u/B_W_Byers2233

1 Timothy 3:1 KJV

[1] This is a true saying, If a man desire the office of a bishop, he desireth a good work.

When I was a young man, I used to be a pastor. When I was fairly new to being a pastor, our congregation was small. Seventy five people on a good Sunday, maybe a hundred or so on around Christmas and Easter. We weren't the smallest in the area by any means, but we were in fact a small church. So I spent my afternoons working at the nearest Home Depot, so that I could have insurance and to supplement my pastor's salary and not be a monetary burden on my flock. After the coal mines went dry, the only places to work in our town were either Walmart or Home Depot, and I was happy to do it. I was single, which is uncommon for a pastor, so my expenses were low. Thankfully, on our church's property, there was a small parsonage that I got to live in. Besides, I was never in it for the money. I was just answering the calling placed on my life. I'd only been out of seminary for three months. For the most part, it was pretty straightforward. After work, I'd go home and work on my sermon. Before work I would visit the shut-ins, and try my best to get a little rest.

Not only was I fresh out of seminary from a fairly reputable Baptist leaning college in South Carolina, I was brand new to the area where I was pastoring. Being from Northern Michigan, rural Appalachia, specifically central West Virginia, may have been a foreign country to me. In our small town, we were one of seven churches. There was a Methodist church and a Lutheran church that were almost as old as the town itself. A Catholic Church that only had a few attendees, being as this was mostly Protestant country. We were one of three “Baptist” churches, though none of us were part of any convention or official denomination. And then there was the Full Gospel: Light On The Hill Holiness Spirit Filled Church. Or as you might refer to them, the Pentecostal church. They were your typical tongues speaking, revival having, and hands laying old school church. They didn't have a building, but rather a big gathering tent that they met in. No matter if there was rain or shine, snow or heat waves. They were in that tent down in the valley.

The rest of us pastors, and even the priest Father Sebastian Jacobi at the Catholic church would often meet on Saturday mornings before his evening Mass for what we called Bibles and breakfast at the local diner. Mostly we'd all just take turns reading a passage, discuss said passage, and on occasion we'd get into, albeit, heated but always friendly debates. It was a joy to come alongside others who felt the pressures of the office of pastor. But Brother Bill, as he insisted we call him, always refused to join us.

“Sorry y'all, but I must be about my Father's business.” He'd say with that ear to ear grin whenever we invited him to join us, but we would always ask whenever we saw him in the neighborhood Walmart.

He was a friendly guy if I'm being honest, but he wasn't the most sociable person. Other than buying his weekly groceries, the only thing I'd ever seen him do was pace up and down each and every row of chairs under that tent. He'd pray under his breath muttering what I’d perceived as mostly gibberish, but every now and then he'd mutter phrases like, well glory, hallelujah, and yes Father I thank you for your goodness. For what he lacked in personality, he made up for with ceaseless prayer.

For the first few months, everything was about as humdrum as you could imagine. Meet with my pastor friends, visit the shut-ins, work, preach, repeat. It wasn't until I noticed one of my congregants was missing one hot July Sunday evening.

“Hey Maryanne, where's your sister tonight?” I asked a woman who was just a few years my senior.

“Well pastor Wyman, Charlotte figured she'd try out the Full Gospel church down in the valley this evening." She replied with a bit of a huff on her voice.

You see, Charlotte and Maryanne were both living together in their folks place ever since they'd passed away. Their father, Hunter Ray, had a heart attack when they were both teens. An unfortunate consequence of his drinking, smoking, and eating habits. Their poor mother Alice, who was already doing most of the breadwinning by that point, decided that was the end of their generational curse. Even though Sundays were her only day off from her cashier gig at Walmart, she'd take her kids to church and dedicate their lives to the Lord. After all three of them had gotten saved and baptized, yet another tragedy befell them. Poor Alice had gotten diagnosed with a brain tumor.

Unfortunately it was too late to operate, and even with Alice's health insurance, there was no way for her to afford chemo. That didn't stop the church from pooling all their measly earnings together and helping pay for it anyways. It was a long hard battle that Alice fought valiantly, but in the end, she passed away at the young age of forty two. This didn't shake the faith of her young daughters who found themselves owning and paying for a double wide at the ages of nineteen and sixteen. Both Maryanne and Charlotte went straight to work at Walmart and Home Depot to put food on their tables and money in the bills account. However, tragedy struck them once again.

