The Arrival

The silver sedan jolted along the rutted dirt road, pine needles snapping beneath the tires. Lennix watched the world slide by through the passenger window, counting each prayer station as it flickered past: one, two, three. White fabric twisted in the late afternoon breeze, catching her eye, but she barely registered it. Richard’s hand was on her knee, his thumb moving in slow, deliberate circles over the thin cotton of her dress. Each pass sent a tremor up her thigh, a pulse she tried to ignore, her body betraying her with every subtle shiver.

“You’ve outdone yourself with the preparations,” Richard said, his voice smooth and practiced. “The ladies at the council meeting couldn’t stop talking about it.”

Lennix nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on the trees sliding past. “God’s been good to provide.”

The car stopped at the center of the clearing. Richard killed the engine but made no move to get out, his hand still on her leg. “He sure has,” he said, gaze dropping to the curve of her breast beneath her modest neckline. “In many ways.”

She reached for the door handle, his hand sliding reluctantly from her knee. “I should get started with the hymnals.”

The trunk opened with a muted click. Lennix ran her palms down the front of her navy dress, feeling the fabric cling to her hips, then reached for the first cardboard box. Her shoulders ached beneath the thin cardigan, tension coiling between her shoulder blades. Behind her, Richard lingered at the hood, hands buried in his pockets, his gaze moving slowly over the grounds, claiming the space with each measured sweep.

The air was thick with pine resin and the faint sweetness of candle wax. Lennix drew a slow breath, letting the scents settle inside her, grounding her in the moment. Somewhere behind the cabins, she could hear the rush of water over rocks, the creek swollen and urgent with spring runoff. She hefted the box to the nearest prayer station, each step sinking her sensible flats into the brittle carpet of needles, the earth soft and giving beneath her weight.

Six wooden cabins hunched in a rough semicircle around the clearing. Folding chairs waited in a wide arc, all facing the altar—a plain wooden table shrouded in white. Lennix set the box down, her movements careful, almost ritualistic. She unpacked the hymnals, stacking them at the foot of each chair, her fingers lingering on the spines, straightening each one until the rows were perfect. The repetition soothed her, the order a small comfort against the restless energy in her chest.

White roses from her garden nestled in the box, their stems swaddled in damp paper towels. Lennix lifted them one by one, sliding each bloom into a glass vase she’d brought from home, pressing the stems deep into the cool water. One rose had a petal bent out of place; she smoothed it with her thumb, her touch lingering, almost tender, as if coaxing the flower to behave.

“A place for everything,” she murmured, the words her mother had repeated while teaching her to set a proper table. “Everything in its place.”

A dull ache throbbed in her lower back from the drive. Lennix straightened, pressing her palm to the small of her back, stretching just enough to feel the pull in her muscles. Across the clearing, Richard watched her, his eyes lingering on her body. He smiled, but the gesture was empty, his gaze cold, before he turned away to unlock the main cabin.

A car horn sounded from the road. Lennix brushed her hands down her dress and moved to the edge of the clearing, a handful of white roses clutched in her palm.

The first car arrived—a blue minivan driven by Mrs. Harrington, whose three daughters were already climbing out before the vehicle had fully stopped. The young women wore matching knee-length dresses in soft pastels, hair pulled back in neat ponytails, Bibles clutched to their chests.

“Welcome, sisters,” Lennix said, handing each woman a rose. “We’re so glad you could join us for this time of reflection.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Childress,” the oldest said, eyes downcast. “We’ve been praying for a blessed retreat.”

More cars arrived. More women emerged—eighteen and nineteen years old, voices low and bright with nervous excitement. Lennix greeted each one, pressing a white rose into their hands. “Welcome, sweet sisters. Let’s find our place.”

The clearing swelled with the sound of fabric brushing and voices pitched low with nerves. Some womans clung to each other, others hovered in uncertain clusters, Bibles clutched tight to their middles. Lennix drifted among them, her hands gentle as she straightened a collar, tucked a stray lock of hair behind an ear, her touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary, soft and careful.

A small red car pulled up last, parking at the edge of the lot. The driver’s door opened, and a petite figure emerged—Samantha Row, her blonde ponytail swinging as she turned to retrieve her overnight bag from the back seat.

Lennix watched her approach, always a half-step behind the others, as if unsure of her place. Samantha’s white dress clung to the gentle curves of her body, the fabric so thin Lennix could see the faint outline of her bra beneath. Freckles scattered across her nose, pale against the gold of her summer skin. She held her Bible in both hands, head bowed, shoulders tense with anticipation.

