The Cult (Cult 1)

Their arms were by their sides, rigid and still, and since the audience was focused on us, no one noticed the terrifying moment happening right in front of them.

And the man with the smile was there too—dead center.

The rest of the audience rose to their feet and began to clap, whistling and cheering us on.

The men in the cattle skulls walked off and headed to the exits, disappearing before anyone noticed.

The man in the center remained, grinning widely at me, everyone around him applauding.

His eyes on me.

His smile was bigger than it’d ever been.

“Look! Right fucking there!” I pointed at the cameras in the security room in the lobby of the ballet. “What the fuck is this shit? Wearing animal skulls and then just ducking out? You’re telling me this isn’t messed up?”

The officer watched the playback a couple times, silently processing the information.

“You believe me now, huh?” I pressed. “I call this evidence.”

He played the feed over and over again, checking the different cameras and angles. There was never a good shot of the guy in the center of the theatre, one that actually showed his face. “I hate to break it to you, but guys wearing skulls doesn’t give us a lot to go on. And the guy in the center…can’t make anything out.” He changed the cameras. “There are no recordings of these guys leaving through the entrances, so they must have slipped out a back way…where there are no cameras.”

“But now people actually believe me.” I wasn’t overreacting. I wasn’t making anything up in my head. There was some seriously disturbing shit going on—and it was aimed at me. “What should I do now? Do you guys have a protective agency or some place where I can hide?” I took a seat and watched him click through the cameras again.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, we don’t.”

“Maybe a couple officers who can accompany me wherever I go?” I asked hopefully.

He turned in his chair and looked at me. “Not to be insensitive, but we aren’t a private security company. Our job is to investigate crimes and solve them. Right now, there’s no crime to solve. We have no idea what these guys want.”

“Well, I doubt they want to give me a high five.”

“I suggest you hire a private company if that will make you feel better.”

“Oh, with what money?” I asked incredulously. “I’m a dancer. I barely make rent every month.”

“Then stay with someone,” he argued.

“And put them at risk?” I snapped.

“You could leave the country,” the other officer said.

“And go where?” I asked. “I’ve got barely two thousand euros in my savings account.”

The first officer shrugged and looked through the feed. “I’m sorry, Constance. Really, I am.”

I’d finally gotten these guys on the radar, but I was no closer to sleeping well at night. I had a couple friends, but there was no way they’d let me crash on their couch with this going on. And I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something happened to anyone because of me. “Do you have that guy’s name? The one with the missing woman and child?” He was the only lifeline I had right now. He might be able to tell me something about how they disappeared, or at least I could tell him that these weird-ass bull skulls were probably responsible for what happened. We could use each other to get what we wanted.

The officer pulled out his notebook and ripped off the top sheet. “Benton Marseille.” He handed it to me.

I looked at his name and flipped the paper over, looking for a number or an address. “That’s it?”

“I can’t hand out his personal information,” he said. “A name is all I can give you.”

A name was better than nothing. I could track him down with determination, perseverance, and the internet. “Thanks.”

I didn’t go home.

Fuck that.

Now that there was evidence and people believed I was being stalked by…I didn’t even know what they were…a cult…I was even more terrified than I was before. This was real, one hundred percent real, and not a Stephen King novel.

This was my life.

It was late, but I went to a coffee shop that was open twenty-four hours and used their Wi-Fi to do some digging on my phone. Benton Marseille didn’t have a social media presence at all. The guy was off the map. I couldn’t find him anywhere, until I remembered his daughter’s name. I looked up Claire Marseille and found information about her disappearance. There was a small article in the local newspaper with her picture. The contact information listed was for the police, but there was an email address listed for Benton. It seemed to be his work email, and he owned a construction company. After digging a bit more, I got an address.

This guy did not want to be found, clearly. But he didn’t hesitate to put out his information when it came to any leads for his missing daughter. I entered the address into Google Maps and left the coffee shop to go straight to his front door.