Snowblind: Book 3 in the Bloodline of Yule Trilogy

Chapter 1

March 8

New Hope Christian Mental Health Facility

I’m knee-deep in snow, shivering so badly my teeth chatter. I can’t feel my feet! They’re numb from cold. The sky is dark gray, so low it seems like it’s crushing my head. Holding myself, face stinging from the frost hitting my cheeks, I push forward and I don’t know why. Gibberish words come out of my mouth.

Suddenly big slabs of ice appear before me like teeth break up from the ice. I’m so scared that my body shivers even harder. Whatever is on the other side, I don’t want to know what it is. I want to run, but my legs won’t let me. I move forward, my bare hand out before me until I press my palm on the slab.

The slab rumbles. Everything beneath my feet shimmies and rattles. Electricity crawls all over the slab. I scream as the slab cracks and groans, falling to pieces like a wrecking ball struck it.

As I hug myself to warm my hand, I notice that my stomach is huge. I pee myself — or is that the water breaking? A searing pang hits my vagina. I scream again. Breathing faster.

Crying. I don’t want to be here. Please, get me out of here...

The bright morning sunlight hurts my eyes as it falls through the curtains onto my face. I twist against my restraints, turning my head as far left as possible to get the hell out of the way of the light. I’d get up and shut the curtains, but they make sure I can’t even get up at night to pee because of sleepwalking. I have a rubber mattress pad like a toddler so that I don’t wet the bed. Well, they saved the mattress, but my pajama bottoms are soaked, and everything reeks of pee from the night before. At least I didn’t throw up on myself.

Footsteps. A rustling outside my door. Leena the chunky nurse enters in her blue scrubs covered with cute cartoon pictures of dogs. She smiles as she shuffles to my bed and takes my pulse.

Good morning, Miss Addison. Did you sleep all right?

Seven eight six seven! I growl. Ever since Christmas night when I had sex with Aidan — or what I thought was Aidan — that’s all I’ve been able to say: these rando numbers. Sometimes they come out even when I don’t mean to say anything. Like a bizarre form of Tourette syndrome. That’s one of the reasons I’m locked up in this mental facility. I can’t talk. But I also can’t write, type, or even sing. Well, I can hum. But the only thing that comes out is Christmas carols. At first, I was so frustrated that I trashed everything in sight. The facility kept me doped up until they discovered I was pregnant. I’m still really angry, but I can only think of one person to be mad at.

Aidan MacNichol.

I’ve replayed that night in my head so many times, trying to make sense of it. I was up after midnight at home with my parents, texting friends on Christmas Eve, when Aidan MacNichol appeared in my backyard pool. I was shocked to see him swimming outside in the freezing cold, but he was so insanely sexy that I didn’t even do a head check on that shit. Aidan MacNichol wanted me, and it was about damned time.

I invited him inside. One thing led to another, and then we were upstairs in the loft bed. He’d just penetrated me when — and I’m not even kidding — he started turning into the Devil. Literally the Devil. Horns. Thick black curly hairs on his face and arms. Glowing blue eyes. I screamed and screamed. I couldn’t stop. Aidan or whoever he was kept saying he was sorry, and he left. I think I even caught a glimpse of hooves as he retreated down the stairway! On Christmas morning, Mom and Dad found me upstairs on the floor in the corner of the room on the bed where Aidan and I had been, blankets pulled up around my naked body, sobbing, exhausted, and hoarse from screaming all night. (Why didn’t they wake up? What was wrong with them?) I was still so freaked out that I kicked my dad in the face because I didn’t want anyone to touch me. When my voice returned...I could say nothing but these damned numbers.

At first, I thought I’d gone crazy. But I’m not. I’m totally sane, despite what these assholes think. Look, I might be a shitty Christian, but I believe in stuff that can’t be explained. The supernatural and all that crap. It’s just that, it’s one thing to believe it could happen. It’s another thing when it happens to you. So, I don’t know if Aidan was actually the Devil, especially with all the tears and apologies, but he sure looked like it.

Having taken care of me for several weeks now, Leena is used to the numbers and bad attitude. I’m going to remove these restraints, okay? It was just for the night because of your sleepwalking. Do you understand?

SEVEN EIGHT SIX SEVEN. I choke on the words, sobbing. Damn pregnancy hormones.

