Chapter Text
The church rears its towering crosses towards the sky. The half forgotten promise of God's love, written in blood so long ago, seeps out of the cracked, dry wood. The soil weighs heavy on the bedrock beneath it with every sinful tear spilled here. The soulless eyes of the stone statues stare accusingly, as if searching for the God among the men. The heavy hearts of the sinners and the weightless souls of the pure crowd into the sweltering heat, close with the reek of mildew and rot.
The penitent fall to their knees and they cry out to the empty sky for a god neither seen nor heard.
A wooden sign out front reads, "St. Agnes Church". The white lettering is worn down from the years it's spent under the Indiana sun.
The Priest here is a man of many virtues, he holds himself to a high standard, and he expects the same from his followers and his son. His son stands tall by his side, he stands as if he's been forever untouched by the unholy and impure.
Together they've created a safe haven for the holy, a place of exoneration for the sinful.
But beneath the hardwood floors, behind every locked door, something lurks and festers. It wraps its tail around the throats of every passerby. It hides in every dark corner and takes the shape of a godly man.
This church is not godly, it reeks with the stench of sin and forgotten vows.
The Wheeler house sits at the end of a dirt road, stubborn and weather-worn. Weeds cling to its foundation, and dirt presses into every seam between the wooden panels as if the earth itself is trying to reclaim it. The screen door has holes in it from countless summers of pesky bugs and sweltering heat. Smoke rises out of the chimney every winter when snow wraps their house up in a cold embrace.
Every Sunday morning there's a song coming from Nancy Wheeler's old radio as the smell of coffee settles into the bones of the household. The Wheeler's quietly slip into their morning routine, walking around each other with learned habits and a quiet understanding that only comes with time.
This morning is no different.
Ted Wheeler packs his satchel while his kids eat cereal at the table and Nancy fusses over Holly's hair. Mike throws his bowl into the sink when his father emerges from his room and quickly puts on his coat and shoes while his dad puts coffee into his thermos. They mutter their goodbyes and climb into the beat-up Chevrolet truck parked in the driveway. Ted drives off before it warms up and Mike folds his hands into his lap.
They take the back roads, avoiding every main street and suburban neighborhood. Only the woodland creatures see them pass by, hiding behind the trees and keeping a careful eye on the truck as it passes by them. The truck lurches to a stop in front of the church and the priest and his son climb out.
They fall into their silent routine as the priest opens his Bible at the pulpit, reciting his words under his breath, and his son lights the candles at the altar. The church holds a bated breath, stretching its arms wide open in invitation to any passerby looking for God. The doors rattle in the wind and the stained glass windows glow with the rising sun, shining colorful spots of light onto the pews.
Slowly, the people trickle in, taking their seats and saying their own prayers before mass begins. The priest stands at his Bible and his son watches as the congregation grows. He nods at his sisters as they walk in, taking their seats at the front. His eyebrows furrow as his eyes lock onto a familiar face walking in with a group around his age. He can't remember a name, so he looks away.
Will's lips tighten as he slips into one of the pews, sliding over to make room for his friends. It's been years since he's been in this church, and he never thought he'd be back. The murmuring of the people around them is making him uneasy, and the cold eyes of the priest's son aren't making him feel any better.
He turns to his friends, who are looking around in awe.
"Guys, this is stupid," he mutters to them, catching their attention.
Dustin rolls his eyes, "So you've mentioned."
Will shakes his head, "We shouldn't be here."
He looks back up to the altar, watching the priest's son look around at the congregation. The last time Will saw him he was no taller than him. His eyes were filled with curiosity and admiration for his father. He smiled at Will every time he walked in and peeked his eyes open during prayer. His cassock swallowed him and his tiny hands shook when they held a cross for too long.
Now, it's like looking at a poorly-made replica. His eyes are dead and cold. He towers over his father but still lowers his head to hear whatever his father has to whisper in his ear. He doesn't smile at the people in the pews, barely giving them any recognition even though he's stood before them for years. There's no white surplice draped over his cassock anymore, he almost looks like a priest himself.
"Who's that?" Jane asks, pointing a finger inconspicuously, "by the priest?"
Max leans closer to her so nobody near them will hear, "that's Mike, he's the priest's son."
"I thought Priests couldn't have families," Jane furrows her brows, leaning closer to Max.
"Apparently he became a Priest when his wife left him," Dustin shrugs, looking to Lucas for confirmation.
"He must've been a pretty shitty husband-"
Max jabs Lucas's side just as the priest clears his throat, grabbing their attention.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen."
