A Preview of Book of Turpin — Chapter One: The Quiet Ground

THE QUIET GROUND
 Green.
 A sea of green. The field stretched from ridge to ridge like a living quilt, stitched together by wind. The stalks of grain were young, too early to bend with weight, too soon to be harvested. They danced instead, arms raised in praise to the breeze that passed over them. From a distance, it looked like peace. Up close, the truth was more complicated: shallow roots, brittle stems, and a fight for each drop of sun, a battle over each ounce of water.
 Oliver stood at the crest of a hill, boots in the damp earth. The air smelled of green, wet plants, living things. His duster moved with the wind, and his hat-shaded eyes softened as they took it all in. He smiled.
 His mind wandered to his travels with his mentor, Gerin, and he found himself remembering the train journey across the grasslands of Ireland. The vast expanse of green had been a highlight as they traversed the country. The memory of the train cutting through the fields like a silver snake, the sun glinting off its metallic body, was vivid in his mind. The wind had been a gentle companion then, rustling the grass in waves, much like the sea. Oliver thought of Gerin, his face weathered by the sun and wind, eyes always alert, taking in the landscape. The memory of that journey brought a sense of calm to Oliver, and he stood a little taller, feeling a connection to the land and the wind that stirred it. The silence of the field was broken only by the gentle rustle of the grain, and for a moment, Oliver felt at peace, his roots reaching deep into the earth, his spirit soaring with the wind.
 “Would you look at that?” he murmured.
 A red-winged blackbird darted out from the brush, wings flashing. The field rippled beneath it. He caught the glint of dew still clinging to the stalks, and far in the distance, a single scarecrow tilted just off center, weather-worn, but still doing its job. He could hear the buzz of bees nearby, working through wild clover at the fence line. The world felt alive in a quiet, breathing sort of way.
 A light crackle sounded in Oliver’s ear from his comms unit, followed by Perspheone's voice, “What’s that? Are you seeing anything unusual?”
 “Not yet,” Oliver said, still watching the field. “The place looks quiet. But it’s real still down there.”
 “They’ve had three killings. Blood, scripture, livestock cut up. Locals are blaming demons.”
 “Do you think they’re right?”
 “I think it’s too early to guess. But I don’t like the setup.” She paused, then added, “Roland’s still tied up in Alberta. Ghoul infestation’s worse than expected. Melissa’s back on Sepe’s trail, deep in Vatican files. And Ivoire and An are up and around. Recovery’s slow, but they’re awake.”
 Oliver’s smile widened. “That’s good. Tell them I said ‘hey’.”
 “I will. Safe hunting.”
 He started down the slope, down the road, toward the town, his boots crunching on loose gravel.
 At the bottom of the hill, just past a row of wind-worn mailboxes, a man leaned under the up-tilted hood of an old truck. Clad in oil-stained jeans, a tank top, and a ball cap that had seen better decades; he had grease on his forearms, cigarettes tucked into his shirt pocket. He glanced up as Oliver approached, and wiped his hands on a rag.
 “You with the state?” he asked, pushing sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
 “No. Just visiting,” Oliver said.
 “Thought so. You don’t look nervous enough to be local.”
 Oliver glanced at the tools spread on the ground, then back to the church steeple rising above the rooftops. “Heard you’ve had some trouble.”
 The man nodded slowly. “You mean the killings. Yeah. Lotta folks say it’s the devil, or something close to it. Me? I think it’s just people. Angry, scared, maybe drunk.”
 Oliver studied him. “You know the victims?”
 “One of ‘em. Claire Hensley. Sweet girl, taught Sunday school. They found her with a verse carved into her back. That ain’t something a sane man does.”
 “What verse?”
 “Revelation, I think. Something about Jezebel and fire. I didn’t look too hard.” He closed the truck’s hood with a metallic thud. “Town’s always been on edge, but now it’s twitchy. Church has gotten... strange.”
 “Strange how?”
 The man shrugged. “Different music. Longer sermons. Pastor says we need to ‘purify our worship.’ Makes folks chant things. Feels more like theater than faith.”
