Sunday’s church service begins with the usual prayer and exhortation for the Holy Ghost to inhabit the space as the Prophet takes the stage. The sanctuary is bedecked in Christmas finery, huge garlands hanging from each level of balconies and draped across the front of the stage. Heavenly Ministries spares no expense for the season, setting up a live manger scene out front that runs around the clock every day, replete with a crying or sleeping baby.

The seasonal décor only reminds me of the impending winter solstice. Preparations are underway, but three weeks isn’t much time. Newell was half-assing it, but I can’t do the same. My father expects me to fail, to go small. I intend to knock his fucking block off with the spectacle. Not that it will bring me much comfort. But, for once, I have something in common with normal father-son relationships. Or, at least I think it’s normal to want to blow up the old man’s shitty expectations. Maybe it’s twisted, too.

Delilah kneels in her customary spot, eyes down, hands folded. Ghostly in her white gown, she seems to hesitate between this world and the next. An ephemeral spirit, one I will slowly darken with each touch of my hand, each word from my lips. I am the poison that will drain her spirit, the wolf that will rend her limb from limb.

Those cold facts didn’t stop me from tasting her last night. I shift from one foot to the other as my cock wakes up. She does that to me, just the thought of her, the way she looks on her knees. It took all my self-control to tear myself away from her after I feasted on her cunt. I made it home, only to jerk it for all of thirty seconds before spending on my stomach as I lay in bed, the video of me between her legs on replay. I wish I still had her taste on my lips. But I’d get my wish this evening.

“—in the coming war.” I cock my head as my father goes off script.

“You see, there is a war coming, my friends. One that we haven’t prepared for. But it’s one we must win.”

Noah elbows me and mouths what the fuck?

I shrug. This is new. The teleprompter is stopped on the words “We must pray to our Heavenly Father for a prosperous…”

Those words don’t come from Dad’s mouth.

“The fallen of this world will seek to destroy us. The good people here—the heathens out there want you dead.”

Some voices of agreement rise from the packed house. The rest of them are silent, staring wide-eyed as my father preaches the end times.

“Terrorists, feminists, Jews, atheists, Muslims, illegal immigrants, socialists, Black Lives Matter, communists, baby-killers, the godless who are so depraved they won’t even say the words ‘Merry Christmas’ anymore, and even worse, transgenders who mutilate themselves and want to do the same to your children, the gays who prey on the weak—”

More angry shouts echo in the sanctuary, and the hackles on my neck rise.

“All of these are forces of evil. Every single one of them wants to hurt us. To hurt you.” He points to the congregation. “Bobby Williams. Your daughter, Ivy. Right now, there are men out in the fallen world who covet her. Who look at her 15-year-old body and think lascivious thoughts.”

I stifle a dry laugh. My father has coveted Bobby’s daughter since she was twelve.

He points to another congregant. “Penny Barnes, you’re a widow raising three kids. How can a single mother possibly be able to fight off the demons of this world when she’s out there alone?”

Penny shakes her head and bursts into tears.

“That’s right, Penny. The world breaks us down, tears at our souls. It isn’t godly. They say being conservative, being Christian, is a sin. Well I say they will burn in hell, and we will go to the Lord’s promised land.”

Shouts of approval shake the stage. Noah gives me a look that carries various shades of “oh, shit.” I turn to Delilah. Her gaze is on me, her gray eyes wide as my father continues slinging fiery rhetoric to an increasingly agitated crowd.

But my father is a showman. And he can work a crowd like a ventriloquist with one hand up the dummy’s ass.

His voice softens, his tone growing calm. “God has spoken to me.”

The crowd relents as if the tempest has abated, the surface of the water growing still, rapt.

“As the Gospel of St. James reminds us, ‘The wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere.’” My father looks skyward, one hand raised to the God he imagines above the clouds. “But God has told me of the wicked beyond our gates who have no love for peace. He has told me that destruction is coming, and that we must prepare. Just as he told Noah, He’s warned me of the flood of sin, evil, and worldly terrors. But He also told me there is one way we can fight this. Only one way.”

A reverent hush has fallen over the crowd, all eyes turned toward the stage or one of the many huge screens projecting the Prophet.

“We must stand together, my friends. We must be as one. Only by joining with each other and holding the line can we beat back this darkness. Pooling our love and our resources—”

“And there it is,” I whisper. “The money grab hidden in prophecy.”

“…in this together. We must stick together to fight the evils of this world. That’s why, as some of you know, we are constructing our own community. Monroeville will be built in phases, and the first one is estimated to be completed in only two months’ time. This will be a place where your children can play in the street, stay out catching fireflies in the twilight hours, and you will never have to worry about one of the godless stealing them away from you, hurting them, or worse. You will be safe. They will be safe. And the best part? The housing is free.”

A cheer swells through the masses. I hold onto Delilah’s shock as she glances at the Prophet and then back to me as if to say ‘did you know about this?’

My father’s tone brightens further, light through a dense dark cloud. “Anyone who wants to live in Monroeville, can. We will build until all the faithful are safe inside. Our schools will grow, our people will thrive, and we will be a shining beacon to the rest of the world. Christ is alive, and He is here, in us, in you.”

As the crowd roars with approval, Noah says, “I thought we weren’t rolling this out for a while.”

I shrug. “I guess he wants them paying their dues sooner rather than later. And, at this point, they won’t even balk at turning over half of their earnings to Heavenly.”

“Ah, the fine print.” Noah wrinkles his nose. “Maybe they’ll lose faith when they see that little addendum.”

“It won’t matter to them. Hell, a lot of them already double tithe anyway. They’ll sign on the dotted line, and then Heavenly will own them.” Just like it owns Noah and me. I return to Delilah, always drawn back to her light. Even though I know that Heavenly owns her, that my father owns her, I still entertain the fantasy that she’s mine. That I can keep her safe from everyone but me. It’s a fiction, but one I indulge in even now as she searches my face for some sort of reassurance. She believes that I can give it, and I want her to believe it, even though it’s a lie as big as the ones my father is telling.

“They’ll be broke, living on property they don’t own, but they’ll be ever so safe,” Noah sneers.

Sometimes, he reminds me of me, and in those moments, I worry about him. But at least maybe he’s waking up to the rising bullshit.

“All I hear is more shit for me to do.” I’d started working on the contracts for the housing with our lawyer, but as my father is already setting the process into motion, I’ll need to front-burner that. I’ll also have to move some money around to make way for the new “donations.” Heavenly is a perfect conduit to launder money since it’s a non-taxable church, but large influxes of cash can still raise eyebrows. I’ll need to prepare new accounts to accept the tithes, keep the trail clean, and funnel most of it into my father’s off-shore accounts. I pinch the bridge of my nose as a tension headache threatens.

The Prophet finally moves on to follow the teleprompter, smoothly picking up where he left off. The crowd falls right into step with him, never sensing that the walls are building up around them. They’ll be closed in, buried alive, and beholden to the Prophet for their next mouthful of food or breath of air.

Delilah studies the floor once again, head down in what looks from most angles like reverence. Even though I can sense her mind is racing, replaying my father’s words. Maybe she’s impervious to his spell, but it doesn’t matter. She’s still just another lamb to the slaughter, and I’m the one who’ll wield the blade.