Chapter 2: Night of the Hungry Saints

One evening, I asked Pastor, “That salvation they talk about in Ambrose’s Holy Scripture—does it mean if everyone becomes a preacher, nobody has to suffer anymore?”

Pastor spun around, eyes sharp. “Where’d you see Ambrose’s Holy Scripture, Samuel?”

I scratched my head, thinking. “Last time we went into town, I saw it with another preacher.”

He told me to hold out my hand, then cracked me hard across the knuckles with his old wooden ruler. “If you want to know why I did that, go visit a church that worships Ambrose’s Holy Scripture. See for yourself.”

His eyes were fierce, but behind the anger I saw something close to terror. The sting faded, but the memory never did. It cut deeper than any bruise.

3.

Not long after, curiosity got the best of me. I climbed onto the roof of a church down the road. It was late—stars out, coyotes yipping somewhere far off—but inside, the preachers were still busy. They were huddled around a huge iron cauldron, steam billowing up so thick it stung my eyes. Through the mist, I thought I glimpsed something—a claw, maybe, poking out of the bubbling stew.

The air was thick with the smell of boiling meat. It hit me like a slap—meaty, greasy, almost sweet. My stomach twisted, half with hunger, half with dread. I clung to the shingles, trying not to make a sound, my breath fogging in the cold night air.

I figured, “Some greedy preacher must be sneaking a little meat on the side.”

But I was wrong. When the stew was ready, a group of elder preachers gathered around, ladling out the contents and eating with a hunger that bordered on frenzy. The sight was grotesque and mesmerizing, like some strange ritual. Their faces glowed in the firelight, eyes wide and wild.

For several nights I watched the same scene play out. What got me was that every day, crowds of people came to worship at the church gate, but only a handful of preachers ever got to eat.

I searched the church one night, heart pounding, and finally found the worshippers—stuffed into a sack, nothing left but piles of white bones. The sack was buried beneath the statue of Christ.

The horror of it hit me all at once. My skin went cold, my fists clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms. I wanted to scream, but the sound stuck in my throat. My heart hammered so loud I thought it might give me away.

I barely had time to react before the world turned upside down. The giant statue of Christ began to change—flesh boiled and pulsed, splitting open to reveal a mass of mouths, all gaping wide.

Those mouths began to chant, “Hallelujah.”

The sound was deafening, rattling my bones. The air grew thick, heavy with the stink of blood and something older, something rotten. My skin crawled, my senses overloaded.

From the heaps of white bones, blue-tinged shadows rose up, one after another, leaping into those gaping maws where they were shredded to bloody ribbons.