One Sunday, about a year and a half before I took over the church, they were on their way to the evening service. The sun was low, but they could see well enough. It was a lovely evening in June, so the sisters decided to walk the two miles and enjoy nature after being cooped up in their house. As they were walking along, they heard a car barreling towards them, but they were too slow. Charlotte, who was walking nearest the road, was struck by a drunk driver. The drunk driver turned out to be the old pastor of their little church.

Once again, everyone in the congregation gathered around them and helped fund Charlotte's hospital bills, well, everyone except the pastor. The doctors and the surgeons put everything back together as best they could, but nothing could fix the crushed T12 vertebrae. By some miracle of God, yet again the girl's faith wasn't shaken. From that day on, Charlotte was a paraplegic waiting on her miracle.

Maryanne continued, “Brother Bill has been pestering her for months about going on down to one of their healing services. Says he can restore her by the Blood.”

I wasn't convinced by all that holy roller nonsense, but I replied, “Well if it be God's will, I sure hope she's healed.”

We then went outside to catch some fresh air before heading to our homes. It was a still night, the moths were doing their dances to the hum and gentle strobing of the lamp post. That's when we heard a voice calling out to us from the shadows.

“Maryanne! Maryanne! He did it! Oh thank you Lord, he did it!” The voice yelled.

We turned around to see her. We saw Charlotte, running full speed at her sister.

“Charlotte? Oh Jesus!” Maryanne cried out with tears streaming down her face.

I couldn't believe my eyes. I had just seen Charlotte that morning in her wheelchair, but there she was now, running.

After gathering herself Maryanne said, “How can this be? What happened?”

Charlotte went on to explain to us that by the time she had gotten down into the valley off the bus there wasn't enough room for her in the tent. The service was already in full swing, as the music and hollering were so loud she could hear it echoing all around the valley. So she almost turned away. Then Brother Bill halted the service with a single hand in the air. From the very front of the tent she heard him call to her. The crowd in front of her parted like the sea parted before Moses. She began to wheel herself forward, but she could feel someone pushing it from behind. However, when she looked, there wasn't a soul pushing. The silence, she said, was almost as unbearable as that singing a wailing they were doing. They all just stared at her.

“You missed communion sister.” Brother Bill said to her with the cup and bread extended to her. “Go on hun. Take it.”

Not wanting to be rude, she took the cup and the bread and consumed them. The whole of the gathering began clapping and exclamating phrases that she was unused to in her conservative Baptist Church. They all began laying hands on her and speaking in tongues. Some even began sprinting all around and jerking back and forth, this being a common symptom of being “slain in the Spirit.” They were pushing on her and pulling on her. She felt like a buoy during a storm on the waves. Then once again, Brother Bill put his hand up and they all stopped.

With a gentle hand extended to her from his little stage he said, “Charlotte, rise up and walk.”

“And then I stood up out of my wheelchair and walked onto that stage!” She said to us finishing her story.

I wasn't sure what to say, so all I said was, “I can't believe it. You're healed…”

Don't get me wrong, I was overjoyed for her to be walking again, but I was grappling with it all. I had read about miracles in the Bible, but every experience I'd had with modern miracles were from some mega church pastor with white’people’dreads pretending to lengthen people's legs. This was something completely foreign to me.

Acts 3:7 KJV

[7] And he took him by the right hand, and lifted him up: and immediately his feet and ankle bones received strength.

During that week, the whole town was buzzing with the news. Everyone from the faithful to the non faithful were now suddenly interested in the little tent church. I did my visitations with one of our shut-ins, an old man named Isaiah, when Brother Bill became the topic of discussion.

“So is it true, pastor? Is little Charlotte really healed?” He inquired of me with hopeful eyes.

“She's out of her chair and walking again, Mr Isaiah.” For some reason, I just couldn't bring myself to say she was healed.

“Y’know I always thought that Brother Bill was a bit of a charlatan, but this seems to be a sign from the Lord?” He questioned with the biggest grin I'd ever seen.