When she reached Lennix, her blue eyes lifted, wide and uncertain. “Um—thank you, Mrs. Childress,” she said, accepting the rose. “I’ve been looking forward to this all month.” Her voice caught on the last word.

Lennix held her hand a beat longer than the others, squeezing it gently. “I’m so glad you came, Samantha. Your voice will be such a blessing during our evening worship.”

A flush spread across the woman’s cheeks. “I’ll try my best.”

“You always do.” Lennix let her hand linger, her fingers trailing across Samantha’s palm, slow and deliberate, before finally letting go. “Your devotion is an example to us all.”

From across the clearing, Richard watched this exchange, his Bible open but unread in his hands. When Lennix glanced up at him, he gave her a slow, warm smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He raised a hand, beckoning the women to gather.

“Sisters in Christ,” he called, his voice carrying easily across the space. “Let’s begin with prayer.”

The women hurried to the folding chairs, forming a loose half-circle around him. Lennix lingered at the edge, her palm pressed to the rough bark of a pine, grounding herself in the sensation. Sunlight filtered through the branches, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the clearing, the air thick with anticipation.

She watched Richard’s hands as he prayed, those large, capable hands moving in slow, deliberate arcs, commanding attention with every gesture. The women bowed their heads, some eyes squeezed shut in earnest concentration, others sneaking glances at their neighbors through lowered lashes. Samantha sat in the front row, her spine rigid, the white rose trembling between her fingers.

A knot tightened in Lennix’s stomach. She pressed her palm to her abdomen, feeling the low, insistent ache that had nothing to do with hunger. The air between the trees felt heavy, charged with a restless energy she could almost taste, something unnamed and electric humming beneath her skin.

“Let’s move to the main cabin for our first session,” Richard said, his prayer finished. “Those carrying the light of Christ, follow me.”

The women stood, fabric whispering against skin, voices hushed with anticipation. Lennix stayed by the tree, watching them drift past, her body still and alert. Richard’s eyes found hers as he passed, his gaze lingering on her mouth for a heartbeat before he turned away, leading the procession toward the cabin.

“Coming, my dove?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Yes,” she said, pushing away from the tree. “I’ll be right there.”

She paused, taking in the clearing one last time: hymnals lined up in perfect rows, white roses standing sentinel in their vases, folding chairs empty but expectant. Everything was in its place, waiting. Lennix smoothed her dress, feeling the fabric cling to her thighs, and followed the sound of young voices toward the main cabin, her pulse quickening with each step.

***

The hallway closed around Lennix, swallowing her in its dim hush as she slipped into the main cabin. Richard’s voice faded behind her, the cadence of his prayer lingering in the air like incense. The pine walls pressed close, stained yellow by years of candle smoke and secrets. A single bulb dangled overhead, its weak light barely enough to show the scuffed path beneath her feet. At the end of the hall, the prayer closet waited, its door cracked open, brass latch gleaming. She didn’t pause, arms loaded with white linens, the fabric soft and heavy against her chest.

The next room barely held a narrow bed and a battered desk. Lennix set the linens down, stacking them with careful, practiced hands, though her heart thudded in her chest. Through the thin wall, Richard’s voice rolled over her, warm and commanding, drawing the women in, making them his. She felt the pull of it, the way his attention could wrap around a room and squeeze.

A floorboard creaked behind her. She didn’t need to look. She knew the weight of those footsteps, the way they made her skin prickle, the way her body tensed in anticipation.

“You’ve prepared everything so beautifully,” Richard said, his voice dropping into the smooth, unhurried cadence he used from the pulpit. “The ladies are quite taken with the roses.”

Lennix nodded, keeping her back to him as she smoothed a wrinkle from the top sheet. “They’re from the south garden. I cut them this morning.”

His hand settled on her shoulder, fingers pressing into the muscle. “I’ve been thinking, my love. These testing sessions require a particular kind of focus.” His thumb traced small circles at the base of her neck. “I want you close—but in prayer. The closet. It would mean a great deal. To me. To the ministry.”

Her fingers dug into the linens, knuckles whitening. She turned, the desk biting into her lower back, pinning her in place. "In there? The whole time?"

The prayer closet waited at the end of the hall, door gaping just enough to show darkness inside. It was barely wide enough for a body, a single wooden slat for sitting, no window, no light except the thin lines that slipped through the cracks. A box for penance. A box for secrets.

