Dark. Funny. Probably Cursed.

“…everyone had a story about a co-worker’s second cousin’s former landscaper who’d seen the face of Jesus and about eighteen other lesser deities under the power of IHOG’s proprietary blend of the blood of Christ…”

Chapter II- Cup of the Unseen: Claudine Blackwell and the Thorn-Apple Eucharist

Claudine Blackwell trudged up the final hill of her two-mile journey to the edge of town, the Radio Flyer wagon growing heavier by the step.  Sweat drenched her formerly canary yellow “SonShine Cleaners” tee, darkening it to a murky shade of gold. Dragging 75 pounds of cleaning supplies uphill in a child’s wagon was no easy task. Still, Claudine suspected the sweaty journey might be the highlight of her workday. Experience had taught her that a day at the Inheritors’ House of Grace was reliably full of surprises—very few of them pleasant.

Pastor Larkin Milstead, a former carnival worker and proudly self-taught theologian, frequently stated that he founded the congregation for one mission only: to get the everyday people of rural West Tennessee talking about Jesus. And on this sunny Monday morning, Pastor Larkin’s mission proved wildly successful.

“JESUS CHRIST!!!” Claudine shouted, mere moments after unlocking the Sanctuary door and surveying the Monday morning carnage. The Holy Ghost had apparently turned full-on Divine Poltergeist under the anointed guidance of Brother Milstead. A true-crime podcast aficionado, Claudine began a forensic reconstruction of Sunday’s services: shredded worship bulletins, battered hymnals, a monolithic hardcover King James Bible, caked in smeared dollar store makeup and dried blood, intermittent spatters of dried vomit caked on the backs the pews and the communion table, a mystery puddle in the choir loft she tried– and failed– not to overthink, and the pièce de résistance, a discolored pair of horrifically oversized granny panties dangling from a corner of the pulpit…

“Ulpp…” Claudine retched slightly, her gag reflex still not fully accustomed to Monday mornings at IHOG, the derisive nickname bestowed upon Brother Milstead’s flock by local teens, hipsters, and college kids. Although the task proved routinely nauseating and often profoundly disturbing, Claudine needed the money and admittedly enjoyed the group discussion clout she wielded while sharing the inside scoop from within IHOG’s dubiously-consecrated walls.

Claudine had scarcely registered the scene in front of her when she reached for her phone. No way in hell I’m doing this without a little company, she thought with amusement as she put on her earbuds and dialed her roommate, Tessa, who picked up on the first ring, clearly anticipating the call.

“How bad is it THIS week?” Tessa asked expectantly.

“Well, I took the Lord’s name in vain before I even had the door all the way open; what do I win?” Claudine replied.

“One-way ticket; straight to Hell,” Tessa laughed.

“See you there… BITCH,” retorted Claudine, as both girls cackled before launching into a freewheeling, stream-of-consciousness description of everything that entered Claudine’s field of vision. And, just like any Monday morning at the Inheritors’ House of Grace, there was no shortage of sights to see.

“Hooo-leee SHIT… if I wasn’t on the spectrum before I got here, I am now,” Claudine declared while trying to get a mental handle on where to even begin, before…

Is that what I THINK it is? she thought excitedly.

“Heyyyyy… ooooh! I think my morning just got a little more sanctified!” she announced.

“WHAT?!” Tessa demanded. “Something good?! Hardly anything even surprises you anymore at that creepy old hellhole.”

“I think I just found me some Jesus Juice!” Claudine stage whispered, suddenly feeling sneaky and conspiratorial in the wake of this new discovery.

The IHOG communion “wine” was the stuff of local legend—observation of The Lord’s Supper at the Inheritors’ House of Grace was a closely-guarded ritual, a spur-of-the-moment affair that only occurred on Brother Larkin’s mercurial whims.

A few brave curiosity seekers from around town had visited IHOG’s Sunday worship but rarely returned—once was enough for anybody who wasn’t a full-bodied believer in Larkin Milstead’s flamboyant brand of backwoods religion. Still, the congregation welcomed visitors with open arms, and Brother Larkin was happy to pass the offering plate multiple times until his guests got the hint.

