Chapter 3 Elias
ELIAS
Ezekiel Moore’s house is a lie.
It sits at the end of the town, where houses thin out and the lots grow larger—just far enough off the road that the darkness around it is thicker.
A broad, two-story house with pale stone and dark shutters.
The windows are dark, the glass reflecting the moonlight, and the porch is wide, supported by clean white columns, the wood immaculate beneath a hanging lantern.
Tasteful architecture. Conservative. A facade for the corruption of its owner.
The lawn is flawless, curated, with sculpted hedges and evenly cut grass. A mature oak stands off to one side, branches draped in Spanish moss that sways gently in the humid night air. At the end of the gently curved driveway waits a luxury sedan, polished and spotless.
Everything here speaks of success. Of a life well-lived and rewarded. Ezekiel Moore thinks he got away with the atrocities he committed as a Prophet of the Sanctum of Ash. We’re here to show him the memories of the abused cast long shadows.
“They always live in fucking McMansions,” Jonah rumbles, his green eyes, inherited from his Prophet father, hooded with disdain.
“Evil pays,” Cole mutters. He’s leaning against a tree trunk, cleaning his nails with a knife.
“Let’s just set it on fire and find the next one,” Logan adds, his fists clenching and unclenching by his side.
It’s something he always says. And I always ignore it.
The ritual is my favorite part. The psychological terror we inflict before we go in for the kill. It makes my dick hard, gives me a rush that makes my head spin.
“That’s not going to happen,” Marek says with a neutral voice. He’s staring at the swaying moss like it’s telling him a story.
“Did your cards tell you that?” Rowe asks with a smirk. He cracks his neck, visibly pumping himself up for what’s coming. He’s as bloodthirsty as his animals.
“I don’t need cards to know our brother,” Marek replies gently, the teasing sliding off like water off a duck’s back.
“Elias isn’t the only one who loves this part,” Silas says, throwing his arm around my tense shoulders. “They tortured us for years. A couple of weeks is the least we can do.”
I nod along with his words, quietly planning our activities for tonight. First, we need to get inside.
“You got the security code?” I ask Silas, though the question is somewhat rhetorical—he always comes through.
“You know I do,” he says confidently, gleefully.
“Then let’s go,” I command, taking the lead—always in the lead, since we were boys, taking the brunt of the danger. I’ll gladly be first in the line of fire, even though we’re not broken youth anymore. Now we’re scarred men, thirsting for vengeance.
Marek starts humming a haunting, familiar tune as we skirt the house, looking for the back porch entrance. I remember hearing his mother singing that lullaby to him when we were children. Before the Prophets killed her.
The lights turn on automatically, but it doesn’t faze us. We know the layout, the security measures, the occupants. It’s just the Prophet and his browbeaten wife, perhaps clueless about her husband’s atrocities. Their grown children left years ago, likely not spared the rod themselves.
Cole swaggers up to the door, playing with his lockpicks. I sigh and look heavenward, praying for patience, while Silas chuckles at my reaction. A few whisper-quiet clicks later, Silas goes inside first, tapping in the security code and disabling the alarm.
“Alright, brothers. Time to make Prophet Ezekiel feel watched by God again.”
Rowe and Logan cackle at my proclamation before veering off into the kitchen, ready to cause contained mayhem.
Ezekiel Moore’s house is quiet, clean, controlled. I look at the crosses and blessings displayed on the walls in almost every room. Nausea twists my stomach with a relentless grip. This domesticated faith is far from the perversion of it that he practices in secret.
I take out the small red spray paint can and shake it a few times, not worried at all that the Moores might wake up—if they do, we’ll have some fun.
With precise letters, I write on the wall, over the crosses, blessings, framed pictures. I take my time, ensuring every line is perfect.
Ash is what remains when sin is burned away.
Pleased, I stare at it for a moment. I wish I could see Ezekiel’s face when he comes downstairs to this in the morning.
I hear the hiss of a spray can behind me and turn around, curious to see what Silas is writing.
Confession is mercy. Resistance is punishment.
I laugh under my breath, even though these words still haunt my dreams.
Silas chose blue paint. Seeing it glisten in the silvery light from the windows reminds me of the woman I saw in the crowd.
Blue hair. Fiercely intelligent eyes. Tight leather.
I find myself biting my lip as my pants grow tight, constricting my hardening cock.
I hope she comes back—I’d love to take her for a ride.
Moore’s study reminds me of the Prophet’s offices in our commune. Heavy lacquered wood everywhere, the smell of old books in the air. Moonlight glints off a framed picture, and I step closer to inspect it.
It’s Moore and what appears to be his congregation, smiling at a picnic, the local church in the background.
