Bride Of The Cult

Anwen Cerys

I scream the lyrics at the top of my lungs, my voice cracking but I don’t care.

“So it’s gonna be forever, or it’s gonna go down in flames…”

The desert road swallows my voice whole, tossing it back at me through the open windows of my car.

“Got a long list of ex-lovers, they’ll tell you I’m insane…”

The wind whips my hair, tangling it into a storm around my face as I pound the steering wheel in rhythm with the song playing in my car.

“But I got a blank space, baby… and I’ll write your name!”

I nearly laugh as I wink at my own reflection in the rearview mirror, pretending I’m some popstar on stage instead of a twenty-four-year-old girl in the middle of nowhere.

My car is ridiculous—exactly how I like it. A 1969 Ford Mustang, but customized: matte-black exterior with just the right amount of menace, and an interior lined in candy-pink leather that makes every gas station clerk raise their eyebrows. I had the dash wrapped in the same glossy pink too, because why not? If I’m going to drive across half the country, I want to do it in style.

The seats stick slightly to the backs of my thighs in the heat, and the air smells faintly of vanilla from the little charm swinging from my mirror. Outside, though—outside is nothing but dust. The road stretches endlessly, a two-lane ribbon cutting through cracked earth and dead grass. No trees, no houses, no gas stations in sight. Just heat waves rising off the pavement, shimmering like ghosts.

I didn’t take this road when I set out on my little solo trip. But some friends I made along the way swore it was the fastest route back. “Trust us,” they said. “You’ll save hours.”

Hours I could’ve spent alive and singing. But right now, I’m starting to wonder if they set me up.

The Mustang coughs. A sharp, ugly sound that cuts right through Taylor Swift’s voice blasting from my speakers. My grip on the wheel tightens.

“Don’t you dare,” I hiss at it.

The engine sputters again, jerking the whole car forward. My stomach drops as the needle on the speedometer trembles, then falls. I slam my foot down on the gas, but the pedal sinks without mercy. The music skips, distorting in a warped screech before the speakers cut out completely.

“No, no, no…” I mutter, knuckles whitening as I guide the car to the shoulder of the road. The wheels crunch on gravel before the whole thing shudders to a full, shaking stop. The last gasp of the engine rattles through me, and then—silence.

Not just silence. A heavy, suffocating stillness. The kind that makes me suddenly aware of how far I am from everything.

I glance around. Nothing but dust and sky. The horizon is empty, endless. The road itself looks abandoned, cracked and broken, like even time forgot it existed.

I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, letting the pink leather press against my skin. “Perfect,” I whisper bitterly.

From starry-eyed road trip freedom to stranded in the middle of nowhere.

And for the first time all day, a sliver of fear slides cold through me.

I shove the gear into park and kill the engine, though it already sounds like it’s dying on me. My chest still buzzes with the echo of me screaming Taylor Swift, but the silence afterward feels too sharp, too heavy.

Okay. Breathe. Dad always said if anything happened, the first thing I should check is the tires. But the tires look fine. No flats. No smoke. Just… the hood rattling like it’s choking on something.

“Great,” I mutter. “Exactly what I need in the middle of nowhere.”

I slip out of the car, slamming the door harder than I mean to, my phone clutched like a lifeline. The air outside hits hotter than inside, dry and scratchy, carrying the scent of dust and old asphalt.

My outfit isn’t exactly roadside-mechanic-ready: short denim cutoffs frayed at the thighs, a lilac tank top, and my favorite white sneakers with doodles all over them—tiny black hearts, stars, lyrics I scribbled during boring classes. My nails are still painted bubblegum pink from last week, now chipped. My long dark hair is loose, whipping around in the wind, strands catching against my glossed lips. My hazel eyes sting from the sun, narrowed as I tilt my head back and raise my phone like maybe the sky itself will give me a signal bar out of pity.

Nothing. Zero bars. Not even the ghost of one.

“Are you kidding me?” I hold the phone higher, stretch up on tiptoe, turn in a circle. Nothing. I think of Dad, of my best friend April, of Lucas—ugh, Lucas—and for a second I picture each of them answering, voices pulling me out of this empty stretch of nowhere.

But the road just stares back at me. A long strip of cracked gray, bordered by endless golden weeds and hills that seem to roll into forever.

And then—

Movement.