 “What about the people?” asked Oliver. “They change any?”
 The man gave a slow nod. “You could say that. Town’s been off. People say it’s demons.” The man spat on the road. “I say it’s just bad blood. Either way, folks are scared.”
 Oliver looked down the street, then back to the man. “Cops doing anything?”
 The man snorted. “They don’t come out here. Closest real station’s an hour away. They’ll send a deputy if there’s a body, but that’s it. We’re on our own.”
 “Who’s the minister?”
 “Reverend Hess. Used to be a good man, kept things steady. But he hasn’t come out of the church since the second killing. Folks say he’s holed up in that church, praying or losing his mind. Or both.”
 Oliver nodded his thanks. “Appreciate the help.”
 The man pointed a wrench at the church. “If you’re heading in there, be careful. Ain’t right in that place lately. Not just the killings, something else. Cold inside, even when it’s hot. And that building never had no AC.”
 Oliver nodded. “Thanks.”
 “You planning to stop it? The killings I mean?”
 “Planning to find out what it is first. Then we’ll see.”
 “Yeah,” the man said. “Figured you were more than just visiting.”
 Oliver tipped his hat with a smile, then turned from the truck and kept walking.
 Below, the town spread like an old memory. Houses leaned with age, paint faded to sun-bleached pastels. Rusted trucks sat quietly in driveways, and wind chimes clinked with lazy rhythm. The church tower stood tallest, originally by design, but now taller by default as everything else had slumped.
 “Looks like a green version of Drywell,” Oliver said.
 “You okay?” Persephone asked.
 “Yeah. This place, it’s sad, but there’s something honest about it. Like it remembers who it used to be.”
 He passed a porch where a kid bounced a ball against the siding, counting softly. A clothesline stretched from one crooked post to another, hung with denim and baby clothes. An old man sat in a plastic lawn chair, sipping something from a chipped mug. He gave Oliver a nod. Oliver nodded back.
 “You’re thinking about Kevin,” Persephone said, reading his silence.
 “Yeah. I’m sure he’s still holding things together. That church means much to Drywell.”
 He walked by a boarded-up store with a sun-bleached sign: “Closed for Good. God Will Provide.”
 “This town’s tired. You can feel it. Folks reaching for something solid and finding splinters.”
 “That’s why you’re there,” she said. “To sand out those splinters.”
 He stopped in front of the church. The front door was ajar, hanging like an invitation no one was sure how to answer. From inside, a voice hummed a slow, familiar hymn, slightly off-pitch.
 “At the church, going in,” he said.
 “Stay sharp,” Persephone replied.
 He adjusted his coat, took a deep breath, and pushed open the wooden doors that squeaked in protest. The humming stopped. He recalled his SWAT training on how to clear a room.
 Oliver kept walking, eyes fixed on the crooked door ahead. He stepped inside, and the shift hit him immediately. The air was colder than it should’ve been. Not cool, but cold, like stone cellars and winter funerals. Light slanted in through narrow windows, casting green and gold bars across the pews. Dust hung thick in the beams, unmoving, as if the air itself refused to stir.
 The hymn had stopped.
 The silence now felt thick, like it was listening.
 Oliver moved slowly. Each footstep echoed louder than it should. He scanned the room with a preacher’s eye, not just a Paladin’s. The altar cloth was stained. Not blood; coffee, maybe, or wine, but no one had cleaned it. The offering plates were overturned, one resting on the floor. Hymnals sat open to different pages. The pages didn’t rustle. The air was dead still.
 And then he saw it.
 The cross on the wall had been taken down.
 Not broken. Just gone. A sun-faded shape still marked where it had hung for years.
 Oliver frowned, heart tightening in his chest. That wasn’t neglect. That was intentional.
 He moved toward the pulpit, stepping between the pews. He noticed the floorboards beneath the second row had been recently disturbed, cleaner than the rest, as if someone had been pacing there.
 “Reverend Hess?” he called.
 No answer.