I nodded unsure and we talked for a while longer, and we read the Scriptures together like we'd become accustomed to. The wisdom that came from the mouth of this older brother often taught me more than I could teach him. It was such a shame that this lovely old man was cooped up in this little shack of a house. I helped him get up out of his hospital bed to go to the restroom a few times, brought in the groceries I always brought for him, and prayed with him. Then it was time to go to the next house.

Before I left, I gave him a recorded copy of this week's sermon like I always did and said, “I'll see you next week Mr Isaiah.”

“Actually pastor Wyman, I've arranged for Brother Bill to come next week… I hope that's ok with you.” He sheepishly said.

I tried to mask the hurt and concern and replied, “Mr Isaiah, as long as you're being visited and taken care of physically and spiritually, I'll be just as happy.”

He smiled at me and we said our farewells and I was off to the next house. Mrs Wendy Bergice was an old widow who used to attend our church during the previous pastor's tenure. Because of being on a fixed income in a poor area, she couldn't afford good and nutritious food, and because of her lot in life and her insulin rationing, she had to have her left leg amputated. I'd made it a goal to deliver her good food and some money from our benevolent funds at church so she could afford her insulin. Even though she'd stopped her attendance due to the horrific events that befell Charlotte, I had decided to show her that our church hadn't given up on her. It was quite the challenge being as she didn't know me from Adam, but I was just trying to be a faithful shepherd to the flock God had given me. But as I came around the curve of her long gravel driveway, I saw a familiar truck with a bumper sticker that said, “Are you washed in the blood?” It was Brother Bill's truck.

Something in me changed. Before, whenever I saw Brother Bill I'd just say hello and goodbye as we walked past each other, and throw out the obligatory invite to our Bible study. Nothing deeper. Just common decency This time, there was a twinge of fear almost. I was certainly anxious about whatever conversation might get struck up between us. I almost decided to back up out of Mrs Bergice’s driveway when he came out. He was just grinning from ear to ear as he flagged me down.

“Good morning pastor! And ain't it just the finest morning you've ever seen?” He said to me as I stepped out of my beater truck.

“I certainly don't have anything to complain about, pastor.” I replied in that fake saccharine voice I'd learned to put on in uncomfortable situations.

A gentle summer's breeze came over the mountain. I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot on Mrs Bergice’s gravel driveway, looking for any way to not continue this conversation. But Brother Bill wasn't having any of that. He had command over this conversation, and he was looking to keep it going.

“Come now pastor, you know by now I don't like being called that,” He chuckled, “Just go ahead and call me Brother Bill!”

I smiled and nodded awkwardly and said, “How's Mrs Bergice doing? I know she was struggling to kick that chest cold of hers.”

He smiled as he came within arms reach of me, placing a kind, but overbearing hand on my shoulder, “She's still in rough shape, but I told her to come on down to the tent this coming Sunday evening. I'll take good care of her.”

“Well Bill, I-” I began but was cut off.

“Brother. Brother Bill.” He said with a firm look.

“Brother Bill… I'm just gonna head in and see her. If you don't mind.”

With his eyes locked so solidly on mine he said, “I don't think that's a good idea. She's resting now. You ought to just head on home now. Have a blessed day pastor Wyman.” Then he smiled, started up his truck, and left.

Just as quickly as he went around the curve and was out of sight, I ran over to her door and went in to check on her. When I opened her door, I saw her. She was on the ground, writhing and wriggling as though she was having a violent seizure. There was slightly jaundiced and viscous foam coming out of the corners of her mouth. Where her leg was amputated below the knee, there was a thick puddle of green puss mingled with browned blood.

I ran over to and knelt down beside her and yelled out to her, “Oh Jesus! Mrs Bergice! Can you hear me?”

She halted her convulsions for just a moment and began to babble what sounded like nonsense. Her voice then cleared and she spoke.

“I can see it, pastor! Oh God, I can see it!” She exclaimed with shouts of adoration.

“What? What do you see!?” I pleaded with her.

“The shekinah of the Lord! Oh pastor, it's beautiful! I saw the fire of the Spirit engulf him from foot to head!” She wept and went straight back to babble and her convulsions.

I bolted over to her phone she kept by her rocking chair and called the ambulance. I went back and knelt beside her while we waited for them to arrive. It felt like hours, but in reality it took them a mere ten minutes to get from the hospital to her home on the mountain. Once I heard the sirens, I ran out to meet them.

