Chapter 3: Rituals and Revelations

Pastor Ray’s gaze hardened. "Aubrey, I’ll go with you, but let me be clear: I can’t promise this will work."

His face was stern, brows drawn together. The warning in his voice was like thunder rumbling far away. I nodded, ready to grasp at anything, even if it meant chasing hope in the dark.

"Pastor Ray, as long as you come, it’s fine—even if it doesn’t work."

My words shook, but I meant them. The memory of my sister-in-law’s eyes—open, pleading—wouldn’t let me rest.

He told me to grab two red plastic forks from the kitchen drawer, then filled a basin with water at the sink. I followed him, heart pounding.

I dug through the drawer for the forks—the kind you buy in bulk at Walmart for birthday parties. Pastor Ray filled an old blue basin, the same one we’d used for soaking tired feet after long days. I clutched the forks tight, trailing behind him into the night.

I couldn’t help myself: "Pastor Ray, why the water?" His face was unreadable. "You’ll see soon enough."

His voice was flat, but his eyes darted my way, sharp and searching. I shivered, the humid air suddenly too cold.

When we got home, Mom’s face flooded with relief as she rushed to greet us. Pastor Ray just snorted and brushed past, jaw set. Mom stepped aside, awkward and anxious.

She looked like she wanted to fall into his arms, but Pastor Ray moved past her, something bitter and old lingering between them. I noticed Mom wouldn’t meet his eyes. Questions crowded my mind, but there was no time for answers.

Pastor Ray told me to set the basin in front of my sister-in-law’s body, drop the forks in, and bow.

My hands shook so badly the forks clattered against the basin. The water trembled, catching the dim light. Everyone’s eyes were on me, heavy as a storm.

I knelt and bowed three times, each movement heavy. Pastor Ray began to pray beside me:

The wood floor creaked under my knees, and my breath shivered with each bow. His voice was steady, rising like an old hymn:

"Lillian, I know you left us with a heavy heart, but the dead can’t return. Let’s let go of this pain. From now on, your family will bring flowers to your grave every year. Is that enough?"

He spoke gently, the words carrying the weight of too many funerals. The air tensed, the room waiting for a sign.

Then the forks in the basin jerked upright.

The scraping of plastic against plastic was shrill, unnatural. I stared, frozen, as the forks stood, as if pulled by something unseen. My arms prickled with goosebumps. The silence was suffocating.

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

My hands flew to the basin, almost tipping it. My heart roared in my ears, drowning out everything else.

Pastor Ray’s face went sheet white.

All the color drained from him. For the first time, he looked scared—truly scared, like a man who’d just glimpsed something he couldn’t explain.