 He moved toward the rear door behind the pulpit, pushing it open gently. A narrow hallway stretched back toward an office and a small kitchen. The smell changed; mildew, faint rot, and something coppery just beneath it.
 He stepped through, boots quiet on the worn carpet.
 “Reverend?”
 A creak came from the far room, weight shifting floorboards.
 Oliver reached to his left side and placed his hand on the revolver waiting there. The wood of the custom Webley Fossbury felt at home under his touch.
 Whatever was back here, it wasn’t just hiding. It was waiting, trying not to be seen or heard.
 Oliver stepped into the office and stopped just inside the door. The room was small, cluttered, and permeated with the same deep cold that gripped the rooms. Papers were scattered on the desk, some torn, most yellowed with age. A single coffee mug sat at the edge, half full, the surface of the liquid long settled.
 A slower scan of the room revealed the rug didn’t fit; it was too new, too clean.
 He knelt and pulled it back. Beneath was a hidden door with a recessed handle.
 It creaked as he opened it, releasing a breath of damp earth and stone. The scent hit him hard: soil, mold, and something faintly sour. Clicking on the flashlight clipped to his hat, he aimed it into the dark. Hand-chiseled steps descended into what looked like an old root cellar that had been widened into something more.
 He dropped down, boots landing with a soft crunch of gravel and dirt.
 The space below was tight, the ceiling low. Tree roots threaded through the earth overhead like black veins. Someone had strung old utility lights on wires along the wall, but only half were working. The flickering glow made the tunnel stutter between shadow and light.
 Ahead, a noise. Quick footsteps. Someone running.
 He straightened and shouted, “Hess?”
 No reply.
 The tunnel split. One path led deeper; it was narrow and packed tight. The other veered to the left, where fresh dirt had been dug and shored up with mismatched boards.
 He followed the sounds of footsteps to the left.
 His boots crushed through damp soil as he moved faster, light sweeping side to side. Scripture and madness were scratched into the dirt walls in places, some nearly invisible, others gouged deep like the writer’s hand was angry at the earth. These weren’t the comfort verses, some weren’t even from the Bible. They were fragments, pulled from the edges of forgotten recitations.
 “The locusts have no king, yet go they forth…”
 “Cursed is the man who hangs on a tree.”
 “The lion hath roared, who will not fear?”
 “Woe to those who rise early to chase strong drink…”
 “I will set My face against that man, and cut him off…”
 Some were twisted. Verses trailed into gibberish. Names repeated without context. One was written three times, in shaky, narrowing lines:
 “In the green, in the green, in the green.”
 The rest was nonsense, like someone repeating dreams until they unraveled.
 Oliver stopped and called again. “Reverend Hess, stop running! I’m not here to hurt you.”
 Somewhere ahead, feet slipped and caught again. A grunt of pain. Then silence.
 Oliver stood still, letting the quiet settle. He clicked off his light. Waited. One breath. Two.
 A whisper echoed faintly from the dark, not far ahead, “He’s coming back. He never left. He’s under the field, under the grain, in the green, in the green—”
 Oliver flicked his light back on and resumed walking, alert with caution.
 The tunnel widened into a crude chamber, supported by warped hand-cut wood beams and lit by a single bare bulb that swung gently from a nail. The walls were lined with old wood paneling, the type common in 1970s basements, now warped from damp and time. In the center of the room, a woman lay on the ground, her hands bound in front of her with cord, her eyes swollen but still moving. Her breath was ragged, shallow, and quick.
 Oliver crouched beside her, checked her pulse. She flinched at his touch.
 “Hey,” he said, voice low, even. “You’re alright. I’m here to help.”
 Behind him, a voice cracked like old wood, “She’s not ready yet.”
 Oliver rose, turning toward the back of the room, keeping himself between the woman and the voice.
 Reverend Hess stood in the far corner, holding a rusted pipe like a staff. His eyes were wild, rimmed red and sunken, and his clothes hung off him as if they’d stopped fitting weeks ago. He looked more like a ghost than a preacher.