“She's in there on the floor! I'm not sure what happened, but I think she-” I tried to get out before they cut me off.

“Out of the way sir!” They yelled as they pushed past me.

I followed them inside, praying to God that she was still breathing. What we saw was truly unbelievable. When we had gotten back through the door, she was standing. Not leaning against a wall, or using her crutches. She was standing. On both of her legs. All evidence of any kind of bodily fluids were erased, as if an entire cleaning crew had managed to come in and scrub it all away in the few moments I'd stepped away. As she stood before us she began to weep and laugh.

She threw her hands in the air and cried, “Thank you Jesus! He truly is your messenger!”

If Charlotte's legs working had the town a buzz, Mrs Bergice’s leg growing back had the whole town burning with excitement. Everywhere I went, all I would hear was chatter about Charlotte and Mrs Bergice. Even when I was at home, my phone was ringing off the hook from my flock calling and asking me if it was true. I wasn't the only church leader in the area who was having these issues. That next Saturday at Bibles and breakfast, only I and Father Jacobi were present. We tried to call the other pastors from the phones at the diner, but they wouldn't answer. Before I could even get a word in, Father Jacobi began talking.

“I don't know what's going on, Wyman. I couldn't get a hold of Ross, Kevin, or Dale. You have any luck?” He asked me with a defeated air.

“I got nothing from Mark or Jonathan.” I sighed.

We sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. The kindly old waitress brought us out our coffee and food. Now, with hindsight, I know we were both thinking the same thing, but neither of us wanted to say it out loud. We were hoping against hope that this spark of interest that Brother Bill had introduced into our small community wasn't going to become a flame of controversy. I was about to break the silence, but Father Jacobi beat me to it.

“Mary mother of Christ…” He said as he stared out the window, “You don't think they've fallen for Brother Bill’s bull do you?”

I paused before I spoke, “I’m not fully sure if we can call it bull to be honest. I was there when Charlotte came running to her sister and when Mrs Bergice grew her leg back.”

Father Jacobi began to grimly chuckle as he said, “Wyman, I'm an old man. I've been dealing with those snake handlers since before you were in diapers. They were always your garden variety Pentecostals, going on and on about the healing power of the blood of Christ and speaking in the Holy Ghost. It never bothered me too much,” He paused to take a swig of his now room temperature coffee, “But this Brother Bill… he's something else.”

“I don't know what to do here,” I interjected, “Clearly he's helped Charlotte and Mrs Bergice, but I can't help but have a strange feeling about it. When the Apostles did their miracles, it legitimized the message of the Gospel. When Brother Bill does his acts,” I faltered for a brief moment and then continued, “It just doesn't feel holy.”

Father Jacobi and I picked at our food for a little while longer, just trying to think of what to say to each other. Father Jacobi then broke the news to me.

“My parishioners haven't been coming to Mass. We were always the minority here. Being Catholic in the middle of nowhere in the Bible belt ain't exactly a walk in the park. Because of that, we were tight knit, so it was rare for any of my congregants to miss daily Mass.” He began to tear up a little as he carried on with what felt like a closing statement in a devastating court case. “All this last week, not a single member showed up. Not one. When I saw one of them at Walmart, I asked where she'd been. And guess where she told me she was…”

A piece of me wanted to assure him that that could mean anything, but I think even then I knew that they were lost. He went on to tell me about how he told the Bishop of the Wheeling-Charleston Diocese all about our little town's problems. The Bishop had told him to shutter the Church for the time being and to go and enjoy retirement.

“I'm leaving, Wyman. The Diocese is sending someone to investigate the situation and evaluate what they ought to do.” His voice shook as he spoke. “I will miss this place. But I must go.”

We continued our meal that had gone as cold as our mood, when I noticed people running by the windows. Their voices were frantic and full of confusion. I caught bits and pieces of what they were saying and deduced that a boy in the parking lot had been hurt. Father Jacobi and I also jumped up to help when a woman poked her head in.

“Call an ambulance!” She shrieked as she quickly ran back outside.

Father Jacobi ran to the phone and I ran outside to see what was going on. When I arrived on the scene, I saw the boy laying on the ground in a pool of his own bile. On his leg, there was a large red welt that had formed, and in the center, two small punctures. The boy had been bitten by a snake of some kind. The crowd that had formed around him were all talking and screaming over each other, terrified over what was about to happen. Then I saw him.

