0003: Red Paper
Red Paper
The envelope itself was white, but the paper was red. It was written in neat cursive script, printed black,
"You are the new sacrifice. Get your affairs in order and go out a week from now at 12:00 midnight if you wish to save your city."
Thomas McCobey was unsettled by it, to say the least. He'd heard and seen many strange things as a priest and was utterly convinced of the supernatural, and this felt like one of those times where he was in contact with the Devil himself.
He made a short prayer and meditated over the letter every night before the fateful day.
He walked out at 12:00 midnight and found a group of men in white hoods, each holding a golden sword. They were glowing faintly.
"Thomas McCobey. Father of Lost sheep. Pastor of Dreadtown."
"Yes?" Thomas was afraid, but he was calm.
"You have been a righteous man all of your life. No matter what temptations have come your way, no matter how dire the straits, you have proven yourself to be holy. The evil and the good alike come to you and you offer them water. You have been beaten for your faith but have never wavered. You are pure."
Thomas McCobey took a moment, "I am but a man. Nobody is pure."
"Except, in this singular case, you are. Now, McCobey. We are an ancient order who are intent on creating a haven for the righteous on the earth. We practice White Magic. We have already captured 100 virgins and will sacrifice them tonight to save this city. If you wish, you may continue your duties and ignore them. But if you want to save them, then you will die here tonight, and we will practice a spell to save this wretched city."
"All magic is an affront to God."
"Magic is every bit a fabric of the material world as are the robes on your skin, the bricks that built this church. We are only using a tool that is available to us. Now, McCobey, make your decision. Will you die tonight, or will you live? Either way, this city shall be saved."
Thomas McCobey was saddened.
"There's a boy: Peter. He's struggling but I see he has a good way ahead of him to become a leader some day. If your oder exists and is as ancient as you say, do you promise to take care of him until he is of age?"
The foremost hooded man nodded.
Thomas McCobey kneeled down and said a prayer. He did not feel it when the blade severed his head, and he did not see them hum their spells and prayers. He did not see the tendrils of lights that floated from the blood of his body, nor did he see how the murderers, the rapists, the drug dealers, the cheaters, the dishonest were plagued by nightmares so terrible and convicting they flocked to the church the next morning in a sudden wave of remorse and repentance.
He did not see Peter grow up to become a member of this church, nor did he see the media circus that the ex-mining town and all round hellhole Dreadtown became.
He did not see it, but it did happen, and nobody ever forgot.
The envelope itself was white, but the paper was red. It was written in neat cursive script, printed black,
"You are the new sacrifice. Get your affairs in order and go out a week from now at 12:00 midnight if you wish to save your city."
Thomas McCobey was unsettled by it, to say the least. He'd heard and seen many strange things as a priest and was utterly convinced of the supernatural, and this felt like one of those times where he was in contact with the Devil himself.
He made a short prayer and meditated over the letter every night before the fateful day.
He walked out at 12:00 midnight and found a group of men in white hoods, each holding a golden sword. They were glowing faintly.
"Thomas McCobey. Father of Lost sheep. Pastor of Dreadtown."
"Yes?" Thomas was afraid, but he was calm.
"You have been a righteous man all of your life. No matter what temptations have come your way, no matter how dire the straits, you have proven yourself to be holy. The evil and the good alike come to you and you offer them water. You have been beaten for your faith but have never wavered. You are pure."
Thomas McCobey took a moment, "I am but a man. Nobody is pure."
"Except, in this singular case, you are. Now, McCobey. We are an ancient order who are intent on creating a haven for the righteous on the earth. We practice White Magic. We have already captured 100 virgins and will sacrifice them tonight to save this city. If you wish, you may continue your duties and ignore them. But if you want to save them, then you will die here tonight, and we will practice a spell to save this wretched city."
"All magic is an affront to God."
"Magic is every bit a fabric of the material world as are the robes on your skin, the bricks that built this church. We are only using a tool that is available to us. Now, McCobey, make your decision. Will you die tonight, or will you live? Either way, this city shall be saved."
Thomas McCobey was saddened.
"There's a boy: Peter. He's struggling but I see he has a good way ahead of him to become a leader some day. If your oder exists and is as ancient as you say, do you promise to take care of him until he is of age?"
The foremost hooded man nodded.
Thomas McCobey kneeled down and said a prayer. He did not feel it when the blade severed his head, and he did not see them hum their spells and prayers. He did not see the tendrils of lights that floated from the blood of his body, nor did he see how the murderers, the rapists, the drug dealers, the cheaters, the dishonest were plagued by nightmares so terrible and convicting they flocked to the church the next morning in a sudden wave of remorse and repentance.
He did not see Peter grow up to become a member of this church, nor did he see the media circus that the ex-mining town and all round hellhole Dreadtown became.
He did not see it, but it did happen, and nobody ever forgot.
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