The Copper Lantern was alive that night, glowing with a dim orange haze as the town's men crowded inside. It wasn't much of a bar - just warped wooden floors, smoke-stained ceilings, and the smell of whiskey soaked into every board - but it was Cedar Grove's place of escape.
Laughter rang out from a corner table where cards slapped the wood and coins clinked with every bet. At the counter, Eli Ward poured drinks with the charm of a man who never had to pay for his own. His grin was wide, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the room like a hunter who had already chosen his prey.
Tonight, his prey wasn't in the bar at all.
He set down a glass of brown liquor, leaning close to the men gathered at the counter. "Y'all hear about Micah Rivers?" His voice wasn't loud, but it carried - just enough for the men playing cards to pause mid-game.
One of the farmers chuckled. "You mean the cryin' saint?"
Eli laughed, clapping the man's shoulder. "That's the one. Can't make it through a Sunday without waterin' the altar. A man like that don't belong leadin' anything."
The men chuckled, shaking their heads. Eli leaned closer, lowering his tone like he was sharing a secret he shouldn't. "Truth is… I seen him lose it once. Not in church, but outside. Got a temper, that one. Pretends he's holy, but when the mask slips…"
He let the words trail off, letting their imaginations do the rest.
"Really?" another man asked, eyes narrowing.
Eli nodded slowly, sipping his drink. "Y'all keep watch. He ain't the man you think he is. One day, that temper's gonna show. And when it does, you'll see the truth."
By the time midnight hit, the whispers had already spread beyond the bar's walls. In a town as small as Cedar Grove, rumors didn't walk - they sprinted.
Micah sat at his kitchen table the next morning, staring at the steam rising from his untouched coffee. Grace moved quietly around the kitchen, humming a hymn as she set plates on the table. The morning light streamed through the thin curtains, but it did nothing to ease the storm in his chest.
"You haven't said a word," Grace said gently, sliding into the chair across from him. "What weighs on you this early?"
Micah rubbed his hands over his face. "It's Eli. I feel him moving against me."
Grace tilted her head. "You've felt that before. What's different now?"
"This time," Micah said, his voice low, "he's not just speaking against me. He's planting seeds. I can feel it. Something's about to rise."
Grace reached across the table, her fingers lacing with his. "Then we pray.
God's already ahead of him, Micah. Don't let fear make you forget that."
Micah nodded, though the heaviness didn't lift. He wanted to believe that prayer alone would shield them. But in his chest, beneath the quiet, another presence stirred - the voice that never quite left him.
Why pray when you could act? You know Eli. He won't stop. Break him now, before he breaks you.
Micah's hand trembled in Grace's. He shut his eyes, whispering, "Not mine, Lord. Yours."
That night, as the town settled under a blanket of stars, Eli stood at the edge of the churchyard, staring at the small offering box tucked against the back wall.
His smirk returned as he pulled a crowbar from his coat.
"This'll do," he muttered, prying open the box and slipping the coins into a leather pouch. He looked toward the parsonage where the pastor's lamp still burned, then back at the pouch in his hands.
"Let's see how holy they think you are when this comes back on you, Rivers."
He tucked the pouch under his coat and disappeared into the shadows, planting the first snare.