She smiles, gently unlatching my restraints. Once free, I hug myself, curling up into a protective ball. God, I hate what comes next.

Dr. Anthony enters, her long, shiny dark hair wound up in a bun at the base of her neck. It’s nuts how hot she is with so little makeup. She rolls in one of those ultrasound machines.

Good morning, Beth, she coos. I’m going to check your vitals, okay? We want to see how you and baby are doing. And then you may join the others for breakfast.

I glare at her and hug my legs tighter. I don’t care how the baby — Aidan’s baby — is doing.

Come now. We had an agreement.

Oh, yeah. An agreement. One of those things you can only have if you can both communicate.

I flip her off.

Dr. Anthony nods to Leena who presses a button on the wall to summon an orderly.

No! No more restraints. I stretch out on the bed compliantly. I need to leave the room for my new plan, anyway. It’s the only way I can think of at this point to get rid of the baby. I’ve got to try.

That’s a good girl, Dr. Anthony says. With Leena’s help, I pull off my dirty pajama bottoms. Dr. Anthony then applies the cold jelly and sticks a wand into my vagina. I stare at the wall, trying to ignore the humiliating procedure. Of course, in this small room, a Bible verse is painted on the peach-colored wall:

I will rejoice and be glad in your steadfast love, because you have seen my affliction; you have known the distress of my soul.

Psalm 31:7

My parents are super-religious, which is why I’m here instead of a normal mental health facility. If I could talk, the hospital would have done a spiritual assessment when they first took me in. As it is, all they know are my mother’s pronouncement that I am in rebellion. Wow, super observant, Mom. I’m just glad these guys are at least semi-legit and that they didn’t diagnose me as possessed, which is what my mother really thinks is wrong.

People at school have two views of me: perfect Pentecostal girl or partier cheerleader. The only thing everyone knew was that I was dating Darren Jacobs, the school’s star athlete who was murdered by some weird creature. I couldn’t openly rebel — my folks would have made my life an even bigger living hell than it already was. So, I played along with the church business, using my allowance for birth control, booze, edibles, whatever I needed to live the way I wanted to with a close group of friends. Besides, the forbidden sex with Darren was extra hot, even if we had to pray afterward, asking forgiveness for our weakness. He’d do anything to impress me, including hurt people I didn’t like. So, I kept him around.

That is, until he was murdered.

Dr. Anthony gives me a condescending look as she withdraws the ultrasound wand. Baby is doing well. You’re really fortunate.

No. I’m really pissed off and depressed. I was home briefly a month ago, but now I’m back in Jesus lockdown because Mom caught me trying to give myself a miscarriage by taking at once all of the birth control pills in my hidden stash. I got sick and bled like a slasher movie from my vag. An ambulance rushed me to the hospital where they stopped the bleeding. My folks decided I needed to come back here, even though the doctors talked to them about the possibility of letting me have a safe and legal abortion. Nuh-uh! Jesus says no! My parents lied and told the lockdown doctors that I’d tried to kill myself.

I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t have tried that instead.

I’ll see you at two o’clock. Dr. Anthony points to the schedule written in dry-erase markers on the whiteboard built into the wall. Until then, have a good morning, Miss Addison.

I slide out of bed, shuffling my feet into slippers and throwing on a robe. I’m seventeen. I can’t walk out of here on my own until I’m eighteen next month, and even then, I have to prove that I’m not going to hurt myself, which is hard to do when all you can say — or write — are GD RANDO NUMBERS. And my Pentecostal parental units aren’t going to let me deletus the fetus, you know? The worst part is this horrible feeling that the thing growing inside me isn’t human. I mean, didn’t I have sex with a demonic creature? That means my baby is a demon or something, right? This is some serious Rosemary’s Baby shit.

But that’s not the movie playing in my head. I keep picturing that scene in the movie Breaking Dawn where Bella’s baby is killing her as it’s being born, snapping her spine and destroying her ribs. I don’t have a sexy Edward or whoever to make me a vampire when that happens. I’m just going to fucking die or be left crippled.

Touching Leena on the shoulder, I point to the bathroom — a nook with a shower curtain for privacy. Sure! I’ll just be out here.

She leaves me alone to use the restroom. As I sit on the toilet, another sob escapes. I wick away the tears with my hand. Get it together, B. It isn’t time to preggo-cry. It’s time to end this nightmare.

