I’m not telling you this because I want to, but because I need to.
I was raised in a religious separatist community down in Tennessee and escaped a few years back. Technically, less “escaped” and more “CPS got involved.” It was a whole thing. I got to learn what the news was in real-time as my friends and I were making it. And look, I have it really good right now. My foster parents are incredibly nice, I’m working with a tutor to slowly catch up on schooling, and I even have access to the Internet, which seems to be a very weird and dark place.
The problem is that I saw something in Tennessee. Something that’s been haunting my nightmares recently. I tried to talk to my foster mom about it but she made me stop and told me that I need to continue my deprogramming because my upbringing involved “a lot of dangerous untruths.” But I know what I saw. And I think other people need to know as well.
My entire childhood, my Father only told me one bedtime story, and he only told it once.
My sister Zoe and I had spent the day playing by the river, under the shadow of the woods. Unfortunately, we’d lost track of time and missed bible study. This was easy to do in the summer months when the days were longer and the appearance of an extra bright sun could cloud a child’s sense of when the early evening hours began. So when we were told that Father wanted to speak with us that night, we assumed some form of punishment awaited.
Zoe blew out the candle atop her nightstand in anticipation. The hope was that Father might not be as mad if he thought we were asleep. Two angelic children curled up in slumber was a strong visual, even on his heart. I heard the bedroom door open and shut my eyes, pulling the blanket far over my head. I remember a slow, rhythmic thunk-tap of my Father’s boots on the floorboards as he approached.
But there was no lecture in store. There was no shouting. Just a heavy sigh. I peeked out from under my blanket, watching Father with a solitary eye as he struck a match and re-lit the candle on the nightstand. Ignoring the wisp of smoke still rising from moments earlier.
“Come, girls,” he said. “I have a story for you.”
Zoe climbed out from under her blanket, her initial hesitance replaced with excitement. She crawled across the covers to the edge of the bed, getting as close to Father as possible. But I sat back. This didn’t seem right. There had to be some sort of justice for our earlier transgression. So I was willing to show my face but stayed out of striking distance. Zoe was quite often my canary to test the patience of others.
I remember my Father’s voice being deep and imposing, even in moments of quiet conversation. This served him well during his Sunday sermons, but it added a level of gravitas and intimidation that is not always required for “please pass the potatoes.”
“Do the two of you know Edith Henshall?”
We nodded in unison. Edith was a well-regarded member of the community. Her wedding was the first I was ever invited to, although I was an infant and remembered little of it. She once fed me an apple at Sunday service when I began to feel lightheaded and had to sit outside. I vaguely recall her asking about my bible studies and telling me I was very thoughtful and kind.
“You are aware that she was pregnant, yes? She and Jonas were expecting a little one.” Father couldn’t decide which of us to look at, so his gaze shifted back and forth between Zoe and me.
I could tell something was wrong. Perhaps it was the way Father’s shoulders were slumped forward or how his head hung from his neck as if physically weighed down by the story he was about to impart. Even from my seat on the far end of the bed, I could smell the grain alcohol on his breath.
“Edith has been very sick. For months now. Not sure if you girls knew that or not. This one was not like her last. Not a healthy pregnancy.”
I pushed myself back, right up against the thick, wooden headboard of the bed. I wanted to be as far as possible from him. I wanted to escape this room and the news I knew would be imparted from my Father’s lips.
“She went into labor this evening and died on the table. Both her and the child. If you can call it a child.”
Zoe’s demeanor instantly changed. She released an audible gasp. We were minutes from her eyes watering and potential hysterics. She was the empathetic sister. The one you turned to when you needed some form of comfort. I was more curious. Even as a child, folks didn’t look to me for much of anything. They just answered my questions, often begrudgingly. This curiosity was why, despite my better instincts, I felt my mouth open wide and the words pour out. My tone was full of regret as if knowing Father’s response before my sentence was even finished.
“What do you mean, ‘if you can call it a child?’”
“There was no child on that birthing table, Ada.”
Father gave me a dark gaze. A warning. “Edith was clearly worshipping at the Devil’s altar. For her fate is what happens when you shun Jesus from your life. Remember that, girls.”
His bedtime story complete, Father rose from the bed and calmly walked to the doorway. I could hear Zoe whimpering one bed over from me, trying to contain her sobs. Father didn’t like it when we cried, so I dared not call attention to her failure. Instead, I spoke up. I remember telling myself at the time it was for her. Some desire to make her feel okay. But, in hindsight, it was likely for me. For my own selfish curiosity, I uttered something to the effect of…
“A-Are you sure, Father?”
