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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/iifinch on 2024-11-22 13:35:48+00:00.

Previously

Today, I walked inside my Uncle’s office ready to unload every bullet I could on him, but instead, his office was empty. I was so mad that I spat on the floors I used to call sacred. I was so mad I almost left without noticing what he left on his desk: a sheet of paper on top of maybe five letters.

“For Solomon. Read all five of these letters before you judge. These are letters from your father.” Out of a hunger for answers, I read the letters.

Letter 1:

Dear Brother,

I know you won’t truly love me anymore; you can’t. But I will love you, though.

I’m leaving seminary school. I’m leaving the faith. I’m leaving you and this city. I’ve met a woman, she’s a witch, and we’re going on a ride across the country in her van. Let me explain.

As you know, I’ve been trying to evangelize a friend of mine, Raphael, you know, bring him into the faith, introduce him to who Jesus really is.

So, I’m talking to him. I’m trying to give him the gospel, right? The Good News! That’s what it means—good news—but he interrupts me while I’m saying it.

“If the gospel means good news, why are you sad?”

“I’m not sad,” I said back, lying, another sin. Add it to the list.

“Dude, come on,” he said with no judgment, pure innocence.

“I’m not sad,” a tear formed in my eye.

“Dude, I like religion and culture and all this stuff. So, we can keep talking about ‘the gospel,’ but you’re my friend. I know something’s wrong. Let’s talk about what’s eating you.”

I cried, man, and I confessed, like really confessed. I know what you always say: You can’t let unbelievers know what really goes on at Church. There are some things you have to keep away from them because they wouldn’t understand.

Well, isn’t that messed up? We bring them into a system that they don’t even know the truth about? Well, I let him know the truth about what I was struggling with, not because of any righteous reason like genuine honesty but because I needed a non-judgmental ear.

I told him how I heard the rude comments of the other church members behind my back and they hurt me, how I could tell no one respected me, how it hurt me so much my Christian family looked down on me for just being me.

I try my best to be holy. To be a good man. But it’s like everyone’s in a competition to see who can be a better Christian, and they’ve decided I’m at the bottom. I’m trying to be like Jesus but they treat me like a pariah. Like I’m depraved.

He was there for me. He listened to me. He invited me to his community. It was just a normal birthday party full of normal people.

Well, except for one girl. She was extraordinary. Her name was Belle; she’s a witch and she’s gorgeous. A black witch, whatever that means—I’m not quite sure why she calls herself that as she is a pale woman with silver hair.

Her nails, toenails, and lips are painted black though. You’d call it creepy, but I think it gives her a mysterious feel. Regardless, I told her my story, and she gave me a hug and asked me to come with her—she was taking a trip to Arizona from here in NC.

It felt good to not be labeled a weirdo and written off, so I went with her.

Letter 2:

Dear Brother,

I appreciate your letter and concern, but I won’t be going home because you’re scared for me. She is kind to me! What part of that can’t you get? I know it doesn’t matter because you didn’t care.

She even made me this little doll that looks just like me and has a few locks of my hair.

Anyway, I’m fine. I can leave any time I want to if things get weird. I’m my own man.

But, hey, enjoy the postcard. We passed Stone Mountain in Georgia, and I thought of you because you dragged me out here when you knew I was going through a tough break-up.

That was fun—thanks for that.

Letter 3:

Dear Brother,

I’m just ignoring your last letter because you won’t stop talking to me like I’m some project, an idiot, or something to save. Those aren’t voodoo dolls she’s making of me. That’s stupid. She likes me a lot.

Anyway, greetings from Mississippi. I don’t like it here and I’m glad to leave, to be honest. I got in a fight here. Can you believe it? Yeah, me! It was thrilling.

Some drunk guy at a bar sat on my stool beside Belle when I left to go use the restroom. The stool was the only one beside Belle, so I asked if he could move and he pushed me away to keep talking to Belle. So, I pushed him back and he socked me in the mouth.

Then we started going at it. His buddies started coming too, but then Belle got up and even though she’s a girl, she started throwing blows too.

And it got me thinking.

Why do we have to forgive? Why do we have to turn the other cheek? What’s wrong with a little bloodshed?

