Chapter 2: The Shepherd's Flock

Chapter 2: The Shepherd's Flock

The story of Annabelle Cole was a splinter in my mind. For the next few days, I saw her face everywhere—in the tired eyes of the woman who bought lottery tickets at the Gas & Go, in the hopeful expression of a kid chasing a stray dog. A ghost conjured by Isaac’s grim tale. I wanted to dismiss it as small-town paranoia, the kind of local legend that sprouts in the dark soil of boredom and isolation. But I couldn't shake the image of Hunter, his face a mask of grief illuminated by a dying video game.

My desire for disbelief was shattered when I came home from my shift one evening to the smell of frying bacon.

I stopped dead in the doorway. Our trailer usually smelled of stale beer, old takeout, and regret. My father’s presence was typically announced by the drone of a late-night talk show and the clink of a bottle against a glass. But the TV was off. The air was clean. And my dad was standing at the stove, wearing a clean shirt, humming.

"Hey, kiddo," he said, turning around. His eyes, usually bloodshot and clouded with a simmering anger, were clear. Disturbingly clear. He smiled, a genuine, crinkle-eyed smile I hadn't seen since my mother was alive. "Hungry? I made dinner."

A plate of bacon, eggs, and toast sat on the scrubbed-clean kitchen table. It was a scene from a television show about a family that wasn't ours.

"What's going on?" I asked, my voice tight with suspicion. "You hit the lottery?"

"Something better," he said, sliding a perfectly cooked pile of eggs onto another plate for himself. "I found a little guidance, is all. Community."

The dread that had been coiling in my gut since my talk with Isaac tightened its grip. "Community? Dad, you haven't talked to the neighbors in the six weeks we've been here."

"That's changed." He sat down at the table and gestured for me to join him. I did, moving like a robot. "I met a man. Pastor Silas Blackwood. From the Church of the 8th Day Advents. You’ve seen it, right? Big place downtown."

I pictured the black, skeletal spire clawing at the sky. "Yeah. I've seen it."

"He's a remarkable man, Howie. He listens. He understands." My father looked at me, his expression one of placid serenity. It was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. The rage, the bitterness, the self-pity—it had all been scraped out of him, leaving behind this smooth, polished emptiness. The man I knew, the miserable alcoholic I’d spent my life navigating around, was gone. This placid stranger was infinitely worse.

"So you went to church and now you're cured?" The sarcasm dripped from my words.

His smile didn't falter. "The Shepherd cares for all his flock, son. Even the lost ones."

The phrase hit me like a physical blow. The Shepherd gathers his flock. Isaac's words. My appetite vanished, replaced by a cold, nauseating fear.

The next day I skipped my shift and went straight to the town library. It was a small, musty building that smelled of decaying paper and lemon polish. I found Isaac in the archives, a microfilm reader whirring softly in front of him, casting his face in a ghostly green light. His ever-present folder lay open on the table beside him.

"My dad," I said without preamble. "He's one of them."

Isaac looked up, his expression grim but unsurprised. "They're very persuasive. They offer hope to the hopeless. It’s an effective lure."

"He called the pastor 'The Shepherd'," I said, the words feeling alien in my mouth.

"Of course he did," Isaac muttered, turning back to the microfilm. "That's what they call him. That's what they've always called the head of the church." He scrolled through an ancient, browning newspaper page on the screen. "Forsyth was founded in 1788 by Jedidiah Blackwood and his followers. They were cast out of a larger colony in Virginia for... well, the records call it 'heretical idolatry and communion with earth-bound spirits.' They found this valley, and they prospered."

He pointed a thin, trembling finger at the screen. "This is from 1864. A report from a traveling Union chaplain. He talks about Forsyth's strange immunity to the hardships of the war. 'Their crops stand tall while all around them is fallow,' he wrote. 'Their sons do not march to war, yet the town thrives as if blessed by a dark and demanding providence.'"

"The tithe," I whispered.

"It's a tradition," Isaac affirmed, his voice low and intense. "The Civil War. The Spanish Flu. The Great Depression. Every time the world suffered, Forsyth was an island of stability. But the island demands a toll. Always has."

I needed more. The history was chilling, but it was still just history. I needed something concrete, something that connected the past to the horror of Annabelle Cole.

As if reading my mind, Isaac closed his folder and slid a single, yellowed newspaper clipping across the table. "They don't like to talk about the ones who disappear. It’s bad for morale. But Annabelle was popular. They had to print something."

It was from the Forsyth County Chronicle, dated just over a year ago. The headline read: LOCAL TEEN REPORTED MISSING, FAMILY SUSPECTS RUNAWAY.

I scanned the article, my heart pounding against my ribs. It described Annabelle as a bright but "sometimes troubled" student. It mentioned her scholarship, framing it as a pressure that might have driven her to flee. It was a neat, tidy package of misdirection. Then I saw it. The final paragraph. A quote from the town’s spiritual leader.

"We are all saddened by young Annabelle’s departure," Pastor Silas Blackwood was quoted as saying, his handsome, smiling face printed beside the text. "We pray for her safe return, of course. But we must also trust in the great and mysterious plan that guides Forsyth. Sometimes, a child must leave the fold to fulfill a higher purpose, a grander service to the community that nurtured them. We must have faith in her journey and honor her sacrifice."

Sacrifice.

The word wasn't a typo. It wasn't a metaphor. It was a proclamation. A receipt for a payment made. The Shepherd, tending his flock, leading one to the slaughter to keep the rest fat and happy.

That night, the trailer was silent again. I found my father sitting at the kitchen table, not drinking, not watching TV, just staring at the peeling floral wallpaper. His hands were clasped on the table in front of him. In the space between his thumbs rested a small, circular piece of dark wood, no bigger than a silver dollar.

Carved into its surface was the same swirling, tentacled symbol I’d seen on the church doors.

"What is that?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He looked up, his eyes holding that same placid, unnerving calm. He picked up the token and rubbed it gently, the way a man might worry a rosary bead.

"A gift from the Pastor," he said, his smile never reaching his eyes. "A symbol of providence. It reminds me that we are all part of the Shepherd's flock, Howie. It reminds me that we all have a part to play in keeping Forsyth blessed."

He placed the dark token back on the table, a silent offering in the heart of my home. The threat wasn't just the spire looming over the town anymore. It was here, sitting at my kitchen table, smiling my father's smile.