Chapter 102: Gathering
Martha Bell breathed in the fog seeping through the shutters of the house, an old place by the Knuckle Alley that hadn’t seen much use for the last few years. She breathed in the fog, then turned and smiled widely across the living room.
Red eyes gleamed in the dark as the Hemlings faced her.
“This is a celebration,” Martha said, gently opening the shutters of the room and revealing the blood moon hanging clear over the sky. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the other women preparing the needles.
There were nine of them.
All mothers of the Hemlings.
“The Crimson Matron heard our pleas.” Martha swept her gaze across the room and saw in the eyes of her companions the unmistakable glint of worship. “Gave us the children we never had, granted life from our withered and sinful souls. And now, a price must be paid to the Reverend Mother of Venerable Fates.”
The women crackled with laughter as they inched toward the nine Hemlings that stood in the middle of the living room, bound by chains and hissing through jagged teeth. Rot and pus dripped down from their skin.
Martha looked at her own son, the copper needle clasped tight in her hand. She was blessed to feel the sacred reaches of motherhood thanks to the Veiled Mother. She was lucky to cherish this feeling before death claimed her, and even now, as she was about to sacrifice her child for the purpose, she felt no regrets.
Leaning down, she caressed the disheveled hair of her child. Telly looked like a five-year-old now. Hemlings grew faster than normal children. He liked to eat dirt and munch on bones, and play with the other Hemlings when he wasn’t hugging the skirt of his mother as she put him gently to sleep.
“You must die, my Telly,” Martha said, raising the needle clasped in her palm. Telly’s crimson eyes blinked at her. “You must die, but you mustn’t worry, for when the Veiled Mother descends upon our sinful lands, she will take us all to her endless bosom. Die now, Telly. Sleep.”
She caught Telly’s hair with her free hand, heard him hiss in protest. Foolish child. Ignorant as to what this truly represented. The others were the same. Martha saw her companions struggle against their children, but once they sucked deep breaths from the fog seeping through the shutters, they handled the Hemlings with ease.
Needles stabbed at their throats, spattering dark, murky blood across the old tiles of the house. Choked screams and faint wheezing of the children resounded between the walls as Martha pulled herself, smiling, back to the windows.