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I Moved Into A Cult Town
I stared at the smoldering remains of my home from the back of a police cruiser, tears welling in my eyes as I lost everything dear to me. My wife. My kids. Our dogs. Every last possession. Gone with the strike of a match. We were never welcome in that neighborhood, let alone the rest of the state. I was a damned fool to think I could fight back against those monsters.
It’s been a few weeks since the fire. I’m staying with a relative in Maine, trying to piece together what’s left of my life, but I needed to warn people. Good people. Decent people. Stay far, far away from Southern Connecticut.
At first, the town seemed perfect. The parks were beautiful, and the homes were affordable within my tax bracket. But something about the neighborhood we lived in was off. It was a hive of racists. Not just the everyday kind you ignore by shutting your blinds, but something older, deeper, and far more sinister.
My name is Arthur. I’m a 35-year-old auditor from Maine. When an accounting firm in Connecticut offered me a position, it seemed like a solid opportunity. My wife agreed, so we started searching for a home near my new job. She was a nurse and found a hospital hiring RNs, making the transition easier.
We found a three-story house in a quiet cul-de-sac, well within our price range. The schools were highly rated, and a gorgeous park for walking our dogs was just minutes away. The neighborhood had that slow, easygoing feel, filled with retirees and folks settling into their pensions. Everything seemed to be falling into place.
We couldn’t have been more wrong.
Two months ago, we moved in. The house was picturesque, nestled among a row of near-identical beige homes. Some had American flags waving from porches, others displayed tacky lawn decorations bearing true faith. At the time, I thought nothing of it. We spent a weekend unpacking and scrubbing the place down. My kids groaned about the work, but overall, the process was smooth. My wife, Mary, was already planning renovations—redoing the kitchen, repainting everything—but I wanted to wait until money started rolling in again.
Still, something about the neighborhood unsettled me. It was too quiet. No lawnmowers humming in the distance. No kids riding bikes. No one walking their dogs or going for morning jogs. Just silence.
That changed on Monday.
A knock at the door jolted me awake at dawn. I groggily threw on my robe and answered. Three men stood on my porch.
The one in front—mid-forties, balding, with deep crow’s feet around his eyes—smiled thinly. His sweater and slacks made him look like a country club regular. The two younger men behind him, one barely out of his teens and one barely in dressed similarly.
*“Hiya, neighbor,”* he greeted, his voice smooth. *“Saw you moved in. Sorry, we couldn’t welcome you sooner.”*
I nodded, still shaking off sleep. *“No problem. We’ve been busy unpacking.” I chuckled, “It’s like the Mt. Everest of boxes stuffed in our garage.*
*“Good, good,”* he murmured, his eyes lingering on me for a beat too long. *“Well, I should introduce myself. I’m Gary.”*
He extended a hand, and I shook it. His grip was uncomfortably firm, his skin unnaturally cold. It was flawless—no blemishes, no imperfections. There was a strange glow to him, the same unnatural radiance that clung to the boys standing behind him.
*“Nice to meet you. I’m Arthur.”* I said, trying to ignore the unease creeping into my gut. The two younger men, Isaac, the eldest, and Phillip, the youngest, were Gary’s sons. They both refused to shake my hand. They just stared. Silent. Unblinking.
Gary filled the silence, inviting us to Sunday’s church procession. He spoke of basking in Jesus’ light, his smile warm and unyielding. I muttered a halfhearted promise to consider it. He gave me his number before I finally closed the door.
I stared at the digits on my screen for a long moment before shoving my phone into my pocket.
The week passed uneventfully. Mary and I started our new jobs, struggling to find a babysitter until Gary offered Isaac’s services.
*“Town sweetheart,”* he’d said. *“Best babysitter on this side of the river.”*
He even insisted we take him up on the offer free of charge. I hesitated but eventually agreed.
Every morning, we laid out our kids’ allergies, dietary restrictions, and house rules. Jamie, our youngest, was severely allergic to nuts and prone to tantrums. Miriam, our tween, was a vegetarian and banned from screen time until homework was finished. I had my reservations, but Isaac handled them with ease. Dinner was made, the house was clean, and our little ones were satisfied. I felt a little off about letting him do housework, but we didn’t have much time to do it ourselves, and he’s a pretty good cook.
One more thing off our plate, so I ignored the unease.
Sunday came.
We weren’t religious, but we went anyway, wanting to show good faith to Gary, who invited us out.
We parked at the side of the road and walked a few feet to the building. The supposed church resembled an old townhouse, its white paint chipping at the edges. Stained glass windows loomed above, and heavy wooden doors towered above the steps, waiting to be opened.
Inside, the place was packed to the brim with raucous conversation filling the room. It felt as though the entire town was crammed into the pews—yet somehow, they fit perfectly, like pieces on a chessboard.
Then we stepped inside, and the room fell silent.
Not gradually. Not in hushed whispers.
Just silence.
A shiver ran down my spine. My better judgment screamed at me to turn around, but we pressed forward, slipping into a pew beside Gary’s family. That same unnaturally flawless quality was present in everyone—except for the elderly, whose wrinkles were the only signs of imperfection.
