Berries In The Window | Creep Cast

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Welcome back to Creepcast.

Today we're talking about something I hope to be deliciously evil because it's called Berries in the Window.

Written by Kevin Jones.

Before the recording started, Hunter asked me if I'd still do the podcast if he murdered a woman in cold blood.

And I didn't have anyone else to tell about that.

So, okay, well, that's a lie.

That's a lie.

But here's the truth.

I said, Isaiah, what did you have for lunch?

And what did you say?

I had spaghetti.

And then he was like, oh, it's because I'm part Italian.

That's what he said.

I said, I'm Italian to my blood, was the direct quote.

And I said, and I said, oh, that's what that smell is whenever I meet when I was in person with him.

That's what that smell is.

So today we're worried.

I'm not even that Italian, actually.

So you're making that.

Your mustache, your mustache,

you could fool any of me.

You could definitely fool me.

You look like an Italian-American.

Yeah, I think you're just like really racist and need to put people in groups in your mind.

Absolutely.

Well, I have to be.

You know, I have to be that character.

He said it.

He said it.

He said, Yeah, character.

Okay.

Yeah.

He said it on the show right there.

You heard me.

Yeah, I have to be this character.

I break my fingers because

I closed them so hard.

A character.

Berries in the Window was written on June 20th, 2024, this great, the Lord's great year of this year.

And apparently, sorry, Kevin, but we saw you follow us, dude.

Lame!

Lame!

Just kidding.

Very excited to read this from somebody who's a fan of the show.

A lot of hostility that you're reaching out with all at once.

Yeah, so it seems that Kevin is a fan of the show.

He has two stories, it looks like.

I looked for publishing.

I don't see anything he has published, at least not at the moment.

He has this one, Berries in the Window, and another one called The Puppet Theater in My Attic.

Burries in the Window has been recommended by a few people.

We've heard good things about it.

And on creepyposter.com, it is rated 8.5 stars out of 10.

4-7.

4-7.

You know, and I want to say, I think that this is the first time,

and correct me if I'm wrong.

I think this is the first time that we are reading a quote-unquote fan story.

Not about us, but I just mean somebody that we know follows us,

knows the show.

We know it's our first viewer story, right?

Maybe.

I feel like there was one time we read a story, and then after we got a recording, I checked on Twitter and they followed us.

Okay.

Well, now going into it.

You know, I'm going to, Kevin, I'm going to give you the prestigious viewer red story.

I see a lot of people on our subreddit even

write stories and stuff.

And I would really love to get something to where we can get the community writing and start, you know, reading more stories and stuff like that.

But, you know, you have to watch out because people usually suck.

People suck at writing.

It happens.

You know what I mean?

Sometimes they suck.

Sometimes they're pretty good.

We got a pile of stories people handed us at the live show, so we can buy that for an episode sometime.

A pile.

I have four, I think.

I have not read any of it yet.

It was a lot.

All right.

It was a lot.

Yeah.

Also, still want to say I'm in Japan mode now.

So all my cares are out the window.

They're on a plane flying to Tokyo.

The past three episodes we've recorded in the span of like four days.

Tokyo.

That's all I can think of.

Tokyo.

That's all I can think of, yeah.

Bonichiwa.

As I say, Hayo.

Funny enough, that's where he said he was going to murder a woman, so what did I tell you?

What would you, and I'll say it, you know what?

Fuck it.

I'll say it again.

What would you do if you found out that I killed someone in Japan?

And I told you later,

I would quit the podcast.

That's what

you said.

That is not what you said.

That's literally what I said.

That is not what you said.

Terrible optics to continue the show.

No, no, no.

Here's

what I said.

So, what if I gave you this one then?

What if I gave you this one?

I said, I go up to you,

we're at like a Red Robin or something, having dinner, celebrating something whatever why would we be celebrating at a red room

more campfire sauce and bottomless fries right here and I say Isaiah I gotta tell you something

I had I'm like leaning in because I could I don't want to be loud like I gotta tell you something

you gotta respond back because if you're on the table okay all right

what what what is it hunter is it is your fries bad or they have a little overcooked no the fries couldn't be better seriously the campfire sauce is amazing that's good hey i just had a quick question why are we celebrating at a red robins Isaiah, I did something bad.

What?

Took me to Red Robins for a celebration?

I know, but you mean something else?

I strangled a woman on a Japanese train.

And guess what?

I got away with it.

No one knows, only you.

All right, but I felt weird.

You know, we're here.

We are celebrating at Red Robin, your favorite restaurant.

And

I feel like it would only be disrespectful if I didn't tell you this.

And I just wanted to, you know, no one else knows.

I don't think anyone's ever going to find out.

Will you continue the show with me?

And that's the conundrum I give you.

Now, what's your answer?

No one knows.

Was the train Japanese or the woman?

Both.

Then I don't know if I can continue.

I don't think I can keep the, I think, I think just culturally,

and especially from like a brand safe perspective, I think I have to quit the show, but I won't tell how you

on a public transit and you got away with it.

You got out of the country.

It was late at night.

It was so late.

It was so late.

Kind of like a collateral moment where like Tom Cruise gets shot to death and they just leave him on the train and it's fine.

No, I

hit her body.

Oh, on a train.

Yeah, I just put her under a bench.

Don't those trains move like really fast?

Oh, extremely fast.

So

how did you hide her body?

I put her under a bench.

It doesn't matter.

You know what?

I'll say this with my answer.

I'll say this.

I'll say, you know what?

You might have said, yeah, Hunter, I would have to leave the show.

I couldn't work with you anymore.

But you said, I think.

So for a moment, you were like, well, maybe I can get past this.

And that's all I needed, buddy.

Friendship secured.

Friendship saved.

Knowing that.

Did she have it coming?

No, I'd like to think it was a barbaric rage.

I almost blacked out.

I always hate that.

In those crime documentaries, I blacked out.

Bullshit.

Well, that's like, that's a cope.

That's what like OJ said and stuff like that, right?

I blocked.

I didn't know what happened.

Yeah, go fuck yourself.

Well, hold on.

Did

you, so

did just like Harry and Allison just watch?

Were they just there?

They didn't care?

Like, what was the logistics of you?

i had i had a long night think actually what if what if you found out that i strangled someone to death but it was in self-defense like i saw some guy getting ready to stab somebody right well that's fine he's like give me your wallet whatever like that and then i besides just like knocking him out with a punch i just just go with my bare hands and i strangle him to death that's fine i don't care about that because because at that point like I've thought about this before.

If you were in like a self-defense scenario and you were choking someone, you would be afraid that as soon as you quit choking them they were going to attack and kill you right okay let me let me re let me let me repurpose the question then really quick okay

what if i said i think i saw a guy getting ready to stab somebody to death

what do you mean by think

that's what i mean what yeah that's what i really throw the ring to the whole operation doesn't it what do you mean when you say

i'm just saying i thought that's what i saw one word changes a lot.

It really does.

It really does.

You're like, oh, my God.

I'm very conflicted by that.

I have several follow-up questions to that statement, I think.

I honestly don't think just from knowing you, from hanging out with you, and like, you know, what we've been doing this podcast.

We've been talking to each other a couple times a week for over a year now.

I don't think there is a scenario that you could tell me something that serious and I believe you.

That is not true.

You're very gullible.

I've done it time and time again.

Well, yeah, I have, but it's taken, like, you've got me a lot of times, but recently I've like wisened up a little bit.

Yeah.

Okay, dude.

I don't think if you told me anything serious over like a diagnosis, I would believe you.

I think I would space out.

I think I'm smart enough to space out enough to where

I think I'd get you.

I think I'd get you again.

Also, we should read the story.

You know, I keep, some of the times I'm just like, you're just riffing around with my buddy's fun, huh?

Nice.

But we do have a story called Barry's in the Window.

If it's not good, guess what, dude?

And here's, and actually, me and Isaiah, we talked about this before the episode.

We both followed

Kevin Jones back on Twitter.

If the story's not good, we're unfucking following him.

So, Kevin, if this comes out and you're like, well, they're not following me, guess what happened, bro?

So here we go.

Barry's in the window.

I'm in the window.

I'm ready.

Also, this,

it has, I'm excited for the theme, so I don't want to go into it yet because I don't want to spoil it, but I'm excited.

From what we've heard, it sounds pretty cool.

So someone gave me like kind of a little rundown of it.

I'm excited.

Okay.

Let's get into it.

Berries in the window.

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It really does mean the most and we are now back to the show.

I met Elaine at the rim of a fountain.

The water bellowed from the spigot in its ornate pattern.

The fact it was running at all was a miracle for our underfunded university.

It was just after my 845 class on early horror films.

No better way to start your morning than with a dissection of the infernal cauldron, I suppose.

She sat on the edge of the courtyard fountain with her head buried in a textbook.

Fresh-brewed coffee from the commissary by her hip her hair draped to her collarbone and swayed in the passing breeze i assumed she was a nursing major by the art on the front of her textbooks and the fact that she was always trapped in their pages i assumed she had a keen mind top of her class even by the way she was constantly scribbling on her notepaper i assumed she had a boyfriend waiting for her back home but i was tired of assuming Love that dude.

Love the intel vibe there.

I bet she has a boyfriend.

I doubt it.

You know, I was actually about to say, I would like, if you didn't speak, I was going to say something about how sweet of a setup that is.

I assume she had a friendly lesson.

I assume she had a boyfriend waiting for her back home.

But I was tired of assuming.

That's kind of a

creepy line.

Also, I want to say, too, the horror class, that's actually true.

In college, I had a class.

It was a

Can't remember how they phrased it.

I mean, it's like basically gay theory is what it was, like literally, but it was

like the depictions of gay artists and media through vampire films and how like the 80s was all sprung up by the AIDS scare and that kind of thing.

It was very interesting.

I just want to say that's a real thing because I feel like there's going to be a lot of people being like, what?

A horror class, but it was cool.

It was a good class.

I don't think, I'm trying to think if I had any cool classes in college because I was a science major.

So all of my like electives I had to take were like biochemistry and like, you know,

what was that one class called it was like invertebrate vertebrate anatomy ivap like invertebrate invertebrate anatomy and physiology it was all like science stuff right so not a lot of fun classes i remember hating molecular cellular biology and um

what's the one that killed me immunology oh my gosh immunology sucked uh so the only like gen eds i got to take that were cool were just like the very generic ones so like art like i liked art because it was like art history and stuff uh and a couple of my history classes were cool.

I enjoyed all my history classes.

That was like the big thing I really enjoyed.