“The Salvation is free, but if you want to see the show, you’ve got to pay the cover,” was Brother Larkin’s mantra during stewardship season. He approached Sunday worship with a formula that placed equal value on charismatic connection, prosperity gospel, and good, old-fashioned carny spectacle— a liberal dose of Jimmy Swaggart, a dash of Joel Osteen, and no small amount of David Lee Roth.

Yet, for all the pageantry and a well-earned reputation as someone who clearly enjoyed the attention, Brother Larkin kept the Holy Eucharist under tight wraps. The rumors, however, persisted through the years— everyone had a story about a co-worker’s second cousin’s former landscaper who’d seen the face of Jesus and about eighteen other lesser deities under the power of IHOG’s proprietary blend of the blood of Christ.

The same consecrated liquid that presently sat unguarded before Claudine Blackwell, inside a massive, outlandishly-bedazzled vessel atop the cluttered, puke-matted communion table.

Like most denizens of her hometown, Claudine had heard the stories: that it wasn’t truly wine, but moonshine laced with cough syrup; that the congregation was secretly a coven of witches, the wine an unholy brew of exotic, apocryphal ingredients, or that IHOG communion was less a “take a sip of the blood of Christ/do this in remembrance of me” affair and more a “Sunday morning open bar” situation.

There was a kernel of truth to all three rumors: 1) the base of the “wine” was 120-proof corn whiskey distilled in the basement of longtime parishioner Odell Jenkins, with a kick of whatever pharmaceutical-grade “special sauce” Pastor Larkin had at his disposal any given week; 2) Brother Larkin’s wife, Sister Juliana, a former fortune-teller who met her pastor husband during their carnival days, dabbled in folk medicine and always added a liberal glug of thorn-apple extract for added “kick.” Thorn-apple (also known as jimsonweed, devil’s trumpet, moonflower, and hell’s bells) was a powerful—and frequently toxic– hallucinogenic plant that grew liberally along the grounds of Inheritors’ House of Grace; and 3) At least a third of IHOG’s adult parishioners saw the observation as less a holy sacrament and more a church-sanctioned hall pass to get good and shithoused on a Sunday morning.

None of this, however, was known as verifiable fact to the cynical young woman who laughingly held the ecclesiastical pimp chalice aloft with a two-handed grip as her roommate cheered her on via speakerphone.

“CHUG-CHUG-CHUG-CHUG!!!!…” Tessa exhorted wildly.

“If I’ve gotta clean all this shit up, I might as well have a little fun while I’m at it, right?” Claudine wondered as second thoughts crept in. Like a bejeweled kettlebell, the dense, gaudy vessel strained her narrow wrists and forearms to the point of shaking.

“…CHUG-CHUG-CHUG-CHUG!!!…” Tessa continued, and Claudine knew she wouldn’t make it out of this situation with her street cred intact unless she took a heroic snort from the sacred vessel.

“Ohhh-KAYYY!!!” Claudine interjected, weary of the peer pressure, but also morbidly curious. Yesterday’s communion setup had been left behind either in haste or a rare display of drunken neglect, and opportunities like this didn’t present themselves very often.

And so, raising the chalice skyward while flicking her wrists slightly forward in a “Here’s to ya” gesture to whatever unseen higher power might bear witness, Claudine drank.

Almost immediately, her gag reflex revolted, her mouth and throat awash with a fiery, antiseptic onslaught, followed by the unpleasant notes of artificial grape flavoring, and finally, a bitter, acrid aftertaste.

“EEAAUUGGGGHHHH…” Claudine half-coughed, half-moaned in misery. “Holy SHIT that was awful!” she continued, her voice and demeanor still far from recovered from the mighty shock to her system.

“Feel anything?!” Tess asked expectantly.

“Yeah… I FEEL like I just took a giant snort from a shiny goblet full of hillbilly hepatitis.” Claudine deadpanned, suddenly ready to half-ass her way through her cleaning duties in record time and leave the Inheritors’ House of Grace far behind.

She pivoted toward her wagonload supplies, anxious to put on a pair of heavy-duty gloves and begin tidying the space that looked more like a crime scene than a house of worship, then collapsed, giggling, to one knee on the creaky hardwood floor.

“Whaaat?!” Tessa asked expectantly, certain that Claudine had uncovered a comical new detail inside the Sanctuary.

“I’m soooo sloshed, boo…” Claudine confessed, the sacramental hooch working its magic with otherworldly speed.