Miriam and Jamie waved at Isaac, but he only nodded. Judgemental stares were on our backs as we traversed the pale sea. We found a spot next to Gary's family, so we slid in and took a seat.
Gary shook my hand, nodding to me. As soon as he did, all eyes shifted from us, towards the front.
A man stepped out onto the altar, draped in black priest’s robes.
The priest moved with a slow, deliberate grace, his black robe barely shifting with each step. He was tall—unnervingly so—and unsettlingly thin, his movements eerily fluid, like a shadow creeping across the floor rather than a man. His face was hollow, cheekbones jutting sharply beneath his pale skin, and his sunken, dark eyes swept over the congregation with a piercing intensity that made my stomach tighten. Strangely, he was the only one who looked remotely human—aside from my family, of course. Yet, there was something off about him, as if he was being guided by unseen strings.
The air thickened.
The already silent room became almost oppressive. No shuffling feet, no coughs, no whispered prayers. It felt like time stopped, except for us and the Priest.
He reached the pulpit and placed his hands on either side, fingers long and bony against the aged wood. He didn’t open a Bible, didn’t glance at notes. He just stood there, letting the silence stretch until it felt unbearable. Then, in a voice that was smooth yet somehow jagged at the edges, he spoke.
*"Brothers and sisters, we gather today in His house, beneath His watchful gaze. But not all who enter come in His name."*
For a moment, a sense of wrongness crawled up my back. I felt something tighten in my throat, and when I turned to look around, no one was moving. No one so much as blinked.
*"Some come as strangers. Some come as outsiders. Some walk in under the pretense of faith, yet their hearts remain closed. They do not belong."*
The priest’s gaze met mine, for just a moment. *What the hell?* It could have been my imagination, but something was inherently wrong like I walked into a trap. My hands clenched into fists in my lap, and I subtly shifted in the pew, trying to make myself as small as possible.
Gary adjusted his neck, his jaw tightening, and was silent. Jamie and Miriam looked toward Mary and I, clearly confused. Isaac’s gaze was focused on the priest.
The priest’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
*"But the Lord sees all, and in time, all will be revealed."*
The congregation responded in unison, a single breathless voice: ***"Amen."***
I swallowed hard, looking around for a moment. Mary grasped my hand, mouthing ‘*What the hell?’* to me.
The tension in the room became palpable like the air itself had thickened with something unseen. I could hear my breathing, steady but shallow, as the priest’s gaze lingered again. A second too long.
He spread his arms, his robe billowing slightly, and spoke again.
*"We are gathered today not just to worship, but to remember. To reflect. To purge."*
That last word hung in the air, *purge. What does he mean?*
The congregation nodded in eerie synchronization. I watched as an older woman in the front row clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles turned white. A man beside her inhaled deeply through his nose and held the back of the pew for dear life.
I leaned toward Gary. *“What the hell is he talking about?”* I whispered, but before he could respond, the priest’s voice cut through the silence again.
*"Four years ago today, we were betrayed. Four years ago today, outsiders defiled what was sacred. Four years ago today, judgment was passed."*
I didn’t like the way he said *‘outsiders*.’ Something writhed in my gut, like a fish reeling on a hook.
*“Daddy?”* Jamie looked uneasily at me. Miriam seemed to have my same reaction, almost lurching into herself to be unseen. Mary wrapped her arm around mine, staying close to me. squeezing it for comfort. Isaac still stared. Philip’s eyes were widened, like a deer in headlights.
The priest exhaled slowly, deliberately, before continuing.
*"But the Lord, in His infinite wisdom, grants us tests. He sends us new trials, new visitors, new opportunities... to prove our devotion."*
And just like before, his eyes flickered toward us. This time, there was no mistaking it.
The congregation turned their heads in unison, their expressions blank but expectant. Like they were waiting. Like we were part of something we didn’t understand.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears.
Gary cleared his throat. *"Father Matthews, with all due respect, we—"*
The priest raised a hand, and Gary instantly fell silent. Not because he was afraid. No, that wasn’t it. It was something else. Like he physically couldn’t speak.
The priest smiled now, fully, his teeth too white, too even.
*"Let us pray."*
As the entire church lowered their heads in perfect, unnatural unison, I realized one thing with absolute certainty.
We should never have come here.
The grueling sermon lasted only an hour, but it felt like several. I was certain of it now—they had put a target on my—no, my family’s—backs. In all my years, I had encountered bigots before, but this was something far beyond a slur or a microaggression. I wasn’t just unwelcome. I was prey. Public enemy number one.
I decided not to speak to Gary for the rest of the day and stopped Isaac from babysitting. My kids were upset, but I couldn’t bring myself to trust that family right now.
When we got home, Mary sent the kids to their rooms. As soon as their doors shut, we both sank into our chairs at the kitchen table, the weight of our fears pressing down on us.
*“We can’t stay here, Mary. I—”*
She reached across the table, her hand resting on my forearm.
*“I know, Art. Those white people are batshit insane. I thought they were gonna lunge at us with pitchforks in there.”*
A small, weak laugh escaped me.