My stomach dips. At first, I think it’s a trick of the heat, one of those shimmery mirages that rise off asphalt. But no. There, in the far distance, where the road curves out of sight, something shifts. A shadow. A figure.

Someone else.

I freeze, arm still raised stupidly with my phone, heart pounding like it wants to make a run for it before I do.

I’m not alone.

The shadow shifts. I swear it does. It moves back, slipping into the heat-haze air like it knows I’m watching. My throat tightens, and then—salvation. A distant hum. A car. Relief bursts inside me, and I nearly laugh out loud. Finally. Finally, someone who can help me.

I scramble out of the car and stand at the edge of the road, waving, thumb sticking out like I’m some cliché in a movie. The car barrels closer, dust swirling around its tires. My chest lifts with hope.

But the driver just leans on the horn—one sharp, mocking blast—and speeds right past me without even slowing down.

I just stand there, dumbstruck, heat baking the top of my head. The sound fades, leaving me in the same silence I started with, except now it feels worse. Like the desert itself is laughing at me.

“Seriously?” My voice cracks. “What the hell—”

My skin prickles, hot and cold all at once. That crawling sensation is back. Like eyes. Like something watching me. My breath catches and I slowly turn, scanning the road, the empty stretch of sand, the distant shimmer of heat.

Nothing. Nothing except my car squatting helplessly where I left it.

Maybe I should walk. Maybe there’s a gas station down the road, maybe I’ll find help. But the thought of leaving my car—leaving shelter—makes my stomach knot. The sun would roast me alive, and worse, I’d be out there. Exposed.

I force myself back to the car, pop open the cooler, and grab a water bottle. The plastic is slick against my palm, blessedly cool. I gulp it down like it’s the last one I’ll ever have. Then I slide into the driver’s seat, deciding to at least close the roof. Maybe it’ll make me feel safer.

I turn the key. The engine coughs and dies. I try again. Nothing. The roof won’t budge without the car running.

Great. Just perfect. I lean back in the seat, the bottle cold in my hand, heat pressing in on every side.

I twist the key. Nothing. Not even the faintest growl of the engine.

I slam my palm against the wheel. “Come on, come on—”

But it’s useless. The car is dead. And I’m trapped with it.

That feeling slithers over me again, the prickling, heavy sense of being watched. I whip my head toward the windshield, heart battering against my ribs.

And then—I see it.

Far down the road, a figure. Small at first, then bigger, closer. Walking straight toward me.

I freeze.

The figure in the distance doesn’t move the way it should. It sways, almost like heat shimmer, but thicker, darker. My throat goes dry, my hand tight on the bottle of water I never open. The longer I stare, the less I can tell what it is. Human? Or something else?

The sun bends the world into mirages, and yet this one feels too solid. Too intent.

A chill runs through me even though sweat trickles down my back. I swear I feel its eyes — no, its attention — crawling along my skin. I can’t step out of the car again. I can’t. If I move, it’ll notice.

Then—movement.

Another figure slides into view behind the first, startling me so bad my breath catches. This one is clearer, closer, shaped like a woman, but the desert heat turns her outline into something wavering, unreal. My heart slams against my ribs.

I fumble with the ignition, twist the useless key, whisper to the car as if begging it to save me. The roof half-open, the air boiling inside, I slam the locks down with shaking hands. The figures are coming closer now, their edges sharpening.

The woman is the first to step into focus. She looks about late thirties, maybe forty, her skin kissed bronze by the sun. Her hair is long, black, and tied loosely at the nape, strands flying around her cheeks. She wears a wide-brimmed straw hat and a flowing red sundress patterned with white flowers, the fabric moving in the breeze like she belongs here, part of the heat. Around her neck dangles a string of beads, old and worn.

The man trails behind her, taller, broader. His shoulders are heavy, his steps slower, more deliberate. His shirt is buttoned but rumpled, sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar darkened with sweat. He has a trimmed beard, dark glasses hiding his eyes, and a hat pulled low. The kind of man who looks sturdy, like he could fix a flat tire with his hands alone—or break something just as easily.

“Hey there!” The woman waves, voice carrying in a lilting cheer that doesn’t belong to this barren place. “Car trouble?”

For a moment, I almost laugh—hysterical relief bubbling up in my chest. My imagination is cruel. First I thought it was a bear, then a tiger somehow escaped the jungle, padding across the desert just to kill me. Then I swore I was about to be mugged by a lone drifter. Now it’s just—people. Actual, breathing, smiling people.

