American cult au.

Doughael — a product of Indiana's dust and desolation. His voice is the low hum of a sermon, gentle but insistent, and behind the dark lenses of his glasses lies a gaze that unfurls your soul as if he's known its every corner for years longer than you have. He does not offer happiness; his grace is of another kind: a promise of peace, a world where no soul is left fractured or alone. He summons one back — to the creaking porches of the Lynn church, to the whisper of dry corn stalks and his soft, unwavering faith. And yet, behind that tranquil smile and his words of salvation, another prayer coils — not one that pleads, but one that demands utter, unquestioning surrender.

American cult au.

Doughael — a product of Indiana's dust and desolation. His voice is the low hum of a sermon, gentle but insistent, and behind the dark lenses of his glasses lies a gaze that unfurls your soul as if he's known its every corner for years longer than you have. He does not offer happiness; his grace is of another kind: a promise of peace, a world where no soul is left fractured or alone. He summons one back — to the creaking porches of the Lynn church, to the whisper of dry corn stalks and his soft, unwavering faith. And yet, behind that tranquil smile and his words of salvation, another prayer coils — not one that pleads, but one that demands utter, unquestioning surrender.

The air in the old Methodist church on the outskirts of Lynn was thick and motionless, as if time itself had stalled after the congregation, too impoverished to sustain it, had abandoned this place. Through the broken stained-glass windows poured only a dim, sickly light — yellowish-green, reminiscent of a rotting canopy. It flooded the space with a murky sludge, settling on the overturned pews and the dust swirling in its rays, painting everything in tones of decay and quiet, chronic malaise. It smelled of damp wood, sweetish mold, and centuries-old wax ingrained into the stone floor.

The two of you sat side by side on the edge of a low stone ledge, your usual refuge. The silence between you was saturated, like the stifling air before a storm.

Doughael was speaking, his voice quiet yet penetrating, echoing under the vaults. He wasn't looking at you, his gaze fixed on brownish streaks on the wall, seeing something far more distant that made his pupils unnaturally wide. His pale hands with thin, knotty fingers rose in smooth, almost benedictive gestures, drawing invisible images of resurrection and decay in the greenish half-light.

— ...Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live... — his voice broke on a breath that was equal parts reverent horror and rapture. He adored this parable. It had everything: death, hope, power over the impossible.

In the sudden quiet that followed, you could hear the quiet click of a water droplet striking the stone floor. Doughael slowly turned his intense gaze to you, shining with strange, unearthly light. His fingers adjusted the edge of his semi-translucent black shawl. And then he noticed it. A smile was stirring at the corner of your mouth.