*“I don’t know how fast we can move,”* she murmured, rubbing her forehead. *“The debt we’ll rack up, and there’s no way we’d sell the house quickly enough.”*
*“There has to be something we can do,”* I said, my voice cracking—something that rarely happens. *“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. Or the kids.”*
She hesitated, then said, *“Maybe… maybe you should get a firearm. To protect us.”*
A gun? In this house? She knew how I felt about them—dangerous, unpredictable. But I couldn’t see another way. We weren’t well-off enough to pack up and leave, and we had no family nearby to fall back on.
With an arduous sigh, I squeezed her hand. *“Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I’ll apply. But it’s gonna take time. I’ll get… I don’t know, mace or something in the meantime.”*
She nodded slowly, her eyes softening. The fear that had clouded her face seemed to ease just a little. I offered her a small smile.
I will protect this family, no matter what.
The next day, I did as I said I would. Instead of going local, I went a town over to one of the gun stores. To be qualified, I had to take a safety course first, which wasn’t too bad. After the class, I got the certificate and trudged over to the police department to pick up all of the application forms. Then came the background check and fingerprinting.
When I was finished, they gave me the grim news about the wait time: 8–12 weeks. That meant I had to find other ways to defend my family in the meantime.
Luckily, home defense wasn’t an issue—thanks to the security system left by the previous owners. But I thought about buying mace… but what would that do against a mob of angry white people? I shook the thought out of my head and focused on staying under the radar, urging my family to do the same.
When I was on my way back to the house, my phone rang. It was Gary. I almost let it go to voicemail, but then I realized this was my chance to speak my mind.
I put it on speaker.
*“Uh, hey, it’s uh... Gary.”* He sounded unsure of himself, maybe even a little embarrassed.
*“What do you need?”* I retorted coldly.
*“I’m real sorry about the other day. They’re hesitant about newcomers at the church. You know how it goes with the older crowd. They haven’t seen a person of color in months, probably.”* He tried to sound apologetic, but the nonchalance in his voice made my blood boil.
*“What the fuck are they purging, Gary?”* I gripped the steering wheel, anger welling up in my gut.
*“It was... It was just a figure of spee-”*
“*You bullshit me again and I’ll hang up. Answer my goddamned question.”*
I could hear him take a deep breath like he was steeling himself.
*“I’ll tell you everything... Meet me at the pier around 9… I’ll bring drinks.”* Gary hung up the phone.
*What the hell is he trying to pull? And what is wrong with this town?* I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, the anger still simmering inside me. *What’s the worst that can happen? I could take a balding skinny guy on.*
Instead of going straight home, I drove to the local pier. The area was quiet, eerily still, with the lake water shimmering under the moonlight. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, and a few small wooden canoes and dinghies were docked, all tied to the posts. On the far end of the peer, I spotted Gary. He was sitting alone in the darkness, a thin stream of smoke curling from his lips. A case of canned beer rested at his feet. He waved me over, and I rolled my eyes as I started to approach.
*“Better be some goddamned coronas if you’re dragging me out here,”* I grumbled. As angry as I was, there was a part of me that found the whole situation absurdly amusing. Two men meeting in the cover of the night—like something out of a thriller novel.
*“You’ll have to settle with Coors,”* Gary called over, bending down to pick out a can of Coors Banquet and tossing it my way. I fumbled with the catch, barely managing to grab it. Staring at the can for a moment, I felt the weight of it in my hands.
*“So.. whaddya got for me?”* I popped the top of the can, letting the sound fizzle in the air, but not drinking yet.
Gary reached down and cracked open his beer, taking a slow sip before finally speaking.
*“They’re purging... Us.”* His words hung in the air, a shudder in his voice.
*“What?”* I shook my head, trying to discern what he meant.
*“Why do you think there’s so many whites here? It’s like a fucking Golden Corral for racist cultists.”* He ran a hand through his thinning hair, his eyes wide with something between fear and anger. *“They do some freaky shit here, man. Some fucked up shit. I can’t even describe it... That’s how fucked up it is!”*
I was stunned, the words barely registering. His body language was different now, his tone more frantic. This wasn’t the *‘Hiya Neighbor!’* guy from before. It was like everything was stripped away, and now I was seeing what was lying underneath.
“Hold on... Cultists? What the fuck are you talking about?”
*“Take another drink man. I can’t tell you this shit sober.”* Gary took another swig, his hand trembling as he held the can to his lips. I hesitated, but then sat down beside him, taking a deep breath before I drank.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. *“That fucking priest is a demon, man. He fucked up my life. My wife... God, my wife… It’s still so fucked up thinking about it.”* His voice wavered, and he ran his hand through his hair again, traumatized.
He looked up at me. *“I didn’t look like this a few years ago,”* he said, his voice quieter now.
*“What do you mean?”* I asked, unable to keep up with the conversation and its wild turns.
*“I... I was Black.”*
My hand slipped, and the beer in my grip crashed into the ground, spilling its ichor into the water. My hands wrapped around his collar, my anger rising. *“You’re fucking with me. I should beat the fuck out of you!”*
Gary didn’t flinch. His eyes were downcast; strangely calm as he pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open, showing a charred photo ID.
