I didn’t trust them when they moved into the old Brandeis building and established themselves as the Congregation of the Loving God.
They held their Sunday meetings early, with all of their congregation coming from out of town. No one from Cross was a member, and no one was encouraged to attend. It was an odd and curious way for a religion to act. Every church I’ve encountered has beaten on doors to try and get more folk in.
Each Saturday night, they received a delivery. They drew the curtains on the tall windows and didn’t open them again until well after their Sunday service.
I have to admit, I was more than a little curious, and after a few tall glasses of whiskey, I thought it would be a fine idea to see what had been delivered.
I am happy I did.
I will not put down what I saw in the basement of the church. Let me leave it a word whose definition should be enough: atrocity.
I will tell you that I killed each member that came in through the doors, and that I did not give a single person a clean death. I saved the worst of my anger for the pastor and his deacons.
They took a long time to die.
When I finished, I sought out and found the register of other members in the area; I then removed the delivered item and set fire to the building.
The item I took to a dear friend of mine, who promised to raise the rescued infant well.
I will not have children sacrificed in Cross. Not now, not ever.
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