I took that, there was this one teacher.

I just liked her.

I took one of her classes, and then all she ever, the only other classes she taught after that was feminism.

So I was in all of her feminism classes, but one of them was basically female history in China.

And I got to learn about like, it was fucking insane, dude, like Chinese feet binding, all that kind of shit.

Fucking crazy.

So I enjoyed almost every history class I ever took.

I thought those were were sick.

I had some cool history ones.

I remember taking stuff where we'd go over, like, we had one history class that was like ancient world up to, I think, like 1500 BC.

So there's a lot of stuff about like the code of Hammurabi and like Egypt and stuff like that.

And it was cool.

All that kind of stuff.

Yeah, through all the periods and stuff like that.

Talking about what was it?

The epic of Gilgamesh and stuff like that.

It was pretty neat.

I also wanted to make a Venus of us, dude.

Remember the Venuses?

It's like Venuses.

Back in like the Neolithic era, there would be like these statues that they would call Venuses.

Oh, they're big, fat, thick women.

You know what I mean?

Because it's like, because if you were, you know, big back then, it's bounceful.

You're healthy and whatever else.

Yeah, it was a privilege to be fat because

it was hard to come by.

Pregnant and all.

Yeah, I want someone to make one of me, dude.

Someone make me a Venus, dude.

That's what I want to be.

Yeah,

I'd have a Venus made of me.

I think that'd be pretty.

Yeah, why not?

Can you imagine yours now?

Big-ass lips and a mustache and just huge, huge hands.

All right.

And a belly.

You know what?

I wasn't going to bring this up, but since you just made that joke, I will.

Do you think maybe your relation of taking

like a Chinese feminism class may have

related to you just randomly telling me you're going to murder a Japanese lady

on a train?

Do you think maybe there's some like-minded enough to even have the thought?

Is that, oh, so you have to be open-minded to murder a woman in cold blood?

I think you have to be open-minded enough to be able to want to ingest and adore someone's culture enough to visit their country.

Kill them.

Well, exactly, and go there and then indulge in whatever you have to in a blind rage because I blacked out.

Yeah.

An angel told me to do it.

Okay.

So back to the story.

I was going to say it was weird because I met my wife in college.

Right.

And I remember for a while, like just thinking like, oh, she's so far out of my league, like, there's no way I'm gonna have a chance.

And then, when I was stupid enough to try it, uh,

and now we're married.

Uh, so I don't know, there's something about this opening paragraph where it's like she was talking for class.

I figured she had a boyfriend, but I was tired of assuming and stuff.

I don't know, I thought I thought of Taylor there, it was sweet,

or I'm an incel.

It's awesome.

You like this, don't you?

The humiliation, just uh

all right, whatever.

Perhaps it was the way the sun peeked over the clouds or the water playing the perfect score in the background.

Or it may have just been the pressure of summer's vacation's approach.

Whatever it was, on that morning of May the 27th, the frame was absolute perfection.

So I took the shot.

I sat next to her and made some comment about the book she was reading that I couldn't possibly remember.

She laughed at it though.

Out of nervousness or pity, she would never tell, but the laugh offered all the confidence I needed.

We left that morning with the date planned, and then that date with another, and another, and another.

She said yes six years later to the day.

I took a trip to the large, man, that's like how long until I've professed.

This is going to make me sad.

We took a trip to the largest resort in our state.

I made sure the sky was clear, the crowds were minimal, and the flowers had bloomed.

I got off my knee to embrace her.

She was elated.

Her smile, her embrace, her scent, every detail was just as I imagined.

Yeah, she shit herself.

How did you propose?

How did I propose?

I took Allison to Fairbanks, Alaska under the northern lights.

Did you actually?

I did.

I'll text her right now.

Go ahead.

Text her.

I did it.

That's what happened.

That's very romantic.

That's actually incredibly thoughtful and sweet.

Oh, yeah.

It's awesome.

Did you cry?

Yeah, I did for probably like three or four hours.

I don't know.

I think she, I can't remember where she was at.

But yeah, no, I teared up.

Did you?

I did, yeah.

Yeah.

I had like a whole like little speech prepared and stuff, and we were both crying.

Can you remember it?

I do remember it, actually.

Can you say it to me right now?

And I'll pretend I'm Kayla.

What would your Kayla impression be like?

Well,

once you start saying it,

I'll start doing it.

Kayla?

Yeah.

She sounds like goofy.

Doesn't sound like goofy.

That was a goofy impression.

Okay.

That was 100% a goofy impression.

Years ago, you asked me.

I was waiting for you to do the impression again.

No, what did I ask you?

Okay.

Do you remember what you asked me?

Pass the ketchup.

Okay, now you're Patrick Stark.

It's the same voice.

Anyway, the little like speech I gave or whatever is

like when we had started dating, we had this whole conversation where she was talking about how like

like she used to she used to pray for when she was a kid she used to pray for like

a man to come into her life to make make things better not worse blah blah blah like all this sappy stuff

and

when I when I propose right before I got down on one knee I said something to the effect of like I think I'm that man or I want to be that man or something like that and proposed it was very sweet

Go ahead.

I was just listening.

I was just waiting for you to have some snide remark or comment too.

No, I think it's beautiful.

Okay.

All right.

Can I go back to the screen now?

Yep.

I managed to discover another frame as flawless as today I met her.

From there, we made a beautiful film of our life together.

She was a nurse at the leading hospital in the area.

The hours were grueling, but she felt rewarded by the lives she touched.

I, while not making it in Hollywood, got contract videography, worked for advertisements and weddings that kept me busy enough.

Then, two years after our wedding day, I opened her present to me on our anniversary.

In the box was a stick with two bold red lines.

And the film of our life was made entirely of perfect frames.

Then the baby was born.

The harsh light from the hospital room nearly melted the creases of my wife's face away.

Her breath was rapid, having just expelled the baby from within her.

Eons passed as we waited for the cry.

The buzz of fluorescent light bulbs overhead rattled the room.

The indistinguishable scent of sterilization masked the scent of birth like a fishing net.

No, it's a brutal worth.

The scent of birth.

Yeah, I was to say the language he's using is very flowery.

Like everything has to be this kind of thing.

But yeah, it's funny to do the same thing with like pussy juice and blood for the smell of birth.

It's like, caught it like a fishing net.

What the fuck are you talking about, dude?

You know, I saw someone made like a highlight reel of us, and they titled it.

Christian Appalachian Boy and Godless Midwestern Man, the podcast.

And I feel like that that becomes more true every day.

I want to find and ban that guy from ever viewing the show again, is what I say.

The cry was not as expected.

It was merely a hick, a gasp, choking.

I caught a glimpse of the baby before the nurses rushed him out of the room.

His spine bent as if a string yanked the back of his head to his heels.

His torso, is that funny, Hunter?

It's like a weird, weird Chinese finger trap baby.

Well, that's not right.

That's why I just thought if I was the doctor

delivering it, well, that's not right.

The first thing I said.

Okay, sorry, go ahead.

Guys,

just insane, like a child with a birth defect.

Quote, Chinese finger trap, baby.

Come on, man.

It kind of makes sense, right?

When you have to push it together, it's like a contorted.

It doesn't matter.

I understand what you meant, sure.

Yeah.

I processed it.

It was the choice of words.

I am not doing right.

I am not doing right by the Asian community with this episode so far.

No, no.

And I apologize for that.

I apologize.

I have his address if anyone wants it.

I'll sell it for $14.

That is so cheap.

I know.

It's to send a message.

His torso was a stump compared to the ski pole limbs attached.

And the eyes, bulging from his skull, they clung to their sockets like balloons inflated in a roll of duct tape.

It

looks like a little Brian Peppers popping out doesn't it

Was that his name?

It's not it's not funny.

Do you remember do you remember Brian Peppers?

Does that not sound like the image

I remember Brian Peppers, yeah, but when I read that just because of how like the language was kind of literal for a while that it got like

very

Figurative.

So I imagine like there's literally two balloons taped to the kid's head.

So it was a stump.

Like, the doctor turned around and was like, Ta-da!

And he like made a balloon animal on his head.

Yeah, let me tell you, this is, he should not look like this.

Yeah,

it's like, oh, how'd that happen?

He's like, hurriedly tying up like a poodle balloon animal behind him.

Yeah, big clown nose.

Tying it up.

What do you think of that?

It's a sword.

That would be you as a doctor.

Yeah, I know.

Looks like a Tommy gun, balloon gun here, huh?

Just kidding.

Your kid's dead.

The doctors said they had never seen a disorder like this.

Months of ultrasounds and blood work showing a healthy boy only for this to be the result.

It was as if he mutated during labor.

Elaine and I were not the same.

We talked less and less as every breath now needed to be spent on keeping it alive a little longer.

The baby continued to breathe and feed, although through a tube.

She loved the baby.

She devoted everything she had to it, and I

was in disbelief.

I hoped to wake up from the nightmare that became of us, that the pregnancy doctors we talked to were right and a healthy baby was still on the way.

Elaine didn't return to the hospital for work even after the maturity leave expired.

I stopped taking contracts for video work for a year.

The offers completely dried up in that time.

That was until I received an email with the to the point header, documentary requested.

Documentary work has always been an interest of mine.

Since weddings and advertisements are mostly shot at the mercy of the client, I was more than interested in being the driver for a project.

We are an independent church based an hour from Pleasant View, West Virginia.

Our festival, I imagine Pleasant View, that may be a real place, but Point Pleasant, West Virginia is the place where like Mothman's from and stuff like that, so it could be a fun reference.

Our festival is coming in a few days and as this is a once in a life

once-in-a-lifetime event we would love to preserve it all we ask for is three nights of your time and we will make you feel right at home if you are interested we can discuss prices and directions money is no issue we believe our faith will be of particular interest to you mr dowie

may you have faith pastor madison

I was turned away after reading the email.

Why would it be of particular interest to me?

Beyond the odd ending to the email, I was never partial to religion.

Given recent events, my partiality grew far worse than ever.

The longer I sat with the email, the more disgusted I would be with myself if I accepted such an offer.

Weeks passed since the initial email from Pastor Madison.

I applied for over 50 jobs in that week for consistent income.

Of the nearly 50 job postings I applied to, I only heard back from four,

all with essentially the same apologetic rejection.

Elaine's time was wholly dedicated to the baby.

She was at its beckoned whim.

With each gasp or choke, she was that with each gasp or choke, she was there to refill the baby's feeding tube or change its diaper.

She was monopolized, well, I could hardly look at it.

