Oily and Stunned

Seanna’s POV

The pain.

It came fast—violent and merciless. Knives dragging through my flesh, slicing deep and slow like someone was taking their time. Heat followed, white-hot and unbearable, spreading under my skin until I thought I might split apart.

I tried to scream.

The sound that tore out of me didn’t feel entirely like my own.

Another voice overlapped it—raw, strained… familiar in a way that made my chest tighten even inside the dream. I couldn’t see anything. Just darkness and pain and the awful certainty that something was very, very wrong.

Then—I woke up in a cold sweat.

A groan ripped from my throat as I dragged myself upright, every muscle in my body aching like I’d actually lived through the nightmare. My room was still dark, the heavy curtains blocking the morning light.

And someone was standing at the foot of my bed.

I jumped half out of my skin.

“Seanna,” my mother said calmly.

I scrambled for the lamp and flipped it on, pressing a hand to my racing heart. “MOM— you literally scared me to death.”

She didn’t react.

She was staring.

“What?” I asked, breath still uneven.

Her eyes were fixed on my hands.

A slow, creeping dread slid down my spine. I followed her gaze.

Blood.

It streaked across my fingertips in thin, dark smears.

My stomach dropped.

I frantically checked my palms, my wrists, my arms—anywhere I could think of—but there was no wound. Not even a scratch.

“They are getting worse, aren’t they,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

My throat felt tight. “…Yeah.”

She stood there another long moment, face unreadable.

Then she declared, firm and final, “You will talk to the bishop tomorrow.”

Dread filled my chest instantly.

“He will know what to do.”

I wanted to argue.

Wanted to say this wasn’t… whatever she thought it was.

But the exhaustion, the lingering pain in my bones, the blood that had no explanation—it all pressed down too heavy.

So I nodded.

She left without another word.

The rest of the day passed in a strange fog.

I went through the motions—helping in the kitchen, folding laundry, pretending to listen when Mother spoke—but my thoughts kept drifting back to the dream. To the pain. To that second voice tangled with mine.

By late morning, Eli found me out by the side porch steps, staring at absolutely nothing.

“You look like death warmed over,” he said, dropping down beside me.

I shot him a look. “You always know just what to say.”

He grinned, bumping his shoulder into mine. “It’s a gift.”

Unlike most people, Eli didn’t push right away. He just sat there, quiet for a minute.

Then softer, “Bad night?”

I hesitated… then nodded.

His jaw tightened just slightly. “Worse than usual?”

“…Yeah.”

Before he could say anything else, a blur of motion came barreling around the corner.

Z.

He skidded to a stop in front of us, hair a mess and energy dialed up to a thousand like always. “Dad’s looking for you, Sea.”

Of course he was.

I pushed to my feet, forcing a small smile. “Thanks, Z.”

He squinted at me. “You sick or something?”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t look convinced, but Eli shot him a look that clearly said drop it. Z huffed but let it go.

Dad was in the barn when I found him, finishing up the chores that—knowing him—he’d probably started before sunrise.

“You didn’t have to do all this yourself,” I said.

He glanced up, that warm, steady smile already in place. “Habit.”

His eyes searched my face for a beat too long.

“You alright, Sisi?”

The nickname nearly undid me.

I forced a nod. “Just tired.”

He didn’t fully buy it—I could tell—but like Eli, he didn’t push. Just reached out and squeezed my shoulder gently.

“Get some rest today if you can.”

I promised I would.

I didn’t.

By the time night rolled around again, my nerves were wound too tight.

I went through the motions—changed, brushed my hair, pulled the curtains tight—but sleep came hard and restless, dragging me under in uneven waves that never fully felt like rest.

——————

Morning came heavy.

Sometimes waking up was better.

The nightmares still clung to the edges of my mind, but at least the pain wasn’t as sharp as when they ripped me awake in the middle of the night.

I dressed carefully in a simple gray dress, fingers moving automatically as I pinned my hair. My curls refused to cooperate, springing loose no matter how neatly I tried to tame them.

Figures.

The drive to church was silent.

Heavy.

Even the boys seemed to feel it.

Service passed in a blur—hymns, prayer, the familiar rhythm of routine—but Bishop Daniel’s sermon made my skin prickle.

The devil lies at your door… waiting for you to let him in.

I could feel my mother looking at me.

Again.

And again.

Finally, dismissal.

Relief barely had time to settle before Mother steered us toward the back of the church. I suddenly felt about twelve years old instead of a grown woman.

She launched in immediately, voice tight with urgency. “Bishop, her affliction is worsening. We don’t know what else to do.”

His sharp gaze landed on me.

Questions followed.

I answered… hesitantly.

Carefully.

Then he asked, “Do you want the devil to come in?”

I stared at him.

“What?”

He continued like this was perfectly normal. Said he’d seen this many times. Said people only improved if they truly rejected the evil trying to enter them.

My father cleared his throat—a quiet warning—but the bishop turned on him instead.

“You’ve enabled her. If she had proper grounding—a husband, children—this wouldn’t be happening.”

Dad’s jaw went tight.

Then he turned and walked out.

My chest twisted.

The bishop simply told us to wait.

I turned toward the door, ready—so ready—to be done with this.

And then—

Something warm and thick dripped down my scalp.

Slid along my temple.

Down my cheek.

I froze.

“…What?”

“Blessed oil,” the bishop said plainly.

Like this was completely normal.

Like people got surprise-oil-dumped on their heads every day.

I had absolutely no words.

“Made with special herbs,” he continued. “It will help keep your mind at peace.”

My mother was already thanking him.

I just stood there… oily and stunned.

The walk across the parking lot was torture.

People were still lingering.

And they were staring.

Heat crawled up my neck.

By the time we got home, my skin had started to tingle.

Then burn.

Weirdly sharp along my side.

Panic spiked.

I rushed inside and straight to the bathroom, cranking the shower on as hot as I could stand, scrubbing at my hair. The oil clung like glue, stubborn and thick.

By the time I finally gave up, my skin was red and raw.

When I stepped back into my room, Mother was sitting on my bed.

Waiting.

Angry.

Of course.

“What now,” I muttered.

Her lips pressed thin. “How can you expect it to work if you wash it off?”

“I think I was having an allergic reaction, Mom.”

“Nonsense, that was probably the—”

She stopped.

My stomach dropped.

“You think I have a devil, don’t you.”

She pursed her lips.

Said nothing.

That was answer enough.

Something in me snapped.

I grabbed clothes, shoved my feet into my shoes, and walked straight out of the house before she could say another word.

The air outside hit my overheated skin like a slap.

I didn’t stop until I reached the narrow path leading down to the small patch of woods by the creek.

My skin still burned.

Still tingled.

Still felt…

Wrong.

I pressed a hand to my side, breath unsteady.

How long was this going to last?