Prologue

“For where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there will be disorder and every vile practice.” James 3:16

* * *

Who could've guessed the events that would transpire 15 years after the night of May 19th, 1999? It had been so long since anyone had even thought about that day. Many of the people who were lived in Robinwood to hear about it and feel its after effects had moved or were dead. The act itself had been so unexpected by the community that it took months for the feeling of death to escape the town of 60,000. The eerie dark feeling of loss came, went, and stayed away for a decade and a half. After those 15 years passed, the feeling of loss and darkness only grew till it all came to a boiling point.

* * *

At one time, the church on the outskirts of Robinwood, Wisconsin would host almost a hundred patrons every Sunday. The weeks would run in their consecutive order and the families would come in like clockwork. Pews were filled to the brim with mothers, fathers, grandparents, and children. Besides the occasional squirm from a child out of subtle protest caused by boredom and being in an overall uncomfortable situation, everyone was quiet and focused on the sermon Father Wilson was giving. After all, he was one of the main reasons anyone came to this church in the first place. It surely wasn’t the building itself. It was run down and grimy, in dyer need of a paint job and extensive cleaning. But it wasn't just the physical condition of the building that gave it an eerie feel these days. When the families walked in, a certain heaviness could be felt in the air. It bothered the parents and scared the children.

Father Wilson seemed to be a very approachable man. He stood tall and firm, but his smile could warm the hearts of just about anyone. He had an easy-going nature in the way he talked and looked. Wilson wore an understanding smile whenever someone came to him looking for advice or when they were discouraged. He always wore it as a way to provide a subtle notion that he was there to help. His short brown hair, brown eyes, and very average looking facial structure isn’t what necessarily made him stand out. His charisma and charm in the church and in the community is what made him significant. He was kind and patient with the children, and charming and sweet to the mothers. Anyone who needed someone to talk to could come to Father Wilson at any time and he would be the one to listen and care. Not just pretend to care, but genuinely try to be proactive about it and showing that the word of God is what leads to true happiness and peace.

Lately, Father Wilson looked like he was being weighed down by something. He had developed bags under his eyes and looked tired in his face and body. He didn't have the usual easy going nature that he brought every Sunday. When asked if anything was wrong, Wilson would force himself into a smile and say, "Of course not, my son. How could I feel down on a day as beautiful as this?" But the smile he gave on his face didn't cover the look of fear that was in his eyes. No one knew what to make of it. Father Wilson had always been a pillar in the community and loved for all the good he did throughout the town.

So when Father Wilson was found in the church attic with his wrists cut open and shard of glass in his hand, it made it all the more shocking. The scene was horrid. Pools of blood waded around him. His clothes had turned to the darkest of red while his skin was grayish white. His wrists were opened to the bone and completely drained of blood. The bone only personified how loud the white colors were over the dark reds that tried to consume the Father. The back of his head was propped up against the floor, staring at the wooden wall behind him.Wilson’s eyes were plastered open and now glossed over. The Father’s mouth was open as wide is it could go, appearing that he had been screaming even to his very end. Veins still showed and bulged out of his neck and skull. Along with his opened wrist and the pool of blood that surrounded him, it was a very hard sight to look at. On his hands was a copious amount of blood that only could have come from deliberately spreading it from his wrists to them. It didn’t take more than a few seconds to figure out why this had been.

* * *

Even someone who didn’t attend church knew and respected Father Wilson. He was a pillar in the community, universally adored. There was never a time where he didn’t have a smile on his face and a feeling of good tidings with him. Robinwood was awestruck by what had happened. The last person they would have expected to take their own life was him. Robinwood was struck by a feeling of loss and sadness. For what seemed like months, no one in the town appeared to smile. None of the parents seemed to laugh nor did the kids. The children didn’t go out and play on the street with each other. For the remainder of the school year, they all just came straight home with the longing to see their friends longing in their hearts. It felt like no one would be able to forget Father Wilson and what he did, and soon enough, his final act would inspire something that would ravage the small Wisconsin town to it’s very core.

* * *

There was one detail the community of Robinwood didn’t know about and still doesn’t know to this day. It’s not like it would have helped solve the mystery; if anything, it would’ve made everything even more confusing. Wilson’s hands were covered in his own blood to draw something, to plaster one last image into the minds of those who witnessed his aftermath. On the wall was a drawing. A very crude one at that. There was what appeared to be the head of a bull. The horns protruded from the side of it’s head going up the wall at a great height. There were small rivers of blood that ran down from the horns now dried on the cream colored wall. On top of the bull’s head, there lay a crown. A crown that was hard to tell at first. It seemed that while he was attempting to finger paint the last bit of royalty onto the beast, Wilson started shaking as his body was dying. The entire piece was smudged and runny, but it soon became clear what it was: a bull with a crown on it’s head.

No one knew what to make of it. There wasn’t a single person on the police force nor a single one of the paramedics who recognized what it symbolized. Soon after, the case was closed. It took some time for the community to forget about what happened. After all, it was pretty baffling. Then it was forgotten, as was the church. It was shut down, abandoned, and allowed to be left alone. But in a little over a decade, it would be abandoned no longer. And the symbol on the wall which everyone chalked up to be a crazy man’s last image before death would soon become much more to Robinwood than anyone could ever expect.