I was disgusted with myself for feeling this way.

It was a constant stab of guilt within me.

Funds ran completely dry.

We began putting every expense on the credit cards.

In doing so, we dug a hole $3,000 deep in only a couple months.

We feared losing the home.

We feared losing the baby.

We feared everything, and still rejection after rejection came from job listings with my name in the letterhead.

I delivered food after a period of time, but every check was like filling a cannon with a bucket of sand.

Then another email came.

Not to me this time, but to Elaine.

She showed me the message that read as follows.

I hope I find you well.

I can send you the directions to our church.

The festival is quickly approaching.

We would love to hear from you soon.

May you have faith, Pastor Madison.

I felt my integrity deteriorate as I read through the email.

$8,000 for three days sounded too good to be an actual offer.

Options were slim at the time, however.

Three days away would be a much-needed break from life, even if it was spent hearing this pastor proselytize.

Perhaps the once-in-a-lifetime festival could be...

could even be fun.

I told Elaine that I would take the offer.

It's the first time I'd seen her with an authentic smile since the baby was born.

I decided her smiles were worth selling out for a church for the next couple of days.

I opened my laptop laptop and emailed Pastor Matt Sinback for directions.

Three days until the festival.

So

he emails the wife and says, I wanted to follow up regarding a previous email, but he sends it to her.

And he never says anything like,

oh, a previous email to your husband.

Or that we send him a husband.

He just assumes.

Well, I think it's supposed to indicate that he, like,

that I guess he knows both of them.

Or

he isn't revealing his whole hand, but it seems like he is indulging that this pastor knows not only the husband for his documentary work or like his

work, but he also knows the wife or whatever.

Just making it a bit more creepy, you know, of just like, why the fuck are you reaching out to her?

You know?

Yeah.

And I mean, like, $8,000 is hard to pass up, especially for how short the work is.

Yeah, if you're in, if you're in death there, you might have to swallow your pride a bit and just fucking.

I mean, you've got a child that needs round-the-clock care.

You're trying to take care of, you know?

Pleasant View is only a two-hour drive from my home.

As instructed by Pastor Madison, I pulled onto a back road that devolved from pavement to gravel and then dirt.

The dirt ended in an encircling tree line only 10 minutes from the main road.

The remaining 50 minute journey needed to be completed on foot.

Not a simple hike with all the film gear I was lugging.

Took my phone from my pocket and sent a text to Elaine, notifying her of my arrival.

The one bar of signal I was sure would be the last for the next three days.

After briefly worrying about leaving my car, I submerged myself into the sprawling woods.

An hour later, I emerged from the bramble and leaf-coated forest to an open passing.

Buildings speckled the grass with what seemed to be little forethought.

Huts would be a generous term for such structures.

Stacked logs, plattered together by dried clay, formed the exterior walls.

Each one uniquely assembled, but collectively shared in their state of decay.

The only buildings large enough to fit more than three people in them were a structure in the middle of a one-acre fence and field and a church nestled in the village center.

Top of the spire was a vacant seat for a cross.

I considered getting a shot of the village to prove this wasn't just a film set I stumbled onto when a figure approached.

This is interesting.

I like the mention of like, so it looks all kind of ramshackled together.

But then there is a church, but there's no cross on top of the church, right?

Yeah.

It's an interesting note.

The man wore a crisp white alb ordained with a Jerusalem cross stitched with golden fabric.

A wine red sash draped around his neck, embroidered with the same golden stitching.

He appeared to glide across the dirt path.

Each of his steps were careful and deliberate.

The man kept pure black hair tight to his scalp.

No evidence of hair remained below his eyebrows.

Gray didn't dare show regardless of the wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes.

His irises cloaked his pupils perfectly.

that sounds like a exact uh description of um jim jones yeah like the jet black hair tied against his head and he wears like the flowery garb and stuff like that we don't know a pastor or just kind of like randomly too i just think the pastor attire is so fucking creepy in general there's like a guy out there wearing that shit in the middle of the woods like in this wearing like the the white robes white robes with the wine red sash whatever and then like him coming out of this like church without any kind of real i don't know it just feels like a like a setup or something.

It feels weird.

The Jerusalem cross-that was used by the Crusaders a lot, right?

I have no idea, maybe.

I think I think it's a Crusader logo, if I remember correctly.

Yes, I think that's right, or at least first popped up with the Crusades.

Do you think it's going to be some kind of like hellfire damnation like cleansing thing then?

Do you think we're heading that route?

Yeah, I think maybe something like violence, like a conquest of belief kind of thing, right?

Pastor Madison, I assume?

I said, extending my hand.

We appreciate your time, Mr.

Downey.

His voice was smooth, as if the words, troubles, were just set at ease.

His hand was soft and light as it shook mine.

His presence was strangely inoffensive, like it was constructed to never be disliked by any stranger.

Please, take this.

He extended an envelope.

Upon opening it, I found a check for $4,000.

The other half I was sure would come after the festival.

It seemed rude in that moment to confirm.

He had a nature that was difficult to question, so I thanked him for the early payment and put it into my wallet.

The picture of me and my wife met my eyes from the bill fold.

Our smiles have carved onto our faces.

I remember the intense labor it took to wear a smile that day.

I peeked over the vast white nothing introduced to the image by a crease of my own making nearly a year prior.

Felt a stab in my gut each time I saw the image.

The crease did not prevent the stab, but the crease remained.

I felt as though there wasn't much I couldn't see from our current position, but I obliged.

As we walked towards the heart of the village, he directed my attention to each of the structures, giving his story of each of the families who lived there.

He spoke glowingly of each family and named each member.

He pointed my attention to the creek where they washed their garments, the open field where the children all played, and the rickety well that dried into nothing more than a safety hazard to be avoided at all times.

But I could barely hear his hypnotical, mundane voice as my attention was drawn to the fenced-in field.

A group of women knelt by one of the standing cattle.

They rubbed and kissed the animal's belly as they sank.

I thought to ask the pastor about the strange display, but decided it would be best to hold my tongue.

His nature, still difficult to question, he spoke instead.

The sun is almost down.

It is time for our service.

So I see there the women knelt down by the cow, touching its belly, probably because the cow is about to have a calf, right?

And they're doing something for like the calves to be born.

I see a mirror between that and his wife having the child, right?

There's going to be some kind of like blood for blood, animal for human.

Yeah, it's very mid-summery.

Yeah, very mid-summery.

Traumatic thing in the real world

is reflected into this almost perfect haven of

foreign existence, basically.

So like this cultish kind of thing feels very reflective.

It also feels, you know, and also too, of just somebody, you know, predestined, you were supposed to be here, you know, that kind of stuff.

Smorgasbord of color, fueled by the full moon, painted window frame shapes around the room.

Candles shifted the shadows in a mesmerizing sway.

The blurred hills of congregation heads peeked just into the picture.

Pastor Madison prepared to deliver his sermon to the village residents, filling the 30 pew seats.

Audio levels were as perfect as could be hoped in the open nave.

The rustle and mumbles of the congregation ceased when Pastor Madison stepped forward to begin.

Let there be a time for each of us, a time beyond the trials of today, that we may find all things.

Upon rechecking the viewfinder, there was a little too much headroom above the pastor.

I made the prosper adjustment to satisfaction.

The lighting in the church was causing the temperature to run a little too warm for my liking.

Quickly dove into the camera settings and adjusted the white balance using Pastor Madison's robe as a reference.

I winced at the mistake.

Failure due to lack of practice, I assured myself.

Give him your faith so that we may yet again purge the world of its wrongdoings.

A door behind the pastor creaks open and the congregation stands in roaring applause, blocking both the camera and my own view of the pulpit.

I could only find slim sight lines between the shoulders of the congregation and their flurry of clapping hands.

I slammed the tripod together and moved to the aisle for a clear view of the pulpit once more.

What stood there was incomprehensible.

It appeared to be the shape of a human.

I could see the outline of arms, legs, and head, but it shifted.

It was as if the thing had to actively work to contain itself to that form.

The features of the being melted and folded in on itself.

Its skin was charcoal black with specks of pale that gave it the appearance of snow falling on a tinted window.

The camera could not see this.

Where the thing should be in the frame only showed as a white smudge that dimmed the rest of the light in the image.

The aisle door creaked open just a foot behind me.

Behold,

the manifestation of death.

A woman entered with dirt staining the lower portion of her dress.

She held something in her arms, a small creature shielded by her shoulder.

An all too familiar hick and gasp, choking wafted from the creature.

It was a calf with a bend in the spine, a stumpy torso, and the eyes.

The eyes clung to their sockets with the same desperation as the baby's.

The woman ushered the calf to the altar and got on a knee before before presenting it to the being.

Pastor Madison and the congregation muttered in a language unfamiliar to me.

Their words were rapid, grew louder as the being took the calf in what could only be perceived as its hands.

The woman started to howl and convulse where she stood, and the chants overwhelmed the air.

And the chance overwhelmed her.

The being raised the calf into the air, unhinged what could only be interpreted as its jaw, and consumed the deformed calf.

The chanting ended in a breath.

Silent anticipation washed over every person in the room.

My ribs could hardly contain my heart.

After months of researching and doctor visits, I finally found another creature with the same affliction as my son, and it's gone.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to attack the thing that just ate my only chance at understanding what my baby has.

I withheld this instinct.

Pastor Madison bent behind the bean and shouted, It is born anew

by pure faith.

The crowd erupted into cheers and prayers in the unknown language.

Tears filled the eyes of the congregation as Pastor Masson lifted the calft above his head, now perfectly healthy.

Oh, this is great.

I already see where this is going.

This is so good.

Like presenting to him like this option, right?

You know, I mean, it's basically becoming a pet cemetery scenario where the dad's going to like go home, grab the baby, and try to come here to heal it for sure.

Yeah, another thing I like, I didn't notice till just then is he's he hasn't said his kid's name.

He won't refer to it as that.

He just calls it the baby.

Yeah, right.

He has like this bitterness, this detachment from it.

The service ended in an instant.

The congregation emptied past me and the bean slipped into the back room, leaving only Pastor Madison and I in the nave.

He recognized my confusion and with a wave invited me to the back room.

Rationally, I assumed that this was all some sick prank at my expense.

That they had to have known about my son's afflictions and made some kind of puppet to mimic the deformities.

It seemed far too real to be a puppet, but it had to be something.

Once Pastor Madison went into the back room, I felt the very real possibility of being in the same room as that

thing.

All I knew was that on the other side of the door, there were answers.