I flush and return to my room to find that Leena’s put some clean pajama bottoms on my bed. I change into them and join her in the doorway where she waits, chatting with another nurse — Ruth, an older lady who walks with a limp — about their Easter plans. The two nurses stroll down the corridor toward the elevator with me between them.

It’s rare that Easter and Passover should come together, isn’t it? Ruth glances at me as if to include me in the conversation, even though I can’t speak. She’s nice, but kind of sad sack. Everyone here is female so that I can’t be tempted to do anything sexual. It’s like they didn’t even consider that I might be bisexual. I guess if my parents had suspected that, I would be somewhere else entirely. Somewhere far worse.

Sounds portentous, doesn’t it? I think Pastor Bruno is planning a big Passover dinner Saturday night with Jews for Jesus. I might go to that. How about you?

Not sure, Ruth replies. I might have family coming who would be hard to convince they should spend Saturday doing anything but eating and watching television.

I fall back a step, heart racing. Stay cool, B. It’s almost over.

The corridor stretches about fifty feet behind us, ending in an exit stairway...

As planned, I break away at high speed, heading for the exit.

BETH!

They scramble after me but they can’t keep up. A radio crackles. Reinforcements.

Door. Door. Open. An alarm wails somewhere in the facility. The musty smell of the concrete stairwell hits me. I slam the door shut behind me, locking it. I then turn to the stairwell.

I hold the railing, muffled screams behind me. Other doors below open, radios crackling. Shouts.

BETH! DON’T!

I close my eyes.

And then I do.

Chapter 2

March 23

The Addison Home, Oak Hills

My eyes snap open from another crazy blizzard dream. I’m in my own room, surrounded by posters of Skillet, Casting Crowns, and DC Talk, my cheerleading trophies stacked on the bookcases. I painted two of the walls hot pink as accent colors, leaving the other two white. I’ve always loved how energetic those colors make me feel. But now the room feels alien to me, like it belongs to a little sister I never had, especially with a stack of books beside me. I’ve never liked reading, but my mom won’t let me watch television. And since I can’t type, I can’t get on the Internet with my laptop or even my phone. Of course, I could totally get on social media. It’s just scrolling. But why? So I can read all the trash everyone is saying about me? And all the fun I’m missing? Sorry. Been there, done that, got the soul-wrecking despair, thanks. At least I can distract myself with books and music. Unfortunately, most of these books belong to my dad, which means they suck dick. Politics. Law. History. All stuff a big important federal judge guy reads. Bleh.

But I couldn’t read at all before the concussion finally healed. So, there’s that. My arm’s in a cast and my ribs still ache from the fractures.

I’m such a fucking idiot. I thought throwing myself down the stairs would end the pregnancy. That’s what they always say to do. But it didn’t work. My finger traces the subtle swelling under my nightgown. It’s bigger. I hate it more than ever. My eyes squeeze shut. Flashes of the demon’s face with its tongue snaking out of its mouth tear through my head, blotting out everything else. The face I saw when I was with Aidan. The thing he turned into.

Unfortunately, my parents now really do think I tried to kill myself. New Hope just thought I was trying to escape and fell down the stairs. There might be lawsuits happening. Everyone is afraid of my dad.

The doorbell rings. And the door opens.

Hi. Thanks for coming, Pastor Lawrence. Pastor Costa. Mr. Hardy. Ugh. My mother is using her ingratiating, subservient church voice. So gross.

Men’s voices float upstairs in murmurs. Heavy steps enter the house.

Would you like some coffee? Tea? my mom offers.

No, no thank you, Edna. I think it’s best we get started right away. Where is she?

Get started? With what?

The heavy footsteps continue up the stairs. I curl up against the wall.

Beth? A belated knock on the doorframe. The door is open. It’s me, Pastor Larry. You up for visitors?

I press my forehead against the wall’s cool surface. Pastor Larry’s cologne smells much stronger than usual. It burns my nose. And the sweat! Oh, God. The smell of his sweat, and the sweat of the other men who enter the room — it’s nauseating. Please go away.