 “She asked for it,” Hess said. “She came here. Said she wanted to be clean.”
 Oliver raised a hand, calm, steady. “I believe you think that. But this isn’t the way, Reverend. You know that.”
 “She was hearing the green.” Hess shook the pipe. “It sings. In the grain. Under the floor. You hear it too, don’t you? I saw you stop at the field.”
 Oliver didn’t look away. “I heard the wind.”
 Footsteps sounded behind him.
 He turned just in time to see a massive figure step out from a side tunnel, ducking under a low beam. The man was easily six-five, shoulders like a barn door, shirtless, and covered in grime. Eyes wide and blank.
 Hess ordered, “Don’t let him take her.”
 The man rushed.
 Oliver’s world slowed as his body settled into his training: he pre-saw the angle of the man’s foot twist in the dirt, saw the left shoulder dip slightly, the slight contraction of muscles in the jaw, all tells bright as neon lights.
 He moved first, his punch coming wide and high. Oliver slipped below it, turned his hips, and used the man’s own weight to throw him hard against the wall. Wood cracked. Dust dropped from the ceiling.
 The man rolled and came back up with a roar, swinging a broken board like a mace.
 With his God-gifted eyes, Oliver saw the arc before it started.
 He ducked low, stepped into the man’s swing, caught the wrist holding the board with a strike, and snapped an elbow into the ribs, twice, sharp and fast. The man gasped, stunned, and Oliver pivoted, dropped, and swept the legs.
 The attacker hit the ground hard, the snap of his collarbone echoing through the chamber. He braced his hands to stand up.
 Oliver stepped and kicked him in the temple, then stepped back, breathing steady. “Stay down.”
 The man groaned, rolled, and didn’t get back up.
 Hess was frozen. He dropped the pipe to the floor and held his hands up.
 Oliver approached him slowly, hands open.
 “Reverend, look at me. You’re not a bad man, you’re a tired one. And you’ve been listening to the wrong voices.”
 Hess blinked. Something in his expression cracked, “I just wanted the singing to stop.”
 “I know,” Oliver said. “Let me take her out of here. Then I’ll come back and we’ll sit together. No cuffs. Just two men talking.”
 Hess nodded slowly. “Okay.”
 Oliver unbound the woman and helped her to her feet, his eyes never leaving the preacher.
 She leaned into him, whispering something too soft to catch, but it sounded like gratitude.
 He walked her out, past the unconscious brute, past the carved walls and the madness they’d fed. Back toward the church, and the field above that still danced in the wind.
 Hours later, after speaking with the locals and ensuring all was well, Oliver was back in the Vatican jet and airborne. The cabin of the jet hummed with the low rhythm of the engines, steady and unchanging. Outside the oval window, the night sky stretched wide and black, stars like needlepoints against velvet. Oliver sat at a narrow table inside the private jet, boots off, legs stretched, duster draped over the seat across from him. A cup of fresh coffee cooled beside a half-eaten protein bar.
 The monitor in front of him flickered once, then lit up with four faces.
 Melissa came in first, her brown hair pulled up into a bun, revealing her aquiline face. She had a folder open in front of her. “You’re airborne?”
 Oliver nodded. “About thirty minutes out. Pilot says we’ll be wheels down just before sunrise.”
 Persephone appeared next, bright eyes flicking across her tablet, she brushed her blonde, teal-tipped hair away from her face, “We’ve got your footage. It’s a mess.”
 Ivoire and An joined last, seated side by side on the couch in the library. They still looked pale and thin, but their eyes looked rested and at peace. An gave a small wave, and Ivoire nodded.
 “Glad to see you two up and around,” Oliver said, genuine warmth in his voice.
 “One day at a time,” Ivoire said, dry as ever. “I look forward to being my old self again.”
 An smiled faintly. “Me too.”
 Oliver smiled. “God will provide.”
 Melissa brought the conversation back around. “Tell us about the preacher.”
 Oliver leaned back and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Name’s Hess. His mind cracked. Started hearing things he thought were divine, turned his root cellar into a penance chamber. He wasn’t summoning anything. Just trying to keep the ‘green’ from singing.”