Good Samaritans.

Finally, finally, I exhale.

I lower my shoulders, force a chuckle, though my palms are still damp. “It just…won’t start.”

The woman beams even brighter as she comes closer, the man keeping pace at her side. The brightness of her teeth in the glaring light almost hurts to look at. “Oh, we can help with that,” she says warmly. “The desert is no place to be stranded.”

Her cheer is infectious, but…strangely heavy too. It lingers too long in the air. I can’t explain why, but even as I unclench my hands, some part of me stiffens again. Like a violin string pulled too tight.

They stop at the hood of my car, their shadows falling in long, neat lines over the sand. “I’m Beatrice Mae,” the woman says, placing her hand lightly over her chest. Then she tilts her head toward the man. “And this is my husband, Thomas John.”

They exchange a small smile between them—an old, practiced rhythm. A married pair, settled and secure, exactly as they seem. Still…something in that smile needles at me. A flicker too knowing, too rehearsed.

I wet my lips and nod, managing to return, “Anwen Cerys.”

The moment my name leaves my mouth, their eyes catch. Not at me—at each other. The smile passes between them again, subtler now, like an inside joke I haven’t been told. The confusion knots low in my stomach.

Beatrice Mae leans closer to the window, her eyes shining with some unreadable delight. “Well then, Anwen Cerys,” she says, my full name lingering on her tongue like a tune, “let’s see about your car. And if it proves too stubborn, we have shelter not far from here. You can follow us out of the sun.”

Her words are perfectly kind. Perfectly logical. But her cheer sits like a strange perfume in the air—sweet, overwhelming, and impossible to breathe too deeply without coughing. I nod automatically, though unease ripples just beneath my skin. Relief hasn’t quite left me after all.

The way they smile at my name unsettles me more than the heat or the silence. It isn’t friendly, not quite. It’s as if they’ve just confirmed something between themselves without saying it aloud. My skin prickles and I suddenly feel exposed sitting here in my car.

Beatrice’s lips curve, faint but certain, like she expected me all along. Thomas doesn’t smile as wide, but his eyes narrow just slightly, watching me as though measuring the shape of me against something he already knows.

I sit frozen for a second, their faces stamped into me, a hundred questions crashing inside my head. Why do they look at me like that? What could my name possibly mean to them? It’s not a common one, but it’s not strange enough to warrant this kind of reaction either.

“Come out with me to a shade just nearby,” Beatrice says, her voice smooth but firm, like a teacher telling a student what to do. She doesn’t wait for my answer, already half-turned, skirts brushing the dusty road. “Thomas will take it from here, have the garage look at it.”

I glance at Thomas, uncertain. He doesn’t break eye contact as he holds out his hand. Slowly, I gather my things—water bottle, phone, wallet, keys clinking in my palm. My chest tightens as I hesitate, but I place the keys in his waiting hand anyway.

“I’ll pay whatever it takes to fix it,” I hear myself say, needing him to know I’m serious. Needing to sound in control when I’m not. “Do you know what’s wrong with it?”

His fingers close around the keys. “Once I figure out the problem, I’ll know.” The way he says it makes me uneasy—like he already has an idea but doesn’t want to share it.

My eyes flick from his rolled sleeves to her sundress, her neat hat, her jewelry glinting in the sunlight. They don’t look like mechanics. Not even close. “Are you…sure?” I ask before I can stop myself. “You don’t exactly seem—”

“Like the type?” Beatrice finishes for me, her smile widening just enough to show teeth. “We are. And we have others who can help.”

The way she says we lodges like a stone in my throat.

Before I can answer, movement stirs behind her. At first it’s the shimmer of heat again, that wavering trick of the desert, but then I see them: shapes darkening into form. Several men, dressed in black, walking slowly down the cracked road toward us. Their steps are steady. Too steady.

Beatrice doesn’t turn. She doesn’t need to. Her hand drifts down to toy with the beads at her throat, the motion calm, practiced, almost ceremonial. “There,” she says softly, like she’s been waiting for this moment. Her eyes gleam as they return to mine. “You’ll be safe now.”

Safe. The word scrapes through me like grit.

For the first time all day, I wish the car had stayed dead. At least then I’d know it was only a machine trying to trap me.