The people in the congregation mutter their "good mornings" as the group in the back looks around. Will finds Mike's eyes again and his head ducks down.
"As you all know, it is Christmas eve today," he nods his head with a big smile, "a very lucky day for us all."
"We gather here this morning to praise the Lord, and we will gather here tonight to celebrate Jesus's birth."
There are murmurs and nods from the congregation, Will watches the priest as he starts to pace across his stage.
"Christmas day is very important to us all. It is a celebration of his birth, the very important landmark of when the change, our religion, our very existence began."
Will feels his friends shift beside him uncomfortably, but he only feels his fists clench with the familiarity of the preacher's voice.
"But I think his death, his courageous sacrifice, is the landmark we should celebrate today, tonight, and all through the rest of our lives. Had it not been for his death, sinners would find no peace, no home to return to when the working day is done. It is only his death that builds the beds we rest on each night, the food we set on the table to feed our families, and the wine we indulge ourselves in."
Will feels as if the Priest's eyes bore into him. He feels glued onto his seat and he tightens his hands together on his lap, creating crescent shaped marks on the backs of his hands.
The Priest closes his eyes, "For his sacrifice, we must sacrifice our minds," he raises his hand to his head, "our hearts," he places his hand over his heart, "and our lives to him."
"We die to return to him," the priest opens his eyes and Will suddenly feels like he's looking into the eyes of the devil himself, "so we must die for him."
The group sits in an uncomfortable silence as the rest of the congregation rises to leave. They look at one another with fearful, confused expressions, but Will does not look at them. His eyes are stuck on the Priest's son, as if looking for something buried deep in Mike's mind.
"Dude," Lucas finally speaks, his voice barely above a whisper, "I knew churches were.. cult-ish, but this is just, another level."
"That's what I've been telling you," Dustin rebuttals, "but christ, I didn't think we'd have to sit through all of that."
"What is it with him and death? I feel like he must've brought it up one million times," Max sighs, sinking further into her seat.
Jane shakes her head and rubs her forehead, "this is insane."
The group looks at Will as Dustin puts a hand on his shoulder, jolting him from whatever trance he was in.
"Woah, dude, did he put a spell on you or something?"
Will chuckles, "Sorry, just.. it's weird to be back here."
"So you admit it's weird as shit, right?" Lucas asks, raising his eyebrows for emphasis.
Will nods and his gaze shifts back to Mike, "I think we should go."
"Agreed," Max says, already scooting her and Jane out of the pew.
The second the group clears the steps, the air feels different.
Will drags in a breath like he’s been underwater.
They move automatically toward their bikes lined up along the gravel edge of the lot. Lucas kicks his stand up with more force than necessary. Dustin fumbles with his handlebars, glancing back at the church doors like he expects them to drag him back inside. Max rolls her shoulders as if shaking something off. Jane stays close to Will, looking around as if searching for a ghost.
A hand lands on his shoulder, large, pale, and ice-cold even through the thick fabric of his coat.
Will gasps sharply, the sound humiliatingly loud. His whole body jerks. His bike clatters to the ground beside him, metal scraping against the rocks. He spins around so fast it takes his eyes a second to adjust.
Mike stands there, smiling.
“Sorry,” he says softly, voice smooth as polished stone. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”
His hand lingers half a second too long before lifting from Will’s shoulder. Even after it’s gone, Will swears he can still feel the imprint of those fingers, like frostbite.
Behind him, the group goes completely still.
Lucas freezes in place, one leg draped carefully over his bike. Dustin's lips part in surprise. Max’s eyes narrow, chin tipping up in challenge, but she doesn’t step forward. Jane’s fingers curl into her palms.
They hover behind him. Close enough to hear. Not close enough to interfere.
Mike takes one measured step back, folding his hands neatly behind him. His posture is impeccable. Composed. Like he’s on display.
“I just wanted to greet you all,” he says, his gaze drifting slowly from face to face. He looks at each of them as if committing them to memory. “And thank you for coming to our church.”
When his eyes land back on Will, they stay there.
Will swallows. His throat feels dry, tight. Up close, Mike’s skin looks almost translucent in the afternoon light. There are faint shadows under his eyes. He smells faintly of incense, and something like old wood beneath it.
“Thank you,” Will manages, forcing a polite smile that feels brittle on his face. “For, um, having us.”
Mike’s lips curve just slightly wider.
“No,” he says gently, tilting his head. “It’s no trouble at all.”
