The sun had died and dusk crawled across the sky in blues and purples. Carrie and Michael's laughter followed them home from Westfield High, and the blonde's thumping heart had yet to cease. Raw adrenaline still powered through her veins and it didn't allow her to process the bizarre events of the afternoon spent with Michael Langdon. She forgot about everything except the strange boy from across the road, who's extremely hot body warmth reached for her with invisible fingers. Carrie even forgot about her mother, who had in fact, spat blood when she returned home from work to a silent house.

Margaret Moore hadn't yelled but went straight for the utensils draw in the kitchen and had picked out a blunt fork. The woman then gathered up the material of her long skirt and scrapped the fork down her thigh. She had to press hard to break the skin, but she did. She always did.

Blood dribbled down her broken flesh and the silence of the house was only disturbed by chanting prayers and a verse from Matthew. "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near." Margaret Moore hurt herself by the front windows, watching the street for any sign of her misguided daughter. But her grey eyes would always find the house across the road and a sickening feeling would twist her stomach into knots. Margaret Moore had a bad feeling about that house, about that family. They weren't right, weren't committed to the Holy Father, the God Almighty. She knew they were different, wickedly different, in the marrow of her bones, even if she didn't have any tangible evidence yet, just terrible whispers.

A light breeze danced on the air as the two teenagers strolled down the one-way street, not in any rush to depart from the other. The street lights were just starting to blink awake to chase away the growing shadows. Michael casually and rather absent-mindedly swung Carrie's backpack to and fro from his fingers; he had offered to take her backpack earlier and Carrie had blushed. No one, and certainly no boy, had ever asked to carry her things before. They were nearing their houses and the sight of her driveway sunk Carrie's heart. She didn't want this afternoon to end, no matter how strange it had been.

"Thank you for taking me to Westfield High," Michael said calmly but there was a sharpness to his voice, a darkness. That darkness hadn't left him since provoking the damned ghosts made by Tate Langdon's hand. But Michael was used to the darkness now, it was his second nature, his birthright. He had once fought so hard against it, but that had only brought him heartbreak. "It was kind of you to take me."

"You're welcome," Carrie replied warmly. "It was a nice afternoon, even if it was a little strange." Some of the strangeness that had occurred that afternoon hadn't been all that strange to Carrie, but the roaring wind that sounded so much like screaming and how Michael had thrown his head back in howling and triumphing laughter, those had been too strange for her. A part of Carrie didn't want to unpack the strangeness, just wanted to bask in the company of Michael Langdon. Her new friend! She didn't care how strange he was and she wasn't in a place to judge him when she could move objects with her mind.

"I've always wanted to visit that place," he admitted, like it was a secret he kept close to his heart.

"You make it sound like it's hallowed ground or something," she mused out.

"It is for me. Just made holy by a different Lord than the one you know." His eyes dropped to the golden cross that sat against the base of her throat. Michael's words made Carrie pause and confusion knitted her eyebrows together. She wanted to ask which Lord he was referring to but never got the chance.

"CARRIE!" a voice screamed out in incredible anger. Carrie didn't have to guess who the voice belonged to, for there was only one voice that could turn her blood to ice. Her stomach curled and toiled and her shoulders bowed as she peeked over her shoulder at Margaret Moore storming down the driveway. "How dare you to disobey me. Disobey your Holy Father!" Carrie's skin was flushing crimson as she reached out and snagged her backpack from Michael, who was looking over her head at Margaret Moore with great interest, an interest that lingered on perplexion and anger. But none of that showed on his handsome face; he was learning to school his features into marble and nonchalant.

"I have to go," she spilled out, turning on her heels quickly, loose pieces of asphalt crunched under her saddles shoes. Margaret Moore latched onto her daughter's arm and dragged her inside, all the while shooting daggers at Michael Langdon with the wrath of God Almighty. Carrie didn't put up much resistance, not even when her mother twisted her arm at a harsh and awkward angle. Yet the blonde girl did manage to glimpse back at Michael, who just cocked his head to the side, as she struggled to keep up with her mother's furious pace.

The spell of silence in the Moore household was broken abruptly and violently. Margaret Moore slammed the front door shut and Carrie was meet with a wave of déjà vu. But could it really be déjà vu if it happened regularly and often?

"How dare you defy me! How dare you defy God!" Margaret hissed out with venom as black as demon ichor. Carrie ripped her arm free from her mother's grip.

"I have not sinned, Mama!" Her skin stung from where her mother had twisted her flesh cruelly. "He is my friend! And I don't have many of those because of you!" Margaret was taken aback by her daughter's blatant defiance, her blatant sinning.

"The lies that spill from your serpent mouth only damn you further! He is always watching you. Can always see you! Ever since your blood curse, you've brought sin into this house. And that boy out there is nothing more than sin!" Silver flashed against the soft and pale material of Margaret's long skirt. She had hidden the fork in the folds of her skirt and had now grabbed it tight again in her palm, her knuckles turning white with the tension.

