Holy Bath
Vera and Kane hauled Kivior out of the Bay Valley library, his swollen body sagging between them like a sack of wet cement, limbs flopping unnaturally. Bees still crawled from his collar and cuffs, wings buzzing faintly in his matted hair; his face was a grotesque, purple balloon—eyes sealed in pus-weeping slits, lips split and oozing thick rivulets of blood and venom, skin stretched taut over welts the size of eggs. Every breath was a wet rattle, bubbles foaming from his nostrils. The night air hit them cold and sharp, the floodlights from the lingering state cruisers harsh on his ruined, glistening skin, casting shadows that made him look like a monster from the deep.
“Fuck, this Vera. I know what beehive stings look like, and this feels like it’s worst than that,” Kane cried out, the swells were just too eerie and unnatural.
“Truck—now!” Vera barked, her voice cracking with urgency, her bandaged arms burning as she took Kivior’s shoulders. Kane grunted under the preacher’s dead weight, axe abandoned in the library, hooking an arm under Kivior’s knees. They stumbled across the gravel, boots crunching, Kivior’s swollen fingers twitching against Vera’s coat. A final bee stung Kane’s neck as they reached the truck—he slapped it dead, blood smearing.
They bundled Kivior into the truck’s bed with desperate heaves, his body thudding against the metal. Vera climbed in after, cradling his monstrous head on her lap, brushing bees from his burst cheeks. Kane slammed the tailgate, vaulted into the cab, and yelled, “We’ve got to get him some help.”
“Hospital—That’s where we have to go!”
Kivior’s voice rasped through his swollen lips, barely human, a gurgle of air and blood: “No… Carey… house. Spiritual… curse. Remedies… there. Hospital… can’t… help. Hospital can’t help…”
Vera met Kane’s eyes through the rear window—doubt flashing, but the preacher’s rattle was weakening, his chest heaving in shallow, failing bursts. No time for debate. Kane gunned the engine, tires screaming on gravel, the library shrinking in the mirror, its dark windows watching like eyes. The destination was clear in his mind; Carey house.
The drive was a blur—headlights cutting the winding roads, the truck lurching over potholes, Kivior’s body sliding in the bed with every turn. Vera braced him, her hands slick with his blood, whispering, “Stay with us, preacher—stay.”
The old Carey house loomed on the hill after ten agonizing minutes—Victorian, sagging under ivy, windows dark and accusatory, the place where Martin and Elena had sealed the town’s fate decades ago. The drive-in felt like the return of a defeated warrior, back to the sceme of his monumental fall and defeat.
Kane skidded to a stop, gravel spraying. They hauled Kivior out—Vera’s arms screaming, Kane grunting as the preacher’s weight crushed against his chest. Boots thudding on the creaking porch, they shouldered through the unlocked door into a foyer choked with dust and the heavy scent of incense and mildew. Moonlight filtered through cracked blinds, illuminating faded wallpaper peeling like skin.
“Cabinet,” Kivior wheezed, pointing with a trembling, sausage-thick finger toward a side room, his voice a wet hiss.
Vera propped him against the wall—he quivered in the corner, a swollen alien lump, skin splitting with new welts that oozed yellow pus. Kane yanked open the indicated cabinet—shelves of yellowed books, crucifixes, and there: a small bottle of olive oil, labeled in faded script “Anointing Oil – Blessed 1958.”
“Tub… holy water… gallons… corner,” Kivior gasped, his head lolling, eyes slits in the bloated mask.
His wordings were a little disjointed, but it wasn’t rocket science in terms of how difficult it was to figure out what he was saying. Kane found them in the adjacent bathroom—under the sink, plastic jugs with peeling labels: “Holy Water – St. Mary’s Parish.”
He dumped them into the clawfoot tub with frantic splashes, water slopping over the edges, the room filling with the faint, metallic scent of blessing. Vera rushed back, helping Kane lift Kivior—he collapsed fully now, unable to stand upright, his legs buckling like jelly, whispering through cracked lips: “Soak… me… oil…”
They rushed him to the tub—Vera’s muscles tearing, Kane roaring with effort—and lowered him into the water. It turned pink instantly with blood and venom, Kivior’s swollen form sinking until only his ruined face broke the surface. Bubbles ceased from his mouth. With his final conscious breath, a gurgle barely audible, “Oil…”
Vera uncorked the bottle with shaking hands, believing she was to dunk the olive oil into the water—anoint the bath. Kane nodded grimly, his own stings throbbing, agreeing in desperation. She poured it in—a thick, golden slick spreading over the surface like a funeral veil, mixing with the holy water in swirling patterns.
Kivior sank unconscious, his chest unmoving, the oil shimmering over his submerged horror. No twitch, no breath—the curse’s venom deeper than any remedy, the preacher’s faith drowning in the tub. There was a lifelessness about his stillness, almost like he was dead although that was yet to be confirmed. It didn't feel right leaving a human being in such a condition, but alas, that was all they could do.
“Now, what?” Vera asked, expecting that maybe something was to happen.
“I don’t know. I guess we just have to wait and see,” Kane replied, and truly it seemed like it was their only next course of action.
“If he dies, Kane, then I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to figure this curse out. Kivior knowledge runs deeper than both of ours combined. If it wasn’t for his help, we wouldn’t have been able to cast Martin away. We need him to defeat this new enemy. He has a major role to play, I can feel it.”