Wind skims across the parking lot, lifting the edges of Mike’s dark hair. The church doors creak faintly behind him, still ajar. A few parishioners linger nearby, but none of them look over. It’s like this little pocket of space exists separate from everything else.
Lucas clears his throat.
Max’s fingers drum against her handlebars.
Will’s heart is hammering. Part of him wants to grab his bike and leave. Another part, quieter, more stubborn, refuses to look away.
Mike finally breaks the silence.
“Well,” he says, voice low and even, “I hope to see you again tonight.”
Will doesn’t miss the way Jane stiffens at that. Or the way Dustin croaks out a sound that almost forms a word.
He doesn’t miss the flicker in Mike’s eyes either, like he already knows the answer.
“Yeah,” Will hears himself say before he can stop it. His smile comes easier this time, though his pulse is racing. “You will. We’ll be here.”
There’s the faintest shift in Mike’s expression.
“That’s great to hear,” Mike replies softly.
For a second, it seems like he might say something else. His gaze dips briefly to Will’s fallen bike, then back up to his face. His eyes trace him, quick, assessing.
Then he nods once and turns.
He walks back toward the church with unhurried steps, hands still folded behind his back. The doors seem to swallow him as he slips inside.
Only when the door shuts does the air feel breathable again.
“Will!” Jane whisper-shouts immediately, smacking his arm. “Why would you say that?!”
Will startles again, his nerves stretched too thin. He bends to pick up his bike, brushing gravel from the handle. His hands are shaking. He hopes no one notices.
“You guys said you wanted to find out what’s up with the church,” he mutters, trying to sound steadier than he feels.
Lucas lets out a long, exaggerated groan as he takes a seat onto his bike, giving Will an exasperated look. “Well, I think we found out! It's creepy, they probably worship Satan after-hours. There's no reason to come back!”
Dustin shakes his head and sighs, "this was a horrible idea."
Max rolls her eyes but pulls her bike up beside Will, smirking. “If I didn’t know any better,” she says lightly, bumping her shoulder into his, “I’d say Will has a big fat crush on that creepy priest boy.”
Will mounts his bike, ignoring her and trying to shake the chill clinging to him. “We’re going back tonight,” he says firmly, glancing at each of them. “If something’s wrong in there, we’ll see it.”
Jane searches his face. “And if something’s really wrong?”
Will hesitates.
Then he grips his hand bars tight in his hands, even though his stomach is still twisted tight. “Then we’ll find out what it is.”
But as they start pedaling away from the church, Will can’t stop the feeling twisting disgustingly in his gut.
He can't stop thinking about everything the Priest said, and how he might've heard those words before, when he couldn't think to say it was wrong or creepy. The Priest could've burned the fear of sin into him before he had the sense to realize it was bullshit. No matter he's a gay boy in the eighties, if he had never gone to chruch, maybe he could've had a better youth.
He just wishes he could remember the words that did this to him. He wishes he could go back and cover his ears and beg to go home before he could be stained with the lies. It makes him desperately fearful, and deeply sad for the man's son. He can't even imagine what was burned into the boy if he was so badly branded.
The church always smelled like wet wool and old wood, like rain had seeped into the bones of it years ago and never quite left. Will’s shoes didn’t touch the floor from the pew; they swung back and forth in slow, restless arcs, scuffing the varnished wood with the softest thud. His mother sat stiff at his right, hands folded so tightly in her lap her knuckles shone pale. His brother pressed against his left side, warm and solid, like a calm reminder he wasn't alone.
At the pulpit, the preacher man stood like a nail driven too far into a board.
He was not old, not really, but something in him felt ancient and splintered. His collar was too tight against his throat. His eyes glittered as though someone had struck flint behind them.
“We are surrounded,” he said, voice low and measured, almost gentle. “Surrounded by temptation that dresses itself in silk and calls itself love.”
Will watched a fly drive itself into the stained-glass window. The colors painted the preacher’s face in bruised blues and bleeding reds. Love was a word he knew. Love was like his mother pressing a kiss to his hair, tucking his brother’s shirt in straighter than necessary. Love was peanut butter sandwiches cut into triangles. Love was his brother letting him win at checkers.
The preacher smiled suddenly, wide and bright, as if he had remembered a joke only he understood.
“Some sins are loud,” he said. “They crash through your door with bottles in their fists. You can see them coming. You can bar the windows.” His smile vanished. His fist struck the pulpit so hard the wood cracked like a gunshot. Will flinched. “But other sins are soft. They creep. They whisper. They tell you that what is broken is beautiful.”
A murmur rippled through the pews.
Will leaned slightly into his brother. The church felt colder now. He didn’t understand what the Priest meant.
