The gaunt features left the preacher's garb almost empty with his
skeletal features. His gaunt face, devoid of all emotion, sunk into
his scarred features, is my most profound memory. He was a terrifying
old man. But the church followed the word of god, despite that he
looked fearsome yet so skeletal, we followed the church with a
devotion. The children were most off put by his features, and never
did he begin to reassure them of his godly intentions. The preacher
never smiled, never grinned, and only showed any emotion or
conviction during his sermons. But he was a man of god, therefore we
followed.
As the weeks went on he brought more to his flock. They too were
very skeletal, gaunt, and scarred. But he wished we would accept them
as a good christian would, and we did. With the new followers joined
into our flock, we kept with the preachings of the lord, every
Sunday. The new members would not discuss where they had come from,
or even where they lived. Their empty eyes, and expressionless faces
unnerved some, but we were an accepting flock. If the preacher says
god is with them, we believed him.
As the weeks went on further, some members of the flock left. Old
friends in Christ said that things were too strange and that they
were uncomfortable with the direction of the church. They claimed
that the preacher was too odd a fellow to follow. The preacher showed
anger for the first time at one of his sermons when this was revealed
to him. Talk of blasphemy and heresy flung from his lips in infernal
discourse. His rage at the people who left was so great children
began to cry as he spoke of how damned the ones who left were. Even
the grown men said he spoke as though hell was within his very voice.
We all were terrified in the flock, except the newcomers. They still
had an emotionless calm that was unnerving at best.
In the coming weeks, things got weirder. Sermons were held at
night, with odd ritualistic rites and incantations throughout. The
anger aimed at the deserters was at a full boil, with curses thrown
at them, threats of killing them, and talk of finding them. We were
scared of leaving the flock, for fear that these threats would come
to be truths. Terror and superstition began to run within our
congregation. I wanted to run, and never look back.
The last night of church I ever attended would be one that never
stopped haunting me. The newer members, which had been called
“skinnies” by everyone else, were all sitting down at the church
when we arrived. The preacher's tone wasn't loud, nor angry. He had a
smile on his face. A grin that bared teeth in a sick Cheshire cat
imitation with eager anticipation. He started by saying we now have a
way at redemption and by following god, we will be cleansed of the
acts of the deserters. Wails could be heard and screams were coming
closer to the pavilion. A baby was brought out to the pastor. The
infant screamed and squirmed as the preacher held it in one long
skeletal hand. With the baby, came a woman. She was stripped bare
and had blood streaking across her nude body. She seemed to be
gagging the words “my baby”, but she couldn't talk well. I looked
at the skinnies which had begun to have the same smile as the
preacher, in a twisted uniform fashion. As my gaze turned back, the
cross went down. Impaling the child, blood scattered to the father's
face. At that point I ran. I ran and not once have I looked back, for
fear, they might find me, and I will be just like that woman and her
poor child.
I still hear his voice when I try to sleep, and I still think he
is after me.
