Chapter 5 #3
Angel’s trumpet scans the psyche for one’s darkest nightmares and pours them into the brain at a rate too fast and brutal to combat.
It confronts the consumer with every sin lying dormant inside them, and it scrapes out secrets to torture them with.
He found it to be the ultimate confronter.
It’s a brutal shock to the system that feels divine to him, as if its name is a hint of its heavenly origins.
To Philip, its moniker and effects are no accident.
He found another use for it later, when he realized it could make someone pliable, able to be controlled through delusion.
He had pulled back against his urges when he married Kathryn: He had a son, tried to be the family man.
But it didn’t take long before he was distracted, specifically by the women in his congregation who paraded their sins around like they were badges, like they were something to be proud of.
It became his job to correct that, to show them the way.
As soon as he let himself go, let himself fully fall into his role, he came back to angel’s trumpet.
Under the guise of private counseling, he would seduce the women, make them think he was exactly what they wanted.
He was the beloved pastor, family man, and leader of the congregation, but he was also the forbidden fruit they were intent on tasting.
He let them make fools of themselves, falling for every charming word, every promise of salvation. Then he brewed them some tea.
Hallucinations would come, along with fever and memory loss.
Tremors, a racing heart, and panic would follow, and he would use it all to his advantage.
He would tell them it was their punishment, that they were being tested.
He would nurse them back to health, acting every bit the concerned and experienced pastor battling their demons.
The often-terrifying physical experience alone would make them do what he said.
He had them tell their friends and families that they were leaving to find themselves—that is, if they had friends and family at all.
During the next private session, he would drug them again and bring them to the cabin, explaining that this was a place of great spiritual importance.
Their poisoned minds rarely questioned, just followed.
It was only when the effects wore off and they woke up blindfolded and bound that the reality of their choices set in.
That’s when they would usually repent. Most of them would crumble into a series of apologies, thinking this was the last step in their spiritual cleansing and that they would be allowed to leave. But they never left.
Some of them needed a little more convincing before they were ready to ask for true penance. That’s where Stephanie is in the process tonight. She just needs another dip into the darkness, into the twisted places her mind can take her.
It isn’t lost on him that Wren Muller and John Leroux saw Stephanie when they came to his church to interrogate him.
Wren’s face told him that his interaction with Stephanie had raised her antenna, but it kind of excited him.
After all, there’s really no one to miss Stephanie.
She’s alone, having moved to Massachusetts to escape a bad relationship.
She cut ties with anyone who gave a shit about her when she left and had planned to start over in the Berkshires.
Stephanie was all too eager to lap up the attention he lavished on her, making the work easier than it had ever been before.
He’d gone just far enough with her to cross a line, to make it forbidden.
She was putty in his hands when she agreed to meet him for a midnight rendezvous one evening.
Approaching her from behind, he’d punched her in the back of the head, and down she went.
Now she finds herself here, pretending she doesn’t have a mountain of sins to confess, transforming into a useless object before his eyes.
So he walks toward her—it—again, holding the steaming cup of tea in both hands.
He watches it struggle weakly, failing to muster the strength to fight against the bindings, fight against its situation.
“Confess,” he whispers, ghosting his breath across its cheek.
It shudders, still highly reactive to him even through the fear. It is still so deeply deluded about their relationship. “Confess what?” it yells and surges forward, foamy spit spraying out of its mouth.
He shakes his head, grabbing its hair and pulling its face toward the ceiling. It doesn’t instinctively close its mouth, which is a mistake, because he pours the tea down its throat.
It blindly sputters and chokes, hot water searing the inside of its mouth as he finally lets go of its hair, allowing it to lurch forward and gag.
“That should help you figure it out,” he tells it flatly, taking a moment to rip the delicate cross necklace off its neck. He turns off the lights and walks out the front door, taking care to lock up as he exits. As he walks into the tree line, he can hear its muffled screams.