The preacher’s voice dropped to a near whisper, forcing the congregation to bend toward him like a wave meeting the shore.
“There are men,” he said carefully, like he was placing glass on a shelf, “who look at other men, the way a man should look at a woman, and call it affection. There are women who do the same. They say it is how they were made.” His face twisted, not quite anger, not quite sorrow, something stranger. “But God does not make mistakes like this.”
Then, in the same breath, he laughed. A high, brittle sound. “And if He did, we should be the hammer to correct it.”
Will’s mother shifted beside him. Just a fraction. Her jaw tightened, but her eyes stayed forward. She did not bow her head.
Will tried to follow the words, but they slid past him like minnows in murky water. Men looking at men. Women looking at women. It sounded like the act of looking was a crime. He looked at his brother all the time. He looked at the boys in his class when they played rough at recess, when their hair stuck to their foreheads with sweat and sun. He looked at the preacher man's son, when he bowed his head in prayer and folded his hands together. That couldn’t be wrong. It didn't feel wrong.
The preacher’s mood turned again, sudden and blazing.
“This sickness,” he thundered, “is a rot in the beams of our homes. It is the serpent in the cradle. It is a fire that begins as a spark in the heart of a child—”
Will’s stomach dropped, though he didn’t know why.
“—and if not stamped out,” the preacher continued, voice rising to a fever pitch, “it will consume everything sacred.”
The word sacred echoed strangely in the rafters.
Will stared at the preacher’s hands. They shook when he spoke, not with age but with something restless, caged. His eyes were wet now. Or furious. It was hard to tell. He seemed to be arguing with someone who wasn’t there.
“God demands purity,” he said softly, suddenly calm again. “And we will give it to Him. We will protect our children from confusion. From perversion. From themselves.”
The congregation hummed in agreement. A sound like bees in a wall.
Will didn’t know what perversion meant. He only knew that the preacher’s voice made the air heavy. He pressed his palms between his knees to stop them from sweating. He didn’t want to be confused. He didn’t want to be sick or broken or on fire.
He leaned closer to his mother and whispered, “When is it over?”
She glanced down at him, and for a moment her expression cracked, something soft and sad flickering there before she smoothed it away. “Soon,” she murmured.
At the pulpit, the preacher lifted his arms as if embracing the whole trembling room.
“We are chosen,” he declared. “Set apart. We will not bend to the sickness of the world. We will carve it out, root and stem.”
His smile returned, bright and terrible.
Will lowered his gaze to the floorboards. He focused on the pattern in the wood, the dark knot near his shoe that looked like an eye. He hoped the preacher would stop talking about sparks and rot and children. He hoped he would never understand what the preacher meant.
Above him, the stained glass bled red light across the aisle, and the preacher’s voice rose and fell like a storm.
Mike's room had always felt suffocating. The church always had room for him to breathe, but his room pressed into him. It pushed every impure thought to the surface 'till he was unable to breathe.
Even on his thirteenth birthday, he could not escape it.
Mike knelt at the foot of his narrow bed, the mattress dipping where his elbows pressed into it. The carpet scratched at his knees through the thin cotton of his pajama pants. He held the prayer beads so tightly the small wooden spheres left half-moon imprints in his delicate skin. He liked the feeling of them. The weight. The burn.
The hallway light cut a pale line beneath his door.
He bowed his head and began again, because beginning again was what his father had taught him to do.
“Lord, cleanse my heart and mind,” he whispered, the words worn smooth from repetition. “Fill me with Your Spirit and Your love, that my thoughts and desires may be pure and pleasing to You. Help me to love You above all else and to see You in all things. Amen.”
His voice was steady at first. By the third repetition, it trembled.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to empty his mind the way his father said was possible. But his thoughts did not leave. They crowded closer when he tried to push them away.
He saw the church pews.
He saw the boy who always sat in the back with his mother and older brother. The small one with bright eyes and restless feet. Brown hair that caught the colored light from the stained glass and turned copper at the edges. He remembered the way the boy’s mouth moved silently during the sermon, as if he were asking questions no one could hear.
Mike’s stomach twisted.
He told himself he only noticed because the boy fidgeted. Because he was distracting. Because it was irritating.
But he remembered the soft line of the boy’s cheek when he leaned into his brother. The way his hand had reached for his mother’s sleeve during the loud part of the sermon.
Mike’s fingers tightened around the beads.
“Cleanse my heart and mind,” he whispered again, faster this time. “Cleanse my heart and mind.”