“Am I gonna need to come up there and pull YOU home in that wagon?” Tessa needled, pausing for Claudine’s reliably smartass-y retort.

None came.

“Claudine? Your skinny ass didn’t pass out, did you? That creepy circus preacher might mistake you for an altar boy…”

Tessa laughed, but the humor felt forced, the laugh hollow.

“You alright… boo?” Tessa thought the pet names Claudine routinely threw about were rampantly uncool, but had already shifted into caregiver mode, as she often did when her friend overindulged.

The call dropped.

Well…shit, Tessa thought. I’d go out there to hillbilly church and help her sober up if I didn’t have work in 20 minutes. She set a reminder to check in on Claudine later that afternoon, grabbed her purse, and left their shared duplex.

“NO! I…amnot… passshed outtt…you gonna give me a wagon ride, Misshh Tesshhie?”  Claudine slurred a good many seconds later, her impaired state having required a lengthy processing interval for Tessa’s earlier questions. “Annnnd you think… I’m shkinneeee?” she asked playfully, fishing to hear the compliment a second time, not yet realizing she was talking to dead air.

Stiffening an arm against the least-crusty church pew she could reach, Claudine braced and steadied herself before attempting to stand. Finding her bearings on still-unsteady feet, she looked around and marveled at the Inheritors’ House of Grace Sanctuary, now suddenly, miraculously transfigured.

The summer sunshine beaming through the sanctuary’s grimy stained-glass windows took the form of shimmering, golden snowflakes, the biblical heavyweights featured on the windows came seemingly to life; their chests rising and falling in synchronicity with Claudine’s breath, which triggered a random thought: You’re drunk, Claudine… and probably a few other things, too; remember your mindfulness minute; close your eyes and focus on your breath before you freak out…

Claudine’s eyes shut tightly as she calmed herself using a box-breathing technique she’d learned on YouTube, focusing on each inhale, holding, exhaling, then holding again before repeating the process. The church’s HVAC unit, a constant white-noise hum, cut off as the thermostat hit its mark—suddenly… quiet.

Claudine always found empty churches—especially THIS empty church—creepy, and she hadn’t realized what a steady comfort the sound of the air circulating through the sanctuary had brought until it ended. Forgetting her mindfulness practice in the tension of the moment, she held her breath after the final exhale.

Her lungs filled again soon after, not with a mindful, four-count inhale, but with a startled gasp triggered by a rustling sound near the pulpit. Now mightily disoriented, she saw the sanctuary alight— gauzy, soft-focused pastels and warm, glowing light, as if Claude Monet and Thomas Kincade had a baby together, decided they hated it for being born, and then as punishment made it come hang out in this hillbilly-ass, backside-of-nowhere church.

The communion cup glowed brilliantly in front of the pulpit, its radiant shimmer briefly distracting Claudine from the surreal scene unfolding in front of her, until another stirring beneath the pulpit snapped her back into focus.

The stained-glass figures no longer merely breathed. They noticed her. They were watching her now—really watching, with rapt silent earnestness. None could speak, but they all began imploring her— with utmost urgency— to leave.

Moses darted his head toward the door several times in rapid succession and shook his staff like a damned soul trying to hail a cab in Hell as the Red Sea churned ominously behind him. Noah clutched a bewildered penguin, abruptly snatched from his ark’s load-in line, and brandished it like a pointer, jabbing insistently in the direction of the exit. David abandoned Goliath entirely, spinning his slingshot in frantic circles like a deranged third base coach waving his runner home.

Still, because this was a horror story—and because Claudine was an expert-level white person—she felt irresistibly drawn toward the disturbance behind the pulpit. Thus, she crept forward.

Moses rolled his eyes, scratched his ass, and turned his attention back to the Israelites. David shrugged in disbelief—just long enough for Goliath to sneak up behind him, catch him in a rear naked choke, and unceremoniously decapitate him with a single, brutal twist of his chiseled forearm. Noah dropped his penguin with theatrical disgust, planted both hands on his hips, and flamboyantly mouthed, “GIRRRRRLLLLLL…” before turning sharply and stomping back to his ark.