The only answers in the world, as far as I knew.

So I took a breath and went in.

The door squealed in a way I hadn't noticed from the back of the church.

The tanned stucco walls couldn't have been more than 10 feet in either direction.

There was enough room for a polished wooden desk with hand-carved iconography of departed saints, a purple and green love seat that appeared more suited for a hotel suite in the 80s than the office of a pastor, and a pocket Bible resting on an end table.

Pastor Madison sat behind the desk with his forehead in his palms.

He alerted himself to my presence and extended an invite to the love seat with a heaven-facing palm.

I sat with caution.

He's never here by the time I come in,

Pastor Madison said.

He must have been savage to my weariness.

The ease his statement granted me broke the dam of questions as I spewed every thought I had.

What was wrong with the calf?

How was it cured?

Was any of this real?

What was that thing?

He sat in silence with my barrage of questions.

His inoffensive face remained stoic as they bounced around in his head until he spoke.

That was my son's Bible before he passed.

I used to have three others like it filled with notes cover to cover.

I found this an odd statement, given the myriad of questions I gave him.

I took the pocket Bible in my hand without turning the cover.

You're holding the last Bible in this village.

Open it.

After a brief wave of confusion, I flipped open the cover.

I thumbed through the pages, each one with an X etched into it with pencil.

Each page I progressed, the duller the lead and more rips in the page from the pressure, until there were only rips in each page.

The answers I needed weren't in there.

Nothing but a boy's soul in need of a new body, like your son.

The words stunned me.

So he did know about my son.

But how?

We have never posted online about him since his birth.

I knew no one from this part of the state and had no reason to pass through a town an hour from civilization.

But ultimately, he wasn't wrong.

This place offered the only chance my son had in a long, fulfilling life.

Without any other possible explanation for such a spectacle, I believed it.

I had faith.

A long pause followed, broken by his voice.

Let me show you where you'll be staying.

Okay, so I just got to say,

I was a little like, I was was like, I like this story or whatever, but then that the combination of the church steeple having the cross removed and then this quote-unquote pastor being like, that's the last Bible in this village.

And all the pages are scratched out, scattered through and stuff like that.

As if like he was at once a pastor and this was his congregation, but he found that he hated God.

So he took them out here and he's found a new religion.

He's found a new God to worship.

Yeah.

It's like, ah, this, I like this.

This is a cool setup.

I'm vibing.

This goes pretty hard.

It's like,

I made the Jim Jones joke, but it is very Jim Jones like presentation for everything.

Like we have to find our own answer somewhere else, you know?

Yeah.

Yeah, this is really cool.

I like this.

It almost reminds me of like,

do you remember in the first part of Deepwoods

when they go to that church that there's a demon in the basement of and there's like, oh, the desk in the room with the demon is the same as the one in the pastor's office, kind of implying there's a community out here that worships some forgotten god.

This is almost what I imagine the deep woods town to be like before it disappeared.

Oh, I see.

Yeah, I see what you're saying.

Yeah.

Like this is kind of like the prelude to a situation like that, of a forgotten city that has a demon locked in it.

Yeah.

The sun descended behind the skyline hours ago at this point.

I knew my stay would likely not be a comfortable one.

In such an impoverished, rural community, each roof is only suited for the families within.

Honestly, they were probably a few rooms short of suited.

I followed the pastor to my living quarters without a word being spoken.

I followed him past the rickety fence, the dilapidated well that erupted a musty odor, and into the second largest building in the village, the barn.

We entered the hay loft, spacious room in all dimensions, but height as the ceiling nearly grazed my scalp.

Hay bells lining the baseboards and stacking to the low ceiling in areas.

Other than hay, an iron-framed bed sat below a broken window paired with a bucket to its side.

The windowsill was splattered in red.

Pastor Madison apologized for the state of the room and mentioned the likelihood of hearing some noises in the night.

It'll likely be mice.

It's best to ignore them.

He said in a stern voice.

I assured him it was no issue at all.

I wasn't going to be staying long anyways.

Then he left left in a hurry.

The moonlight gave the hayloft a tint of sickly pale white.

Hours passed since entering the hayloft before I found an ounce of comfort, and still the springs of the mattress would not relent.

I rolled to my opposite side.

Jab.

I stretched out onto my back.

Jab.

I yawned.

Thud.

I set up in an instant.

The moon's light poorly painted the room, leaving vast corners in pure darkness.

I called out to the void with quivering breath.

No response.

Peeking just beyond the corner of the shadows was a trail of once stacked hay bells.

My mind went to the being at church service.

If this place held such mysteries as that being, what else could be lurking here?

Anger grew from desperation and I hurled the bucket into the darkness.

The clang of the bucket meeting the floorboards forced a high-pitched shriek out of the darkness.

A figure darted from the door and shot down the stairs, stomping on each step as it descended.

Without thought, I followed.

The field and the village beyond was motionless.

I desperately scanned the area for who or what that thing was watching me sleep.

I walked around the barn, ignoring the few cattle that chose to sleep under the stars for the night.

They were undisturbed, which gave me relief.

That is until I saw it.

A figure no more than 50 yards hunched down in the grass.

I could make out the back of a head and shoulders, even as,

even at its imagined full height, it seemed small.

I approached it cautiously.

Each step I took was mindful of my feet.

Careful not to catch a twig or dry leaf under my weight.

I still was not quiet enough, it jolted up and turned to face me.

It was a girl, no older than 10 years.

Her body was frail and her brown hair matted to her head.

Her eyes swelled with panic at the sight of me.

She was unusual, even beyond her obvious neglect.

Her upper lip weaved into an M shape up to the outer corner of each of her nostrils.

Her hands slapped over her mouth, covering this blemish in embarrassment.

She drops the basket woven of hay and she drops the basket woven of hay into the grass.

I could hear her breath pulse through her chest as I stepped closer.

She retreated, keeping a constant distance between us.

Tears formed in her eye and reflected in the moonlight.

Not knowing sign language, I crossed my forearms over my heart as I asked her to trust me.

I approached her slowly, her breath faster with each step.

I bent over to her hay basket, three wine berries scattered from within it.

I gathered them back in and handed it to her.

She uncovered her grin and recovered slightly with a sniff and wipe of her eyes.

She looked at me and smiled when I asked if she wanted help picking her berries.

I smiled when she nodded yes.

We spent the next hour gathering berries into her basket.

When we split up, I would gather a palm full, go to her, and dump them into her basket.

She came alive a little more with each berry we collected.

When the light of the sun became noticeable on the face of the hills, fear hit her once again.

I thought of my son.

Should he live long enough to be aware of himself?

Would he fear the sun too?

I paused at her side after dumping a palm of berries.

After a moment of thought, I looked into her eyes and told her what I saw the night before, about the sick calf who was cured in the church, about that being that cured it, and that she could have a body that matched the beauty of her soul.

I hoped she would be elated to hear the news, that she would be so excited to go to the church with me that evening and be cured.

She concealed her mouth with her palm once again and ran for the barn.

Her eyes once more filled with tears.

Two days until the festival.

Interesting.

How are you feeling so far?

Yeah, I think I'm just kind of getting into it a bit.

I like the note of like this little girl who has a deformity.

It's like, oh, you could be healed, but it causes her to cry.

There's something disgusting.

Yeah, I mean, there's obviously something that we're not being told yet.

I'm kind of just waiting for more of the story to unravel.

I think the first day starting with a huge mutation and like a fucking baby being eaten and like reborn as a healthy thing is crazy.

Like insane for the guy not for him.

And I understand he has his own baby and stuff, but I'm like...

wondering what else is keeping him there besides that because i feel like that would fucking horrify me i would probably run i i i don't know and then just be like you're sleeping in this barn now we'll see you tomorrow it's like what the fuck else is the going you know what i mean it's just a lot i'm kind of just letting the story unfold and seeing and processing i guess my opinion that then the sun filled the hay loft with fury the previous night felt so far away but after confirming on my phone it was only two hours ago the bed protested as i staggered to my feet my mind immediately went to the girl i hated referring to her as the girl but it hadn't occurred to me to ask for her name The floorboards cracked and popped as I approached the stairs.

My mouth opened to call to her, but ultimately the air was best if left silent.

I descended the stairs with my camera equipment alone.

The morning light intensified to midday after shooting b-roll of the church, barn, and a couple other residential buildings.

As the day aged, I got some shots of the village residents.

A wife rinsed the family laundry in the creek and pinned them to a clothesline.

Her right leg, just a few inches shy of her left, gave her a distinct limp, assisted by a twisted wooden cane.

A husband with a hunch that curled his shoulders inward, posted against his door frame as he popped smoke into the air from his pipe.

A group of five kids in a backyard playing sword fight with sticks scavenged from the tree line, each with their own blemish.

A burn, a scar, a lazy eye, a missing hand, and the last with Down syndrome.

Each person I approached seemed to have some abnormality, and each one recoiled from the camera once they were aware of its presence.

I returned to the bar in the evening, just before the sky shed its blue.

As I climbed the stairs, I heard a scurry of feet from the hayloft.

When I entered the room, it seemed unchanged.

The bucket still resting at the end of its violent journey across the room.

The hay bells remained spilled from the top of the stack and the girl concealed in her usual hiding place.

The only difference from that morning were the berries, a group of berries baked at the ledge of the shattered window.

I took a step or two towards the berries and was met with a hiss behind me.

I turned and caught a glimpse of the girl before she ducked back behind the hay bells.

I assumed it was meant to be a shush that her lips would not allow.

I stuck behind the hay with her.

She was tucked in a ball with her mouth concealed by her knees.

I tried to console her with a touch, but she dodged my hand with a jolt.

I whispered my apologies to her, which was met with another hiss.

The first time her eyes met mine since since the night prior.

A pause opened a chasm between us.

A faint gust of wind blew into the room from the broken window.

Sound whistled past the shards of glass that still held onto the frame and brushed the loose straw against the floor.

The sound was enough to pique the girl's interest.

She darted her head around the bales of hay for a glance at her berries.

They remained unchanged.

She paused at this realization before retreating behind her knees once more.

I offered an apology for offending her and that my intention was not to hurt her feelings at all.

She offered nothing in response.

After a moment of consideration, I fished in my pocket and revealed my wallet.

Flipping open the fold, I removed my family portrait from its plastic sheath, the crease held firm by the pressure of time.

With pens in my lungs, I flipped the white corner to reveal my son.

His form was just as haunting as the first day I saw him.

I turned it so that she could see.

I told her of my son's ailment, that he has looked that way since his birth, that I now see that he can be cured here.

