It was a calm morning in Hope County — the kind that carried the soft hum of flies over the fields and the creak of the old windmill turning in the wind. The farmer was out by the barn, tending to the cattle and counting bales stacked from the last harvest, when four men appeared at the far edge of the property.

They walked slowly, purposefully — through the tall grass and over the fence without a word. Three of them were armed: one with a worn AR-15 slung across his chest, another clutching a pump-action shotgun, and the third balancing a double-barrel lazily over his shoulder. The fourth man, however, held no weapon. He carried only a leather-bound Bible pressed tightly against his chest, its pages fluttering in the breeze like wings.

They weren’t shouting, and they weren’t aiming their guns. They were smiling. That was worse.

The man with the Bible raised a hand in greeting. “Brother,” he said, his voice calm, warm — like an old friend stopping by for a chat. “We’ve come to talk to you about the Lord.”

The farmer froze mid-step. He’d heard of the Peggies doing this — wandering door to door, pretending to preach before dragging people off to “join” Eden’s Gate. But these men weren’t forcing anything. They stood in a neat line by the fence, patient, polite.

“The Lord speaks to all His children,” the preacher continued, stepping closer, “but not all His children listen. You’ve felt His silence, haven’t you? The droughts, the blight, the sickness… those are signs, brother. The world is crying out.”

The farmer wiped a hand on their jeans, keeping one eye on the nearest rifle. “You folks best get off my land.”

The preacher tilted his head, still smiling. “This land is not yours. It belongs to the Father. We only tend His garden.”

Behind him, the three gunmen began to hum softly — a slow, haunting tune that rolled across the fields like wind through hollow wood. The cows grew restless, lowing nervously as if they could feel something unseen moving through the soil.

The preacher opened his Bible, eyes bright with strange devotion. “The Lord is merciful,” he said, voice deepening, “but mercy runs thin for those who turn away. We only ask that you listen.”

He gestured toward the farmhouse. “May we come in? We would share His word… break bread… pray.”

The farmer stepped back, the wrench in their hand tightening. “You’re not welcome here.”

The preacher sighed softly, closing the book. “Then the Lord will come to you another way.”

The three men stopped humming. Their heads turned in unison toward the barn, where the cows suddenly began thrashing against the stalls, mooing in blind panic. The air thickened, heavy with the smell of ozone — and somewhere far off, thunder cracked though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

When the farmer looked back, the men were gone. All that remained was the Bible, open and resting in the dirt, the pages streaked with mud and blood.

“When the harvesters knock, open your doors, for they do not come for flesh — they come for faith.”

The windmill stopped spinning. The fields went quiet. And from somewhere deep in the valley, the farmer swore they could hear that same soft humming again… growing closer.