Captive Bride (The Secret Bride 1)

He directs his gaze to my shaking hands. “Don’t drop him.”

My lungs labor for air, and my muscles burn. The man is heavy, and I don’t understand why we are taking him to the hatch, but I don’t dare question Papa Rich. When he has a plan, we follow it.

I have never seen a dead body up close before and having to touch one makes the taste of vomit linger in the back of my throat.

When we finally reach the hatch, Papa Rich says, “Put him down and rest for a moment.”

The thud of the body hitting the dusty schoolroom floor strikes me with a reality I’m not sure I can face.

Papa slides the antique school desk that conceals the hatch across the planked floor. It’s our secret. Only ours. The hatch opens to an underground tunnel that connects to other tunnels running beneath all the buildings in Hallelujah Junction. The miners of yesteryear built the tunnels, and Papa Rich made them safer by reinforcing and adding battery-operated lighting. It’s how we walk among the tourists undetected. Like mice, Papa Rich used to tell me. I never leave the buildings. I never go outside. I only use the tunnels. It’s the rule.

I don’t move. My gaze is paralyzed on the man’s face. I take in the straight profile of his nose, the sharp angle of his jaw, and the wayward brown hairs on his head in desperate need of a trim.

“We need to bring him to the house.” Papa’s order is sharp and unkind.

A tremor shivers through my heart. My pulse thrashes in my throat. I open my mouth to refuse, but the hard look in Papa’s eye changes my mind.

He opens the hatch, silently motions for me to pick up the man’s feet again, and I obey. I scan the room for Pine Cone hoping she is near and won’t somehow get out of the schoolhouse. Papa Rich had warned me time and time again that there are vicious wild animals outside that would tear her flesh to bits, and I was to never open the doors or the windows if I valued her life. I would normally carry her through the tunnels but know that is not a possibility right now. I will have to come back for her later.

As we awkwardly push the body down the hatch and stand in the base of the tunnel, Papa Rich twists around, scrutinizing the distance of our journey. “Come on. Let’s get going before he comes to.”

Comes to?

Is he alive?

Not dead?

My stomach cramps, and my heartbeat slams into a rapid staccato at this new piece of information. If he is alive, why are we taking him to our home? We never have guests… well, not really. Papa Rich has a friend named Scarecrow who comes to visit often, but I don’t consider him a guest. He’s not wanted by me. I wish he never comes, and whenever he does, he leaves a stench of onion and sweat that takes days to rid.

Releasing a heavy breath, I do as Papa Rich says and hurry down the tunnel as fast as I physically can. I bite down on my lip to not cry out as my bare feet scrape against the cold and jagged rocks. I don’t have the time to take careful steps as I usually do.

“Come on, we’re almost there. Good girl. You’re doing so good,” he praises as he huffs and puffs with the weight of the unconscious man in his arms.

Tears blur my vision as I stare at the man, hating myself for my part in whatever this is. I don’t know why we are doing this. I don’t know Papa Rich’s plan and how any of this could possibly be a good idea. But I know deep down to the tip of my now bloody toes that something is wrong.

When we finally reach the hatch leading to the main house Papa Rich and I live in, I somehow find the words to say, “Papa Rich, what are we doing?”

When his eyes meet mine, the sinister secret only he knows looms near. A surge of terror scorches through my veins.

“There’s a serpent in the garden,” he says. “Judas among us.” He begins to pull the man up the hatch to our home. “So blood will be shed. Unless… unless…”

I exhale a chest full of air as I do my part in this misdeed. I know it is wrong. My Papa Rich is supposed to be a Godly man. A man I never question. But my soul screams no. No, no, no. Forgive me, God. What do I do? Forgive me, God. Forgive me.

With one final push, the man—the stranger—is now in our home.

Hello, Devil. Nice to meet you.

3

Richard

Twenty Years Ago

If a town could be the hairy armpit of the devil, this town would be it. I roll up the cracked window of my pick-up truck to prevent inhaling the fetor of poverty and white trash. If it were possible to avoid this town completely, I would. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. But I need supplies. As soon as I get them bought and loaded in the back of my truck, I will hightail it back to Hallelujah Junction and not leave again until I have to do another supply run.