He tried to picture mud being washed from his hands in a river. He tried to imagine his thoughts dissolving like sugar in water. But instead he saw the boy’s eyes; wide and confused, not wicked, not sick. Just young.
What am I doing wrong? he thought.
His father said sin began as a spark. His father said it grew if you fed it. Mike tried to remember when the spark had started. He tried to find the moment it had crept into him. Had it been when he noticed the shape of a classmate’s shoulders in the locker room? When he felt a strange heat in his chest watching two older boys shove each other in the dirt, laughing?
He hadn’t asked for it. He didn’t remember inviting it.
“Lord, cleanse my heart—”
The door opened without a knock.
Mike flinched so hard the beads snapped against each other with a sharp clack.
His father stood in the doorway, filling it. He had removed his clerical collar, but the absence of it did not soften him. The hall light framed him in pale gold, carving his face into shadow and bone.
“What are you doing?” his father asked.
The question was accusing.
Mike swallowed. “Praying.”
A pause. His father stepped inside and closed the door halfway. “And why,” he asked gently, “are you praying so urgently?”
Mike’s mouth felt dry. He stared at the book he left laying beside the bed. “For… purity.”
His father’s expression shifted; approval first, warm and fleeting. Then something sharper, something searching.
“Purity,” he repeated. “Yes. The world will try to steal that from you.” He walked slowly around the room, fingers grazing the spines of the books on the shelf, the crucifix hung crookedly on his wall. “There are temptations that present themselves early. Confusion. Curiosity.” His voice thinned slightly on the last word. “The Enemy is clever with boys your age.”
Mike’s pulse thudded in his ears.
“I don’t feel confused,” he said quickly, though that wasn’t true. “I just- I want to be good.”
His father stopped behind him.
“Good,” he echoed. “Good means obedience. It means mastery over the sins of flesh.” He placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder. The weight of it was firm, almost affectionate, but there was no warmth in it. “Sometimes the body suggests things the spirit must reject.”
Mike’s throat tightened. The words felt like they were circling something without naming it. That was how his father spoke now, never directly, always as if the sin itself might materialize if given a name.
“You understand what happens to men who indulge unnatural desires,” his father continued softly. “You’ve heard me speak of it.”
Images from the pulpit flickered in Mike’s mind, the rot in beams, the fire in cradles, sparks stamped out.
“Yes, Father,” he croaked.
His father crouched in front of him then, forcing Mike to look up. His eyes were bright, intent, almost feverish.
“If there is anything impure in your heart,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “you must strangle it before it grows teeth. God demands vigilance. And I demand honesty.”
Mike’s breath caught.
“There’s nothing,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m just praying.”
For a long moment, his father studied him, as if weighing his soul in his hands.
Then, abruptly, he smiled.
“That’s my son,” he said, standing. “Devoted. Stronger than weakness.” He moved to the door and paused, one hand on the knob. “Remember, temptation thrives in secrecy. Bring it to the light before it festers.”
The door shut with a soft click.
Silence flooded the room again.
Mike remained kneeling for a few seconds longer, listening to his father’s footsteps retreat down the hall. When they disappeared, something inside him gave way.
The beads slipped from his fingers and fell with a dull thud.
He folded forward, palms flat on the rough carpet, breath shuddering out of him in sharp, broken pieces. He pressed his forehead to the floor as if it were an altar.
“Please Lord, save me,” he whispered, though there was no one to hear it.
He tried to picture the brown-haired boy again and force the image into something ugly, something corrupt. But the boy remained small and bright in his mind, swinging feet and uncertain eyes.
Mike’s shoulders began to shake.
He didn’t know how to strangle a thought. He didn’t know how to carve something out of himself without bleeding. He only knew that whatever lived in him did not feel like rot. It felt like fear. It felt like longing.
It felt like something he was supposed to destroy.
A sob tore loose from his chest before he could stop it. Then another. He curled onto his side on the carpet, knees drawn in tight, as if he could make himself smaller, less visible, even to God. In the dark, with the prayer half-burned into his memory and half-broken in his throat, Mike wept for a sin he did not understand and a punishment he already believed he deserved.
Will waves goodbye to his friends at the edge of the road, lifting one hand off his handlebars in a lazy arc. Their voices fade into the afternoon air, swallowed by the hum of cicadas and the low groan of a truck somewhere down the highway.
He walks his bike up the driveway. The gravel crunches too loudly beneath the tires. He lets it fall gently onto its side near the garage, not bothering with the kickstand. The metal clatters anyway, he winces at the sharp sound.
