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Hell terrifies Martha. Starting at age five she had vivid imaginings at night of it, of eternal torment, though then it was with the very childish notion of being shut in an oven and roasted alive until she woke screaming. Now twice as old and many times more mature, she understands it better, she thinks. To never know God's love or goodness again, and to always know it was your own fault--unless, maybe, one's evilness blinded them so much they refused to take any responsibility at all, and they still suffered just as much but in ignorance.
The night after Reverend Wicks' funeral, she thinks about Hell, and her heart hammers.
She remembers her confusion when he first swallowed the jewel, her fear when he made that strange noise and collapsed, how she wanted to find someone to help but he'd told her, he'd told her he'd found a way to shut up all the temptation and evil and then he'd done that so this was planned, in a moment there would be a miracle and he'd rise back up... and then she'd remembered what he said about a last communion. Then he'd stilled.
Then she'd looked for her parents to tell them Reverend Wicks was dead. She'd found her father first speaking with his friends, and she'd waited quietly until one of the men's wife looked her way and then reached a hand out to her shoulder, asking why she was crying. She hadn't realized she was until then. She shouldn't be. Even if Reverend Wicks was dead now, she'd seen a miracle. He'd triumphed over evil. He should be a saint, though she couldn't tell anyone why. What he'd done was holy, and his soul would go on to heaven.
There were whispers in the days before the funeral about how strange the death was; sure the reverend had been getting on in years, but not so old, and seeming in perfectly good health in the days leading up. Talk of doing an autopsy, immediately shut down because the Reverend had been so well-respected, no one wanted to blacken his name if it'd been suicide.
And it wasn't suicide. Martha knows that. It was a martyr's last act. She doesn't understand why anyone would want to blacken their souls with such a horrible sin, waste God's blessings and go to hell, but Reverend Wicks most certainly wouldn't. He knew better. He was a wise man, a holy man. But she can't ever tell how devout he was in his last minutes. Both to keep the evil hidden away and because people won't understand. They'll say he killed himself and went to hell for it, and the very thought of the man who'd been so kind to explain things to her when she asked questions after the service, who'd praised her for being obedient and respectful and a good child, being in hell, forever--suffering, forever--
It makes her feel sick to her stomach, sick enough that she creeps to the bathroom just in case but only cries until she's wrung out and exhausted enough to go back to bed and finally fall asleep.
When she first sees the church desecrated by that evil woman's violence, Martha feels shock and grief like others of the congregation did, maybe even more keenly because this was not just her church, it was the Reverend's church. How could Grace be so evil, to do this to a place he'd cared for?
And then with that thought, calmness washes over Martha. Grace is so evil. She's the proof that Reverend Wicks only did what was absolutely necessary. He is a martyr, because she is a devil.
And he's defeated her.
Martha walks toward the broken devil and whispers in its ear:
"I know where he hid it. And you'll never find it."