The Ritual

“Haven’t you ever wanted to do something for yourself?”

His question in the library made me think. From a young age, I’ve had dreams of what I wanted for a future, but my parents have shot them down one by one. I wanted to go to Stanford, but that wasn’t an option.

“Barrington is where you’ll go.” My mother told me that when I was twelve. No argument.

I like Barrington, don’t get me wrong, but it just wasn’t my first choice. I wanted to be normal for once. I went to a private school all my life, so Barrington feels no different. It’s secluded in the middle of Pennsylvania. It’s for rich kids—the elite. The ones with criminal records a mile long that daddies have paid off and judges have brushed under the rug. What could possibly go wrong when you put them all in one place? They are the men and women born and bred to take over their family’s business one day. The degrees are formalities. You need the accolades on paper even though they’re just handed that billion-dollar empire once they graduate.

I guess that’s another factor that led me here to the middle of nowhere at this cathedral—bored out of my fucking mind. Every day of my entire life has been planned out for me. The sports I was allowed to play, the grades I had to make. The man I’ll marry.

It’s been painfully exhausting. Do you ever just want to shut it all off? Not have to think about the next second of your life? Go on an unplanned road trip? Have a one-night stand with the cute guy you scrolled past on your timeline? Social media makes you think you have all this freedom, but you don’t. Not really. You’re stuck behind a device watching others live out their dreams. You post selfies of fake smiles and expensive clothes, hoping that someone will envy you. Reassure you just how good you have it. All the while hating your life. “Smile, dear, you never know who is watching you,” my mother always tells me.

Desperation is never pretty.

Ryat is my way out. Being a chosen one is my escape. Well, at least for now. Who knows how long it’ll last? Maybe it’s all for pretend, but it’s something I want to do.

Taking in a deep breath, I begin to climb the stairs into the building. Pushing open the heavy doors, they squeak, informing whoever is here of my arrival.

My heart hammers in my chest while I walk down the central aisle. Figures fill the large pews on either side. They’re all dressed in black cloaks and white masks. I wasn’t raised religious, so I’ve never been to church before. I always expected places like this to be the color of gold—shiny and expensive—to give you an overwhelming feeling of calmness. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

It’s old. The high ceilings are the same color as a dark night. You can see there were once paintings on them, but over time have faded to unrecognizable. The floor is covered in leaves and branches. It’s just as cold as it was outside and the old stained-glass whistles from the heavy winds.

Ahead of me looks to be a large stage and altar. On both sides are long staircases that take you up to a loft overlooking the congregation. In the middle of the loft sits a tub for baptism sunk into the floor up against the ledge. The side facing us is all glass to allow the people of the church to witness. Three steps on either side step down into the water, and it has to be about four feet deep.

I make my way on shaky legs to the front, leaves and branches that cover parts of the rotting floor crunching under my heels. Old, outdated, and very abandoned-looking, this place is nothing like the hotel where they live. Makes me wonder why they would use it for anything.

Coming to a stop at the front, I notice in the first two rows, sitting next to the ones dressed in cloaks and masks, are women. None of which are covered. They’re like me. Each wearing dresses and heels. The girl on the far end catches my attention.

It’s Sarah.

I go to walk over to her but stop when I see the woman next to her. It’s the blonde from the party at the house of Lords. Matt’s girlfriend.

Is he here? If so, he’s wearing a cloak and mask. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, thinking he’s watching me, but I notice you can’t see any of the women’s hands or arms. Looking closer, I realize they must be behind their backs. My heart hammers, blood rushing in my ears at the eerie silence in such a large building. It’s deafening.