Brother Bill, who had made his way to the center of the crowd beside the boy, held up the copperhead in his hand. I watched as the snake struck his hand over and over, injecting its horrendous venom into the man. Then he spoke.

“Brothers and sisters! Fear not! This serpent, who seeks to kill this poor boy, will never harm anyone ever again!” He had a wild ferocity in his voice. “Stretch out your hands brothers and sisters! Kneel down and pray for him.”

Everyone around me began to kneel around the boy and Brother Bill. With hands outstretched, speaking in tongues, they shouted glories and adoration upon Brother Bill. Everywhere I turned the people of our town knelt down in submission to this man.

“Why aren't you helping!? We need to help the boy!” I shrieked, trying to knock some sense into them.

Brother Bill locked eyes with me and pointed at me and spoke, “Wyman! You who claim to be a leader in the faith! Oh ye of little faith! Behold! I shall make him whole!”

He then grabbed the boy by the neck with the hand that still had the copperhead embedded in it, and raised him up. The boy began to convulse, foam and vomit poured from his mouth. The fang marks on his leg oozed a translucent yellow liquid as his welt began to shrink. The crowd around me began to sway and rock, their cries of glory and prayers of babble growing louder and louder. They grabbed onto me, trying to pull me down to my knees. Their eyes were wild with rage, all directed at me. I fought them, I stayed my ground. Just when I thought my muscles would snap and my bones would break, Brother Bill spoke again.

“Come and see, my brothers and sisters! He is restored!”

We all looked and saw the boy standing beside Brother Bill. He was healed. The cries of adoration turned into a roar of praise. I thought that Brother Bill was done, but then he turned his attention to the snake.

“As for you, oh serpent, you shall never harm one of my children again!” He commanded.

He took the copperhead, and began to beat it upon the asphalt. With the fury of an abusive parent, he whipped it over and over, until he finally threw it down, and struck it with his heel. He threw his hands in the air, and roared into the sky.

“Look here!” He yelled as he picked it up.

The snake began to harden, becoming ridged as a stick. I then watched in horror as the snake had not only become as stiff as a branch, but became an actual branch on the ground. Brother Bill then picked it up like an old man with a walking stick, and pounded the butt of it on the ground. He pointed to me and tried to speak, but I ran out of there as quickly as I could.

Mark 16:18 KJV

[18] they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.

I didn't stop running until I had made it back to the parsonage. I slammed the door behind me and slumped down and leaned against its coldness trying to catch my breath. For the third time in a week I witnessed the impossible. I wracked my brain trying to rationalize what I'd seen, but I couldn't. I could maybe explain the boy recovering. Maybe Brother Bill slipped some antivenom to the boy, but I knew that was a stretch. What I absolutely could not explain was witnessing the copperhead becoming a walking stick. Whatever Brother Bill was doing, it was very much real. Then the way he looked at me. Full of hate, defiance, and triumph, as though he'd won some kind of fight that I was unaware of. I decided that I had to get out and drive as far away as I could.

I grabbed a duffle bag and began to pack. I didn't have much time, so I was just going to pack the essentials. Just as I was finishing packing, I heard my phone ringing in the kitchen. I didn't want to answer it, but my mind immediately went to my congregation. How could I have been so selfish to forget about them? Surely not all of them had fallen victim to Brother Bill's foolishness. That's when I resolved that I was going to stay one more night. I would warn them about Brother Bill and implore them to get out of town for a while, stay with family, or go get a motel, anything other than staying. I had no idea what was going to happen, but I knew it wasn't going to be anything good.

The ringing phone snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts, and I went over to answer it.

“H-hello?” I nervously said into the receiver.

“Oh thank Gabriel! It's Sebastian, I saw you hightail it out of there. Is everything ok?” Father Jacobi quickly asked.

“I have no idea… Tomorrow I'm gonna warn my congregants about Brother Bill, and leave.” I explained.

I waited for a response, but Father Jacobi had gone silent.

“Father Jacobi?” Nothing. “Sebastian?” No response. I was about to ask again when someone spoke to me through the phone.

