It all happened fast after that—after they’d found her, I mean. Half the neighborhood was running around, jumping on the phone, spreading word of what had happened.
Then someone saw Hank Peterson leaving Ms. Grimmel’s house with Marmalade tucked into his arms, and just like that, everyone knew exactly what his intentions were.
I mean, if it can cure cancer, what’s to say it couldn’t, you know ….
Hell, resurrection is just another kind of miracle, right?
Before I knew it, my living room was filled with screaming men and women. Must have been a dozen of them. All yelling that the Devil had come to Sabbath, to our little street, and that it wanted to leave with Emily Peterson’s soul. As if it were somehow part of her corpse, right?
Anyway, a few of the men carried guns. A few carried ropes. And, as one, they—well, we—marched out our front door and down the street. A neat little mob chasing the setting sun, the sky red and hateful as the folks in that group, all of them ready to defeat Satan, to drive the demon back to Hell.
They didn’t bother to knock at the Peterson house. Just barged on in. Hank and Wilma were upstairs, in Emily’s room, and we all marched up there, yelling and stomping, crying out for the power of Christ to stop the devilry occurring in Emily Peterson’s pink-painted bedroom.
As I went up the stairs, I heard Mr. Peterson shouting at the others, telling them to “get the hell out,” and all that. By the time I wormed my way into the room, I saw Hank struggling with Mr. Singer. Mrs. Peterson was crying and screaming for everyone to leave them alone, to leave her baby alone.
That’s when I saw Emily.
She was lying on her bed, motionless. Her face one giant bruise.
The cat was sprawled across her chest, fat and swollen as a goddamned basketball. How that thing didn’t just burst at the seams and shower those pink walls with cat guts I’ll never know.
Anyway, by now everyone was shouting and screaming. Hank punched Mr. Singer in the face, so my dad grabbed him, pushed him back against a wall.
And then, someone—I’m still not sure who—snatched Marmalade off Emily’s chest. Ripped that cat away like it was a giant band-aid. They sort of peeled it off of her.
Man, that fucking cat went crazy. It started clawing and biting and hissing like a wild, mad thing. Whoever had grabbed it screamed out in pain and dropped it to the carpet, where it landed with a squishy thud. Then I could hear it hissing. Some folks were trying to catch it, others trying to stomp on it. There was a flash of orange fur and I saw it barrel head-first into a wall, hard enough to put a little crack there if you can believe it. It was sort of dazed for a second, then it flew between a pair of legs and slithered beneath the bed.
Before anyone could think of retrieving it, Emily woke up.
It was the most awful, terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.
Her face, like I said, was all swelled up and purple, her hair tangled and wild. But it was her eyes … my God, her eyes! Black as midnight. Bulging onyx stones set deep into that horrible face, and they were looking around at the people there, her head jerking from one to the next, her mouth hung open in a toothy snarl.
And then she started to scream.
Wailing, piercing shrieks like you’ve never heard! Eardrum-shattering howls that made your head feel like it was splitting apart, that filled your mind with chaos, with confusion. It was like the whole room was vibrating. My teeth felt electrified, my muscles turned to jelly. Man, everyone felt it. And when that little girl—or whatever it was—turned to look around the room, when she screamed at each one of us, those black eyes fixed on yours? Drool spilling from cracked blue lips?
I’ll tell ya, some folks just dropped. Fainted right then and there.
But others, like my daddy?
They went for her.
Someone yanked the case from a pillow on her bed and dropped it over her head, pulled it tight. I’ll never forget seeing the hollow where her mouth was sucking for air.
Then one of the other men began looping rope around her body.
When Hank Peterson tried to intervene, someone shot him in the stomach. The sound was so loud my ears were ringing for a week. Then Wilma Peterson was clubbed in the head, knocked to the floor.
Next thing I know, we’re all moving down the stairs, all but running toward the first floor. The men dragged Hank and Wilma through the house, Wilma screaming the whole way, out the kitchen door and into the backyard.
To that big oak.
By the time I got out there, they had already thrown three strands of rope over one of the thick, lower branches of the tree. Pairs of men held one end while the others tied the rope around the necks of Hank (who was still alive at this point but didn’t have much fight left in him) and Wilma, who was limp and weeping. Praying, I guess. And finally little Emily, of course. She was fighting hardest of all. Like a fish pulled from a lake then dropped into the bottom of the boat.
She was still wearing that pillowcase when they tugged the noose around her neck.
Up they went, the three of them. Kicking and gagging and wiggling at the ends of the ropes ….
Until they weren’t.
After that, things got real quiet. And the neighborhood, for obvious reasons, was never the same.
In total, nine men were arrested, two of the women. Six of the men were convicted. Last I heard, they were all still in prison. My dad, I can tell you, won’t be released for a long time to come. I don’t know the case for each of them, but none of them got off easy.
That said, I suppose they got off easier than the Petersons, didn’t they?
…
Marmalade? That’s a good question.
But look, if you don’t mind, or hell, even if you do, I’m done here.
BOBBY CLARKE
I’m not sure what you’ve heard from anyone else, but they probably know a lot more about what happened than I do. Like I said, I was pretty young. Not much older than Emily Peterson, actually.
