Heat increases. My nightclothes are soaked with sweat, my body is dripping with it and it stings my eyes. And something warm drips onto me.
Patterson holding it above me. It hang through his fingers, red, stringy and dripping blood.
Against the darkened red of its mass, his white flesh glistens corpse-like; his gaping-mouth dribbles and spasms excitedly and his eyes close as he smears them over my head and face, my chest... stomach... legs.
When he finishes, shouting:
"Come to us, Mother Of Death. Feed upon virgin flesh!"
The voice of Reverend Samuel ignites the air.