She tapped my son with her pointer finger.

I couldn't gather the meaning by the look in her eye, but I assured her she wasn't wrong to see that he looked like the calf born here on the first day.

She didn't care for that interpretation of her pointing.

This time she circled him and gently placed her finger tip on his chest.

Oh, his name?

His name is Alan.

Hmm.

The word entered my ear like a love lost to time.

A flame kindled inside of me.

My son's name is Alan.

The girl's mouth was still covered by her knees, but I could see the corners of a satisfied grin peeking out.

I asked her what her name was.

She froze and thought for a moment before raising her fist before shaking it up and down at the wrist.

I chuckled at the display.

Thankfully, she joined in the amusement.

Shake?

Punch, maybe?

Knock?

She shrugged, accepting that answer, realizing it was no longer worth the effort.

Another breeze wandered into the room, this time with much more life.

She stopped and quickly peeked around the hay.

Sitting on the windowsill, with a beak full of a berry chunk, was a vibrant cardinal.

Knock revealed her smile at the sight of it.

It was her perfect shot.

I looked back down at the family photo before reintroducing the fold, tucking it into the sleeve of my wallet.

Our cardinal would come soon.

Our perfect shot.

I bet you

the dad or the mom, the dad, like the protagonist or his wife, I feel like is going to be related to the pastor somehow.

Oh, you think so?

I feel that coming a little bit.

I could be wrong.

Interesting.

I think

perhaps it could be a literal relation.

It could also, I kind of suspect the pastor emailing the wife could be a sign of like the wife being involved somehow and not telling the husband.

I also feel like the cardinal is kind of symbolic of like, oh, this is a good opportunity of something laid out for us, but you know, the berries are poison or whatever.

Yeah.

The sun dropped from the sky and with it my time with knock briefly expired.

I offered her my goodbyes, gathered my film and equipment, and left for the church.

The building felt different at night.

The shadows exaggerated the cracks and curves of the weathered construction.

Candlelight flickered through the glass panes and wove over the grass contained in their squares.

Pastor Madison's voice vibrated through the slits in the wood.

This building offered me a taste of hope for the first time in over a year, but now a bitter note has seeped into my palate.

I couldn't place the reason.

Just before entering, I felt a tug at my sleeve.

I turned, a bit more startled than I cared to admit to see Nock, her cleft lip unapologetically visible.

A pleasant sight.

I asked her what she was doing outside of the church.

I told her she didn't have to follow me inside.

It was okay to remain how she is.

Inside, the roar of the congregation extinguished the insects playing their song for the moon.

Knock raised her forearms and crossed them over her chest, then pointed to mine.

I trust you,

she said through a soft but rusty voice.

Together, we crack open the doors of the church.

The bitter flavor was all the more present.

It stood at the altar, altar, its features shift in the midnight snow of its skin.

Nock wrapped her petite fingers around my forearm at the sight of it.

The congregation was brought to silence at our step.

What is this?

Pastor Madison called out beyond the walls of the church.

Each step we took down the aisle brought more detail to the pastor's expression.

Concern, fear, then panic were plastered in his eyes.

Doubt crept into me.

I considered grabbing Nock by the wrist and pulling her from this place, but she was already out of my reach.

Her neck craned to look up at the face of the being now directly above her.

It was noticeably taller than the night before.

The being extended an arm that unnaturally and methodically stretched across the altar to a chalice.

Where's the calf?

Pastor Madison screamed through a trembling throat.

The being extended the chalice to Nock.

One of his fingers dipped inside.

Pastor Madison peered at her.

His face pleaded with her to catch his eye, but she didn't.

She caught mine.

The bitter taste coated my mouth.

The sweet hope was lost.

Tears formed at my lashes, and still, with her eyes locked on to mine, her forearms crossed over her heart and her head turned to the deity.

Her eyes were overcome by a milky white haze and a smile grew on her face.

I shall.

She answered a question that was never spoken.

Pastor Madison rushed out of the church, colliding shoulders with me on his way.

I was choked on the pleads that all wanted to escape my mouth at once.

She took a sip, and the crowd cheered.

I could see in her smile that her bliss intensified.

She hummed a melody that I was sure came to her at that moment.

A melody just the same as the woman singing the cow.

Then the bones snapped.

The spin compressed, and the eyes bulged from their sockets.

All while her hum continued, the congregation began their alien chant.

Alan, the calf, and now Nock shared in living death.

The being grabbed her new form.

Its fingers became spears of speckled shadow, piercing her abdomen and lifting her into the air effortlessly.

The chanting now more rabid and ear-splitting.

I couldn't move.

I couldn't think.

I couldn't even breathe as the being's jaws unhinged with the crackling of falling trees.

Nock's unrecognizable form slid into the bean until the hum was no more.

The crowd's chant again turned silent as they waited for the rebirth.

A girl with two perfectly normal eyes and lips standing upright on the altar.

A girl born anew by pure faith.

A girl that never came.

The being glided off of the altar and into the back room.

The nave was void of all sound.

broken in a moment by the faint cry of a little girl.

Candle flames chewed at the remainder of of their wicks, leaving the wax slain in a puddle at their feet.

The floorboards of the nave rested after their deafening squeals under the weight of the congregation.

The altar left vacant.

Hours passed since I last saw a knock before I found the strength to leave the church building.

Clouds suffocated the moon of its light.

Only lanterns dangling from the porches of family domiciles lit the way back to the hayloft.

The lonely hayloft.

Tears welled at the corners of my eyes i wiped them away with my thumb and whipped the tears poking at the back of my eyes with a stern phrase one more day

so did knock die there that's what i'm not sure of i i think that i mean to an extent you would have to say that she did die and she was reborn healthy but i'm wondering if it's still the same person Like if she still is the same.

I would say that, but it sounds like she's dead because it says it picks her up.

The chanting, more rabid and ear splitting.

It swallows her.

And then it says the crowd's chant turned as they waited for the rebirth.

A girl with two normal eyes and lips.

A girl born by faith.

A girl that never came.

And then it says the being glided off of the altar and into the back room.

The nave was void of all sound in a moment, broken in a moment by the faint cry of a little girl.

It says, candle flames chewed the remainder of their wicks, leaving the wax slain.

Floorboards, the altar left vacant.

Hours passed since I saw a knock and I found the strength to leave the church building.

So I think what happened is it swallowed her and then nothing new happened.

It just killed her.

She disappeared into the void.

And they heard the cry.

The crowd heard a little cry, but that was it.

So congratulations, dude.

You fed a child to this demon ghost thing.

Yeah.

You could also, I guess that makes sense too why the pastor was so freaked out and like ran away as well.

Yeah.

You know what it kind kind of reminds me of a little bit too not to keep comparing it to things but in a way like i'm almost picturing the monster now like the midnight mass vampire where people are going up and they're curing their ailments and stuff but it's like he's just a fucking monster like a guy is a guy is a pastor basically is saying like this thing can heal you it's it's you know he looks evil but it's fine uh but really it's just you know wanting to harvest people's blood and it's like transforming people.

There's just similarities there where I'm like, oh, that's where my mind keeps going to.

Yeah, yeah, I think that sounds right.

Like, uh,

like the pastor knew what was about to happen, but it seems the congregation was dumb to it until it happened, right?

Yeah,

they're waiting for the girl to be born anew, but that is not what happened.

Yeah, it almost makes you seem like everyone's there as well.

Like, all the congregation is there because they maybe have faith that they will be healed one day.

So, maybe they'll see that

everyone he comes across in the town has some deformity.

It's like a goddamn goddamn freak show all around town.

And it's like the pastor is selling people on the idea with animals.

Like calves come forward and are healed.

So all the people in town are like, oh, maybe that can be me next.

Maybe I can be healed like that.

But when a child is actually fed to it, the pastor's like, where's the calf?

What's going to happen?

It just kills them.

Right.

So you have a whole community of people who are waiting on their, what was that?

The story in the Bible?

Oh, the pool of Bethesda.

A pool that an angel would come and dip its swing into the pool, and anyone who stepped into it would be healed, but it's whoever made it to the water first.

So people would just live by the pool of Bethesda, hoping to be the first person to come into the pool.

And here you have a sort of pool of Bethesda, but instead of it being a healing water,

or like whoever gets there first, it is just the promise of the pool.

that has brought all these people in without any, at least as far as we know, without any actual delivery on that promise.

right

after scaling the mountain of stairs to the hayloft i creak open the door to see the all too familiar scene a dreadful mattress nested in iron haybell scattered on the floor the broken window with a pile of fresh berries in the windowsill a figure rested on a haybell

excitement flushed over me in an instant the room was draped in a flickering light casted from the lantern at the hip of pastor madison no side of knock

his hands clasped together beneath his chin His lips moved as if to speak, but no words came from them.

The once pristine white robe draping from his shoulders

is now soured and tattered from dirt, leaves, and thorns.

Although this was my room for another night, I couldn't help the feeling that I was intruding.

I turned to sneak back down the stairs when his voice stopped me.

Her name was Bella.

His words quivered from his lips, but still had an accusatory stab.

I turned to face him.

He pushed against his knees to stand.

I could see his swollen eyes.

With a sniff into the sleeve of his robe, he continued.

I'm not sure you didn't know.

She never spoke to anyone, but she listened.

She always listened, and I believed with full faith that she would listen again.

He paced around me like a shark, his eyes carefully monitoring his next step as he spoke.

My words stopped his encircling.

A snarl curled his lip inward, pressing a moment of rage.

Rage simmered in me as well.

He continued as if he didn't hear me.

I told her to stay away from the church and she listened.

I told her she was beautiful just the way she was and she had all the faith in the world that she was.

He turned and

stepped afoot from me.

His eyes met mine.

The inoffensive facade he wore the moment I met him shattered in the lantern light.

Then you come.

The words bellow from his gut.

He pauses for a moment before continuing.

I told her to stay away from the newcomer and she did.

Till you.

Now she wants to go into the church.

She wants to be changed.

I told her she would.

He looked up to the heavens as if gravity would keep his tear ducks at bay.

Defeated, he sits back on the haybell for a moment.

I told her she would see her brother again.

The words were faint, like the wings of a gnat.

A pause followed, filled only by our breath.

What happened to her?

I insisted with a stern tone.

He eased to his feet, with the lantern in hand.

She lost her faith,

he admitted.

I tracked him as he walked to the top of the stairs.

Keep the faith, Mr.

Dowry.

That is all I ask.

He whispered with a growl in his throat.

