The Feast’s Remnant

Journal Entry – November 24, 1871

One of the guests is gone.

I counted twice before sunrise, knocking softly at each door, pretending I was checking the hearths. Twelve yesterday. Eleven this morning. The preacher’s bed was neatly made, his satchel still on the chair. The pages of his Bible are blank.

The others don’t remember him. When I said his name, Mrs. Crane only blinked and asked if I meant her brother. I didn’t. She’s never had one.

The kitchen smells wrong today — sweet and sour together, like fruit that’s rotted but still shines. When I opened the pantry, a single coin sat on the flour barrel. It bore the preacher’s initials. I tried to throw it into the stove, but the flame bowed away, as if the fire itself feared it.

Outside, the well water tastes of iron. The reflection in it ripples even when the wind is still. I thought I saw the missing man’s face drift beneath the surface — eyes open, lips moving — but when I reached for him, the water turned black and spat mud across my wrist.

The mark there flared bright enough to hurt. For a moment I thought I saw light moving under my skin, as though something beneath had been waiting to be fed.

It isn’t hunger anymore. It’s communion.