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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Glittering_Rapier on 2024-11-28 02:13:24+00:00.

I am not a righteous man, I have always had a taste for wickedness I fear. A gambler, a thief, a petty dealer, a con artist; I’m not exactly proud of it but I go by many titles with many different professions. Hell, I’d tell you my name but I’d have to list all of them. I blow from place to place, household to household, and bed to bed as I please. Well, until I HAVE to leave. I take what I want and I survive.

No one truly gets hurt, they might be down a few grand or so but in all fairness they fell for cheap tricks. It’s only fair and they learn a valuable lesson. If it wasn’t by me, it would have been by someone far worse. Human traffickers, gang members, loan sharks; the horrible list goes on and on at nauseam. I’ve been around some truly horrible people. Being the scum of the earth, I know true evil when I see it…

After a deal backfired in Arizona, my life was in severe jeopardy. Nasty, nasty business. So I packed up as quickly as I could and ran, like always. I drove until my piece of shit car left me stranded in some hillbilly mountain town up in the sticks. A simple town of simple people and simple ideas; this was the promised land for men like me or so I thought…

There’s two types of locals from what I’ve observed: those who are sheepish around outsiders and those who are friendly, too friendly for my liking. They were on the complete ends of the spectrum either way, with no in between. You’d be a fool to trust either. I’ve lived a life as a liar amongst liars and a thief amongst thieves; I could smell the rot of this place miles away, beneath all the layers of southern hospitality and simpleminded charm. Speaking from experience, places like this always have a dark underbelly: disappearances, human trafficking, and other dealings.

Now which flavor of sin is this town’s choice is a mystery so far. Maybe that’s why I was stranded here. I don’t know if I would say it was an act of God, if there is one, but there was something here that gave me an itch. An itch I needed to scratch, no matter what.

I managed to land a job as a mechanic at the dingy little auto repair store on the outskirts of the town. The owner, Artie Whalen, had a mouth on him and loved nothing more to gossip. A conspiracy theorist and overall loon, Artie would often go on hour-long rants about disappearances and odd-happenings of the town. For a paranoid conspiracy theorist, Artie was uncharacteristically trusting to hire a man who just blew into town without a dollar to his name almost immediately. He didn’t believe in “background checks,” instead believing he could “gauge a man’s character by a glance.” A fool but an honest one.

Most of what Artie would say was babble, him mistaking a plane for a UFO or claiming to have seen the Tennessee Wildman again. Though, on occasion, he would actually make a little bit of sense.

“This here used to be Baptist country and the churches had full pews every Sunday,” Artie said as he spit a putrid glob of chewing tobacco into the septic tank he called his dip cup. “Until that Hollywood elite celebrity, Lyin’ Lysander blew into town with his fancy car and his Gospel of Aaron all those years ago. Then all them churches dried up and died out in a span of a few weeks. Are you seeing the picture? A drought of honest, holy men in Baptist country? People losing faith in the chapels they’ve come to for generations in mass? That don’t happen naturally if you ask me. If you knew the disappearance statistics…”

“So you think a washed up geriatric rockstar kidnapped all those people,” I responded

“Blind, so very very blind. You aren’t from around here so I can forgive your ignorance. Melvin Schneitman, pastor of Anderson Creek Chapel, did disappear. The pastor of Little Sinai Church, Ben Crawford, died as well. Though listed as a suicide, I’m sure you can connect the dots. But oh there’s more, trust me brother, there’s more. Andy Abernathy, pastor of the Evefall? Gone, without a trace… Danny Melbrose, pastor of Millpoint Ministries, decided to mysteriously skip town; leaving a wife and five kids.”

“I’d skip town too.” Though he ignored that comment, I could tell by the little twitch of his bright red mustache that Artie was not amused.

“List goes on and on and on. It feels like me and my buddy Emerson, you’ve met Emerson remember, are the only ones seeing the dots!” I have never met Emerson in my life but I let him continue his rant.

“Those who oppose this Hollywood agenda are dealt with by the Bull’s Horns, oh I just know he’s pulling the strings. That’s why every church in this area is either empty or dying out, while that giant church keeps gaining new members. Satan worship probably, not completely sure though. My cousin Rutherford lives kinda close to that hell church and he tells me all sorts of stories.” When Artie rants, he gets a certain twinkle in his eye.