The house is quiet in the way only midafternoon houses are, sunlight stretches long across the hardwood floors, dust hangs in its path like algae suspended in water.
His mother sits at the dining room table with a mug of coffee and a thin stack of envelopes fanned out in front of her. The steam has long since stopped rising. She holds one piece of mail close to her face, squinting at the fine print.
She looks up at the sound of the door closing and her entire expression changes, softening, brightening, rearranging itself into something open.
“Will,” she says warmly, pushing the mail aside as if it had never mattered. “Where’d you go this morning?”
She stands, wiping her hands on her jeans without realizing she's doing it.
He meets her halfway across the room, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers hooking into the cuffs of his sleeves.
“Uhm,” he starts, eyes flicking past her to the table and back again, “I went to church. With my friends.”
Her eyebrows lift, just barely. The smile remains, but it tightens at the corners.
"Oh,” she says, and her hands come to rest gently on his shoulders. “How was it?”
He shrugs, staring at the space just over her shoulder, at the faded wallpaper near the kitchen archway. “It was fine.”
He hesitates, the silence stretching thin between them.
“But I wanted to ask you something,” he adds quickly. “About when we used to go.”
Her hands soften on him, thumbs brushing absently against his sleeves. “Sure, honey,” she says easily. “What is it?”
Will looks down at his hands. There's a loose thread near his wrist; he worries it between his fingers, tugging until it thins.
“I just-” He swallows. “I just wanted to know why we went. Really.”
He forces a small shrug. “I never really felt like any of us… believed in it.”
Joyce’s tongue clicks softly against the roof of her mouth, a sound she makes when she's thinking. Her head tilts, studying him, not suspicious, just attentive.
“Well…” she says, exhaling a small laugh. “I’m not quite sure either.”
He looks up at that, confusion flickering across his face.
She crosses her arms loosely, leaning back against the table. “I guess I thought it might help us… fit. This town isn’t exactly welcoming to outsiders.” Her mouth quirks. “I wasn’t raised religious. But I figured maybe raising you boys differently-more traditionally-might make things easier.”
Will nods slowly, though his gaze drifts again, tracing the lines in the hardwood floor like they might rearrange into something legible.
“Then why’d we stop?” he asks.
Joyce laughs under her breath. “I don’t know. I think I just… stopped waking you up on Sundays.” She shakes her head fondly. “Neither of you ever questioned it. I figured that meant you weren’t heartbroken.”
He gives a faint smile at that.
“Did you…” He trails off.
Her posture shifts almost imperceptibly. “Did I what?”
He bites the inside of his cheek, a habit he’d had since he was little. His eyes slide away from hers again.
“Did you think the priest was a bit…”
Joyce barks a short laugh before he can finish. “Eccentric? Weird? Creepy?” She waves a dismissive hand. “Definitely.”
Will lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a quiet huff of laughter following hers.
She reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. But her eyes linger on him a moment longer than necessary.
“You okay?” she asks gently.
The question lands between them, heavier than the others.
He nods too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You sure?” Her voice is still light, but there's something searching underneath it now. “You’re not getting into trouble with those boys, are you?”
He huffs. “No.”
She studies his face again, as if trying to read a language she used to know fluently. She doesn’t see fear. She doesn’t see guilt. Just nerves. Growing pains, maybe. The awkwardness of adolescence creeping in.
That’s what she tells herself.
She turns back toward the table with a sigh, reclaiming her coffee and the stack of envelopes. One in particular catches her attention, stamped with bold red letters that screamed DUE.
Her jaw tightens slightly as she picks it up.
Will watches her for a second, the crease between her brows, the way she presses her lips together before opening the envelope. His frown is soft, instinctive.
He starts toward his room.
“Will, honey?”
He pauses, hand catching on the corner of the wall. “Yeah?”
She doesn’t look up immediately. “Why’d you go to church today?”
The question hangs in the air, casual in tone but careful in its timing.
He rubs the back of his neck, fingers grazing the place where his hair curls at the nape.
“I, uh… my friends were just interested,” he says. “So I tagged along.”
Joyce finally looks up at him.
He holds her gaze this time. His fingers tapping the wall nervously.
She searches his face one last time, as if expecting something to crack open.
But there's nothing obvious there. Just her sweet boy. A little older than he’d been yesterday.
“Okay,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee.
He smiles, relief flickering across his features so quickly she almost misses it.
He turns toward the hallway.
“Oh,” he adds, as if remembering at the last second, “is it okay if I go over to Dustin’s tonight?”