The rustling would intermittently cease and begin anew, each successive event more vigorous and emphatic than the last. Claudine guided her weathered Chuck Taylors gingerly across the creaky floorboards—Why won’t the goddamn A/C kick back on and give me a little stealth? she wondered, her heart a jackhammer amid the excruciating silence. In her periphery, Goliath and the other Philistines had devolved into a rowdy game of primitive dodgeball, using David’s freshly-liberated head as the ball. Claudine barely noticed.

Radiant as the sanctuary glowed, glorified under the influence of a consecrated cocktail of thorn-apple, moonshine, and codeine, the pulpit and baptismal font remained shrouded in shadow. The darkness spread like fuzzy tendrils across the debris-littered floor, radiating from an unseen epicenter behind the pulpit, steadily devouring the light as Claudine crept closer.

Just as she crossed the event horizon, that liminal moment where whatever lay just behind the pulpit could see her, and she’d see it—a dissonant organ melody swelled out of nowhere, oddly soothing, eerily familiar.

A calm washed over her, an aural baptism.

She realized she hadn’t exhaled in far too long. A slow release… a deep inhale.  And then, Claudine settled into that delicious half-asleep/half-awake stupor she’d always wished she could summon at will. Thinking but not thinking—not in a way that feels like work, anyway. Floating in that delicate in-between. This is the best… I love it here… the worst is getting ripped from the void just when you’re starting to enjoy…

“THWACKKK!!!”

In an instant, her serenity detonated into wide-awake terror. Claudine stiffened, bolt-upright, with white-hot hyper vigilance.

The stomach-churning slap of dead weight against the hard floor still echoed through the sanctuary.

Her hazel eyes darted: Left? Right? Above?

Another rustle…

She froze.

It was behind her.

A labored wheeze. Wet. Rattling. Like something trying to speak through broken lungs.

She stood frozen, paralyzed and taut. Her thoughts spiraled helplessly as her central nervous system scrolled through its ancient menu of primal reactions: fight-flight-fawn-freeze-fight-flight-fawn-freeze-fight-flight-fawn-freeze-fight-flight-fawn-freeze…

Freeze was winning.

“CLAP!”

An icy, misshapen hand flailed clumsily onto her shoulder, as if an invisible puppeteer had cut the strings. Worse still, a bloated, clammy thumb grazed the nape of her neck—slow, deliberate, obscene.

Too petrified to move, Claudine nevertheless slowly shifted her gaze, downward and to the left…

Frigid and distended, the lifeless blue hand was streaked with a patchwork of purple veins, its stony palms flushed a nauseating shade of indigo where the blood had pooled postmortem. Its index and middle fingers— utterly ruined— had withered into black decay: the flesh mangled, a dark, viscous fluid seeping from the wound.

A second, raspy, breathless gasp. It— whatever “it” was— was attempting to speak. The hand, a graceless slab of lifeless tissue, attempted to spin her around.

NO… I will NOT put a face to this nightmare fuel, Claudine reasoned, trying to talk herself down from this obviously-bad—and hyper-realistic— trip. With a mighty eruption of willpower and courage, she wrenched her shoulder free, tensed each lean, sinewy muscle in her lower body, and exploded into a sprint… at the exact moment the heavy black shape— the ACTUAL source of the rustling behind the pulpit, wrapped itself around both Claudine’s ankles and sent her flailing to the floor.

With a sickening thud, her head caromed into the peak of the stairs leading to the choir loft, further scrambling her already-addled brain upon impact.

Two shadowy shapes hovered over her limp body. Fighting oblivion with every ounce of energy left in her petite frame, Claudine willed her eyes open as her exhausted neurotransmitters labored in vain to summon more adrenaline to fight or flee.

By then, however, the dark figures had overtaken her. Claudine blinked. Once, twice… on the third blink her vision cleared. She summoned a scream, but the impact of the fall had knocked the wind from her lungs.

Two sets of eyes—the first pair wide, leering, with a broad, nightmarish grin etched across its blotchy, misshapen face. The second pair—cold, reptilian, hungry— sized her up as if preparing for attack.
The cadaver’s-hand, now opened wide, reached slowly, gracelessly toward her neck. The heavy black shape with the reptilian eyes slunk low to the floor, tensing itself to pounce.

At last, Claudine’s lungs filled with air. She cried out; half-praying, half-defying the silence to respond…