The Bellevue Schoolhouse Debate, 1835

Stacktember 2025 Prompt: The Threshold

Collage made by me in Canva.

Third prompt of Stacktember: The Threshold;
I wrote about the scariest one I could think of.

Read Stacktember entries →
(NEW: Last week’s winners & voting for Readers’ Choice at the bottom)

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They gathered because Deacon Kirkland lay cold in the ground. His death was sudden and heavily rumored. Now his widow stood, bombazine black as coal, shawl tight about her throat. The benches groaned with farmers and wives, the air thick with lantern smoke. Uneasy eyes turned toward her.

“A woman takin’ the floor? Not seemly.”

“She’s a widow—let her speak.”

A third coarse voice broke in with a laugh, “Her husband’s rod’s gone cold, and now she thinks the pulpit’ll fill her.” There were chuckles, then silence; Temperance struck the lectern with her hand.

“Brethren, hear me! This house, raised at a cost of eighty dollars, timber floated down from Bellevue, nailed fast by honest Protestant hands—this house was not wrought for papist fancy nor heathen tale, but for salvation! And now—aye, now!—I hear of serpent-wives and witch-women creeping into our children’s ears. Shall we let our daughters laugh with devils? Our sons mock the Almighty? God forbid!” Her hand shot toward the chalkboard, where Master Doyle sat stiffened by the accusation, cheeks flushed.

“You, sir! Schoolmaster Doyle. Papist. Idolater. Smuggling Rome’s poison into lessons, chalking Babylon upon our very walls.” She turned to the assembly. “Is this the shepherd you’d set over your lambs?”

The benches hissed.

“Papist…”

“Papist!”

Doyle’s knuckles whitened on his slate, but he did not rise. A large, broad man spat on the floor, splattering wet.

“Enough of this! The man teaches letters, not demons. If there is poison here, Widow, it lies in your own tongue.” Pierre Leclerc rose, looming over the farmers, his Protestant neighbors.

Temperence’s face curled, voice climbing shrill. “You dare spit on God’s floor, Frenchman? Ever paddlin’ the rivers with rum on thy breath, takin’ Indian women into thy bed and callin’ it covenant. Marriage mocked! Baptism profaned! My husband lies in the ground because men like you consort with the devil and bring their idols to our very hearth. And now you rise bold to shield this papist? Will you surrender your children’s souls unto Babylon?”

The room heaved. Some men leaned forward, fists on knees, nodding. Others crossed arms, uneasy. Wives whispered, shawls pulled tight. In that moment, neighbors’ eyes flicked to one another, remembering Detroit—Pontiac’s siege, the garrison starved by fear, whole streets drowned by dark, suspicious whispers. They had sworn never again. Yet here it was, fever rising in a log schoolhouse, nailed from eighty dollars worth of pine.

From the doorway, the Potawatomi elder spoke, his voice low. “It was not Doyle. Not the Frenchman. Thy husband’s hand brought his death—grasping too much, pressing too long upon the earth and those who dwell on her. A man may die of his own taking.”

The flickering wicks of greasy lamps were the only sound in the schoolhouse. Fear outweighed truth as more eyes bent toward Temperance than away.

“The rod and the rifle alike are God’s instruments—my husband bore both, ‘never surrender’ on his lips. He fell by shot, as martyrs fall. Will ye now lay down the musket he raised?” The schoolhouse, born for letters, turned pulpit of vengeance.

***

The shutters clapped in the wind, but within all was close. The candle threw a sickly light. Temperance set a basin on the floor, filled it with river water, black in the dim. She drew her husband’s clasp-knife, pricked her finger, and let the blood fall. Drop after drop it bloomed red upon the dark.

“Never surrender,” she crooned, swaying. “By his blood, by mine, by thine.”

She stooped to the cradle, lifting the babe against her breast, shawl falling over them both like a pall. Her voice turned sharp, the burning brilliance of herself on display in front of the entire town warped her psalm to new purpose.

“Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones,” she swaddled the babe. “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away—” a quick peck. “Cursed be he that keepeth back his sword from blood.” She moved round the room in a circle, babe on her hip; dipping her hand into the basin, smearing doorframe and cradle, marking the lintel as though for plague’s passing.

“Never surrender,” she whispered into his downy soft hair, “never surrender. So is the covenant bound, so is the curse laid.”

Then silence.

Outside, the river burbled louder against its bank as though something unseen had been poured into its course.

Sometimes thresholds are just time shitting you out where you started.

Stacktember Results & Voting

THE BARGAIN: Reader’s Choice

The first week’s Bargain prompt brought heat—thank you to everyone who read, voted, and threw your hat into the ring. Here’s how it shook out:

• Week 1 Readers’ Choice Award - UNWANTED GESTURE by

  John M. Bauer
  
  

THE OFFERING: Champion & Craft Award

• Week 2 Overall Champion - AFTER MASS, BUT BEFORE CHOIR PRACTICE by

  Benjamin Bagenski

• Week 2 Craft Prize Winner - A SECONDARY MONSTER by

  A.P. Murphy

Raise a glass of claret—or blood—to them. Dark, strange, and sharp all the way through, these two tales are absolutely incredible! Treat yourselves to a read on an otherwise mundane Monday and subscribe to them so you don’t miss their projects. 👏

This Week’s Reader’s Choice Vote

Two pieces stood out from The Offering prompt, and now it’s your turn again:

Who takes home the Readers’ Choice prize this round? You can read them here:

Burning Ice

Playthings

Mokilok is the boogeyman; Mokilok wants me where I am.

Also, the eclipse oil is ready, darlings.

Until next time,

🖤 Nico

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