The Lost Causes of Bleak Creek(48)

“Hey, Leif, don’t—Let’s not…let’s not do it like that.”

“Like what?” Leif asked.

“Like eating all the peanuts and nothing else.”

“But I don’t like M&M’s or raisins. I’m avoiding them.”

“Yeah, but you’re throwing off the whole ratio. My mom had a specific mix in mind.”

“You think your mom is gonna be upset about me eating the peanuts?”

“No,” Rex said, growing more flustered, “but when you eat trail mix, you’re supposed to take a handful. Everybody knows that. What you get is what you eat!”

“Maybe quiet down a bit,” Ben said from between them.

“Sorry,” Rex said.

“Yeah,” Leif said, depositing yet another peanut onto his tongue. “You offer me a snack and then you’re telling me how to eat it. Makes it kinda hard to enjoy.”

“Okay,” Rex said, reaching his arm across Ben, “gimme back my mom’s trail mix.”

“No,” Leif said, holding the bag close, “you—”

He didn’t finish his sentence, because that’s when the chanting started.

Just outside the school, about a dozen people were walking across the grass toward the spring. Their words were indecipherable but sounded to Rex like Latin. Or at least how he imagined Latin would sound. Two individuals holding torches led the procession; the others walked two by two behind them. All wore full-length hooded robes and walked slowly in step with one another.

“What is this?” Rex asked, hitting the record button on his camcorder and placing his finger over the red light to maintain their cover.

“See?” Ben whispered. “I told you you’d want to check it out.”

“Is it the KKK?” Leif asked. “I’ve heard they’re still around.”

“Nope,” Ben said. “KKK’s got white robes. These are light blue. Plus, they’ve got open hoods, not the pointy ones with eyeholes.”

“Yeah, they look more like Druids or something,” Rex said.

“Might just be, like, a nighttime choir group,” Leif said, gripping tight to the Ziploc of disproportionate trail mix. “You know, like Christmas carolers. Is there such a thing as Labor Day carolers?”

“Just keep watching,” Ben said.

As the group reached the edge of the spring, their chanting hit a crescendo. They were now close enough for the boys to hear the foreign words clearly: “Vee-tah ehst ah-kwa, vee-tah ehst ah-kwa.”

“Maybe they’re Episcopalian?” Leif asked, barely able to get the words out. “I think they do weird stuff like this.”

The pairs split, making way for an individual to walk down the newly created aisle between them. In addition to the light blue robe, this person wore a white stole draped over his shoulders with what looked to be some sort of star symbol embroidered at each end. Rex got a glimpse of the face under the drooping hood, the torchlight illuminating his features. “Is that…Whitewood?” he asked in disbelief.

“Bingo,” Ben whispered.

Leif couldn’t fully process what he was seeing.

Whitewood lifted his arms, and the torchbearers placed their fiery sticks into two stands near the edge of the water. The chanters fanned out, forming a semicircle around the spring. They all kneeled and began to chant more quietly.

“Are those students?” Rex asked.

“Unlikely,” Ben said. “I never wore a robe.”

“Wait, so they’re teachers?” Leif asked.

Ben shrugged.

Whitewood signaled with his hand, and the group bent down, bringing their faces to the surface of the water to drink.

“Gross!” Leif whispered. “There’s gotta be like, amoebas or something in there.”

After they’d had their fill, the followers lifted their heads and resumed the chanting.

He then began to slowly and deliberately walk counterclockwise along the row of chanters, his left hand extended to hover over each head, like some perverse game of duck duck goose. When he reached the end of the line, he turned around and walked back the other way, now holding out his right hand over the kneeling subjects. He then abruptly stopped and gently placed his hand on one of the heads.

The goose stood, and they both stepped forward to the spring as the chanting increased in volume. Whitewood reached into the folds of his robe and produced a knife, which he held aloft like the Statue of Liberty’s torch.

The chanting grew louder.

Leif took a deep breath. “Maybe they’re just practicing for Hallow—”

“It’s a cult!” Rex said, having trouble keeping his voice at a whisper. “They’re not carolers or Episcopalians, and nobody practices for Halloween! It’s clearly a cult.” Leif looked very much the way he had looked in second grade after Rex had told him the truth about Santa Claus.

They watched now as the robed woman chosen by Whitewood—at least, Rex was fairly sure it was a woman—extended one hand, palm up, from her robe. As the chanting intensified to near shouting, Whitewood slowly lowered the knife to the woman’s hand, then pulled back sharply across her palm. She shouted out in pain but also sustained a specific pitch, as if it were a continuation of the chant.

“What the crap!” Leif said, covering his eyes. “Did he cut off her hand?”