I wrote another short story and as I looked through submission guidelines (for short story magazines) I found that a lot of them specifically don’t want any content that deals with children being hurt. Which makes things tough, because that is central to this piece.
I was watching an episode of Reservations Dogs, a story that focuses on Indigenous teenagers. One episode in particular focused on Residential Schools, schools that operated in Canada and the U.S. with the intent of “taking the Indian out of the Indian.” The schools aimed to strip away Indigenous hairstyles, clothing and languages. They were also rampant with physical and sexual abuse.
Since the schools were supported by the Catholic Church, a piece of their programming was to also get rid of Indigenous spiritual practices and replace them with Christianity.
It is that context that birthed my new story, “The Holy.”
There is a scene where the Indigenous kids are singing “Jesus Loves Me.” Being Christian myself, I’ve sang that song plenty of times. Yet I never thought of how unsettling two of the lines sound, especially in the context of a Residential School.
“Little kids to him belong. They are weak but he is strong.”
Without further ado, here is a short piece, “The Holy,” that is inspired by Reservation Dogs.
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At Sasha’s age, the school bell was supposed to mean freedom. Now it meant that fear would follow.
Mrs. Messa usually let her class out a little early, but not anymore. She stood by the door, tense and unsmiling. The past few weeks had changed her, they’d changed everyone.
When every student had their items collected, Mrs. Messa had them line up outside the classroom.
Every other teacher did the same with their class. Twelve classes, twelve lines of students.
The principal raced down the hall, checking attendance with each teacher.
“OK, all good. Out to the front,” he said.
The students stayed behind their respective teachers, not making a sound except their footsteps. There was some chatter in the first few weeks. The change in routine was exciting for Sasha the first time. Then it changed from a day, to a week, and so on. First one of her friends disappeared, then three, then five. It was scary now.
Once all the kids were at the front, a throng of parents came to pick them up. Other students were shepherded to school buses.
Sasha said a quick goodbye to the few friends she still had left. The rest of her class were just acquaintances now. She could barely spell the word, but it seemed to fit.
Some students were walking home, but not by themselves. There were now volunteer chaperones with them. Some were teachers, but others were members of the community trying to do their part.
“Sasha, let’s go.”
Her mom was walking over to her, grabbing her by the wrist and leading her to the car. The teachers saw, but no one commented. They understood.
“How was school?” her mom said, loosening her grip.
“It was OK.”
Once they were inside her mom gave her a hug that threatened to squeeze the life out of her.
“I missed you,” she said.
“I saw you this morning,” Sasha said.
“I know, I still missed you. Want to have pizza tonight?”
“Sure.”
Sasha’s mind conjured up images of pepperoni and pineapple, oblivious to the fog that was starting to creep on her and her mom.
“The fog again. Where did all this come from?” her mom said.
Sasha refocused. She could barely see a few feet ahead of her. The sun was gone. The car looked like it was floating through a cloud.
Her mom turned on the headlights but they only illuminated the grey wall ahead of them.
“We have to pull over for a second,” her mom said.
The car drifted over to the ride, hitting the curb softly. The touch was reassuring, since there was no other way to tell where the side of the road was.
“Will the GPS help,” Sasha said. She tried touching the buttons but the screen was dead.
“Looks like it’s down. Even if it wasn’t that can’t help us when we can’t see. We could drive right through a red light.”
“Right.”
“I’ll call dad,” her mom said.
She pulled out her phone, which also seemed to be dead. Touching the screen and hitting the buttons on the side did nothing.
“Try yours,” her mom said.
As she said that, the car shut off. The music playing lightly was gone, and the air conditioning disappeared with it.
Sasha pulled out her phone, which was also dead. Her mom was usually calm, but her face was showing some signs of worry now.
“I guess we have to wait then,” her mom said.
“This has happened before right? The fog?” Sasha said.
“Yes, never been stuck in it myself, but I know some people that have. They said it doesn’t usually last long.”
Now Sasha was getting scared. Her mom wasn’t saying it, but she knew the fog always came the same day as a disappearance.
“Are we going to be OK?” Sasha said.
“Of course, I’m here with you.”
Her mom stepped out of the car, being barely visible from a few feet away. Sasha focused on her red shirt, hoping it wouldn’t disappear from her view.
“Come to this side.”
Sasha followed her mom’s voice, and reached for the outstretched hand by the window. As she gripped it, the brown skin turned white. Not white, like a human’s; paper white.
The hand gripped hers, lacking any of the warmth of a human. Black nails wrapped around her forearm, tearing strips off her skin.
“Little kids to him belong.”
The voice echoed all around her. It was deep, inhuman.
The breath was on the back of her neck.
“They are weak but he is strong.”
Sasha turned around, seeing nothing out of the window behind her.
She looked back to where her mom was supposed to be. She saw the red shirt, but the body in it wasn’t her mother.
A stark white face with pitch black eyes stared back.
Sasha bolted through the passenger door, not thinking of what she could run into. Her feet hit what felt like grass. She remembered driving by houses before her mom pulled over.
She hoped to crash through someone’s front door and find safety with a group.
As that thought brought some comfort, her feet sunk into something. It was soft, but dense. It felt like soil, she was getting closer.
The next step wiped out any relief. She sunk deeper into the soil, going down to her knees. Her hands plunged in and she instinctively pulled them back up.
The fog cleared enough for her to see her hands, which were drenched in blood. She couldn’t be sure that’s what it was, but something in her brain convinced her that’s what she was buried in.
It rushed against her chest, passing under her chin.
“Little kids to him belong.”
She looked around, with her tormenter nowhere in sight.
First, her feet were working, trying to get clear of the blood. Now her arms and legs were paddling as the blood kept rushing in around her.
The white hand appeared on her wrist again, pulling her out. It hauled her out with ease, leaving all her limbs dangling. Yet Sasha knew she wasn’t safe.
The hand led back to a body that Sasha’s mind could hardly comprehend.
She realized the hand gripping her was a child’s, but it was pasted onto something else. Behind it was another child’s limb, and then another.
“They are weak but he is strong.”