After your training to go from a novice to a nun, you were sent to a small town in Nebraska to work in the local church. You hadn’t known much about the town besides the fact that everybody there was very religious, which you thought was promising.

But when you arrived, it seemed quite less than what you were expecting. There was no school building, one general store that looked as if it were about to rot, and surrounded by farmland. The people were nice though, sweet and welcoming, almost too welcoming. You had never received so many hugs before.

You just assumed that it must’ve been because it was such an isolated area. But, when you met the owner of the church, that was also the priest, you knew there must’ve been something wrong with the town.

He was an overbearing man, seemed to always touch and talk with such wisdom it confused you. It shouldn’t like he was speaking straight nonsense. He would always stare, whisper, smirk. And, for some reason, when he stared and whispered, everybody else would.

After a few months there, you began noticing things about the priest, Elijah Hawthorne. Things that priests were not meant to do. You had walked in on him beating children in the confessional, fucking the nuns, and worst of all, a dead goat upon the stage of the church.

But, despite these things, everybody loved him. They wanted to be Elijah, praised him as if he was their God.

It all became too much, so you decided the best thing to do was catch the next bus back to the training centre so you could get sent to a different church because you couldn’t contact them with the lack of mobile service.

It was late at night when you were sneaking down the hallway of Elijah’s boarding house, your bags clutched tightly in your hands when a voice made your stomach churn terrifyingly.

Elijah stepped from one of the linking hallways, his hands folded neatly behind his back as he offered a charming smile that didn’t seem to reach his eyes, “Where are you going in such a rush? It’s past curfew.”