The man in the photo was Howard Miles, a 6’2” Black man with curly hair, spectacles, and a beard, looking to be in his 40s. The photo was partially charred, but it was clear it came from this state. They were uncannily similar-looking.
*“What.. what the fuck?” I backed away, letting go of him, feeling sick to my stomach. “Who the hell is that?”*
*“I fuckin’ told you, man. That’s me. Or.. that was me. I moved here with my wife and two kids four years ago. A neighbor invited us to church, just like I did to you. Same shit, different day. Though... Back then, they were…kinder.”* He wiped the sweat from his brow, his hand shaking.
*“We tried to fit in, tried to be good. For a while. I was trustworthy to them. But then, Father Matthews decided it was time to purge me. When I found out about it, I panicked. We packed up and drove as far as we could.”*
Gary’s voice faltered. He was crying, but there were no tears. Just the quiet sobs of a broken man.
*“We were driving all day… I pulled over to rest. Next thing I know..”* He stopped, swallowing hard.
“They dragged us to the altar. Looked like something straight out of hell. Every fuckin’ one of them was wearing those white gowns with the pointy hats. One by one, we went through the altar, like it was *eating* us. The next thing I know, I’m a completely different person. My wife didn’t come out of the altar, but my boys and I did. We were like fucking husks. After that Matthews told us our identities... What we did, how we acted, who our family was, and who our enemies were.”
I sat there, stunned, holding my head in my hands. “Phillip was different,” Gary continued, voice strained. “It’s like he remembers parts of his old life, but it’s like a cognitive dissonance thing. He’s too young to fully grasp what happened to him. Isaac embraced it. Fuckin’ sheep. That boy’s the eyes and ears of Matthews now. That’s why we’re out here. So he doesn’t listen in on us.”
My heart was racing, and I couldn’t make sense of the horrific story. This town, this place… It wasn’t just racism. This was something darker, way darker. It was pure evil. I leaned back against the pier, my head in my hands, trying to comprehend the weight of Gary’s words.
After everything he’d said, after everything he’d been through, there was no way this could be a lie. No way he was trying to lead me on. I had to trust him.
*“Wait… did Matthews do this to other people? And… how do you remember everything?”* Those questions weighed heavily in my consciousness. Maybe they were the key to saving this town, to understanding what was happening.
Gary’s expression hardened, but his eyes held a mixture of sorrow and resolve. *“Yeah, but I wouldn’t know who. Even back then, people were too damn secretive. I could never get close to them. Right now, we can only trust each other right about now, Arthur.”* He raised his hand to my shoulder, gripping it tightly.
*“And.. I remember who I was because of this pier,” he continued, his voice softening as his gaze drifted over the water. “When I was young, I fished on waters like these with my daddy. He used to tell me stories—about being in the Black Panther party, about his hate for those honkeys.” He mimicked the word, his tone bitter. So, when I came here to fish, everything started to come back. But, I can’t go back to who I was. Something deep inside me was lost in that altar, permanently.”*
I stared down for a moment, wracking my brain for anything. Any solution, any way to fight back. Then, an idea struck me.
*“What if we burn the church down?”*
Gary shot me a sharp look, his expression shutting down the thought. *“Fucking then what? We start holding hands or some shit?”*
“I don’t know man, if the altar’s fucking eating people, it’s probably alive, right? And it’s made of wood. At the very least they won’t be holding Sunday service anymore.” I shook my head, frustrated. It was *an* idea. *Something*. But, even if we pulled it off… wouldn’t they just come after us?
Gary sighed, shaking his head, “You’re not thinking clearly. Come on, let’s head home. Lock your car and you can go back for it in the morning.”
I suddenly remembered the lingering stench of alcohol on my breath. No wonder my thoughts were so scattered. What I needed was sleep. I fumbled in my pocket for my keys, locked the car, and fell in step beside Gary as we made our way back to the cul-de-sac.
Ten minutes later, we arrived.
“Don’t mention any of this to your wife or kids,” Gary muttered as he reached his doorstep, just next to mine. “Goodnight, Art.”
He unlocked his door, slipped inside, and shut it behind him. A second later, the porch light flicked off.
I exhaled sharply, stepping into my own house. The silence was thick, pressing. Glancing at my watch, I saw the time—3 a.m.
I kicked off my shoes and headed to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water before making my way upstairs to check on the kids.
Miriam and Jamie were fast asleep, their faces peaceful in the dim glow of the hallway light. I stood there for a moment, watching them, a deep, protective instinct rising in my chest. I would do whatever it took to keep those sick bastards from ever laying a hand on them. They deserved a life free from the grasp of whatever the hell was happening in this town.
Miriam had kicked off her blanket in her sleep. As I stepped forward to pull it back over her, my foot caught on something hard. I stifled a curse as I bent down, reaching for the object. It was metal—solid, heavier than I expected. My brow furrowed. I didn’t remember giving them anything like this.
I flicked on my watch, using its dim glow to get a better look.
A bronze disk sat in my palm, its edges lined with strange, almost ritualistic engravings. My breath hitched as my eyes locked onto the words at its center:
**"KU KLUX KLAN, 1865, PROPERTY OF KLALIFF MATTHEWS."**
*Isaac*.
