It's past midnight when the rest of us are driven home by the deacons.
We were told she was taken to the hospital, but we all know where she'll end up before
the week is out.
The local asylum is less than ten miles from the church.
Sometimes, I think there's providence in that, or perhaps just prudent planning.
The deacons warn us not to speak about anything we've seen.
We are told to stay faithful to you, to the church, and to keep our bodies pure, ready
for your touch.
I don't need to be told.
I know exactly what and who my body is for.
After all, you'll need a new bride now that the old one is gone.
Over the course of the week, I visit with the three remaining maidens.
They are giddy and frightened and elated and reverent in turns.
They are torn between their attraction to your power and their fear of the thing we
saw reaching through you.
I nod in agreement with them, humor their nattering.
Individually, they each ask that I leave them with a pledge that no matter what happens,
we'll all stay friends, a pinky promise, like sisters, to remain devoted to each other.
I smile, I nod, I make those promises, but deep down, they must know exactly what I know.
And every maiden suffers a terrible accident after our visit.
Every maiden except me.
The deacons are furious when they pick me up on Sunday, but they aren't surprised.
One maiden took a nasty spill on the stairs, which sent her to the hospital.
Another drank bad wine and felt gravely ill.
The last maiden has gone missing, though her car is still in the garage.
Mysteries abound.
And that leaves me, your only bride, by the time Sunday services have ended.
The End