Hi, young lady. We hear you’ve had a pretty rough time. Holding a Bible in one hand, Pastor Larry is a medium-sized guy with pale skin, reddish brown hair and hazel eyes. Big chin with a dimple. Was probably a nerd in high school. He grabs my desk chair, pulls it up to the bed, and sits. Don’t they realize pregnant women are sensitive to smells? Especially of men? I cover my nose. If I barf, I swear I’m going to spew right on him. Serves him right coming in here.

We’ve been praying for you, Beth. The whole church has. And we’re confident in the Lord’s healing power for your life. Your mom tells me that for the sake of the baby they’ve chosen not to proceed with antipsychotic medication. We think that’s a good choice. In fact, as you know, we believe Jesus can heal any illness, physical or mental. Medication like that just moves you further away from God.

Still huddled against the wall, I pull the comforter over my shoulder with my good hand. I don’t trust these guys. What are they doing here? Where’s my mom?

He licks his lips, gripping the Bible tighter. Your parents tell us that they have evidence that you’ve let evil spirits into your body. And that your recent suicide attempt proves it. He pauses dramatically. We believe those powers and principalities can create anxiety and depression, even schizophrenia. We’ve seen it over and over. And, just so you know? There’s no judgment here. We’ve all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. But, as you know, the good news is that our lord Jesus died for those sins. And we’re here to remind you of his all-forgiving, all-encompassing love. Christ’s incredible love can heal the deepest wounds, especially those of the heart and mind. He’s just waiting for you, Beth, to invite Him back into your heart so that you can feel his love and start healing.

I break down. I’ve heard these words before. They’re so ridiculous and cliché. But...I want so badly to get my words back. To get my life back. To stop the paranoia, the flashbacks, the depression. My so-called friends have abandoned me. Maybe it was actually Satan that came to me that night. Maybe Aidan is the devil? It would explain a lot. His attraction to that atheist Charity, and his crazy powers that the meth heads talked about. His ridiculous sex appeal...

I’ll try anything.

If you’re ready, Beth, we’re going to do a laying on of hands. Because as Christ has instructed us, and showed us repeatedly in scripture, by laying on of hands we can impart the power of the Holy Spirit and deliver its healing power.

Pastor Larry stands from my desk chair and moves around behind it. He pats the backing.

The tears pour down my face as I let hope pull me out of bed. I sniffle, wiping my nose on the sheet, and shuffle out from under the comforter. The ripe smells of my sweatpants and PJs are embarrassing, but I don’t think these old guys care. After I settle into the chair, Pastor Larry rests his hands lightly on my head. Pastor Costa and Mr. Hardy, our lay leader, kneel on either side of me. I use my thumb on a pressure point in my wrist to hold the nausea at bay. It feels so weird to be the one in the sick seat. I always thought the people who went up for healing were just seeking attention. So many people just want to be on stage and feel special. Maybe they’re just desperate, like me.

The anguish, the loneliness, and the anger fall out into the open in an avalanche of tears. My ribs sting with each sob. I try to stuff the crybaby back in its cradle, but I can’t help it now. My skull is hot, and I can’t think.

Jesus, I’m so sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I fucked up, Jesus. I ruined my life.

They bow their heads. Eyes closed.

Our Heavenly Father, Pastor Larry starts. He clips the end of each phrase with a sort of twang. We come before you now in a spirit of healing and forgiveness. You promised that wherever there were three or more gathered together, you would be there. As you’ve commanded us, we’re laying hands on your servant Beth...

I’m so sorry, Beth. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.

Who said that?

...who served you valiantly when the spirit of disbelief entered her school. We come to you now because the devil holds her in bondage...

I’m so sorry, Beth! Please! Forgive me! I’m so very, very sorry!

...and we ask that you will anoint us with the Holy Spirit, who in turn anoints us with the power of healing.

Aidan said that. The Devil doesn’t ask for forgiveness...

Pastor Larry’s hands press firmer on my head, his voice more authoritative. In the name of our Lord and Savior, we bind the spirit of illness in our sister Elizabeth.

Amen, amen, the other two men repeat.

We bind the spirit of illness, of mental illness and of physical infirmity. In the name of Jesus...

Yes, Lord. We bind these spirits.

My whole body heats up. I open my eyes just as Pastor Costa rests his hand on my shoulder. Old Mr. Hardy holds my hand.

And then my breath catches in my throat. The hairs on the back of Mr. Hardy’s hand and wrist