#entertainment
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I stared at the smoldering remains of my home from the back of a police cruiser, tears welling in my eyes as I lost everything dear to me. My wife. My kids. Our dogs. Every last possession. Gone with the strike of a match. We were never welcome in that neighborhood, let alone the rest of the state. I was a damned fool to think I could fight back against those monsters.
It’s been a few weeks since the fire. I’m staying with a relative in Maine, trying to piece together what’s left of my life, but I needed to warn people. Good people. Decent people. Stay far, far away from Southern Connecticut.
At first, the town seemed perfect. The parks were beautiful, and the homes were affordable within my tax bracket. But something about the neighborhood we lived in was off. It was a hive of racists. Not just the everyday kind you ignore by shutting your blinds, but something older, deeper, and far more sinister.
My name is Arthur. I’m a 35-year-old auditor from Maine. When an accounting firm in Connecticut offered me a position, it seemed like a solid opportunity. My wife agreed, so we started searching for a home near my new job. She was a nurse and found a hospital hiring RNs, making the transition easier.
We found a three-story house in a quiet cul-de-sac, well within our price range. The schools were highly rated, and a gorgeous park for walking our dogs was just minutes away. The neighborhood had that slow, easygoing feel, filled with retirees and folks settling into their pensions. Everything seemed to be falling into place.
We couldn’t have been more wrong.
Two months ago, we moved in. The house was picturesque, nestled among a row of near-identical beige homes. Some had American flags waving from porches, others displayed tacky lawn decorations bearing true faith. At the time, I thought nothing of it. We spent a weekend unpacking and scrubbing the place down. My kids groaned about the work, but overall, the process was smooth. My wife, Mary, was already planning renovations—redoing the kitchen, repainting everything—but I wanted to wait until money started rolling in again.
Still, something about the neighborhood unsettled me. It was too quiet. No lawnmowers humming in the distance. No kids riding bikes. No one walking their dogs or going for morning jogs. Just silence.
That changed on Monday.
A knock at the door jolted me awake at dawn. I groggily threw on my robe and answered. Three men stood on my porch.
The one in front—mid-forties, balding, with deep crow’s feet around his eyes—smiled thinly. His sweater and slacks made him look like a country club regular. The two younger men behind him, one barely out of his teens and one barely in dressed similarly.
*“Hiya, neighbor,”* he greeted, his voice smooth. *“Saw you moved in. Sorry, we couldn’t welcome you sooner.”*
I nodded, still shaking off sleep. *“No problem. We’ve been busy unpacking.” I chuckled, “It’s like the Mt. Everest of boxes stuffed in our garage.*
*“Good, good,”* he murmured, his eyes lingering on me for a beat too long. *“Well, I should introduce myself. I’m Gary.”*
He extended a hand, and I shook it. His grip was uncomfortably firm, his skin unnaturally cold. It was flawless—no blemishes, no imperfections. There was a strange glow to him, the same unnatural radiance that clung to the boys standing behind him.
*“Nice to meet you. I’m Arthur.”* I said, trying to ignore the unease creeping into my gut. The two younger men, Isaac, the eldest, and Phillip, the youngest, were Gary’s sons. They both refused to shake my hand. They just stared. Silent. Unblinking.
Gary filled the silence, inviting us to Sunday’s church procession. He spoke of basking in Jesus’ light, his smile warm and unyielding. I muttered a halfhearted promise to consider it. He gave me his number before I finally closed the door.
I stared at the digits on my screen for a long moment before shoving my phone into my pocket.
The week passed uneventfully. Mary and I started our new jobs, struggling to find a babysitter until Gary offered Isaac’s services.
*“Town sweetheart,”* he’d said. *“Best babysitter on this side of the river.”*
He even insisted we take him up on the offer free of charge. I hesitated but eventually agreed.
Every morning, we laid out our kids’ allergies, dietary restrictions, and house rules. Jamie, our youngest, was severely allergic to nuts and prone to tantrums. Miriam, our tween, was a vegetarian and banned from screen time until homework was finished. I had my reservations, but Isaac handled them with ease. Dinner was made, the house was clean, and our little ones were satisfied. I felt a little off about letting him do housework, but we didn’t have much time to do it ourselves, and he’s a pretty good cook.
One more thing off our plate, so I ignored the unease.
Sunday came.
We weren’t religious, but we went anyway, wanting to show good faith to Gary, who invited us out.
We parked at the side of the road and walked a few feet to the building. The supposed church resembled an old townhouse, its white paint chipping at the edges. Stained glass windows loomed above, and heavy wooden doors towered above the steps, waiting to be opened.
Inside, the place was packed to the brim with raucous conversation filling the room. It felt as though the entire town was crammed into the pews—yet somehow, they fit perfectly, like pieces on a chessboard.
Then we stepped inside, and the room fell silent.
Not gradually. Not in hushed whispers.
Just silence.
A shiver ran down my spine. My better judgment screamed at me to turn around, but we pressed forward, slipping into a pew beside Gary’s family. That same unnaturally flawless quality was present in everyone—except for the elderly, whose wrinkles were the only signs of imperfection.
