Chapter Two

"Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another- and all the more as you see the Day coming." Hebrews 10:25

* * *

The church had been abandoned for fifteen years. Until the night of May 19th, 2014.

No one visited it or even dared come near it. The story had been told over the past decade and a half of the horrible suicide of Father Wilson in the attic of the old building. Some thought his ghost haunted it, others thought that was nonsense. Whether they believed in the ghost of Father Wilson or not, there had not been a single individual who walked up to it or the old oak tree behind the church in fifteen years. Fifteen years the plot of land sat wasting away till it collapsed over. Maybe there would be an awful thunderstorm and the winds would take it right out of the foundation and that would be the end of it. The building that signified the most awful tragedy in the small southern Wisconsin town would be no more. The memory of death and loss would be wiped away and a clean slate would be held up and welcomed.

What had caused the community much confusion was the fact that the building hadn’t gone down during the violent storms Wisconsin often has, nor that anyone had decided to tear it down themselves. At this point, it only seemed natural to demolish the building. The paint job from many years ago had faded down to an unsettling grayish color. Vines grew up its sides all the way up to the tower where the golden cross stood from.  It was old, run down, and not being put to any good use. Fifteen years of rotting and decaying seemed like more than the right amount of time to put the old girl out of her misery and start something fresh on that plot of land. The church had become nothing more than a waste of space.

* * *

Perhaps it was all just a matter of perspective. To the vast majority of the community, they saw nothing more than a gross looking, run down eyesore in which everyone would benefit from having it removed.  There were those who thought otherwise. But instead of voicing their opinion, they kept it under wraps. They met and worked in private. If you saw one of them walking down the street or in one of the local shops downtown, they would appear like just another average Joe minding his own business. What you could not see was the sinister intentions he had for the run down, grey, eyesore of a building. To him, he did not see such a thing. He saw the beginnings of what was going to shake the community to its bones. He saw this, as did everyone who was working with him.

* * *

When the fog fell on the night of May 19th, it wasn’t paid much attention to. If you were inside, it didn’t really affect you in any way. If you were driving, you drove slower and watched closely to avoid a collision. The suicide of Father Wilson was not made mention of like it had been for about seven or eight years now. The night proceeded like any other without a disturbance. The disturbances, pain, confusion, and evil hadn’t started yet. But across the town to the outskirts of Robinwood, a light was lit inside the church, shining through the old windows, masked by the dense fog. On the old oak tree behind the building, a crow stood. It cawed out periodically and loudly. The cycle began to churn slowly as what would be had started. The beginnings of the greatest atrocities ever to plague the town of Robinwood would reawaken soon after that night had begun. It was starting, slowly churning away.