Then he and his lantern faded down the stairs, leaving darkness in their wake.

The day of the festival.

So, would you say that

I'm sure it doesn't work.

I've kind of more so believed what I did, that no one gets healed by this thing.

But is the pastor saying there that he told her not to come to the church

because she was supposed to have faith that she was okay, whereas others can be healed by it?

Or

is

what maybe he cared about Belle and he like didn't want her to fall for the facade he was telling everyone else?

Maybe.

Yeah, I don't know.

I think it's still, once again, there's just not enough info.

To me, it almost reads at the end of this paragraph of keep the faith means like trust what I'm saying.

it's because he's like he didn't keep the faith she didn't listen to him and say not to go into church he's like you're perfectly fine the way you are that this that I think that they're

it's worth living this life versus what you're given with this monster or whatever I it could be that faith is an analogy of like trust me you know like you kind of martyr kind of thing or whatever keep the faith in me yeah the morning beat my eyelids open with a blinding ray i begrudgingly stood from the clutch of the rickety mattress.

I looked at the camera gear I stacked in the corner, batteries glowing their solid green eyes as they hang on the sockets of their chargers.

I knew there was still a job to be done, but how could I find a minuscule amount of care?

I started to grow concerned that I wasn't there to film the documentary anyway.

I left the hay loft empty-handed, descended the stairs, and walked.

Circled around the family huts.

Every face I saw wore a smile, and if the children danced or ran through the open grass, a couple of residents even waved hello.

Still, their voices remained a mystery until I heard a woman call out to me, Would you like some tea?

I turned to see the wife with the shortened right leg and twisted cane gesturing into her home.

I debated continuing in my sulk, but I was beginning to feel a bit parched by that time, so I entered.

The interior was just as dilapidated as the outside.

Cobwebs dressed the corners of the single room.

Splinters of sunlight glowed between the decayed wood paneling.

I sat at the table while a kettle dangled by a chain over an open fireplace.

Try to make small talk about the upcoming festival.

Oh, yes, we are so delighted to be going home soon.

Is this not your home?

No.

We've all only been here for about a month.

I guess all of us have, except for you.

I remember when the pastor finally messaged you.

He ruined one of his last good robes in those woods.

My stomach churned.

I tried to warn her that we all have to leave this place, that we are not going to make it out if you're alive if we all do not leave immediately.

Our fate would be the same as Belle's.

The sickening snap of her bones echoed in my mind.

Her lips turned, not in fear or concern like I hoped, but in pity as she tapped her finger against the handle of her cane.

I was real sorry to hear what happened to your girl, but we were all promised a cure, and we have the good faith to get it.

I see.

So the idea is like they each have their role, and they see what happened to the little girl as her stepping out of line, basically.

I see.

Evening rolled in with the heavy tread.

People gathered outside of the barn for the festivities.

Lanterns hung from broken broomsticks and pitchforks stuck into the dirt in the open field by the barn.

The light circled the cluster of people as they danced, laughed, clapped to the tune of a fiddler with a missing foot.

I stood outside the cluster.

My camera equipment was still resting in the hayloft.

There's no perfect shots here.

I watched the tree line.

I contemplated making the trek to my car a thousand times that day to avoid what was sure to be a grisly display.

But every time I look, it feels more like a wall.

Like, there was truly no space between the trees.

We were all ensnared.

A figure approached from the dirt path connecting to the center of the village.

I dreaded the D's approach, but this figure was far too pale.

It was Pastor Madison.

Sight that made my brows sweat even more.

He balanced two trays of identical chalices on top of each other in his hands.

His robe still tattered from the night before.

Now is the time for each of us.

The time to share our flawed reality and be born anew.

Please, grab your cup, everyone.

Okay, so this is I made the Jim Jones jerk.

This is the Jim Jones joke.

This is literally Jim Jones.

This is Jim Jones.

Jim Jones.

This is Jim Jones.

This is drink the Kool-Aid.

Yep.

Pastor Madison called over the crowd.

The facade glued together again behind a pleasant smile.

The group did what they were told, each one grabbing their cup and stepping away from the cluster that formed around Pastor Madison.

Cluster dwindled until there was one cup remaining on the tray.

Pastor Madison caught me in his gaze in an instant.

My spine squirmed within me as he approached, the last cup extended.

Be of good faith for your son.

He whispers through his teeth with the cup extended to my chest.

I take the cup and consider his words for a moment.

Despite what happened to Belle, could this still be the only chance my boy has?

I look.

No, I look absolutely not.

from everything you know do not drink this jim jones i looked down jim jones yeah i looked down into the cup black liquid reflected my image back at me i watched as my face distorted to the ripples drink and you shall be made in the true image

I will say the black liquid is accurate because Jim Jones used grape flavor aid not Kool-Aid flavor aid everyone not Kool-Aid flavor aid not to besmirch the good name of Kool-Aid it was flavor Pastor Madison called over his followers.

One by one, each of them sucked down the black eicher with heart fulls of faith.

A portrait of myself on a dust canvas stared back at me again from within the chalice.

I turned and walked to the well, dumping the cup into its chasm.

Thank God.

Uh-oh.

However, the sound that arose was not that of liquid meeting its likeness or iicher splashing against concrete.

It was a peculiar sound.

I peeked over the cobble wall to investigate.

A pit of despair awaited me.

At the bottom was a pile of the faithless and faithful alike.

A mantle of distorted hooves and fur amassing dozens of corpses.

At the peak of the atrocious pile lied the body of a contorted spine, bulging eyes, and cleft lip.

Skin sucked to the bone, leaving only the shell.

Alright, so is that

the cleft lip?

That's Nock.

Yeah, so Nock's body's at the top of the well.

Yeah, and also it's like all the people, all the miracles that they've, quote-unquote, been doing, I believe, have just been like thrown into this well.

The bodies are thrown into the well.

Yeah, contorted hooves and stuff, and those are the caps and all that kind of shit, too.

False miracles, basically, is what it's false miracles, yeah.

He's a false faith healer, yeah.

I ran for the tree line, rushing past the collection of doomed followers sucking the the last of their poison, a warm melody trickled from the lips of the most eager.

An opener for the thunder of crushing bone.

I gave myself no time to pity them.

The tree line was just meters away and coming fast.

I suppressed the sinking feeling of being trapped there.

Escape was my sole thought, even if I had to smash through an invisible wall.

The space between the trees caved as easily as the rest of the evening breeze I sprinted through.

Realizing that the wall was not constructed by the deity, but my own fear gave me a slight ease.

But the true peace was much farther from this place.

I refused to break stride.

The brangable and thorns tore crimson twine into my flesh.

Their sting went unrecognized as I fixated on the distance.

My lungs burned as they filled with gulps of air.

My legs ached as they shoved the earth behind me.

After what felt like miles, my skin decided to alert me to the damage a thorn bush can do.

I collapsed.

It had to have been 50 minutes.

There had to be a break in the trees just a few more steps away.

My car, and therefore safety, had to be just ahead.

Checked over my shoulder, half expecting the stas the static the status I

is that the word statusy?

I think it's supposed to be staticky, but half expecting the staticky, amorphous apparition to step out from behind a tree and devour me whole.

Instead, it was empty behind the trees.

Only lullabies from the legs of crickets filled the forest.

Resting in front of me was a puddle left undisturbed by my frantic presence.

In my exhausted state, the sight of water was a blessing.

I take handfuls of water and splash it into my face.

Reinvigorating coolness eased my body and steadied my mind.

The drink was tempting, but the murky dirt swaying in the current of my creation muted this temptation.

When the dirt settled and the water stilled, the remaining light of a gruesome day sculpted my reflection.

The reflection I'd seen all my life seemed special on that day.

I fished in my pocket and pulled my wallet from its depths, pulled our family portrait from its plastic sheath, my wife and I, feigning joy over a pale white void.

Carefully I unfolded the picture, banishing the void to the unseen and introducing Alan to the picture.

The one a few times he could be seen in the photo since it had been taken.

My journey home continued with a rejuvenated vigor.

No longer was I just running away from the horrors of the village, but to my family.

The thought of returning to them brought me a joy I hadn't felt in some time.

The air felt lighter, the insects more pleasant, and the trees more beautiful.

After only a few minutes of walking, the forest released me.

My car remained unchanged from the moment I left it.

Home felt like a short drive away.

I fished for my keys in my pocket when I noticed something on the other side of my car.

I crept around my vehicle and was left appalled by what lay before me:

Elaine's car.

Oh, no.

You stupid bitch.

Oh,

no.

Oh, I was...

Oh, no.

Oh, gosh.

It was.

I thought we were ending right there.

I thought that was like going to be the final note.

It was going to be like a happy, wholesome.

If it ended right there, I'd be like, that's so fucking stupid, dude.

I'm glad.

Let's keep the ball rolling here.

Well, I thought it'd be like, I didn't think it'd end on that line.

I thought it'd be like his desperation to avoid what his child is led to him sacrificing another child almost to test if it worked, right?

Right.

And he'd have to live with that guilt and that selfishness that overcame him, but he learned it was wrong, right?

But now it looks like that.

You should have done that before you left to go to the cult because now you've imprinted that on your wife.

And now she's here with the child.

Yo, Rip Nock, by the way.

Yeah, Rip Knock.

Rip Young Knock.

Especially Knock saying, I trust you.

Fuck.

Yep.

And then getting just eviscerated by the entity.

And then her body thrown, like, sucked dry and thrown on top of

animals.

Yeah.

Poor thing.

And like, she had

that kindness where she was like, I believe, or whatever she said to the entity before it ripped her to pieces.

Poor thing.

The wall I thought was only in my mind was finally in front of me, and I had to turn back.

The limbs of the forest tried to enstare me.

Their claws and spears tore the crimson threads of my skin into leaking ropes.

The puddle captured a shoe from my foot, causing me to stumble but not fall.

I pushed forward with no thought of retrieving it.

The twigs and pebbles that made the forest carpet prodded at my bare sole with each stride.

Night blanketed the woods, making avoiding their painful afflictions futile.

The burn in my lungs returned.

Sweat arose on my brow.

I had to be almost there.

What if in my haste I got turned around?

What if that thing is keeping me in these woods?

Just as quickly as the doubts arose, they were silenced.

An eye appeared in the woods speckled with age-worn structures, the occupants of which were nowhere to be seen.

Evidence of their festival was scattered in the field by the well.

A handful of cups laid forgotten in the moonlight grass, their contents sipped dry.

A pair of pants no longer suited for the contorted figure that came to inhabit them.