Miriam and Jamie waved at Isaac, but he only nodded. Judgemental stares were on our backs as we traversed the pale sea. We found a spot next to Gary's family, so we slid in and took a seat.
Gary shook my hand, nodding to me. As soon as he did, all eyes shifted from us, towards the front.
A man stepped out onto the altar, draped in black priest’s robes.
The priest moved with a slow, deliberate grace, his black robe barely shifting with each step. He was tall—unnervingly so—and unsettlingly thin, his movements eerily fluid, like a shadow creeping across the floor rather than a man. His face was hollow, cheekbones jutting sharply beneath his pale skin, and his sunken, dark eyes swept over the congregation with a piercing intensity that made my stomach tighten. Strangely, he was the only one who looked remotely human—aside from my family, of course. Yet, there was something off about him, as if he was being guided by unseen strings.
The air thickened.
The already silent room became almost oppressive. No shuffling feet, no coughs, no whispered prayers. It felt like time stopped, except for us and the Priest.
He reached the pulpit and placed his hands on either side, fingers long and bony against the aged wood. He didn’t open a Bible, didn’t glance at notes. He just stood there, letting the silence stretch until it felt unbearable. Then, in a voice that was smooth yet somehow jagged at the edges, he spoke.
*"Brothers and sisters, we gather today in His house, beneath His watchful gaze. But not all who enter come in His name."*
For a moment, a sense of wrongness crawled up my back. I felt something tighten in my throat, and when I turned to look around, no one was moving. No one so much as blinked.
*"Some come as strangers. Some come as outsiders. Some walk in under the pretense of faith, yet their hearts remain closed. They do not belong."*
The priest’s gaze met mine, for just a moment. *What the hell?* It could have been my imagination, but something was inherently wrong like I walked into a trap. My hands clenched into fists in my lap, and I subtly shifted in the pew, trying to make myself as small as possible.
Gary adjusted his neck, his jaw tightening, and was silent. Jamie and Miriam looked toward Mary and I, clearly confused. Isaac’s gaze was focused on the priest.
The priest’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
*"But the Lord sees all, and in time, all will be revealed."*
The congregation responded in unison, a single breathless voice: ***"Amen."***
I swallowed hard, looking around for a moment. Mary grasped my hand, mouthing ‘*What the hell?’* to me.
The tension in the room became palpable like the air itself had thickened with something unseen. I could hear my breathing, steady but shallow, as the priest’s gaze lingered again. A second too long.
He spread his arms, his robe billowing slightly, and spoke again.
*"We are gathered today not just to worship, but to remember. To reflect. To purge."*
That last word hung in the air, *purge. What does he mean?*
The congregation nodded in eerie synchronization. I watched as an older woman in the front row clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles turned white. A man beside her inhaled deeply through his nose and held the back of the pew for dear life.
I leaned toward Gary. *“What the hell is he talking about?”* I whispered, but before he could respond, the priest’s voice cut through the silence again.
*"Four years ago today, we were betrayed. Four years ago today, outsiders defiled what was sacred. Four years ago today, judgment was passed."*
I didn’t like the way he said *‘outsiders*.’ Something writhed in my gut, like a fish reeling on a hook.
*“Daddy?”* Jamie looked uneasily at me. Miriam seemed to have my same reaction, almost lurching into herself to be unseen. Mary wrapped her arm around mine, staying close to me. squeezing it for comfort. Isaac still stared. Philip’s eyes were widened, like a deer in headlights.
The priest exhaled slowly, deliberately, before continuing.
*"But the Lord, in His infinite wisdom, grants us tests. He sends us new trials, new visitors, new opportunities... to prove our devotion."*
And just like before, his eyes flickered toward us. This time, there was no mistaking it.
The congregation turned their heads in unison, their expressions blank but expectant. Like they were waiting. Like we were part of something we didn’t understand.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears.
Gary cleared his throat. *"Father Matthews, with all due respect, we—"*
The priest raised a hand, and Gary instantly fell silent. Not because he was afraid. No, that wasn’t it. It was something else. Like he physically couldn’t speak.
The priest smiled now, fully, his teeth too white, too even.
*"Let us pray."*
As the entire church lowered their heads in perfect, unnatural unison, I realized one thing with absolute certainty.
We should never have come here.
The grueling sermon lasted only an hour, but it felt like several. I was certain of it now—they had put a target on my—no, my family’s—backs. In all my years, I had encountered bigots before, but this was something far beyond a slur or a microaggression. I wasn’t just unwelcome. I was prey. Public enemy number one.
I decided not to speak to Gary for the rest of the day and stopped Isaac from babysitting. My kids were upset, but I couldn’t bring myself to trust that family right now.
When we got home, Mary sent the kids to their rooms. As soon as their doors shut, we both sank into our chairs at the kitchen table, the weight of our fears pressing down on us.
*“We can’t stay here, Mary. I—”*
She reached across the table, her hand resting on my forearm.
*“I know, Art. Those white people are batshit insane. I thought they were gonna lunge at us with pitchforks in there.”*
A small, weak laugh escaped me.