 “And the girl?” Persephone asked.
 “Still sedated. I spoke with the only law enforcement within fifty miles, an exhausted deputy with no backup and no budget. He agreed to get Hess and the girl to a proper hospital. They’ll be watched.”
 “No demonic signature on the site?” Melissa asked.
 “Nothing. Whatever was messing with Hess was either human-made or so faint it didn’t root. But the fear was real. The scriptures on the wall could have been something, or could have been just the work of a madman.”
 Persephone tapped something again, bringing up a map overlay. “Well, demon or not, I am sure the people of the town are happy to put that behind them.”
 Oliver yawned, “If there is nothing else, I would like to get some sleep before I land.”
 Melissa looked up from her notes. “You’re not going to get much rest. We’re rerouting you to Texas.”
 Oliver arched a brow. “Thought I was going to debrief in person.”
 “This is urgent,” she said. “Roland is en route already.”
 That caught Oliver’s attention. “StarFall?”
 “Our benefactors are nervous,” Melissa said. “Conte stopped by and insisted we need eyes on the ground now. There’s a revival movement in Texas, called the Red Revival. Thousands are attending.”
 Oliver leaned forward, face hardening just a fraction. “And they think demons are involved?”
 “What they are preaching is anti-God disguised as pro-God,” said Persephone. “The ministers seem to have a charming effect on the crowds, too much to be human.”
 “What’s the plan?”
 “Embed,” she said. “Make contact. Get close. This isn’t just about false teaching. People are changing, Oliver. And not in the way God intended.”
 “Sounds like just the sort of thing to send Ivoire on,” Oliver smiled. “Care for a spy date?”
 “I am willing,” said Ivoire.
 “That might work,” said Melissa. “You go in your wheelchair seeking a miracle. She will join you after you land.”
 “If Ivoire and I are going undercover,” asked Oliver, “What is Roland going as?”
 “Insurance,” said Persephone.       The field stretched from ridge to ridge like a living quilt, stitched together by wind. The stalks of grain were young, too early to bend with weight, too soon to be harvested. They danced instead, arms raised in praise to the breeze that passed over them. From a distance, it looked like peace. Up close, the truth was more complicated: shallow roots, brittle stems, and a fight for each drop of sun, a battle over each ounce of water.
       Oliver stood at the crest of a hill, boots in the damp earth. The air smelled of green, wet plants, living things. His duster moved with the wind, and his hat-shaded eyes softened as they took it all in. He smiled.
       His mind wandered to his travels with Gerin, and he found himself remembering the train journey across the grasslands of Ireland. The vast expanse of green had been a highlight as they traversed the country. The memory of the train cutting through the fields like a silver snake, the sun glinting off its metallic body, was vivid in his mind. The wind had been a gentle companion then, rustling the grass in waves, much like the sea. Oliver thought of Gerin, his face weathered by the sun and wind, eyes always alert, taking in the landscape. The memory of that journey brought a sense of calm to Oliver, and he stood a little taller, feeling a connection to the land and the wind that stirred it. The silence of the field was broken only by the gentle rustle of the grain, and for a moment, Oliver felt at peace, his roots reaching deep into the earth, his spirit soaring with the wind.
       "Would you look at that?" he murmured.
       A red-winged blackbird darted out from the brush, wings flashing. The field rippled beneath it. He caught the glint of dew still clinging to the stalks, and far in the distance, a single scarecrow tilted just off center, weather-worn, but still doing its job. He could hear the buzz of bees nearby, working through wild clover at the fence line. The world felt alive in a quiet, breathing sort of way.
       A light crackle sounded in Oliver's ear from his comms unit, followed by Perspheone's voice, "What's that? Are you seeing anything unusual?"
       "Not yet," Oliver said, still watching the field. "The place looks quiet. But it's real still down there."
       "They've had three killings. Blood, scripture, livestock cut up. Locals are blaming demons."
       "Do you think they're right?"