“Sorry Pastor Wyman, Father can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message after the beep.” Then, Brother Bill made a beeping sound into the phone and hung up.

I knew then that it was time to go. I grabbed what I had packed, threw it in the passenger side of my truck, and started driving as fast as I could to put as much asphalt between me and my little town as possible. But as I was driving, I noticed something odd. No one else was on the roads. I slowed down so I could look into parking lots to see if anyone was there. I was the only person out on a Saturday evening. I then realized where everyone was. They were at Brother Bill's tent. I had made my way to the town border, and I had a choice to make. To this day, I'm still not sure if I made the correct choice.

The sun had just set as I drove down into the valley. The field of dew kissed grass that surrounded the enormous white pole tent was full of cars and trucks, bikes and wagons. Even with my doors closed, I could hear the deluge of voices. Speaking in tongues, yelling glories and praises, and general sounds of the crowds. I parked the truck and opened my door. Before I walked up, I stuffed a tire iron into my pants, just in case.

Heads began to turn towards me as I made my trek towards the tent. The faces of the masses were full of fear, joy, and grief all at the same time. Smiles stretched from ear to ear. Eyes wild as a cornered animal in a hen house. Tears poured forth from those same eyes as water falls from a cliff into a river. They looked exhausted and hungry. The crowd, unable to cram themselves completely into the tent, began to part before me. I pressed on toward the tent with my heart thumping in my throat.

“Need a hand brother?” A familiar voice rang out to me.

I turned to the voice and stuttered out, “Father Jacobi?”

As a proud Catholic priest, Father Jacobi typically wore his Cassock everywhere in town. But on that particular night, he was wearing a simple linen shirt and some bibs. His face was plastered with the same expression as every other soul in the crowd, but his eyes screamed to me that what he was doing was not of his own volition.

“You're just in time for the service.” He croaked out through his horrid grin.

He grabbed my shoulder with an iron grip as he guided me through the congregation to a seat at the very front of the tent and pushed me down into it. Then the worship band began to play. The fiddler played a long and mournful note on his strings and the pianist started up a slow and familiar tune. The whole crowd sang in one discordant voice, “Are You Washed In The Blood of The Lamb?”

By this point, I'd realized I'd made the wrong choice, and I scanned the area looking for any route of egress. As I looked about me, I saw the faces of Maryanne, Charlotte, Mrs Bergice, Mr Isaiah, and that boy who was bitten by the copperhead. They were all singing along with the rest of them. Then booming THUMP THUMP THUMP came from the small wooden stage and I saw Brother Bill gripping his snakewood staff.

The tent was as silent as a crypt as he held up his hands and said, “Brothers and sisters, y'all know why we're here tonight. Y'all’ve seen what I can do for you, and now I have one last act to show y'all.” He stretched out his hand towards Mrs Bergice and said, “Come to me sister.” In a grave tone.

Mrs Bergice stood from somewhere in the audience and began to walk to him. All of those around her touched her as she made her trek to the stage. Some touches seemed loving, while others were tugs and pulls, almost as though they were begging her to stay where she was. As soon as she stepped foot on the stage, the crowd began to clap in unison and on the same beat.

I looked to my right where Father Jacobi was sitting on the ground and asked him, “What happened to you? Are you ok?”

He didn't respond. He just looked at me with that twisted expression that was shared by everyone. Whatever Brother Bill had done to him seemed to be irreversible. I turned my attention back to the stage and Mrs Bergice was kneeling before Brother Bill.

“Wendy Bergice, do you love me more than money?” He asked of her with a gentle smile.

“Yes Brother.”

“Wendy Bergice, do you love me more than shelter?”

“Of course Brother!” She practically yelled at him.

“Wendy Bergice, do you love me more than breathing?” He asked her one last time.

“Brother Bill, you know this is true!” She said as she grabbed the hem of his sweat stained linen shirt.

He smiled, gave her his hand, stood her up and said, “Then be washed.”

From his pocket he produced an old and crooked blade. It had symbols on it that I didn't recognize, and the metal of which seemed to be copper instead of steel. He drug the blade across his upper forearm and a slow trickle of blood seeped up through the gash. The audience began to methodically stomp their feet slowly to some hidden rhythm. While everyone was distracted, I shot up to run, but Brother Bill had other plans.