Don’t bother preaching again. I know my answer. Nothing at all.

I will say, I’m not the best fighter, to be honest. I passed out and woke up with the van driving and a pretty big headache. Belle says I did great though.

Letter 4:

Dear Brother,

I won’t say you were right, but I need to go home. We’re in Texas now and I won’t drive a mile more with her. She has one of the bodies of the guys we fought. It’s chopped up, put on ice in a big cooler, and covered with fragrances so it doesn’t smell.

I called her on it. I asked why she had a freaking body! Belle said because the body has power and she can use it for magic. I’m getting out of here when we fall asleep tonight.

We’re in Texas. God’s Country, right? Isn’t that ironic? Fitting, right? I’m getting out here, coming home.

Letter 5:

Dear Brother,

I have tried leaving her three times in the cover of darkness.

The first night she went to sleep, I packed my bags. I ran out. I hitchhiked to the nearest airport, went through security, and then finally closed my eyes before boarding my plane. When I opened them, I was in her van. Riding right beside her.

And she just chatted with me like nothing happened. I was scared but I adjusted, listening and talking back. I checked my pockets—the ticket I had bought was still in my pocket. Whatever she did, she made me come back to her.

So, I figured out she put something in my bag or in my clothes to make me come back to her. So, I got naked and in the dead of night, I ran to the nearest police station. Naked and afraid across the desert landscape I ran. Consequences be damned—I knew they’d toss me in jail. I knew they’d put me in prison.

Yet, I still ran to them. I ran naked across the Texas desert hoping for a miracle. I avoided cacti, the scurrying of rattlesnakes, and the judgmental and then skittish glances of coyotes. I ran past exhaustion, past home, past consciousness. I collapsed in the desert heat and crawled the rest of the way until I saw a Walmart parking lot. It felt like home. I crawled across the asphalt sea.

My throat raw, lips dry, and skin peeling, but I made it. Walmart opened its sweet automatic doors for me. The air conditioning hit me and I felt heaven. I listened to a man ask if I needed help and it sounded as sweet as any choir.

“Water,” I begged, but my mouth was too dry. He couldn’t understand. “Water, water, water,” I repeated. He went off to grab a bottle and I grasped it.

I opened it, gobbled it down, and I tasted safety.

“We’ve got a code teal,” the man said in the speaker. “That’s a naked man that is not a threat. I repeat not a threat. He looks like he’s been through Hell.”

I won’t lie to you—when I looked at that blue-vested Walmart employee I saw an angel and blinked.

When I opened my eyes again, I was naked in the van. Belle drove along the highway, casual as ever. I cried.

“I wouldn’t do that again,” Belle said.

“What?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing,” she said and turned up the speaker. I begged. I pleaded to be let go. She ignored me. Her love gone, her compassion was just a desert mirage now. We drove in silence to New Mexico, one stop from our destination.

That night, that night was my final hope. The doll she had of me. It was magic. So, I took it with me. That way she couldn’t recall me.

That night, I slipped out of the bottom bunk. I checked the top to see her mass completely under the covers. I stripped out of the clothes she bought me and put on what I had brought, ready to leave her all behind. Last, I grabbed the doll of me from the rearview mirror. Then I tiptoed to the door and opened it to exit.

A shovel to my face was the last thing I remember seeing. I collapsed, passed out, and she hopped on me. How do I remember this if I was passed out? Because guess who’s writing now?

Hi, brother, this is Belle. Don’t be upset at me. You all didn’t want him and I have a use for him. What’s the problem?

I wouldn’t come look for him—what I plan to do to his body would be… depraved.

That was the last letter. Under the last one were pictures.

Polaroids, to be specific. It was horrible and barbaric what they were doing to my Dad. I will spare the reader, but they chopped up his body and used it in bizarre rituals and put severed limbs in places they should never be, and each witch—perhaps there were one hundred of them—smiled as they did so.

That’s what they did to my Dad.

My Dad… I never met the man. I just wanted to be the man. Everyone always had such kind stuff to say about him. He wasn’t a bad guy. Like he was just punished for no reason. Where was justice? Where was God? My Dad served God and his head was treated like a volleyball. I sweat, the thought was making me sick.

A bookshelf slid ope…

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