Excerpt: Eternal Decay

ST. STELLA CHURCH
Corner of Primrose and Goldenrod
Thursday April 17, 5:23am

Someone has salted the earth. Where there was once a gently manucired lawn lined with delicate flowers, the grass is now bare in patches and a mottled, molding brown. To the left of the path is a large square wooden sign, once white but now stained with hands and dragmarks, dirt and time. Someone has spraypainted "God is out. Leave a message." on the sign, over the carved "St. Stella Church, Est. 1313" At the base of the sign are two spotlights whose lenses have been smashed.

The walkway is brick, uneven from possibly frost heaves, as if the ground has rolled beneath it. Fetid, swollen entrails line the walkway to the single step at the wide arched double doors of the curch. There is a large satined glass window on either side of the door. On the left, the image is of St. Stella, burning at the stake. On the right is St. Stella on the cross, headless, entrails hanging from a gaping wound in her belly. Both windows are missing colored panes. Pushing open the doors, there is basin of water to the left of the door in a wide foyer. The foyer is lined on all sides with padded benches. Decaying bodies have been arranged in various poses of sexual acts, with several manequins, in a perverse diorama.

Across from the doors are two more doors leading into the place of worship. The doors operate on bolt slides, and have been ripped from the track. The floor is hardwood, cracked and creased and nicked, and ten rowns of high backed cushioned pews line each side of a red carpet leading to the dais. To the left and right, the walls are decorated with stained glass windows depicting important scenes from the life of the blind saint.

On the Dais, the altar has been covered by a bloody cloth, above which a cross hangs. A woman is on the cross, geadless and neaked, her gut ripped open. Entrails spill down in long distended loops that have been there so long that spiders have nested in the spaces of the loops and woven intricate webs. To the left of the altar, a body is stretched uncomfortably over the edge, back bent. From the curve of frame beneath close fabric, the body is that of a woman. Long cinamon colored hair pools around her head. Around her neck, as if choking her, is a tatoo of winding vines and thorned roses.

She is clad in a black A shirt, typically known as a wifebeater, and the black leather pants seem to be painted on. She is only half wearing the beat up motorcycle jacket; it has missed one arm completely and is pinned beneath her weight. From the dangerous 3 inch heels of her black leather boots, one would think she had lost her balance. In her left hand is the strap of a black leather pocketbook, its satchel style flap lifted as if someone has gone through the contents.

Her hazel eyes snap open and she sucks in air, as if her lungs have just started to work again. The first thing that greets her eyes is the victim on the cross, and she scrambles backwards, crablike, till she bumps into a pew. Startled, she jumps and her eyes dart around, taking in the ruins around her. Though she wonders how she came to be here, she says nothing, preferring to keep her fear silent in case she is not alone.

Henrietta "Hank" Preston wonders, more than anything, how to get out.