"My period is not a blood curse. And Michael is not some embodiment of sin, Mama." Margaret shook her head, her light red curls shifting around her beautiful face. The woman jabbed the fork into the soft flesh at her thigh; she didn't even flinch at the pain. Carrie clocked the blood and the fork and her heart shuttered inside her ribcage. "Mama, please don't hurt yourself. You have to stop doing this!"

Margaret brought her free hand down across the side Carrie's face with the speed of light. The sound of the impact echoed throughout the house and jolted Carrie backwards in astonishment. More of her skin stung now and the stinging was sharp, jarring. Carrie pressed her fingers to her tingling cheek, tears dotting her blue eyes.

"Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord," Margaret shouted at her daughter, digging the fork into her skin deeper, as she quoted the word of God. A line of blood dripped down her leg, but the woman didn't notice it.

"Mama, please!" Carrie sobbed, her bottom lip trembling.

"Say your prayers now or you'll spend the night in your closest. Do you want that, child?" Margaret stepped forward and Carrie scurried backwards, her head bowed and shoulders shaking. She hated the prayer closest, hated how the walls closed in on her until it felt like she couldn't breathe.

"No—no, Mama," she wept out, tears freely sliding down her red cheeks.

"Let the Lord hear your prayers. Perhaps he'll forgive you for spending time with that boy. After all, he did forgive Eve, the weakest of us all." The blood on of her leg soaked into the material of her skirt as she stared at Carrie without even blinking.

Her voice wavered and the sound of tears echoed in her words. "Soul of Christ, make me holy. Body of Christ, be my salvation. Blood of Christ, let me drink your wine. Water flowing from the side of Christ, wash me clean. Passion of Christ, strengthen me. Kind Jesus, hear my prayer. Hide me within your wounds. And keep me close to you, defend me from the evil enemy. And call me at the hour of my death. To the fellowship of your saints, that I might sing your praise with them for all eternity. Amen."

"Again," Margaret commanded.

Carrie Moore spent the next three hours praying. Her tears ducts dried up and her knees were sore from kneeling in front of her mother. And the whole time she wished she was back with Michael Langdon in the haunted halls of Westfield High.

—

Sleep didn't find Carrie that night. She tossed and turned, her skin and bones were worn thin and she while she wanted to pray for sleep, she couldn't force herself to say one more single prayer. Not that night.

So, Carrie blinked into the darkness of her room and her mind wandered to Michael Langdon and what had happened in the library of Westfield High. It had been strange and terrifying, but she had never felt so alive before, and she knew it had been because of the golden-haired boy from across the street. She couldn't come to a conclusion, save that it made no sense. It made no sense why Carrie could move objects with her mind. Made no sense why books had flown across the library without her involvement. Made no scene for Michael to be obsessed with the Westfield High Massacre that happened in the 90s. Thoughts plagued her mind until the rays of dawn filtered in through her curtains.

Carrie didn't leave her bedroom on Saturday at all. Didn't even sneak out to the kitchen to eat. Carrie had learned long ago to hoard food in her bedroom. There was a small collection of muesli bars and wheatmeal biscuits under her bead that she snacked on as she reread gothic novels about remote castles and haunted graveyard that always featured a timid heroine that was subject to unimagined horrors. Carrie Moore had always projected herself onto those heroines, like Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey or Emily St. Aubert in The Mysteries of Udoplpho. In every story, there was always a mysterious suitor and an element of the supernatural, usually a ghost. For a better part of Sunday morning, Carrie fanaticized about being in her own gothic story as she dressed for church.

She was the young and naive heroine that was exposed to the underbelly of the supernatural world while falling for a tall, handsome gentleman. Westfield High was the remote castle that was also haunted by ghosts and Michael Langdon was the tall, handsome gentleman that she married in the last chapter. Carrie felt silly for her child-like fantasy, but she supposed there was no real harm because no one would ever know, and in that, she meant her dear mother would never know. Actually, Carrie was sure if her mother ever knew she read gothic novels, Margaret would beat her blue and bloody and lock her in the prayer closest for days on end. Reading the fantastic and eerie books was a risk, but one Carrie was willing to take.

At noon, Margaret called for her daughter, and the pair made their way to church in their finest clothes. None of them talked about what happened Friday afternoon, or the bruises that still lingered on Carrie's cheek from where her mother had backhanded her senseless. They never did talk about the horrors that Carrie underwent in the old walls of the Moore house.

As Carrie rounded her mother's car, she spotted Michael sitting in the shade of his porch across the one-way street. He had earphones tucked into his ears, but his eyes were trained on Carrie, watching eagerly.

He raised one hand, waving at Carrie who was leaning against the frame of the opened passenger door. Carrie lifted one hand and returned the wave quickly before her mother could see. A wide grin spread across Michael's lips, lighting up his face completely, like the birth of a new sun. Her heart leapt in her chest and she hoped she'd always be able to make Michael smile like that. With such passion and wonderment.

Being friends with Micheal Langdon was another risk Carrie Moore was willing to take.