Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Julian
Icame for the story.
This was the assignment. And if I did it right, it’d be the podcast episode that blew up on all the platforms—clicks, shares, think pieces, angry DMs from crystal aunties. The works.
“Inside the Mind of a Modern-Day Prophet,” or some shit like that.
Jude Brooks was the bait. Viral faith healer. Local legend. Alleged miracle worker with a suspiciously symmetrical face. Too soft-spoken. Too polished. And definitely hiding something.
I’d agreed to come to this ritual because he invited me, and I knew an excellent opportunity when it sparkled in front of me barefoot and glowing.
I said yes without hesitation. Of course I wanted in.
This was the heart of it—whatever performance he was selling, this moonlit circle was where it played best.
The Healing Center’s back lawn looked like a Coachella-sponsored séance.
Fire was crackling in a ring of mismatched stones.
Lawn chairs and meditation cushions in a loose circle.
People dressed in linen and fringe, some with flower crowns, others in layers of gauzy fabric like they’d just emerged from a spiritual chrysalis at Burning Man.
And the smells.
God, the smells.
Lavender. Cedar. Something that might’ve been eucalyptus or a Yankee Candle crime scene. I was high on secondhand incense and probably low-key allergic to whatever was burning in the weird carved bowl near the altar stone.
I kept my phone tucked in my jacket pocket, mic off for now, but mentally recording every detail. This wasn’t a ritual. It was a goddamn production.
Someone was already playing a hang drum. A woman was singing softly, cradling a jar of salt like it was her emotional support item.
And in the center of it all?
Jude.
Holding a bowl over his head, standing barefoot in the grass like some kind of pagan Disney prince. His eyes were closed, his lips moving in what I could only assume were blessings or exceptionally tasteful slam poetry.
I watched him from the edge of the tree line, arms crossed, trying very hard not to burst out laughing.
I mean—what the hell was this?
A man had a tunic, and I swear to God it was made from recycled upholstery. Someone nearby was whispering to a piece of driftwood. A woman handed Jude a rock shaped like a penis and claimed it vibrated with “masculine energy,” and no one, not a single person, laughed.
How?
How did none of them see it?
Snake oil. Groupthink. Theatrics with sensational lighting.
But even as I stood there mentally tearing it all apart, cataloguing the woo-woo madness for future ridicule, I couldn’t stop watching him.
Jude didn’t look like a con man. He looked peaceful. Magnetic. Grounded. He smiled at people as if he knew them. Like he actually saw them.
And when his eyes landed on me…
Everything tilted.
He didn’t look surprised to see me. Just… amused, and a little pleased. Like I’d shown up to a party he’d been half-sure I’d flake on.
I smirked, and then—God help me—I snorted.
I hadn’t meant to. But someone had just declared the moon was in Libra and Uranus was retrograde, and it hit me wrong. I covered it quickly with a cough, but a few people turned to glare at me like I’d farted on a vision board.
Jude didn’t glare. He just smiled. Real soft. Real slow. Like he was in on the joke and still believed in it, anyway.
And that messed me up more than I wanted to admit.
I was here to expose this man. To shine a light on whatever trickery he was pulling beneath the rose petals and ritual chants.
But standing there in the firelight, watching him move like the forest breathed through him… I didn’t see a fraud.
I saw someone I wanted to understand.
And that was a problem.
Because the last thing I needed was to fall under the spell I came to break.
Someone named Windwalker was mid-monologue about letting go of earthly attachments when a voice cut across the circle. Deep. Rough. Like someone had swallowed gravel and was still chewing.
“My name is Doug. It’s my first time here, and I need healing.”
The drumming slowed. The whispers died. Even Windwalker, who I was pretty sure had been working up to a spontaneous interpretive dance, froze with his arms half-raised like a confused bird.
Everyone turned.
The man who’d spoken was sitting cross-legged on a faded red blanket. Probably mid-fifties. Weathered face. Plaid shirt. The only person here who looked like he’d ever willingly stepped foot inside a Home Depot.
Doug looked up. Eyes red-rimmed but clear. Not high. Not drunk. Just… broken.
“My wife,” he said, swallowing hard, “died last fall. Breast cancer. It was fast. And brutal. She was the strong one, and I—I just watched her go.”
His voice caught. No one said a word.