A twisted wooden cane from the woman whose ailments now surpassed its use.

The church emitted the flicker of candlelight that had to be where everyone was.

I rushed through as quickly as my exhausted muscles could take me.

The candle flames clung to the last flicker of life as they gnawed at the remaining nubs of wick.

The puddle of wax escaped the clutches of the candle bras, candela bras, ordaining the windows.

The moon hid from this night, leaving the stained glass windows dull and lifeless.

Pastor Madison stood at the podium, silent, his eyes not leaving the vacant wood canvas between his clinched hands.

Before him was a line of followers filled with the hopes of his teaching.

Their bones shifted and snapped out of their sockets, their spines craned out of alignment.

Their eyes were so filled with promise that they now bulged from their skulls.

Their legs were twigs containing barely reaching the threshold of strength needed to stand.

Their protruding knees wobbled under their weight.

At the end of the line was Elaine, holding Alan on her hip.

Her presence in such a place made me ill.

I wasted no time in my warnings.

I told her what happened, about the cattle with our son's afflictions, about the deity that claims to cure it, about Belle and the well that houses her corpse.

I spoke in such frantic desperation that I must have seemed mad.

I studied her face during an insufferably long pause.

Her eyes were wild with astonishment.

Everyone here looks like Alan,

she whispered with confused amazement.

Yes, and we have to leave,

I said as I turned her to the exit.

Her eyes were stuck to the crowd of disfigured people.

Panic burned in my gut while attempting in vain to pry her away from the spectacle, attempting to pry her eyes from the spectacle.

I could feel her stare beginning to break when I could hear a creak come from the altar.

The back door was open.

Its presentation of the darkness swallowing the room beyond was a call for Pastor Madison Madison to begin his speech.

His eyes and spirit remained low.

Tonight is a night of promise, a night of rebirth.

As you approach, please do not allow fear to overcome you.

As the pastor spoke, the deity unfolded from the darkness of the back room.

Its impersonation of the human form twisted its arms into their sockets, shoulders rolled into their presentable positions, spine stiffening into posture with care for each joint sending its head to the ceiling.

The being slid into position in front of the line like fog.

The newly deformed congregation marveled at the figure as if it were God returning to ail their troubles.

I pleaded with Elaine to take our son and leave with me.

She was in awe of the sight before her.

May you have faith,

Pastor Madison muttered.

With that statement, the being lifted the first victim in line with the ease of a father lifting his infant.

The woman and the being's clutch hummed a melody through grinning teeth, a smile of comfort and anticipation.

Despite her newly acquired form, her original affliction was still apparent.

Her right leg was noticeably shorter than the other.

The deity's jaw unhinged to accommodate the unsightly collection of skin and bone.

I turned to practically shove Elaine out of the church door when I felt it.

A flame kindled from within me.

The warmth cleansed the fear and horror from my bones.

Every ounce of displeasure knotted within my soul vanished in an instant.

I could feel the world correcting deep within myself when I heard from behind me the shrill glee of a promise kept.

I turned to face the altar.

The candle flames were rejuvenated.

Their swaying light filled the once overpowering darkness.

The kind woman, that was just moments ago a broken collection of limbs, stood at the side of the deity and danced.

Her feet playing a song on the drums of the floorboards.

Her joy was uncontainable.

Such a palpable and infectious joy that I had only seen in children before.

Tears slid down her face, lining the edges of her grin.

She is reborn with two legs of equal length.

The sight was unbelievable.

Moments ago, I was ready to leave this place, convinced that its spewed only lies and deceit.

But in that moment...

The truth bestowed itself unto me.

One by one, each person was taken into the embrace of the deity and consumed.

And each one walked out from behind its static form anew.

Warped limbs were straightened, amputations were undone, disorders were made orderly.

The church was buzzing with laughter and song.

My eyes never wandered from the festivities.

My cheeks grew sore from smiling.

The powers beyond this realm offered themselves to us as correctors, a divine eraser taking away the unjust and unfair afflictions of our world.

And I was honored to be one of the first to witness such a great cleanse.

The last member to be reborn walked out from behind the deity and to the celebration.

He was a boy, no older than Bell.

The scar that once carved through his hair and down to his neck was no longer.

The only evidence of his existence sat in our memory.

They were all cured.

Each one believed in the promise they were told, and each one rewarded with a new life.

The manifestation manifestation of death was conquered in minutes by this

angel.

An angel stood at the altar.

An angel promised a better life for all of us.

An angel now stared right at me.

The unification of our gaze brought a deep feeling of honor to me.

I knew what it wanted, and I wanted the same.

I turned to Elaine who cradled Alan in her arms.

He was sleeping, unaware of the miracles being performed around him.

His eyelids failed to conceal the entire pale cornea of his eyes.

His neck bent backwards with its usual violence.

I could see the veins running through his needle-thin arms, raising the crimson waters over the bone hills of his elbows.

Mist filled my eyes as I looked over him.

I was proud of him.

I was proud of who he was.

What he had lived with.

I looked up at Elaine.

Her expression said what we both knew.

She extended Alan to me with grace.

The broken cocoon that housed our son was ready to be shed.

The candlelight felt even brighter when I took Alan into my arms.

I took precaution to not jar him as I transitioned between steps.

The aisle stretched for miles.

The festivity ceased.

The newborn congregation watched my son with warm smiles, ready to accept him in his new form.

They began their chant in a soft, caring whisper.

The foreign language had a gentle touch to the ear.

Listening to their chants, I knew it must have been the language of heaven.

The fact hit me like the warmth of a summer sun.

The deity stood just feet away from us.

Its eye divots remained steady under the waves of its features.

They stayed focused on us as we approached.

The closer we came, the more its human form muddled at the border, like the container was cracking to the pressure.

It may have been a trick of the eye from the candlelight, but the constant folding of its features appeared to mold a smile.

I stood before it, feeling unworthy of its presence.

The smell of sweet fruit enveloped my nostrils.

My neck strained to meet its crater eyes.

The jostling void on its head molded the bare minimum to be considered a human-looking face.

Yet, the bare minimum was the most beautiful face I had ever seen.

My cheeks went from a sore pain to a numb acceptance of the smile I had been wearing.

It was as if love and joy manifested in front of me in the form of pure beauty.

A song came to me in my bliss.

I mean that the tune was as natural as breathing.

I knew I had never heard such a melancholic melody before, except maybe once, from Belle.

It felt comforting that her song would come to me at that moment, that in some way she would be redeemed by my faith, by my son's faith.

The deity looking down at me with the loving eyes of a father, reached toward Pastor Madison.

Its arms was as long as the task required.

I watched it elongate to bridge the divide between it and the chalice in the pastor's hands.

With the ease of wind, it brought the chalice to my chest.

One of its spear fingers pierced the surface of the water within.

The black of the finger dissipated into the water, transforming it in the image of the angel.

A serving to the impure, an offering to the unworthy.

In its dim reflection, I watched the face of the being, unaltered as, for the first time, it graced me with its words.

It was the sound of choirs harmonizing across language.

It was the birds serenading the worms from the earth.

It was all of creation offering their gratitude, and the creator giving their blessing.

It was all things.

It was nothing ever heard before.

The fire of happiness licked just beneath my skin, blackening my insides.

The world beyond that chalice vanished.

Nothing had any matter or consequence once I heard its words.

All I wanted to do was obey its every command.

I wanted to devote everything I was to it.

I took the chalice.

It was ice to the touch, as if it was pulled from the depths of the arctic before being placed in my hand.

The candle flames were white in color.

The gold cuff glistened against their glow.

The chants from the congregation boiled into a synchronous shout.

Their passion warmed me further.

It fueled my desire to worship and obey.

I shall

My acceptance invited my God's hand.

Palm to the heavens and pointed fingertips rested delicately in a row.

My son was still resting on my hip.

His poor body crumpled at my side, resting the beautiful soul buried within.

The hand of God beckoned for him.

Offered to mold the body in the image of the soul.

I handed my son to him.

The hand grew to accommodate his petite frame.

My son now in its possession, my destiny hide within a cup.

God's fingers wrapped around Alan.

A cup filled with the iger of his being.

A cup filled with the ego of his blessing, filled with a life void of imperfections.

The hand raised my son to the ceiling, to eye level.

My lips pursed around the rim of the cup, warming the frozen rim.

I opened my eyes to watch the iker roll to my lips.

The divine chants boomed from the crowd.

God's jaws opened to the size of my son.

I met myself at the rim of the chalice.

The iker was still in that moment.

Plastered on its surface was a shot as imperfect as a shot could be.

The hair under my nose grew like the thorns of a bramble bush.

Tears had been leaking from my eyes without my knowledge.

Eyes that saw the truth once and allowed it to muddy before them, muddied in a milky haze, the eyes of Belle.

In an instant, the burning white candles became their dying selves once more.

The sweet smell of fruit turned to a suffocating, damp rot, and the god I had just offered my son to turned to the monster I knew it to be.

Without hesitation, I splashed the bean with the eicher of my cup.

The liquid kicked steam into the air at contact with the bean's flesh.

A screech that pierced my eardrums cut from the depths of the creature before its black form receded to a shadow on the floor and darted into the back room.

My son plummeted from the ceiling.

I dashed at him in a panic, stretching my arms out to save him from the harsh wood below.

Bud.

The sound silenced the room.

Even flames of the candle ceased their flickering.

Only my breath could be heard.

I could feel a heavy weight in my arms, his weight.

Alan was safe.

I held him close to my chest, thankful for his safety.

Elaine ran to us and wrapped us both in an embrace, truly together for the first time.

A scream only born of pure anguish broke through the air.

Pastor Madison rushed to a figure sprawled onto the floor where the being once stood.

Pastor fell to his knees and scooped the figure into his grasp.

It was a boy.

At one point, it was a boy.

A boy no older than two, judging by the tiny, severely decayed body.

Patches of bone poked through the rotted flesh at his chin, brow, and forehead.

An arm was snapped from its body on collision.

The clothes tattered over the boy were stained the color of liquefied death, yet the pastor mourned him as though his death was fresh, stroking the remaining hairs that clung to its scalp, watching them fall into his palm, a father in need of a son, holding the body in need of a soul.

I took Elaine by the hand and Alan on my hip and walked down the middle aisle to the exit.

You took my daughter.

Now you bring my son to me.

That's my boy, that disgusting body.

His soul belongs to my boy!

The pastor shouted through the sorrow in his throat.

His final plea to an empty church.

His congregation undoubtedly shriveled at the bottom of the well.