But it’s the sight of the kids that makes my palms itch to wrap around sleeping Ezekiel’s throat and squeeze until his face turns purple.
So many laughing kids, clinging to their parents, playing with each other. Were they spared the atrocities?
Carefully, I pick up the frame and hang it upside-down. The church steeple pointing to the ground makes the hair at the back of my neck stand up.
Perfect.
Cole pokes his head in after a while, tapping his long fingers against the doorframe.
“Ready, boss?” he asks quietly, carefully. We all walk on eggshells around each other during these first nights when there’s no real outlet for the violence.
“Yeah,” I answer, putting down Moore’s password book. “Let’s get out of here.”
We’ll be back soon enough.
???
I tear off a piece of bread and toss it in my mouth, shuffling the scrambled eggs on my plate.
I like coming to the mess area for breakfast; it gives the carnies a chance to air any grievances they may have from the night before first thing in the morning.
The first night in Marrow Falls went well, though—other than the Tilt-a-Whirl breaking down, but that’s standard procedure by now. We consider it a sign of good luck.
“El, did you see this?”
I look up from my plate and raise an eyebrow at Silas, approaching with a newspaper and a grim expression on his face, Marek in tow.
“Don’t tell me we’ve made the news already? What did he do, call the reporters at 4 AM?”
“It’s not today’s paper, and it’s not local,” Silas explains as they sit down across from me.
I push away my plate to make room for whatever shitshow my brothers are about to unfurl on the table. Still, I don’t think much could have prepared me for the headline.
Connecticut Governor in Battle With Alleged Doomsday Cult
“What’s this?” I ask quietly, though I’m already scanning the article.
“You’ll see,” Marek murmurs enigmatically.
I take a deep breath and start reading from the beginning.
In the wake of personal tragedy and renewed scrutiny of past state failures, Connecticut Governor Thomas Langford has ordered a sweeping investigation into a secretive religious organization known as the Sanctum of Ash, a group rumored to operate on the fringes of legality.
The move comes less than six months after a violent stalking incident targeting the governor’s daughter culminated in the abduction of his wife, Katarzyna Kamińska, a former international supermodel.
The suspect, an alleged victim of this group, died while pursuing Langford’s daughter, bringing a brutal end to a case that shocked the state and drew national attention.
According to sources close to the governor’s office, the recent events forced Langford to reexamine a decades-old decision made during his tenure as a U.S. Senator—one he now openly describes as his “greatest professional failure.”
In the early 2000s, Langford was briefed on an incident involving several children found wandering in rural Connecticut. At the time, the case was presented to him as the aftermath of a methamphetamine lab explosion that had left the children orphaned. The matter was quietly closed.
“It was a lie,” Langford said in a statement released Tuesday. “And I accepted it without pushing hard enough.”
Subsequent evidence now suggests the children were not victims of a drug-related accident, but survivors of a doomsday religious cult operating under the name Sanctum of Ash.
Former members have since alleged years of physical, psychological, and spiritual abuse carried out by men known internally as “Prophets.”
Despite repeated complaints and fragmented reports over the years, investigations into the group stalled or were abruptly redirected.
Sources within law enforcement indicate the Sanctum of Ash may have benefited from unusual protection, with ties extending into influential political, financial, and religious circles.
Governor Langford has confirmed that his office is now working directly with the FBI, reopening cold cases and seeking to identify and apprehend the remaining Prophets, several of whom are believed to be living under assumed identities across multiple states.
“This isn’t about vengeance,” Langford said. “It’s about accountability. For the victims. For the children we failed. And for the truth that was buried.”
Federal officials declined to comment on the scope of the investigation but confirmed that it remains ongoing.
“Fuck,” I hiss, crumpling up the newspaper. “The last thing we need is the Feds sniffing around while we…”
“Hunt?” Silas suggests with a smirk.
“Not funny,” I grumble, then smooth out the paper to scan the article again. “Who was this alleged victim?”
“It’s unlikely we’d know him,” Marek says, his eyes on a pigeon feasting on stray breadcrumbs. “If this were a commune in Connecticut, we wouldn’t have crossed paths as children.”
“True,” I admit grudgingly. “But why the fuck would he go after random women and not the bastards who fucked with us for a decade and a half?”
“Doubt he was right in the head,” Silas says, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the rickety table. “I mean, are we?” he adds bitterly.
“We don’t go after the innocent,” Marek says matter-of-factly.
He’s right. Sometimes we roll out of town covered in blood and gore, but it’s always the Prophets who suffer.
“Let’s see what happens,” I say after a moment of silence. “Tell the others. Keep your eyes peeled for anyone sticking their noses into our business. We didn’t come this far to be stopped before we finish our mission.”