Story code: ST-001669
Part 4: The Retreat
The paralysis in the living room lasted only a few seconds, but to Leo, it felt like hours trapped in amber. The shift, when it came, was terrifying. The hollow shock on his father’s face curdled, collapsing inward into a mask of pure, unadulterated disgust. The pastoral warmth, the booming righteousness that usually filled his sermons with a frightening but predictable cadence, was completely gone. In its place was the cold, clinical revulsion of a man finding a roach in his bed.
David opened his hand. He didn’t throw the chest binders; he simply let them fall, as if holding them a second longer would infect him. The stiff canvas and black mesh hit the beige carpet with a soft, pathetic thud. The bright postcard drifted down after them, its neon colors glaring against the drab floor.
“An abomination,” David whispered. The word didn’t echo; it sank into the heavy air, final and absolute.
Above Leo, Brother Miller let out a long, slow exhale. His massive hand, which had flinched in shock moments before, now clamped down on Leo’s shoulder with crushing force. The hesitation was gone. The men in the circle began to murmur, a low, buzzing hive of righteous anger and unified purpose.
Leo finally found his voice, a thin, frantic rasp. “Dad, please. It’s just… I can explain-”
“Explain?” David cut him off, his voice dead flat. He stepped forward, his polished black shoe planting directly onto the bright postcard, smudging the glossy finish into the carpet. “There is no explanation for a sickness like this. Only extraction.”
David reached out and grabbed Leo’s right bicep. His fingers dug into the muscle with a bruising, mechanical violence. There was no father left in that grip; it was the hold of a warden securing an inmate.
“David,” Brother Thomas said from the edge of the circle. “The restoration retreat isn’t scheduled until next month. We don’t have the curriculum ready.”
“We begin tonight,” David said, his eyes boring into Leo’s terrified face. “The rot is inside my own walls. We will rip it out by the root.”
Panic finally overrode Leo’s paralysis. He thrashed violently, twisting his torso to break free, his bare feet sliding against the carpet. But he was seventy pounds lighter than his father, and Brother Miller was already moving to assist. Miller caught Leo’s other arm, effortlessly pinning it behind his back.
“Walk, boy,” Miller growled, his breath smelling of stale coffee and peppermint. “Do not fight your salvation.”
They didn’t lead him toward his bedroom or the front door. They dragged him deeper into the house, turning a sharp right past the kitchen toward the heavy, reinforced door that led to the basement.
Leo dug his heels into the hardwood floor, but his resistance was useless. He was hoisted practically off his feet, carried by the two massive men while the committee followed. They murmured prayers of intercession, blending into a terrifying, droning chant.
David reached the basement door. He undid the exterior latch-a heavy iron deadbolt that had always seemed bizarre for an interior door until this exact moment. He yanked it open, revealing the dark, plunging mouth of the wooden stairwell. A draft of mildew-scented air rushed up.
“No! Dad, please, don’t put me down there!” Leo screamed, kicking his leg out to catch the doorframe.
David didn’t answer. He and Miller simply shoved.
Leo stumbled forward, tumbling down the first three steps in a chaotic sprawl. He caught himself hard on the rough wooden handrail, scraping the skin off his palms, but managing to stop his fall before plunging to the concrete floor below.
He scrambled to his knees, looking down into the gloom. At the far end of the basement, illuminated by a single utility bulb, he saw it. Three steel-framed cots had been set up in the corner, surrounded by heavy buckets of emergency food supplies. This was the holding pen for the upcoming retreat. And he was its first captive.
Leo spun around, looking back up the stairs.
His father stood at the landing, a massive, dark silhouette framed by the yellow kitchen light. Beyond him, the prayer circle was already reforming.
“You will stay in the dark, Leo,” David said, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. “You will stay down there until the girl I raised remembers how to walk in the light.”
“Dad!” Leo screamed, lunging up the stairs.
The heavy door slammed shut, plunging the stairwell into absolute blackness. The loud clank of the exterior deadbolt sliding into place cracked like a gunshot.
Leo hit the wooden door with both fists, bruising his knuckles against the core. He shouted until his throat tore, but the only response was the rhythmic thud of a heavy chair being pushed against the doorframe upstairs. Slowly, the muffled, unified drone of the prayer circle began again, vibrating through the ceiling directly over his head. Leo backed away, sinking down onto the cold stairs in the dark, knowing his hard-won binders lay abandoned on the floor above, waiting for the fire.