? They just tryin’ to scare ya ’cause they scared of what they don’t understand. And they don’t understand the Jesus we got in our hearts, ya hear?” He’d turned the light off and shut the door. “Go on, git. I won’t tell on ya.”
But Marcus never forgot that day or that feeling. The Darkness. It had not been their imagination. And now, years later, a lawyer and all, he felt just as terrified as he did standing on those wooden stairs, the Darkness laughing at him, coming for him. YOU ARE GOING TO DIE OUT HERE, NIGGER. I WAS THERE WHEN THE IROQUOIS WERE DRIVEN OUT OF THEIR LAND… He shuddered.
“Someone’s just playing a prank on us,” Ian said, noticing Marcus’ distant and troubled stare. His eyes, however, didn’t quite match the conviction of his words.
“Probably Nick,” Ashley guessed.
Marcus wished he could believe that. But Ashley wasn’t privy to the full content of the messages. If it hadn’t been for the racial bigotry, then perhaps Nick would be a viable suspect. Ashley and Heather’s younger brother certainly got a kick out of toying with the boyfriends from time to time. But though Marcus had only met him a couple times, he knew that Nick had more class than to pull something like this.
Marcus considered Ian’s message, and then wondered if
After church one Sunday afternoon, he and Terrell, the two youngest boys in the choir, had snuck down into the church basement to see if the rumors were true—if the Reverend really did keep young white girls chained up in some old, rat-infested cell. It was something they’d heard whispered among the white boys on the school bus. As they had slowly crept down the old wooden stairs, as terrified of what might be in the darkness as they had been of being found out, they’d thought they could hear the soft sobbing of a girl.
“You hear that?” Terrell had whispered.
“Yeah. Let’s git outta here.”
But when they turned to run back up the steps, the white boys’ tales confirmed, the door had slammed shut, sealing them in total darkness. “Whatta hell was that?” Terrell’s voice had cried out. “Hey, watch yo’ mouth. We in church, Terrell! The Good Lo’ gonna strike ye dead for swearin’ like that in His house.”
But Terrell’s voice had grown cold, and just thinking about it now gave Marcus gooseflesh. He’d said, “This don’t feel like His house.” And it had not. There had been laughter, barely audible, ascending from somewhere below, and as they’d stood motionless on the steps, it had grown louder, closer. Marcus remembered clinging to Terrell, scared to death that Satan himself must have some kind of gateway that linked the basement right to hell. It was a good plan, he’d thought. Who would ever look for such a device in a church? But as the laughing—a strange, sickly gaggle—had continued creeping up on them, the girl’s sobs also turned to laughter. And they’d felt it . Never talked about it after that day, but in the moments afterward, they had acknowledged that feeling. Darkness. Darkness darker and of a different sort than just the absence of light. Something else. Something sinister, a presence. Satan.
Big James had heard them banging on the door and let them out, and there they’d told him about the voices. Skeptical, James had ruffled their hair with his big hands, switched the light on, and descended. Marcus and Terrell hadn’t thought they’d ever see him again and waited to hear his screams when Satan pulled him through the portal to hell. But Big James had come bounding up the stairs a minute later, and if it wasn’t for their trembling, he would’ve thought they were toying with him.
“There ain’t nothin’ down there, fellas,” he’d said. “You was probably just scared of the dark. Or listnin’ to those white boys at school again.” When their eyes had responded to the latter diagnosis, James laughed. “You don’t listen to that stuff, ya hear? They just tryin’ to scare ya ’cause they scared of what they don’t understand. And they don’t understand the Jesus we got in our hearts, ya hear?” He’d turned the light off and shut the door. “Go on, git. I won’t tell on ya.”
But Marcus never forgot that day or that feeling. The Darkness. It had not been their imagination. And now, years later, a lawyer and all, he felt just as terrified as he did standing on those wooden stairs, the Darkness laughing at him, coming for him. YOU ARE GOING TO DIE OUT HERE, NIGGER. I WAS THERE WHEN THE IROQUOIS WERE DRIVEN OUT OF THEIR LAND… He shuddered.
“Someone’s just playing a prank on us,” Ian said, noticing Marcus’ distant and troubled stare. His eyes, however, didn’t quite match the conviction of his words.
“Probably Nick,” Ashley guessed.
Marcus wished he could believe that. But Ashley wasn’t privy to the full content of the messages. If it hadn’t been for the racial bigotry, then perhaps Nick would be a viable suspect. Ashley and Heather’s younger brother certainly got a kick out of toying with the boyfriends from time to time. But though Marcus had only met him a couple times, he knew that Nick had more class than to pull something like this.
Marcus considered Ian’s message, and then wondered if
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