He felt rejected. he'd ran here because he couldn't think of any other house that would have him. Not the house of medicine or law. Not even his own. Daniel had been cruel, and aunt Mary had done nothing to help him, in the end. His shoulders were heavy, and he was in no rush home. Pelle looked like the victim of a great physical offense, holding his shirt together, tracing the side of the road. The last of the day was kind to him at least, in its lack of heat. When he saw the building that had belonged to his family for three generations, he felt lifeless, like the fire had gone out between his bones. But stepping over the threshold, something sparked in his synapses.<br/><br/>There was retribution to think of, too. Daniel couldn't be what he was if he didn't exstend a hand to those in distress. And Hille. Hillie needed help herself, didn't she? Why did he smile so suddenly at that? He didn't even know what she craved, or why she'd been so afraid of it that she'd called for a saint to come. Green eyes, black in the shadow of this hall, narrowed at the though of holy men coming to judge him when it was the house of the cross that had done him wrong. Retribution. Revenge. Pelle was trying to escape from those musings, but he was also embracing them.<br/><br/>When he sat down quietly, clothes torn, his mother worried. She still served him his usual amount, but Pelle didn't eat. It disturbed Joe, and he shoved the boy's shoulder from where he sat, across. "You won't eat you won't drink, what will you grow with, then?" he posed. Pelle didn't have an answer for his father at first, and then the green eyes he'd inherited from the man glowered at the bublbus glass on clear foot by Joe's plate. The father laughed and poured his son a glass. The dark red sloshed like the torrents in Pelle's stomach, and he drank it with one tip.<br/><br/>It would be a bizarre unfolding of the evening to his mother, who watched the boy drink his father silly. She didn't know her son had fallen asleep inside the pretty body after the first two swallows. "You're a man now, aren't you?" she asked, tears in her eyes. It was a stressful thing or her to face. They way she'd spoiled her son - perhaps hurting him, given how his friends liked to tease him for his soft ways - she hoped he'd never grow gruff or independent. Seems he must have now. She was wrong. It was another thing that petted Joe's head, slumbering on the kitchen table.<br/><br/>"Moreso than him." Pelle answered with a snicker in his throat. She did not recognize his voice, but felt the need to defend his father.<br/><br/>When she stood, ready to bring the boy back to childhood with a rap of her palm, Pelle did too, which sent her back on her behind, Mary's eyes looking back up at him. When had he gotten so tall? And why did he look at her like that. He moved without light, and was by her side in an instant, the punishment she'd readied for him whistled through the air and bit her own face. Her head turned and she was in deathly chock. "Thanks for supper." he said and took the bottle that Joe had opened in hubris. She trembled when she looked up at the creature that would be her son, as he poured the bloody drink onto her neck, drowning her cleavage and making her warm instead of cold. He rolled the green glass off his hand, and it shattered by her feet. He kissed her goodnight on her forehead. She let him go to sleep while she sat there in the dark.<br/><br/>-<br/><br/>There were things in the shadows that fed off the scent of a woman. Holy places are exactly that, open to damp secrets. It watched her and felt proud. The Sin Ghosts aren't absent in godly houses. They are invited, because it is an arena. Those homes are filters for the divine to bring home the pure, they do not care about the weak that come for aid, because either their pleas are met, and they a brought into glory, or their wishes are too small and trivial, and the bad things take them. There is no loosing between the inferno and heaven, unless you are a person.<br/><br/>It coiled in the water when she bathed, after it had licked her chasm when she tried to put out the fire with her kerosene digits. She was offering herself to it, legs apart, knuckles deep, and it was brandishing her. Kindhearted women have red blood, too. The thing that would have the world believe it was Pelle licked her apex with an evil tongue. It wore his father's face, for her, but she'd know the cock her dream produced was not Joe's.<br/><br/>It didn't give her any break, nor did it provide her a release. While her nephew furiously stroked himself, a limb he didn't know anymore, ever growing in his hands, the dark ghost stuck her soul. It was excruciating, bordering on pleasure, and it was consuming. She would be thirsty and hungry for it when she woke, without rest in her body.<br/><br/>When she came out, she'd find the Father on his knees, and three sisters around him. Lena, truly virginal, said to be here only as a phase in her life, looked worried at Mary. "H-hes had us like this for hours no. I'm afraid, Hillie." she said, but still had her hands clasped together.<br/><br/>"Someone has already bled for it." Daniel said, whipping his head at Mary. "Someone here let it in."