*“I don’t know how fast we can move,”* she murmured, rubbing her forehead. *“The debt we’ll rack up, and there’s no way we’d sell the house quickly enough.”*
*“There has to be something we can do,”* I said, my voice cracking—something that rarely happens. *“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. Or the kids.”*
She hesitated, then said, *“Maybe… maybe you should get a firearm. To protect us.”*
A gun? In this house? She knew how I felt about them—dangerous, unpredictable. But I couldn’t see another way. We weren’t well-off enough to pack up and leave, and we had no family nearby to fall back on.
With an arduous sigh, I squeezed her hand. *“Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I’ll apply. But it’s gonna take time. I’ll get… I don’t know, mace or something in the meantime.”*
She nodded slowly, her eyes softening. The fear that had clouded her face seemed to ease just a little. I offered her a small smile.
I will protect this family, no matter what.
The next day, I did as I said I would. Instead of going local, I went a town over to one of the gun stores. To be qualified, I had to take a safety course first, which wasn’t too bad. After the class, I got the certificate and trudged over to the police department to pick up all of the application forms. Then came the background check and fingerprinting.
When I was finished, they gave me the grim news about the wait time: 8–12 weeks. That meant I had to find other ways to defend my family in the meantime.
Luckily, home defense wasn’t an issue—thanks to the security system left by the previous owners. But I thought about buying mace… but what would that do against a mob of angry white people? I shook the thought out of my head and focused on staying under the radar, urging my family to do the same.
When I was on my way back to the house, my phone rang. It was Gary. I almost let it go to voicemail, but then I realized this was my chance to speak my mind.
I put it on speaker.
*“Uh, hey, it’s uh... Gary.”* He sounded unsure of himself, maybe even a little embarrassed.
*“What do you need?”* I retorted coldly.
*“I’m real sorry about the other day. They’re hesitant about newcomers at the church. You know how it goes with the older crowd. They haven’t seen a person of color in months, probably.”* He tried to sound apologetic, but the nonchalance in his voice made my blood boil.
*“What the fuck are they purging, Gary?”* I gripped the steering wheel, anger welling up in my gut.
*“It was... It was just a figure of spee-”*
“*You bullshit me again and I’ll hang up. Answer my goddamned question.”*
I could hear him take a deep breath like he was steeling himself.
*“I’ll tell you everything... Meet me at the pier around 9… I’ll bring drinks.”* Gary hung up the phone.
*What the hell is he trying to pull? And what is wrong with this town?* I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, the anger still simmering inside me. *What’s the worst that can happen? I could take a balding skinny guy on.*
Instead of going straight home, I drove to the local pier. The area was quiet, eerily still, with the lake water shimmering under the moonlight. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, and a few small wooden canoes and dinghies were docked, all tied to the posts. On the far end of the peer, I spotted Gary. He was sitting alone in the darkness, a thin stream of smoke curling from his lips. A case of canned beer rested at his feet. He waved me over, and I rolled my eyes as I started to approach.
*“Better be some goddamned coronas if you’re dragging me out here,”* I grumbled. As angry as I was, there was a part of me that found the whole situation absurdly amusing. Two men meeting in the cover of the night—like something out of a thriller novel.
*“You’ll have to settle with Coors,”* Gary called over, bending down to pick out a can of Coors Banquet and tossing it my way. I fumbled with the catch, barely managing to grab it. Staring at the can for a moment, I felt the weight of it in my hands.
*“So.. whaddya got for me?”* I popped the top of the can, letting the sound fizzle in the air, but not drinking yet.
Gary reached down and cracked open his beer, taking a slow sip before finally speaking.
*“They’re purging... Us.”* His words hung in the air, a shudder in his voice.
*“What?”* I shook my head, trying to discern what he meant.
*“Why do you think there’s so many whites here? It’s like a fucking Golden Corral for racist cultists.”* He ran a hand through his thinning hair, his eyes wide with something between fear and anger. *“They do some freaky shit here, man. Some fucked up shit. I can’t even describe it... That’s how fucked up it is!”*
I was stunned, the words barely registering. His body language was different now, his tone more frantic. This wasn’t the *‘Hiya Neighbor!’* guy from before. It was like everything was stripped away, and now I was seeing what was lying underneath.
“Hold on... Cultists? What the fuck are you talking about?”
*“Take another drink man. I can’t tell you this shit sober.”* Gary took another swig, his hand trembling as he held the can to his lips. I hesitated, but then sat down beside him, taking a deep breath before I drank.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. *“That fucking priest is a demon, man. He fucked up my life. My wife... God, my wife… It’s still so fucked up thinking about it.”* His voice wavered, and he ran his hand through his hair again, traumatized.
He looked up at me. *“I didn’t look like this a few years ago,”* he said, his voice quieter now.
*“What do you mean?”* I asked, unable to keep up with the conversation and its wild turns.
*“I... I was Black.”*
My hand slipped, and the beer in my grip crashed into the ground, spilling its ichor into the water. My hands wrapped around his collar, my anger rising. *“You’re fucking with me. I should beat the fuck out of you!”*
Gary didn’t flinch. His eyes were downcast; strangely calm as he pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open, showing a charred photo ID.
The man in the photo was Howard Miles, a 6’2” Black man with curly hair, spectacles, and a beard, looking to be in his 40s. The photo was partially charred, but it was clear it came from this state. They were uncannily similar-looking.