       "I think it's too early to guess. But I don't like the setup." She paused, then added, "Roland's still tied up in Alberta. Ghoul infestation's worse than expected. Melissa's back on Sepe's trail, deep in Vatican files. And Ivoire and An are up and around. Recovery's slow, but they're awake."
       Oliver's smile widened. "That's good. Tell them I said 'hey'."
       "I will. Safe hunting."
       He started down the slope, down the road, toward the town, his boots crunching on loose gravel.
       At the bottom of the hill, just past a row of wind-worn mailboxes, a man leaned under the hood of an old truck. Clad in oil-stained jeans, a tank top, and a ball cap that had seen better decades; he had grease on his forearms, cigarettes tucked into his shirt pocket. He glanced up as Oliver approached, wiping his hands on a rag.
       "You with the state?" the man asked, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
       "No. Just visiting," Oliver said.
       "Thought so. You don't look nervous enough to be local."
       Oliver glanced at the tools spread on the ground, then back to the church steeple rising above the rooftops. "Heard you've had some trouble."
       The man nodded slowly. "You mean the killings. Yeah. Lotta folks say it's the devil, or something close to it. Me? I think it's just people. Angry, scared, maybe drunk."
       Oliver studied him. "You know the victims?"
       "One of 'em. Claire Hensley. Sweet girl, taught Sunday school. They found her with a verse carved into her back. That ain't something a sane man does."
       "What verse?"
       "Revelation, I think. Something about Jezebel and fire. I didn't look too hard." He closed the truck's hood with a metallic thud. "Town's always been on edge, but now it's twitchy. Church has gotten... strange."
       "Strange how?"
       The man shrugged. "Different music. Longer sermons. Pastor says we need to 'purify our worship.' Makes folks chant things. Feels more like theater than faith."
       "What about the people?" asked Oliver. "They change any?"
       The man gave a slow nod. "You could say that. Town's been off. People say it's demons." The man spat on the road. "I say it's just bad blood. Either way, folks are scared."
       Oliver looked down the street, then back to the man. "Cops doing anything?"
       The man snorted. "They don't come out here. Closest real station's an hour away. They'll send a deputy if there's a body, but that's it. We're on our own."
       "Who's the minister?"
       "Reverend Hess. Used to be a good man, kept things steady. But he hasn't come out of the church since the second killing. Folks say he's holed up in that church, praying or losing his mind. Or both."
       Oliver nodded his thanks. "Appreciate the help."
       The man pointed a wrench at the church. "If you're heading in there, be careful. Ain't right in that place lately. Not just the killings, something else. Cold inside, even when it's hot. And that building never had no AC."
       Oliver nodded. "Thanks."
       "You planning to stop it? The killings I mean?"
       Oliver tipped his hat. "Planning to find out what it is first. Then we'll see."
       "Yeah," the man said. "Figured you were more than just visiting."
       Oliver tipped his hat with a smile, then turned from the truck and kept walking.
       Below, the town spread like an old memory. Houses leaned with age, paint faded to sun-bleached pastels. Rusted trucks sat quietly in driveways, and wind chimes clinked with lazy rhythm. The church tower stood tallest, by design at first, but but now taller as everything else had slumped.
       "Looks like a green version of Drywell," Oliver said.
       "You okay?" Persephone asked.
       "Yeah. This place, it's sad, but there's something honest about it. Like it remembers who it used to be."
       He passed a porch where a kid bounced a ball against the siding, counting softly. A clothesline stretched from one crooked post to another, hung with denim and baby clothes. An old man sat in a plastic lawn chair, sipping something from a chipped mug. He gave Oliver a nod. Oliver nodded back.
       "You're thinking about Kevin," Persephone said, reading his silence.
       "Yeah. I'm sure he's still holding things together. That church means much to Drywell."
       He walked by a boarded-up store with a sun-bleached sign: "Closed for Good. God Will Provide."
       "This town's tired. You can feel it. Folks reaching for something solid and finding splinters."
       "That's why you're there," she said. "To sand out those splinters."