“Like what,” I laughed, half-expecting him to shrug his shoulders.

“Chanting and the like. Strange services held all through the night. From the earliest in the morning till the latest at night, oh sure they have the clean cookie-cutter services at reasonable hours. I tell you if they try to mess with me, they have another thing coming.” Artie snarled as he put a hand on the oversized, camo-pattered handgun always at his hip. Artie was like a human cigarette, pale and thin, but I don’t doubt if shit hits the fan he could use it.

“You think this little town could have a Waco-situation?” I chuckled, just to split hairs and rile him up.

“No, buddy, Waco was big government picking on the little guy. I know, pretty much for certain, that this Sinclair fella is probably backed by the government. They’ll prey on our core values from the shadows. His name might as well be Rothschild, Clinton, or Bush. And another thing, sure, he looks like a recovering junkie but way younger than he ought to be… Adrenochrome… Look up Adrenochrome…” If I had to listen to another Adrenochrome rant, I’d do Lysander’s work for him and strangle Artie.

Though I despised everyone in this nowhere town, I have grown to like Artie. He’s good people, just the hero of his own little story that he made up in his mind. He might be onto something though. A big church that’s unreasonably secluded, led by a “former” drug addict, has memberships to attend certain services, and goes off a religion that splintered off from Christianity; the whole thing is just a blinking sign that screams “CULT” in the biggest capital letters you’ve ever seen.

And just like a divine intervention, a bright purple 1976 Cadillac Coupe de Ville accented in a lavish gold, sped up to our lot for an oil change. The driver, a tall handsome youth no older than 20, had a smug sneer and eyes looking for a fight. Standing around 6’4 and built like a linebacker, the man would have been imposing if not for his long pretty curls and a thin mustache. No doubt every girl’s dream, I doubt that he’d want that chiseled face of his banged up.

“Don’t scratch the paint…” he grimaced impudently, gesturing to a small borderline nonexistent line on its paint job. “The last mechanic did this travesty, see that you’re careful with it. This ain’t no schmuck’s banged up car, its the pastor’s.”

“I’d expect a little bit more humility from a pastor, is he a pimp as well?” I calmly smirked, eyeing up the gaudy car.

“Calling himself a pastor is humbler than you’ll ever know, grease monkey.” His gold rings glinted in the sun as his hands curled into a fist

“Just speaking my mind, friend. It’s a free country. Judging by that fancy car, you’d think he could afford a toupee with that combover of his.” I can usually hold my tongue, but I know his type. Reckless, vicious, and violent for no good reason but will cave when things don’t go their way. People like him are easy to provoke, whether he can actually back up this vitriol is a different story.

“I’d watch what we say, friend.”

“And why’s that, I’d prefer not to be talked down to by a pastor’s escort.”

“You have a sharp tongue, friend. I can show you something sharper.” the youth cooed in the sweetest venom, flashing the knife in his pocket. Of course, its handle was gold and pearl.

“I’d consider heading on son. No need for this.” Artie butted in, hand on his pistol.

The frenzy in the boy’s eyes never quite left but he obviously knew he met his match. Getting back in the car with an exaggerated sigh.

“All a misunderstanding. I know the pastor would love to see y’all in a sermon though. We have a special service at midnight tonight for members. You should stop by as my guests, it might enlighten the darkness in your life. Have a nice day, gentlemen” the escort called, every syllable dripping with pettiness and hatred, as he slowly drove off into the distance.

“That’s Lane Vandross, Micah’s boy.” Artie said solemnly, his voice missing the usual gumption. “Former football star, could have gone pro. A specimen through and through. Well, until the substance abuse ruined it all. He was put through the ringer; Lysander stuck his hooks in what was left. He’s Lysander’s creature now, the youth pastor at that damned church actually.” Artie continued; I almost thought he was about to cry.

“A has-been football player and a has-been rockstar, they’re perfect for each other.” I joked, but I could see that jab broke straight through Artie’s heart.

“It’s not funny. His father was a good man and he was just a troubled boy. That pastor surrounds himself…

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