Chapter 1 #2
Was that an omen?
I walked through the empty dark studio, the fake ferns casting strange shadows in the dimness.
My hands were shaking. I’d never met a Satanist. Everything I knew about them came from Daddy’s sermons and Christian horror movies.
I imagined black robes and blood sacrifices.
Pentagrams and orgies. The man in the video had looked normal, almost gentle.
That made it worse somehow, like he was the Devil in disguise.
I pushed through the back door into the humid night. The air outside was thick with honeysuckle and the faint tang of car exhaust from the highway beyond the trees. Crickets sang in the dark, a sound that should’ve felt comforting but only made the world seem wider, lonelier.
My truck sat by itself under the streetlight, Daddy’s Cadillac gleaming beside it. I stood there for a long moment, gripping the handle of my guitar case, staring at the halo of bugs swirling in the light.
Was this really God’s plan for me?
The thought felt dangerous, like a spark in dry grass. I smothered it quickly. Doubt was the Devil’s first foothold.
Still, when I finally slid behind the wheel, my stomach twisted with something I couldn’t name—fear, maybe, or guilt for not feeling the kind of zeal Daddy said was holy. I rested my hands on the steering wheel and whispered, “Lord, help me be strong.”
The words hung in the cab like smoke. I turned the key, and the old truck rumbled to life. Tomorrow would bring preparations, but for now, the road home stretched dark and endless ahead of me.
* * *
The night before I was set to leave for Richmond, Daddy and I drove over to the Wiggins’ house for supper.
Lorraine Wiggins lived two streets over from the church in a white clapboard house trimmed in blue, every window glowing warm behind lace curtains.
The porch light cast soft halos on the geraniums hanging from the eaves, and a hand-painted wooden sign by the door read As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.
Inside, the air smelled of cornbread and fried chicken.
Lorraine met us in the doorway, her face already shiny with the heat of the kitchen.
Her gray-streaked hair was piled high in a bun, not a strand out of place.
She wore a pale lavender blouse buttoned to the throat and a long denim skirt that brushed the tops of her sensible shoes.
“Reverend Tanner! Brother Jimmy!” she said, pressing her palms together. “We’re so blessed to have y’all join us tonight.”
Behind her stood her daughter, Sheila. I hadn’t seen her in months.
She looked almost exactly like her mother—slender, modest, with her light brown hair pulled up the same way, no makeup, no jewelry but a small gold cross around her neck.
Her dress was the color of buttercream, with sleeves to the wrist and a hem that nearly touched her ankles.
“Good to see you, Sheila,” I said.
She smiled shyly. “You too, Jimmy. It’s been a while.”
We gathered around the table, which was set with Lorraine’s best china—tiny pink roses on every plate—and a pitcher of sweet tea beading with condensation. Daddy took his usual place at the head of the table, and the women sat opposite each other. I took the seat beside Sheila.
Daddy bowed his head. “Let’s pray.”
Lorraine and Sheila clasped hands across the table. I bowed my head too, eyes fixed on the folded napkin in my lap as Daddy’s voice filled the room—steady, sure, the same voice that had moved thousands of people to tears.
“Lord, we thank You for this good food and for the fellowship of Your faithful servants. Bless the hands that prepared this meal and bless Jimmy as he sets out to do Your work among the lost. Keep him pure of heart and strong in faith, for he walks into the very mouth of darkness.”
Lorraine gasped softly. “Oh, Reverend, you mean the mission you mentioned earlier?”
Daddy nodded solemnly, his eyes shining with pride. “Yes, ma’am. My boy’s heading up to Richmond to expose the Satanic Temple for what it truly is—an enemy of God hiding in plain sight.”
Sheila’s hand fluttered to her chest. “Oh, my goodness.”
Lorraine looked from Daddy to me, eyes wide with alarm. “You mean he’ll be around those… those people?”
Daddy smiled reassuringly. “The Lord’s already claimed victory, Sister Wiggins. Jimmy will walk through the Devil’s den and come out unscathed.”
Their faces glowed with admiration, and I wished the floor would swallow me whole. I picked at my cornbread, suddenly not hungry.
“You’re very brave, Jimmy,” Sheila breathed. Her voice was light and reverent, the way people talk when they’re standing in church. “I’ll be praying for you every night.”
I managed a nod. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Her eyes lingered on me, warm and worshipful, and my stomach turned. She was lovely in her own way—gentle, pure, everything Daddy said a woman should be.
Lorraine dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “You know, Reverend,” she said sweetly, “perhaps when Jimmy returns, he and Sheila might spend a little time together. The Lord’s work is important, but even Paul took comfort among the faithful, didn’t he?”
Daddy chuckled, pleased. “That’s true, Sister Wiggins. Maybe the Lord will bless him with a godly woman in His own time.”
My face burned. “Daddy, I—”
He turned to me, expectant. “What is it, son?”
I froze. My mind went blank, and before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out: “Just nervous, I guess. About meeting those demon worshippers.”
Lorraine reached across the table and patted my hand. Her fingers were warm and dry as parchment. “Bless your heart, Jimmy. You just pray to Jesus for strength, and He’ll be by your side the whole time.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.
Sheila smiled, eyes shining with admiration. “The Lord’s sending you into the battle, Jimmy. He must think you’re very special.”
I tried to smile back, but my throat tightened. The praise felt heavier than the calling itself.
Dinner went on, talk of casseroles, and prayer circles filling the space where my silence sat. I chewed the food without tasting it, my mind caught between guilt and dread.
Later, as we stood on the porch saying our goodbyes, Lorraine took my hand in both of hers. “You be careful, you hear? The Devil’s cunning.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said again, and her grip lingered too long.
As Daddy and I walked down the steps to the car, cicadas shrilling in the trees, I glanced back at Sheila framed in the porch light, her eyes still fixed on me like I was something holy.
I turned away quickly, swallowing hard.
What would she think—what would any of them think—if they ever saw the truth inside me?