Joyce chuckles softly. “Of course, sweetie.”
He grins and disappears down the hall, his bedroom door closes with a quiet click.
Joyce sits still for a moment after the house settles.
She stares at the red-stamped envelope in her hands, then toward the hallway where her son has vanished. She sighs to herself and pulls the fancy white paper out of the envelope.
Will kills the engine of his mother's Chevrolet. For a moment none of them move.
They sit in silence as the radio cuts out and the sounds of ringing in their ears and the ticking of metal cooling envelopes them. They all watch the people stream into the church, muttering among themselves with bouts of strange laughter and excitement cutting through the silent night air.
"Do we really have to go in there?" Jane whispers, like speaking would be too shocking.
"Yes," Dustin sighs, opening his door and stepping onto the gravel with a hesitant crunch.
He looks back into the car and tilts his head, taking a few tiny steps towards the church. The rest of the group mutter their grievances and step out of the car, a chorus of slamming doors following them. Will's feet shift nervously through the loose rocks, following behind the group as they all inch closer to the tall building.
Women fold their hands in front of them and mutter among themselves quietly, taking careful steps into the church as if waiting for an invitation. Fathers grab their sons shoulders and guide them inside, as if pushing them towards the gates of heaven itself.
Max shivers in the late December air, "Can't we watch from out here? I don't wanna go in there."
Jane nods in agreement, looking at the two boys walking beside them.
Lucas shakes his head, "Don't worry," he wraps a soothing arm around her shoulders, "I think we'll survive."
Max shakes her head in annoyance and shrugs his arm off of her.
As they pass the threshold into the church sweat prickles on Will's skin. He shivers, even though the heat is sweltering. Candles light the room in a dim, haunting glow. The stained windows are dark and the eyes of Virgin Mary painted upon the largest one are dull and lifeless.
The scent of wax, sweet and spicy perfume, and the stench of sweat clings to Will. They push through the crowd of people standing around the pews, choosing the stand in a corner where no one will notice them. Will listens to the clipped mutters, the whispers of people trying to go unheard.
“They say he’s chosen this one carefully—”
“Last week was nothing compared to tonight—”
“Something about purification—”
“We must be vigilant.”
A shiver runs down his spine, he flinches at the thud of the church doors closing. His head snaps around, watching as a young boy in a cassock that swallows him whole bolts the door shut. His eyebrows furrow in confusion and worry and his eyes catch Max's, who swallows audibly.
The side door swings shut with a slam, the congregation falls almost completely silent. Will fiddles with the string on his sleeve, pulling and tugging and worrying the thin threads.
The choir stands at the altar, there's a sound of the rustling of their robes, the hushing of children, the clearing of throats. Will's back turns rigid, Jane grabs his hand in hers and he takes a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves clawing at his skin.
The choir begins their holy song. A hymn dragged out slow and deliberate, minor-key and unyielding, each syllable drawn thin like thread pulled through skin. Words sung in Latin that have no real meaning to any of the people lining the pews and the walls. But it carries the promise of god, the promise of purity and forgiveness.
The women sway and close their eyes, fanning themselves with paper fans. The men sit solemnly, their eyes empty and glazed over. Will closes his eyes and tries to collect his thoughts, refusing to let them trail off to the hot summer nights he sat in the pews and listened to hymns just like this.
The words catch in the rafters, they seep into the walls, and press a weight into his chest. He breathes shakily, gripping Jane's hand tightly.
Suddenly, silence cuts through the air once again. Everyone waits in thinning anticipation, sitting on the edge of their seats and breathing shallowly.
A door opens and in walks Mike, holding his head up high with his hands folded neatly in front of him. His hair is neatly swept out of his face, there's not a hair out of place. His steps seem to echo like gunshots against the old, wooden walls. His eyes are focused on something distant, something that doesn't exist at all.
His father follows behind him solemnly, a wicked grin stretching across his aged, wrinkled face. There's no Bible in his hands, but his hands still stretch out before him as if he's grabbing the air itself, holding the room by its throat with an unrelenting grip.
He takes his spot behind his pulpit, his son stands at his side, only a few steps back. His eyes search the people before him, the room waiting on a bated breath for his wisdom to fall upon them.
“My beloved,” his voice carefully crawls through the room, like a predator searching for prey, “tonight we celebrate the birth of our Savior. A child born into darkness. A light sent to cleanse the world.”
Will almost takes a step back, like the beast is searching and sniffing the air for him. Jane releases his hand and he realizes he'd been squeezing it like he was trying to juice an orange. He looks at her apologetically and she smiles tightly, pressing her arm against his. He looks back up at the altar, biting the inside of his cheek.
