Tremble: Erotic Tales of the Mystical and Sinister

The creek joined with the floodwater and led him to the gap in the churchyard wall where the waters had broken through. Jacob stepped into the grounds thanking the rain gods. The coyote followed; finally they were both on the other side of the forbidding wall. For a moment the rainmaker froze, suspicious that it had been too easy. Then, exhilarated by her proximity, he turned and saw a light shining in the bell tower.

The owl flapped her damp wings and swooped up toward the belfry. A second later Miranda stepped forward into the light and Jacob could see her framed in the window. His heart jumped and his mind stretched out, up through the dripping branches to curl its way through the barred windows and across her lips.

I’m here, my darling, it won’t be long now. His silent reassurance hung like smoke in the rain. Her answer came back, as lyrical as wind chimes, Be careful, it’s too quiet.

Nervously Jacob glanced around; there was no light on in the house or the church.

The owl landed on Miranda’s shoulder. She held out a key; the bird flew back through the rain, toward Jacob. Swooping low it dropped the key at his feet. The rainmaker unrolled his mountaineering equipment, took out a rope, and swung it up to hook onto a support fifteen feet up the tower. Slowly he began to make his way up, sinking each foothold into the mortar between the stones. He was halfway when a bullet whizzed past his head.

“Keep climbing and I’ll kill you!” The preacher stood at the bottom of the tower, rifle raised. He fired another bullet that grazed Jacob’s left shoulder. The next embedded itself into a heel of his heavy climbing boots.

Miranda gasped.

This is it, Jacob thought, preparing to die. At least I will perish pursuing something worthy.

Instead he found himself tumbling through the air to land heavily in the soft mud. He lay there for a moment, stunned, convinced that he had broken at least two limbs.

The preacher strode over and rested the snout of the rifle against his forehead. “I could kill you now and the Lord would thank me for ridding the world of one more piece of vermin. Now git!” he snarled.

Jacob lifted himself up painfully. He wasn’t scared of the preacher and he wasn’t frightened of dying. He looked up at Miranda, who shook her head, telling him to go. He touched his heart then his lips, sending the gesture her way.

“You got one minute before I shoot!” The preacher pushed the rifle into Jacob’s ribs.

After silently pledging to Miranda that he’d be back, Jacob limped through the iron gate. He’d almost reached the motel to pick up his car when he realized that her key had fallen out of his back pocket.

As soon as Jacob was gone the preacher ran up to the belfry. Miranda was already cowering in the corner.

“Bitch!” The preacher undid his belt. “You are nothing more than an animal in heat!” His belt whistled through the air and landed with a crack on Miranda’s flesh.

Hit me! You can never touch me now! she screamed silently. I am loved, and I will be saved!

He whipped her over and over until she sank into unconsciousness. Dragging her to the bed, he wrapped a heavy chain around her ankles and wrists.

“I am saving you from the beast. He will soil you and take your soul,” he whispered, weeping as he tied her down. The owl, perched on a rafter above, gave silent witness.

The next morning Jacob lifted the gauze bandage he’d stuck over his wound. He’d been lucky; it was a superficial graze. He leaned over the mirror lying flat on the kitchen table. If the bullet had been any lower he would have been killed.

Outside, a starling swooped down and settled on a cherry tree whose naked branches had suddenly become studded with pink flowers. The bird cocked its head and looked through the window at the unhappy man. Then it began to sing. Soon, other starlings circled the tree.

At the church Preacher Williams was busy mopping the floor. The water had crept in under the door and got halfway up the aisle before he’d rushed in and discovered a small plaster statue of the infant Jesus floating on its back clutching an empty packet of Marlboros. As he pushed the mop he imagined he was prodding the rainmaker’s tortured corpse.

A rustling from the bell tower caused the preacher to look up. She must have woken, he thought, and wondered whether he should go up and unchain her. No, let her suffer a little longer, he concluded. A little pain was always educational.

If he had bothered to walk outside and turn to the belfry, he would have seen that his attempts to confine his daughter were, at best, cosmetic. Miranda had managed to loosen the chains so that she could sit up and look out the window. She gazed over the flooded fields—a patched quilt of brilliant green and blue. But it wasn’t the revived land that caught her attention; it was a small dark cloud that appeared to be heading toward the rainmaker’s silver trailer. The intense concentration with which she stared at it gave the impression that she herself was directing the flock of starlings as it wheeled and plunged through the sky.

The rain continued to fall. From his office Chad looked out toward the trailer park. Why was it still raining, he thought bitterly. What else could he do? No woman had been seen entering the trailer for over forty-eight hours nor had the rainmaker left. It was a mystery. There was only one option left: he would have to enlist the support of Cheri, something he’d been avoiding ever since she had tearfully confessed to him that she had been the first to visit the rainmaker. And that now, having achieved the orgasm that had been so elusive throughout their marriage, she wished to file for divorce—a move that would spell political downfall for Chad. Being an elected representative of the people is so damn difficult, he thought, and wondered whether it was too late to revive his football career.

“I swear by my allegiance to the Wheatgrowers’ Wives Association of Oklahoma that I have not had congress with the rainmaker in the past four days, nor will I in the near future. I realize that this is for the greater good of the farming community as well as for my marriage. So help me, God.” Her vo

ice barely audible, a stout farmer’s wife on the wrong side of fifty finished the pledge. The other women crowded into the health center burst into encouraging applause. The farmer’s wife sat down, adopting a fierce scowl to disguise the fact that she was about to burst into tears.

Cheri Winchester, holding a microphone, strode through the crowd like a TV evangelist on a mission. “Now I know this is difficult; I know many of us have tasted pleasure like never before, but our livelihoods are at stake! This is an emergency! The rain still falls. There is a Judas among us, and it is our responsibility to root her out!”

The women erupted into another round of applause. Endorphins surged through Cheri as the possibility of a shimmering new future began to unfurl in her mind.

“Now who will be next to open her soul?” she continued dramatically.

Rebecca clutched the edge of her seat. Her life before her sexual encounter with the rainmaker had been like a black-and-white nightmare, arid and repetitive, devoid of joy. Could she return to that? Torn, she swayed, then sprang to her feet, sobbing uncontrollably. “Take me!” she cried. “Cleanse my soul!”