His faith finally lost.

Two weeks after the festival.

Interesting.

Oh, final paragraph.

Okay.

The moon ushered in another day.

I gave Elaine a kiss and offered to take Alan to bed so she could rest after her first shift back at the hospital.

I took Alan up the stairs, listening to their joyous creaks.

He was as beautiful as he had always been.

I was grateful every night that I could see it.

He was a little fussy still, so I decided to calm him with the story.

However, before I could rifle through the books on his shelf, I no longer heard him.

The fussing required more energy than he had in his little body, and he rested.

His chest delicately pulsed.

I could hear the slight hiss of air passing through his nose.

I placed my hand on the crown of his head.

I rubbed his forehead with my thumbs.

As I eased him into a comfortable sleeve, I heard a tune.

A familiar tune sung in the chirps of a bird.

Standing in the windowsill was the vocalist singing his haunting song.

A vibrant cardinal pecking at the berries that were never there.

That is the end of Berries in the Window.

Berries in the window.

I

I had fun with it.

What did you think of it?

You know, I think I like the emotional tie-in of a father.

I like the concept of a dad who is,

in a way, not inadvertently saying this, but ashamed of his son.

I think he is unable to process the fact that his son is disabled

and basically not how he sees fit.

So he goes on a selfish crusade.

Well, he gets a a job and it leads to a selfish crusade of him being like, well, my son can be normal versus accepting him for who he is and the nice tie-in at the end that he has that.

I think in some places it felt a bit rushed.

Like, I just kind of, I just wish there was more to things.

Like, even just some of the stuff of like, how did the pastor even know about the kid?

Or like, I would assume, so my idea was that he was like, my son needs a body.

And that whole thing, like, all the ultrasounds looked fine for Alan until he was born.

The pastor did some kind of ritual or some kind of promise that that child would one day be delivered to him.

It was effectively a vessel for his son's soul to take over.

I see.

Well,

more of the story is I felt like,

I don't know, it felt like time passed by kind of quickly.

I kind of wanted to sink more

just more teeth into stuff.

Like we kind of, we only get to talk to one of the other people there and she's just like, yep, we're going home.

So like it just,

I wish we could have built up this scenario a bit more.

I guess the world around this area and the, and the pastor a bit more.

But all in all, like I said, I mean, I, I enjoy it.

It has that kind of midnight mass vibe of a creature offering salvation in a fun way.

And I do think that it's interesting the idea.

I always love faith as a concept for a story and having faith in yourself and having faith in your child at the end, I think, is a really fun conclusion.

Like, I like the character arc there that the dad had.

But all in all, like I said, with a lot of these things, too, it happens.

And also, just to keep in mind, Kevin Jones, I think he has two stories.

Yeah.

This being one of his first two stories is this is the first story.

It's pretty fucking awesome.

And I think as time goes, there'll be more of those instinctive,

you know, and I think the

you, like very flowery, like very, very flowery, very, like, everything almost felt poetic, you know,

with how he was describing things.

And I think just a bit more, like, I would have loved to hear more and have that realization that it's like, because I do like that, I like the bit of, yeah, like we're, we have only been here a month.

Yeah, he messaged you a month ago.

And it's like, they're not villagers.

They're people that just kind of showed up and are looking for a cure themselves.

I think kind of trying to stretch that out would have been nice.

But once again, these are all just subjective thoughts and stuff.

I think all in all, I really enjoyed the, I enjoyed the piece.

I also am just a huge sucker for like cult, weird religious shit.

That's just like a flavor I always enjoy.

I like the character.

Like, yes, it was very Jim Jones, at least look inspired in the Kool-Aid and stuff like that.

But I do think it's interesting how, to a degree, because it never mentioned all the people in the congregation dying, it sounds like it worked.

for everyone else, right?

Oh, I thought that was like this hole and left.

I thought that it was like a, well, I don't know.

That's the kind of thing, too, is that some of the moments in the screen reading it which it could be me just being a bit of an airhead but i found that it was kind of hard to keep up with what was kind of happening because also at the end it's like yeah they're getting healed and it's like oh this is working and then you have this moment of him being one over um and then he kind of just was like well then i see it for its true form to me it almost felt like it was it was giving it was like putting on a show But really all the people were dead in the well.

Like the reality is still there that the girl is still down there and the congregation.

But I don't know if that's true.

That's true, yeah.

But that could very well be true.

Because that's the whole thing, too, is it seems like the pastor is selling

is selling everybody on this false promise.

And also, there's the fun mirroring of like the pastor and his family, of the pastor had the same thing of he is now basically trying to find a way to

like have the souls for his son, you know?

Like, it's a very selfish response of like what the pastor wants for his kid versus what

our protagonist wants for Alan and like his boy.

So you kind of, you kind of get the healthier relationship that Alan's, you know, Alan had his ending of just being accepted and his dad's going to love him now.

He kind of has like, he actually looks at him like a son versus the pastor looks at him like a dead child and now it's like a demon that needs to have souls and shit.

The parallel there is really fun.

But all in all, it's pretty good.

I also like the detail of like, so the pastor had this congregation and he had two kids.

He had Belle and um

uh his son and then it's like one of the sons dies so he does whatever this is to get another one and at that scene where our rider brings bell into the congregation the pastor knows what's going to happen but he can't let the guys up because he can't tip off our rider because then our rider won't end up bringing his son or he'll leave beforehand or something uh and he also can't let the congregation know so he just has to leave the room and be angry about it because our writer is still the only hope he has at getting his son new body, right?

So it puts him in an interesting position.

So that's an interesting characterization.

I like, like, for as short as it was, for what I did, yes, I agreed it could be longer in some parts.

But for what it did, I like how it pulled it off.

I really like that whole segment where it's his description of what the quote-unquote angel looks like and how beautiful it is, only to then see through the guys and see it for the demon that it is.

Yeah.

That was a cool note.

And I think when I say longer, I guess I just mean more clarification on things, more of like a setup of enveloping.

I wanted to be more enveloped in this small town and stuff.

Like there's so many great

starts off by like just this church that's just kind of like faceless church and this like kind of almost like Resident Edent Evil.

The mention of a church without a cross is a fun.

That's a fun.

Yeah, just kind of like just the size of the, like a, I mean, just essentially a barn, a decorated barn is what it is.

And, you know, I was kind of picturing the place as this Resident Evil 4 4 kind of village of just like weird freaks walking around and stuff.

And I think just getting to know them, because I think the highlight of the story is Nock.

I love that character.

Knock was very cool.

And I think getting to experience more with her and just understanding more of the intention.

And I think it's just more so as well because I just feel a little lost on.

Like it was, it was pieced together in such a way where I understand the gist of it, but I wanted, I think I just want to make sure.

I wish I would have like left this story feeling like I had my head wrapped around all of it and I wasn't just so like, well,

is that what

was happening here or whatever else?

But once again, just subjective, just, you know, me, just for the food of thought of the criticism or whatever.

I just, that's.

I think a seven and a half

out of 10 is a good ranking.

Seven and a half or eight out of 10.

Yeah, I think that's about right.

All in all, though, once again, for second story, I mean, I love that

this was wrote this year,

that this is something that, like, I love that these horror stories are continuously being written.

I love that.

And I love that someone just put their, you know, creativity and who knows, you know, I mean, I don't, you know, we don't know Kevin Jones, but there could be some emblance of like, maybe some kind of personal story in there, you know, like personal aspect of this and exaggerated to fit a horror story.

Maybe he went to Jim Jones cult in the middle of the woods, you know, better.

You know, it was kind of weird is my buddy was really religious when I was growing up, and his brother had a mental disability.

And I remember the dad always taking him to church and like having people pray for him.

It was just kind of very, it was just creepy in a way where it was like, heal this boy.

And I'm like, he's going to be like that.

That's just who he is.

You know what I mean?

So just so that we're like, you just never know.

how people are, you know, what kind of experiences people had.

But all in all, I love the flavor of this story and just the visuals.

So I remember there was near where

I grew up, there was this story of this family who like their daughter who was like nine or ten.

This is like back in the 80s.

She had appendicitis and her appendix ruptured and they wouldn't take her to a hospital.

They just had like a bunch of pastors come pray over her and stuff and she died.

Oh man, that's scary.

I had appendicitis.

I mean, I can't even imagine.

It's serious.

Yeah, you got to get that taken care of quick.

It's so painful.

And then you just kind of black out whenever it's, I mean, it's, it's fucked.

So that, that's just horrifying.

Just the, the, the, the weird.

They did they did for everyone the parents did go to jail it was a huge case they did go to jail so it's not like i'm totally lost but that ends in a somewhat happy ending a little bit at least a little bit of justice but yeah no i i i always love religion as a theme uh especially i think that's why i know i get memed on a lot but like love crafty and stuff and things of of religions and and ideas and and followers from uh unknown places and you know it's always just so fun that's also why i love that movie the wickerman where it's you have these pagan things of religions that are older than humans, you know, they're mandated back to born from the earth, coming from the earth kind of stuff.

And

stories like this just kind of tickle that bone a bit, and I think it's fun, especially whenever they almost disguise themselves as

you know, worldly religions like Christianity or something.

They use that guise to get people, lure people in like a Venus fly trap almost to catch them.

So really, really fun.

But yeah, no, Kevin Jones, fuck yeah, bro.

We appreciate you.

We'll put his Twitter as well, just because he has a ton of stuff.

Yeah, we'll throw a Twitter down there.

Yeah, we'll throw this Twitter down there and we'll just give him a follow and check out his other work.

Hopefully, maybe in the future, we'll read it as well.

But, Kevin, good job, buddy.

And once again, this is just proof too that this, you know, creepypastas are still alive, baby.

You know, right, right.

Okay, again, still going strong.

We're going to be doing this for years.

Stay your sucker.

Sure.

Yeah, we'll see.

We'll definitely see.

But

you know for a fact you're not turning down this paycheck.

Well, maybe not.

That's what I thought.

Guys, this is Barry's in the window.

Thank you so much.

Also, we didn't say at the beginning of this episode, but please consider listening to this podcast on Spotify or Apple Podcasts.

It really does help us out, give us a nice positive rating there.

We have to beat Ben Shapiro into the dirt.

We have to.

We have to do it.

And just thank you guys so much again for the support.

This year has been insane.

And I hope you enjoy your holidays.

Stay safe out there.

Safe travels to everyone.

And we will catch you you in the next one.

See you all in the next one.

And don't give your children to weird angel demon things unless you really want to, I guess.

Bye.