Richard tilted his head, his blue eyes steady and patient. “Submit yourself, my dove, to His will.” His hand slid from her shoulder to cup her cheek, thumb brushing across her lower lip. “Now go in.”

Her throat tightened. The linens dragged at her arms, suddenly too heavy, pulling her down. She dropped them onto the desk, palms flat against the wood, grounding herself before she let go.

Seven steps to the closet. She counted them, each one a slow surrender, her feet thudding softly on the boards. The brass handle was cold and hard in her grip as she pulled the door open wider, heart pounding.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and old wood, the scent of forgotten prayers. The pine walls pressed in, close enough for her to touch both at once. The slat along the back wall was polished by years of bodies, backsides grinding into the grain. No cross. No Bible. Only darkness, waiting to swallow her.

She stepped inside. The door shut behind her, the click of the latch sharp and final. Locked in. Trapped. Alone with her thoughts and the dark.

The dark pressed in, thick and suffocating. Lennix perched on the slat, spine rigid, hands clenched in her lap. Her lips moved, mouthing prayers she barely heard, words she’d written a thousand times until they meant nothing. This is sacrifice, she told herself. This is what a good wife does. This is what it means to be used.

Sweat slicked her palms, her knuckles pressed tight. Through the wall, Richard’s voice drifted back, low and coaxing, wrapping around the women, pulling them closer. She felt it in her bones, the way he could make anyone want to obey.

“...testing requires faith,” he was saying. “The enemy prowls like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour. But we resist him, firm in our faith.”

A woman’s voice—soft, tentative—asked a question Lennix couldn’t quite make out.

“The body is a temple,” Richard answered, his voice dropping lower. “But temples must be consecrated. Purified. Made ready for His presence.”

Footsteps in the hallway. More than one set. Lennix’s breath caught in her throat. She pressed her back against the wall, as if she could somehow disappear into the wood.

“The testing begins with prayer,” Richard said, his voice coming from just outside the closet now. “Samantha, you’ll be first. The rest of you, wait in the common room. Mrs. Harrington will lead you in song.”

More footsteps, moving away. A door closing. Then silence.

Her breath came shallow and quick, chest tight. The closet shrank around her, walls pressing in, sweat prickling along her scalp even as the air stayed cool. She felt trapped, body humming with nerves and something darker.

A memory clawed its way up, raw and unwanted: the last time Richard had touched her with anything like hunger.

Three months ago. A Tuesday evening. He’d come home late from deacon meetings, breath smelling of the Communion wine they’d sampled. His hand had slipped beneath her nightgown as she stood at the kitchen sink, fingers pushing roughly between her legs.

“You’re dry,” he’d said, voice slurring slightly. “Always so fucking dry.”

He’d pushed two fingers inside anyway, the burn of it making her gasp. His other hand had clamped over her mouth, his body pressing her against the edge of the sink.

“Quiet,” he’d hissed. “The neighbors.”

He’d fucked her with his fingers, quick and rough, while his free hand squeezed her breast hard enough to bruise. When he’d finished—pulling his hand away to wipe it on a dish towel—he’d looked almost surprised to see her there, as if he’d forgotten who she was.

“Get yourself ready next time,” he’d said, and walked away.

She’d stood at the sink, water running, her hand pressed between her thighs where he’d left her raw, aching, slick with shame.

Now, in the dark, Lennix squeezed her knees together, desperate to ignore the heat pulsing between her thighs. It was wrong. Twisted. The thought of Richard with that woman should have made her sick, should have made her scream and claw at the door until her hands bled.

Instead, her cunt throbbed, every heartbeat sending a fresh wave of need through her, hot and humiliating.

The sound of the bedroom door opening cut through her thoughts. Richard’s voice, lower now, almost purring.

“Kneel here, sister. Let’s pray together.”

A soft thud—knees hitting the wooden floor. A woman’s voice, breathy with nerves.

“Like this, Pastor?”

“Yes. Perfect. Now close your eyes and open your heart.”

Her hand drifted to the door, fingers spread wide against the splintered wood. She should knock. Should scream. Should stop this before it started.

But her hand dropped, useless, settling in her lap. She stayed silent, complicit, wet.

“Let’s begin,” Richard said. “Our Father, who art in heaven...”

Lennix closed her eyes and joined the prayer, her voice a whisper in the darkness.