“Bethlehem was not chosen at random,” he continues. “It was a humble place. A forgotten place. And yet God selected it- because purity does not grow in comfort. It grows in obedience.”
There's a murmur of assent that ripples through the pews. Will watches as Mike shifts his feet, almost impatiently.
“And obedience requires vigilance.”
His gaze drifts slowly across the congregation.
"Today, I bring you not a sermon of remembrance," the Priest grips the sides of the pulpit, looking out among the crowd of people, searching, "but an example, of those who do not obey, those who see the way of God, and walk a different path."
Will looks at his friends nervously, but they all look fine. They seem unbothered by what the Priest has said so far, as if they don't realize what's to come. Will looks back at the altar, and this time Mike's eyes are locked on him.
Mike seems to know his thoughts, his eyes cut straight through him and find his uncertainty to bring to the light. Will's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he composes himself. He must be imagining this. He must be thinking too deeply about it.
“There are those,” he says, voice softening further, “who enter holy spaces without holy intention. Those who sit among us, warmed by our hearth, fed by our fellowship… while their hearts wander elsewhere.”
Will's friends shift around him, he hugs his arms around himself.
“Judas,” the priest speaks suddenly, “dined beside Christ. He broke bread with him. Smiled with him. And still he betrayed him.”
A woman shifts in her seat near the front, the creak of the wood beneath her echoes like whispers in a corridor.
The priest’s son stands near the altar, posture straight, chin lifted. His solemn expression does not change, but there's something sharpened in it now. A quiet satisfaction. As if this is a performance he has seen rehearsed.
The priest’s eyes continue their slow circuit.
“When someone among us turns from truth,” he goes on, “when they choose temptation over righteousness, when they mock the sacred by pretending to seek it-”
His voice does not rise. It lowers.
“We must not hate them.” A pause.
“We must correct them.”
There's an uncertainty floating in the air. Eyes wandering around, searching for the damned among them, a swirling feeling in the guts of the impure hidden in false purity.
The priest’s gaze stops moving.
It lands suddenly and sharply.
“There is a young man here tonight,” he says, almost sorrowfully, “who has forgotten what he was taught under this very roof.”
The air vanishes from Will’s lungs.
Beside him, Dustin shifts, confused. Lucas glances sideways. Will feels Jane tense beside him. Mike does not move from his place beside his father.
His hand raises, as if being dragged by strings controlled by the Lord himself. It does not gesture to the crowd, it does not gesture to the cross hanging above Will's head. It points him out and makes his presence known.
His friends shudder beside him and nervously look at one another. He stands rigid and frozen in fear.
“To sit in the house of God while entertaining corruption,” he continues, “is to spit at the manger.”
A few gasps flutter through the pews.
Will feels every eye turn before he fully understands that they are turning toward him.
“You,” the priest accuses, his voice dripping in evil corruption.
Will's pulse roars in his ears, his eyes meet the Priest's cold, dead gaze. His skin sticks uncomfortably to his clothes, his scalp tingles as a bead of sweat rolls down his temple.
Mike stands, un-moving, staring at him as if his gaze alone can pin him in place.
“You have been seen,” he says, voice tightening just enough to sharpen the edge of conviction. “You wander. You confuse others. You invite sin into places meant to shelter innocence.”
Will's arms fall limply to his sides, there's an absence where Jane's arm once pressed against his. He feels eyes digging into his skin, but he feels unable to turn his gaze away from the Priest.
“Repent,” the priest commands, his voice ringing in Will's ears.
Words get caught in his throat, his lips part but only a croak comes out.
“Repent before the rot you nurture spreads to those standing beside you.”
A collective inhale ripples through the sanctuary.
Mike's lips tighten. His fists clench at his sides. But he says nothing.
"Repent boy!"
Will moves before his brain can process what's happening. He's at the church doors, fumbling with the bolt he watched the tiny altar boy slip into place as eyes bore into his back and the priest shouts and howls.
"How dare you! How dare you come into our sanctioned palace, dragging your demons behind you-!"
The bolt drops with a clang and he swings the door open, cold night air washing over him like a body of water consuming him. He does not hear any more of the Priest's words, or the hurried footsteps of his friends following behind him.
He only hears the sudden, sharp shout of the Priest's son, "I told you he would not!"
I told you he would not.
Will understands that this church is not a house of mercy. It is not the house of God. It is the house of the devil and his descendant, and they have pierced his soul with their hateful fangs at last.