The church was empty, just the way he liked it.
In the quiet hours before dawn, before the first footsteps scuffed the old wooden floors, before the murmured prayers and the bending of knees, it belonged to him alone.
Reverend Amos DeWitt stepped through the doors, inhaling deep, letting the scent of wax and old wood settle in his lungs. His kingdom. His house. His voice would fill it soon enough, would call out the sins of his flock, would bring them low and keep them grateful.
But something was different.
He saw it the moment he reached the pulpit.
A letter.
Not tucked in a hymnal. Not slipped into the offering plate. No, this was different. It sat dead center on the worn oak pulpit, waiting for him like a snake coiled in a sunbeam.
No name. No seal.
Just a plain white envelope.
A weight settled in his chest.
He picked it up, turning it over in his hands, the paper crisp beneath his fingers. A donation, maybe. A confession from one of the weak-hearted, too ashamed to speak their sins aloud.
Or something else.
Something colder.
The feeling didn’t leave him as he tore it open, sliding the letter free. His breath caught in his throat the moment he saw the handwriting.
His own.
The words were his. Every loop, every sharp cut of ink, identical to the notes he scrawled in the margins of his sermons. But this wasn’t scripture. This wasn’t a sermon.
This was his sins.
The stolen church money. The ledger he had burned. The old reverend’s death.
His hands trembled. The room felt too small, the air thick and hot.
No one knew these things.
No one alive.
But the letter was here, in his hands, written in his own script. Someone—someone—had put it there.
He forced himself to read to the end.
The last line sent ice down his spine:
“You have spent years judging sinners. Now, let’s see if you know repentance.”
His fingers tightened around the paper, crumpling it in his fist. His gaze swept the empty pews, the shadowed corners of the church.
Someone was playing a game.
But who?
His mind turned over the possibilities. The people of Jericho Bend feared him too much to try something like this. No one would dare.
No one alive.
A chill crept along his skin.
The only other man who had ever known these secrets was dead.
And Amos DeWitt had preached at his funeral.
Oh, Reverend… a preacher’s words can save a man’s soul… or damn him to hell. And you? You thought you had the whole town in your grip. But down here, where the air is thick with the past and the dead don’t always stay buried, a man’s sins have a funny way of rising up to meet him.
Now tell me, Reverend—when judgment comes knocking, will you answer?