*“What.. what the fuck?” I backed away, letting go of him, feeling sick to my stomach. “Who the hell is that?”*
*“I fuckin’ told you, man. That’s me. Or.. that was me. I moved here with my wife and two kids four years ago. A neighbor invited us to church, just like I did to you. Same shit, different day. Though... Back then, they were…kinder.”* He wiped the sweat from his brow, his hand shaking.
*“We tried to fit in, tried to be good. For a while. I was trustworthy to them. But then, Father Matthews decided it was time to purge me. When I found out about it, I panicked. We packed up and drove as far as we could.”*
Gary’s voice faltered. He was crying, but there were no tears. Just the quiet sobs of a broken man.
*“We were driving all day… I pulled over to rest. Next thing I know..”* He stopped, swallowing hard.
“They dragged us to the altar. Looked like something straight out of hell. Every fuckin’ one of them was wearing those white gowns with the pointy hats. One by one, we went through the altar, like it was *eating* us. The next thing I know, I’m a completely different person. My wife didn’t come out of the altar, but my boys and I did. We were like fucking husks. After that Matthews told us our identities... What we did, how we acted, who our family was, and who our enemies were.”
I sat there, stunned, holding my head in my hands. “Phillip was different,” Gary continued, voice strained. “It’s like he remembers parts of his old life, but it’s like a cognitive dissonance thing. He’s too young to fully grasp what happened to him. Isaac embraced it. Fuckin’ sheep. That boy’s the eyes and ears of Matthews now. That’s why we’re out here. So he doesn’t listen in on us.”
My heart was racing, and I couldn’t make sense of the horrific story. This town, this place… It wasn’t just racism. This was something darker, way darker. It was pure evil. I leaned back against the pier, my head in my hands, trying to comprehend the weight of Gary’s words.
After everything he’d said, after everything he’d been through, there was no way this could be a lie. No way he was trying to lead me on. I had to trust him.
*“Wait… did Matthews do this to other people? And… how do you remember everything?”* Those questions weighed heavily in my consciousness. Maybe they were the key to saving this town, to understanding what was happening.
Gary’s expression hardened, but his eyes held a mixture of sorrow and resolve. *“Yeah, but I wouldn’t know who. Even back then, people were too damn secretive. I could never get close to them. Right now, we can only trust each other right about now, Arthur.”* He raised his hand to my shoulder, gripping it tightly.
*“And.. I remember who I was because of this pier,” he continued, his voice softening as his gaze drifted over the water. “When I was young, I fished on waters like these with my daddy. He used to tell me stories—about being in the Black Panther party, about his hate for those honkeys.” He mimicked the word, his tone bitter. So, when I came here to fish, everything started to come back. But, I can’t go back to who I was. Something deep inside me was lost in that altar, permanently.”*
I stared down for a moment, wracking my brain for anything. Any solution, any way to fight back. Then, an idea struck me.
*“What if we burn the church down?”*
Gary shot me a sharp look, his expression shutting down the thought. *“Fucking then what? We start holding hands or some shit?”*
“I don’t know man, if the altar’s fucking eating people, it’s probably alive, right? And it’s made of wood. At the very least they won’t be holding Sunday service anymore.” I shook my head, frustrated. It was *an* idea. *Something*. But, even if we pulled it off… wouldn’t they just come after us?
Gary sighed, shaking his head, “You’re not thinking clearly. Come on, let’s head home. Lock your car and you can go back for it in the morning.”
I suddenly remembered the lingering stench of alcohol on my breath. No wonder my thoughts were so scattered. What I needed was sleep. I fumbled in my pocket for my keys, locked the car, and fell in step beside Gary as we made our way back to the cul-de-sac.
Ten minutes later, we arrived.
“Don’t mention any of this to your wife or kids,” Gary muttered as he reached his doorstep, just next to mine. “Goodnight, Art.”
He unlocked his door, slipped inside, and shut it behind him. A second later, the porch light flicked off.
I exhaled sharply, stepping into my own house. The silence was thick, pressing. Glancing at my watch, I saw the time—3 a.m.
I kicked off my shoes and headed to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water before making my way upstairs to check on the kids.
Miriam and Jamie were fast asleep, their faces peaceful in the dim glow of the hallway light. I stood there for a moment, watching them, a deep, protective instinct rising in my chest. I would do whatever it took to keep those sick bastards from ever laying a hand on them. They deserved a life free from the grasp of whatever the hell was happening in this town.
Miriam had kicked off her blanket in her sleep. As I stepped forward to pull it back over her, my foot caught on something hard. I stifled a curse as I bent down, reaching for the object. It was metal—solid, heavier than I expected. My brow furrowed. I didn’t remember giving them anything like this.
I flicked on my watch, using its dim glow to get a better look.
A bronze disk sat in my palm, its edges lined with strange, almost ritualistic engravings. My breath hitched as my eyes locked onto the words at its center:
**"KU KLUX KLAN, 1865, PROPERTY OF KLALIFF MATTHEWS."**
*Isaac*.
#entertainment
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| 10,000 mlx | |
| 10 | |
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