       He stopped in front of the church. The front door was ajar, hanging like an invitation no one was sure how to answer. From inside, a voice hummed a slow, familiar hymn, slightly off-pitch.
       "At the church, going in," he said.
       "Stay sharp," Persephone replied.
       He adjusted his coat, took a deep breath, and pushed open the wooden doors that squeaked in protest. The humming stopped. He recalled his SWAT training on how to clear a room.
       Oliver kept walking, eyes fixed on the crooked door ahead. He stepped inside, and the shift hit him immediately. The air was colder than it should've been. Not cool, but  cold, like stone cellars and winter funerals. Light slanted in through narrow windows, casting green and gold bars across the pews. Dust hung thick in the beams, unmoving, as if the air itself refused to stir.
       The hymn had stopped.
       The silence now felt thick, like it was listening.
       Oliver moved slowly. Each footstep echoed louder than it should. He scanned the room with a preacher's eye, not just a Paladin's. The altar cloth was stained. Not blood; coffee, maybe, or wine, but no one had cleaned it. The offering plates were overturned, one resting on the floor. Hymnals sat open to different pages. The pages didn't rustle. The air was dead still.
       And then he saw it.
       The cross on the wall had been taken down.
       Not broken. Just gone. A sun-faded shape still marked where it had hung for years.
       Oliver frowned, heart tightening in his chest. That wasn't neglect. That was intentional.
       He moved toward the pulpit, stepping between the pews. He noticed the floorboards beneath the second row had been recently disturbed, cleaner than the rest, as if someone had been pacing there.
       "Reverend Hess?" he called.
       No answer.
       He moved toward the rear door behind the pulpit, pushing it open gently. A narrow hallway stretched back toward an office and a small kitchen. The smell changed; mildew, faint rot, and something coppery just beneath it.
       He stepped through, boots quiet on the worn carpet.
       "Reverend?"
       A creak came from the far room, weight shifting floorboards.
       Oliver reached to his left side and placed his hand on the revolver waiting there. The wood of the custom Webley Fossbury felt at home under his touch.
       Whatever was back here, it wasn't just hiding. It was waiting, trying not to be seen or heard.
       Oliver stepped into the office and stopped just inside the door. The room was small, cluttered, and permeated with the same deep cold that gripped the rooms. Papers were scattered on the desk, some torn, most yellowed with age. A single coffee mug sat at the edge, half full, the surface of the liquid long settled.
       A slower scan of the room revealed the rug didn't fit; it was too new, too clean.
       He knelt and pulled it back. Beneath was a hidden door with a recessed handle.
       It creaked as he opened it, releasing a breath of damp earth and stone. The scent hit him hard: soil, mold, and something faintly sour. Clicking on the flashlight clipped to his hat, he aimed it into the dark. Hand-chiseled steps descended into what looked like an old root cellar that had been widened into something more.
       He dropped down, boots landing with a soft crunch of gravel and dirt.
       The space below was tight, the ceiling low. Tree roots threaded through the earth overhead like black veins. Someone had strung old utility lights on wires along the wall, but only half were working. The flickering glow made the tunnel stutter between shadow and light.
       Ahead, a noise. Quick footsteps. Someone running.
       He straightened and shouted, "Hess?"
       No reply.
       The tunnel split. One path led deeper; it was narrow and packed tight. The other veered to the left, where fresh dirt had been dug and shored up with mismatched boards.
       He followed the sounds of footsteps to the left.
       His boots crushed through damp soil as he moved faster, light sweeping side to side. Scripture and madness were scratched into the dirt walls in places, some nearly invisible, others gouged deep like the writer's hand was angry at the earth. These weren't the comfort verses, some weren't even from the Bible. They were fragments, pulled from the edges of forgotten recitations.
       "The locusts have no king, yet go they forth…"
       "Cursed is the man who hangs on a tree."
       "The lion hath roared, who will not fear?"