He stopped in the doorway. His shadow loomed across the floor in the flickering candlelight. Imposing even from behind. Without turning, he ordered me up. “Get up. I’ll take you to the body. You can see for yourself.”
I remember the walk to the Henshall house was done in silence. Father walked ahead of me, hands behind his back, deep in thought. Each step was methodical. The trek was over a mile long and I had small legs, but was offered no respite. My Father did not hold my hand. He did not offer words of comfort or encouragement. He did not even look back to see if I was keeping pace behind him. It was expected that I would be able to do so with my own strength and will.
The night was quiet, but for the sound of our boots plodding along the dirt road and the occasional buzzing and clicking of cicadas. I remember commenting on their similarity to the chirping of crickets, but Father ignored the conversational olive branch.
As we approached the house, I could see a prayer group, dressed entirely in black robes, chanting softly:
“For the wages of sin is death.”
“For the wages of sin is death.”
“For the wages of sin is death.”
It quickly dawned on me that this would be the first dead body I had ever seen. I felt a lump in the back of my throat, a product of nervousness more than sadness. The uncertainty of what awaited in that house drove fear into my chest. Many describe being able to feel their own heartbeat in moments of internal crisis and often I feel it is embellishment. But at this moment, it was an apt descriptor.
Jonas Henshall met us at the door. He was shorter and still had some of his hair then I think, although it was thinning badly. He was gaunt and unhealthy in appearance, his clothes hung off of him like rags. On this particular evening, he was stricken white and covered in beads of sweat. Eyes were bloodshot, swollen and red. I noticed his left hand shook uncontrollably and was covered in a thick, black fluid. It looked ungodly. His voice quivered as he whispered to my Father to be quiet. Samuel was asleep and he didn’t want the boy to remember his mother like this.
Father nodded and stepped past Jonas, leading me into the house. I don’t remember much of what the Henshall home looked like, but I recall it smelled like iron and sweat that evening.
As doubts about this journey crept into my head, Father grasped my hand and squeezed it tight. I could feel the pressure building against the bones in my wrist as my father forged ahead, forcefully pulling me into the kitchen.
“Feast your eyes upon her. Take heed of this lesson.”
Those were the last words spoken to me that evening, as I turned into the kitchen to find what was left of Edith Henshall. She was unrecognizable, a mangled conglomeration of flesh, muscle, and limbs. Her wrists had been tied to the kitchen table with a thick rope. The knots were strong and had held, as both arms remained tied to the counter, although only one was still attached to her body. The other limb was torn, hanging off of the table like a discarded piece of meat.
Her legs had been propped up in stirrups made of wood. These limbs had been tied at the ankle, although they’d managed to stay attached to her torso. Her skirt was lifted up, revealing that Edith’s body had literally been split in half. I couldn’t tell how far up the rupture reached, but the converging halves of her body were far enough apart that each seemed to have independently attempted to find its way off of the table.
Between Edith’s thighs, there was a thick, black substance that covered the wooden tabletop. There was a spray pattern along the wall where the liquid had clearly burst from inside of her. It was still wet and actively dripping onto the floor, like water from a leaky bucket. The bile on the table was thicker and contained masses of meat or flesh of some sort, but I couldn’t tell if it was from a child, half-formed in the uterus, or pieces of her innards.
I couldn’t look away. I wanted to, but Father’s large hand gripped my skull, forcing it to face forward. Even without him there, I would have found myself unable to divert my eyes. My curiosity required that I take stock of every ghastly detail. Every last bit of gory minutia. As if I could somehow piece together what had happened to this kind, gentle woman if I simply stared at the destruction of her body long enough.
The reason I tell you this story is that I’ve never been able to rectify in my mind the last thing I saw that evening. The last thing I witnessed before my tongue went dry, the darkness invaded my periphery, and I hit the floor. Perhaps what I saw was simply a figment of my imagination, the creation of a tired and scared mind. That’s what my foster mother would tell me if she ever heard this story in full.
But to this day, I swear that I could see in that mess of black bile and death… a tentacle, squirming in the moonlight.
I do not know if there is a god. My foster parents claim there isn’t one and maybe they’re right. But I know there is evil out there. I have seen it and I believe it to be real.
So the next time you’re traveling through the backwoods of Tennessee, think about sending up a prayer. Not to God or Jesus or whomever you think your benevolent creator may be, but to the Devil.
Pray for mercy. Pray that the thing he put inside Edith Henshall never ends up inside of you.