“I came here because I don’t know how to move on,” he continued, eyes fixed on the fire.
“I’m angry. At her, myself, the doctors, and God.
I’ve been angry for a year. I don’t sleep or smile.
And I don’t believe in any of this.” He gestured vaguely at the fire, the crystals, the headbands.
“But I’ll do anything to stop feeling like this.
I’m tired. And I want to feel something other than… hollow.”
Silence.
A silence so thick it felt like the trees were holding their breath.
And just like that, the whole vibe shifted. The playful weirdness, the comedy of astrology and penis rocks—it all dropped away.
This wasn’t just a scene anymore.
This was real.
I watched Jude closely.
He didn’t move quickly. He didn’t put on a show. Jude just stepped forward, barefoot and calm, and knelt in front of Doug like they were the only two people on the planet.
“Thank you,” Jude said softly. “For your honesty. That’s where healing begins.”
Doug looked down, embarrassed.
Jude reached out, palms up, and waited. No pressure. Just presence.
Doug hesitated, then placed his calloused hands into Jude’s.
And then, with the fire casting long golden shadows, the healing began.
I was already drafting a voiceover for the podcast in my head: “What followed was a ritualistic display involving flowers, saltwater, and approximately three hundred percent more chanting than necessary…”
But that’s not what happened.
Jude didn’t wave incense around or speak in tongues. He didn’t summon moon spirits or vibrate anyone’s chakras.
He just breathed.
Long, steady inhales. Gentle exhales. Like he was anchoring the moment to something deeper.
Jude didn’t rush. He reached for a bowl resting at the edge of the firelight—rough pottery, handmade, filled with crushed herbs and dried flower petals. He passed it under Doug’s nose gently.
“Lavender,” Jude said, his voice soft but sure. “For peace.”
Doug closed his eyes, breathing it in. His shoulders hitched with the first inhale, then slowly dropped.
Jude moved to the altar—a flat stone slab topped with candles, a feather, something that looked like river clay, and a small jug of water.
He dipped his fingers into the water and turned back. “May I?”
Doug nodded.
With careful hands, Jude painted a single line of water down Doug’s forehead. Then his chest and his palms.
“This is where you hold it,” Jude said, still soft. “The grief. The guilt. Let’s bring it forward so it doesn’t have to hide.”
Doug’s chin quivered.
Jude crouched lower, their eyes level.
“I want you to say her name.”
Doug’s mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. He blinked rapidly, swallowing hard.
“Linda,” he whispered finally.
Jude nodded. “Again.”
“Linda.”
A third time. Stronger now. “Linda.”
Jude guided Doug’s hands to hover just above his chest. “What do you want her to know?”
Doug looked down at his lap. “I don’t know.”
Jude stayed patient. “Try. Don’t think about it, just speak.”
Doug’s brow knit. His voice cracked. “I miss you. I miss you every day. You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone, and I shouldn’t have had to keep going after.”
His throat tightened, but he kept going. “I talk to you in the kitchen every morning. I make your tea like you’re still here. Sometimes I set the mug on the table and stare at it for hours.”
Jude dipped the feather in the clay and drew a circle over Doug’s heart.
“For the part of you that still waits for her,” he murmured. “Say more.”
Doug was crying now, but the words kept coming. “I hated the doctors and the pain you went through. I hated God and every person who looked at me with pity. Damn it, I hated my kids for not calling enough. And I hated myself for not knowing how to make it stop.”
Jude took Doug’s hands and pressed them between his own.
“You’ve carried that hate like armor,” he said. “What would you rather carry?”
Doug let out a long, shaking breath. “My memories of her love.”
“Then say this with me.” Jude lifted his head, voice deepening just slightly. Not performative—just solid. “I carry your memory, Linda.”
Doug echoed it. “I carry your memory, Linda.”
Jude: “Not as a weight.”
Doug: “Not as a weight.”
Jude: “But as a light.”
Doug: “But as a light.”
Jude released his hands. “Now let her go where you can’t follow. For now. But keep the light.”
He handed Doug a bundle of rosemary and rose petals tied with a red thread. “Place this in the fire when you’re ready. Not as an ending. As a marker, and a promise to live with the memory of her love in your heart.”
Doug stood, legs shaky.