       "Woe to those who rise early to chase strong drink…"
       "I will set My face against that man, and cut him off…"
       Some were twisted. Verses trailed into gibberish. Names repeated without context. One was written three times, in shaky, narrowing lines:
       "In the green, in the green, in the green."
       The rest was nonsense, like someone repeating dreams until they unraveled.
       Oliver stopped and called again. "Reverend Hess, stop running! I'm not here to hurt you."
       Somewhere ahead, feet slipped and caught again. A grunt of pain. Then silence.
       Oliver stood still, letting the quiet settle. He clicked off his light. Waited. One breath. Two.
       A whisper echoed faintly from the dark, not far ahead, "He's coming back. He never left. He's under the field, under the grain, in the green, in the green…"
       Oliver flicked his light back on and resumed walking, alert with caution.
       The tunnel widened into a crude chamber, supported by warped hand-cut wood beams and lit by a single bare bulb that swung gently from a nail. The walls were lined with old wood paneling, the type common in 1970s basements, now warped from damp and time. In the center of the room, a woman lay on the ground, her hands bound in front of her with cord, her eyes swollen but still moving. Her breath was ragged, shallow, and quick.
       Oliver crouched beside her, checked her pulse. She flinched at his touch.
       "Hey," he said, voice low, even. "You're alright. I'm here to help."
       Behind him, a voice cracked like old wood, "She's not ready yet."
       Oliver rose, turning toward the back of the room, keeping himself between the woman and the voice.
       Reverend Hess stood in the far corner, holding a rusted pipe like a staff. His eyes were wild, rimmed red and sunken, and his clothes hung off him as if they'd stopped fitting weeks ago. He looked more like a ghost than a preacher.
       "She asked for it," Hess said. "She came here. Said she wanted to be clean."
       Oliver raised a hand, calm, steady. "I believe you think that. But this isn't the way, Reverend. You know that."
       "She was hearing the green." Hess shook the pipe. "It sings. In the grain. Under the floor. You hear it too, don't you? I saw you stop at the field."
       Oliver didn't look away. "I heard the wind."
       Footsteps sounded behind him.
       He turned just in time to see a massive figure step out from a side tunnel, ducking under a low beam. The man was easily six-five, shoulders like a barn door, shirtless, and covered in grime. Eyes wide and blank.
       Hess ordered, "Don't let him take her."
       The man rushed.
       Oliver's world slowed as his body settled into his training: he pre-saw the angle of the man's foot twist in the dirt, saw the left shoulder dip slightly, the slight contraction of muscles in the jaw, all tells bright as neon lights.
       He moved first, his punch coming wide and high. Oliver slipped below it, turned his hips, and used the man's own weight to throw him hard against the wall. Wood cracked. Dust dropped from the ceiling.
       The man rolled and came back up with a roar, swinging a broken board like a mace.
       With his God-gifted eyes, Oliver saw the arc before it started.
       He ducked low, stepped into the man's swing, caught the wrist holding the board with a strike, and snapped an elbow into the ribs, twice, sharp and fast. The man gasped, stunned, and Oliver pivoted, dropped, and swept the legs.
       The attacker hit the ground hard, the snap of his collarbone echoing through the chamber. He braced his hands to stand up.
       Oliver stepped and kicked him in the temple, then stepped back, breathing steady. "Stay down."
       The man groaned, rolled, and didn't get back up.
       Hess was frozen. He dropped the pipe to the floor and held his hands up.
       Oliver approached him slowly, hands open.
       "Reverend, look at me. You're not a bad man, you're a tired one. And you've been listening to the wrong voices."
       Hess blinked. Something in his expression cracked, "I just wanted the singing to stop."
       "I know," Oliver said. "Let me take her out of here. Then I'll come back and we'll sit together. No cuffs. Just two men talking."
       Hess nodded slowly. "Okay."
       Oliver unbound the woman and helped her to her feet, his eyes never leaving the preacher.
       She leaned into him, whispering something too soft to catch, but it sounded like gratitude.
       He walked her out, past the unconscious brute, past the carved walls and the madness they'd fed. Back toward the church, and the field above that still danced in the wind.