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The Hand of God (971 words)
This was created for a prompt using the beginning "Touching her nose to prove it was still there" and it had to be under 1,000 words. Anyways, hope you like.
The Hand of God
Touching her nose to prove it was still there, Rosy shook from the cold of the night.
She said, "It's too cold."
I tried my best to convince her to come inside. I told her about the window of opportunity we had. I told her how we'll never have this chance again. I told her of the greater level of consciousness we are likely to gain.
She thought it was a load of crap.
"It's waaay too cold."
There's the chance to take the next step in spiritual development and she's unwilling because it's too cold.
Rosy went back and sat in the car, waiting for me to turn back. I took one look at the dilapilated structure that used to be a church, then another at Rosy sitting in the car. My mind told me not to go; but it was my spirit that made me forge ahead.
With the help of a crowbar the door opened and I found myself in the lobby of a large, old-fashioned church.
Inside it smelt like dozens of rats had died. I could tell the walls used to be white but they weren't anymore. Now they were black from dirt and other substances I didn't bother examining more closely.
Through the double doors was the holy place where everything went down. I could imagine generations of Christians praying and and worshipping the Lord in that very place. I was surprised that the pews had weathered time and were intact for the most part. They were purely wooden with a back that goes straight up. Nothing fancy. I took a look across the room and saw a few shattered stained glass windows. Boards had been placed over them from the outside. Directly in front of me a pulpit had been constructed, along with a shoddy wooden podium on top of it.
This was the House of God.
It was a nice place, but I'd only come to see one thing. The cross.
People around Stratford will occasionally hint to something odd or unusual going on in the old church, but they never specify what exactly. Any attempt to get information out of them leads to a skillful conversation change on their part. It took years of digging into the past and indiscreet social maneuvering to find out what I have.
These secrets were the type you didn't come across everyday.
I tried to share them with Rosy and she thought it was a joke. She thought I just wanted an excuse to take her on another one of my haunted house raids. She liked coming with me and being scared as much as I was. She wasn't too enthusiastic when I revealed my research to her.
I don't blame her.
Each person to enter that church attempting to vandalize it, sleep in it, take shelter, or whatever reason experienced a great change. People came out completely new persons. A bum looking for a place to stay during the cold goes in lonely and destitute and comes out the same. It was only three days later did he become a millionare.
Rosy said, "That doesn't prove anything."
I laughed and pointed toward even more evidence. I showed her how the Cole twins broke into the church planning to set it on fire and came out claiming Christ as their saviour the next day. All sorts of people entered the church. A teacher came out a doctor. A lawyer came out a pastor. A pedophile came out a philanthropist. All the changes occurred in less than five days.
They called the phenomenon the "Hand of God".
As I stood in the church staring at the cross, I laughed at how silly the others had been. None of them had believed me and now I was staring at the miracle itself.
The cross bled a dark red liquid from its four points. All of the points Jesus had touched when he hung on the cross.
In any other occasion I would've stepped forward and wiped away the liquid to see the hole it was being pumped from. I'd expect to see tubing carefully hidden inside it and through the floor. I'd get a sample of the liquid and try to find out its chemical contents after leaving.
I did none of that. It was all too real. I didn't let myself be taken away in the moment, but I knew it was real. It couldn't be a fake.
I don't know how long I stared at it. It may have been hours or it may have been seconds. I can't recall.
The only thing I do recall is the weakening of my body. My knees buckled for no apparant reason. I fell flat on my back, unable to feel anything. Every part of my body was numb.
I stared at the ceiling and watched it collapse with me under it.
That was a month ago.
I'm out of the hospital and I haven't visited a church or haunted house since then. I never will either.
My memory of the accident is here, but half of my face is not.
I can't walk outside without a child grabbing their mother and screaming or a baby crying or people whispering about "that guy with no lips". Nobody looks at me anymore. That closest thing to that is the quick glances given to someone you'd like to avoid.
Now that I've told my story, I must move on. I must concentrate. If I don't, this revolver will only blow out the back of my neck and not my brains. Then I'll have to suffer even longer.
I won't be like those other suckers. I won't aim it too high or too low, but just right. I'll aim for the brain stem and when I hit that -- game over.
I refuse to be the work of a cruel deity anymore. I will ruin His masterpiece. I was sculpted by the Hand of God and I will do my best to undo His work.
Last edited by TDS : 08-22-2006 at 11:49 AM.
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