With snakewood staff stretched towards me, he shouted, “Boy, if you don't stay put right now, you'll miss the whole thing!”

His sudden burst of rage threw me for a loop. I'd actually never seen Brother Bill angry before. So I froze in place, horrified by my lack of actions. Then it came to me like a vision in the night. It was my inaction that led us all to that tent. I could've warned everyone, or at least told them to be wise about Brother Bill. I failed everyone.

“Try and pay attention, friend.” He said, returning to his typical jovial self.

I watched as he dipped his index and middle finger into his wound. When he drew them back out, they were coated in the viscous blood, and he placed them upon Mrs Bergice's forehead, christening her into his fold.

“Finally my brothers! At last my sisters! We are whole!” He said as they all began to hoot and holler and cheer. “And now incline your ears for my final sermon. Then I will reveal to you my full glory.”

The fiddler struck up his fiddle again, a long droning minor note to set the mood for him.

“In the old days, before I crossed that ocean, I was something of a pastor in my home country. That was indeed a long time ago now…” He paused, remembering his good old days. “People used to bring me their sick and their wounded. By the sweet power of the blood, I'd heal them. Just like how I healed you! Amen?”

“AMEN!” Everyone called back in unison.

“Well glory! Hallelujah! And brethren, I'd even raise the dead!” He screamed into the night as everyone around me shouted praise and accolades upon him.

“Back in my day, my children, people used to bring me gifts of gold, fatted lambs, and sacrifices. People used to kill for my blessings. People used to die, just for my touch.” He yelled in genuine anger, as though he was angry at us in the audience. “And now we have a non-believer amongst us. A heretic! A blasphemer!”

“Kill him!” They all roared, like the sound of an ocean.

I needed to leave at any cost, but fear froze me. How far could I possibly have made it? I resigned myself to whatever date was left for me. “Oh Jesus. Preserve me.” Was all I could say. I fell silent like a lamb before the slaughter.

“Now children,” he purred, “We need not do that. Let's just show him. Maryanne, bring it to me.”

Maryanne came forward with a small wooden box gripped against her breast. She knelt down before Brother Bill and presented it to him. He smiled at her and opened the box and pulled out an old revolver.

“Behold!” He said as he pressed the barrel against his temple. “Blessed are those who believe without seeing, but you shall see!”

My ears began to ring. My heart rate dropped. Bile threatened to escape from my throat. Brother Bill was dead. For what felt like hours, we all sat as still and as cold as stone statues. His body laid limp in a pool of blood on that small rickety stage. Then he stirred. The snakewood staff that had fallen beside him was once again in his grasp. He slowly rose, leaning heavily upon the staff. As he stood straight up, the entire crowd erupted in tongues speaking, glories shouting, and praise giving to this man.

Brother Bill turned to me, smiled, and said, “Grab him.”

Father Jacobi went to grab me, but I grabbed my tire iron and struck him on the head. I ran to my truck, weeping the entire way, and drove out of there. I didn't stop driving until I hit the Ohio border. I looked down and saw that my tank was almost on E, so I pulled into a gas station on the nearest exit. I pulled up to a pump and everything began to replay in my head. I knew I had to tell someone, so when I went in to pay, I planned to ask if I could use their phone. But when I went in, I saw that the cashier was watching the news, and what I saw broke my heart.

“Local pastor, simply known as ‘Brother Bill' seems to be the sole survivor of a freak fire that took place in the valley where they met for their evening revival. The fire was started when their pole tent was suddenly struck by lightning, causing all the vehicles that surrounded the tent to overheat and catch fire as well as have a small gasoline explosion, even though there was no sign of any storm. Hopefully we will have more details during our AM show. More at eleven.”

That bastard. He put all those folks in danger. Everyone I knew and loved from that town. Burnt to a crisp in an “act of God.”

The cashier, startled at my presence said, “Oh sorry sir. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No,” I said, “just twenty on five.”

I haven't heard anything about Brother Bill, or anything related to that little Appalachian town that I briefly lived in and loved. I know he's still out there. And I pray to God I never see him again.

Matthew 7:15 KJV

[15] Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.

Grandmother's house

Grandmother's House (A Choose Your Own Adventure Story)

Comrades, we've run out of twinkies and Mt Dew