He stepped to the fire and dropped the bundle in. The herbs crackled, and the petals hissed. Smoke twisted upward into the trees, sweet and sharp.
And Doug…
Doug exhaled.
Long and deep.
Like his lungs had been full of ash, and now they were clear.
He wiped his face, sniffling. But there was a stunned softness in his expression.
Like he didn’t expect to feel anything.
And now he didn’t know what to do with the relief.
Someone in the circle clapped quietly. Then someone else. Not wild applause, just a kind of collective reverence.
Doug looked at Jude. “Thank you. I didn’t think… I thought nothing could help.”
Jude gave him the faintest smile. “Sometimes we don’t need help. We just need space to heal.”
The drumming resumed behind me, soft and slow, like a heartbeat.
And I…
I suddenly realized I’d been gripping my phone in my pocket like it was a weapon.
But for once, I didn’t want to record.
I just wanted to understand.
What the hell was Jude Brooks?
Because if that was a con… it was the most compassionate one I’d ever seen.
And if it wasn’t?
Then I was in way over my head. Doug returned to his seat in the circle, wiping his face, visibly lighter—like a man who’d just shrugged off a ten-ton grief jacket.
And I was still sitting there, mouth slightly open, brain spiraling in all directions like a Windows error screen.
What the actual hell just happened?
Did I just witness a healing?
No fucking way.
This was clearly staged. Had to be. There’s no other explanation. The man probably answered a Craigslist ad—“Wanted: Middle-aged white dude with widow baggage and solid acting chops. Must cry on cue. Must be willing to burn herbs and sob in public. Gas money included.”
Doug had come in guarded. Nervous. Too nervous. Which could’ve been genuine, sure—but also? Total amateur dramatics. I’d watched enough reality TV to know what a setup looked like.
Jude knew I’d be here. He invited me at the bar.
He knew I was the host of Unholy Orders—knew I had a following, knew I had a mic in my backpack and a lousy attitude in my front pocket.
This whole thing could’ve been an elaborate, incense-drenched performance.
A premeditated “gotcha” designed to crack my crusty little cynic heart like a fortune cookie.
Well, plot twist, Mother Nature—I’m still crunchy.
I leaned back slightly, scanning the circle like I was profiling everyone for a con.
The lady with the beads and the prayer shawl?
Plant. That guy who kept humming like a didgeridoo?
Paid extra. The woman sobbing gently next to the crystals?
Probably someone’s cousin. They all had a wild-eyed, over-invested look.
Like cultists, or people who voluntarily go on ayahuasca retreats in Costa Rica.
But then my gaze landed on him.
Jude stood at the edge of the firelight, his face still and open, like he hadn’t just emotionally vivisected a grown man in front of a live audience.
The wind caught the hem of his shirt, making it flutter against his slacks like something out of a perfume ad.
His hands hung loose at his sides, but I noticed the faintest tremble in his fingers.
Was he... affected?
God, I hated that he was beautiful. Not “good-looking,” not “handsome”—biblical. Like someone had carved him from driftwood and quiet longing. That golden-brown hair, catching the glow of the flames. His mouth. Soft, serious, made for kindness or sin, maybe both.
And those eyes. Not soft now. Sharp. Focused. On me.
Our eyes locked.
For a second, the world got real fucking quiet.
Something about the way he looked at me made my chest tight.
I swallowed and looked away, heat crawling up my neck. Nope. Absolutely not. Don’t do this. He’s probably brainwashing people with sage sticks and essential oils and good cheekbones. You are here to EXPOSE HIM, not fantasize about what his hair would feel like tangled in my fingers.
I forced myself to breathe and gave my skepticism a pep talk.
But as the drumming picked up again and the next ritual began, an idea slid into my mind like a smooth conman slipping into a wedding ring he didn’t earn.
If this were all a performance… I could play too.
Seduce the healer. Gain his trust. Get inside his world. Strip him down, metaphorically or otherwise. Catch him in the lie.
I could flirt my way into the truth.
I’d done it before—with cult leaders, grifters, fake psychics. Use the chemistry, get them to open up. Unholy Orders episode 36 was literally titled “I Made Out With a Medium (And He Still Didn’t See It Coming).”
So yeah. Jude Brooks wouldn’t be the first man I’d gotten horizontal with in the name of journalism.
But he might be the most dangerous.