Chapter 6: The Patriarch's Sermon

The footsteps echoed through the chapel with a sound like bones clicking against stone, each step deliberate and measured. Elara turned away from the Lincoln's open door, her heart hammering as she watched a figure emerge from the shadows beyond the skeletal congregation.

At first glance, he looked almost normal—an elderly man in a dark suit, walking with the careful dignity of someone who had grown accustomed to commanding respect. But as he moved closer, passing between the pews of grinning corpses, the wrongness became apparent. His skin had a waxy, translucent quality, and his movements were too fluid, as if his joints bent in ways human joints shouldn't.

"Hello, sweetheart," he said, and it was her father's voice emerging from lips that weren't quite her father's. "I've been waiting so long to speak with you properly."

The figure stopped just beyond the car, and in the golden light she could see more details that made her stomach clench. His face was her father's face, but older, more worn, with eyes that held depths no human gaze should contain. When he smiled, she glimpsed teeth that were too sharp, too numerous.

"You're not him," she whispered, though the voice, the mannerisms, even the way he tilted his head when listening were achingly familiar.

"I am him," the figure replied gently. "And I am everyone who came before him. Every father who guided his daughter home, every Patriarch who fulfilled his sacred duty. I am the voice that calls across generations, the love that transcends death itself."

The skeletal congregation rustled with approval, their bone fingers tapping against the organic pews in a rhythm that matched the Lincoln's idling engine. The sound created a percussion that seemed to resonate through Elara's bones, making her feel like she was part of some vast, ancient symphony.

"I don't understand," she said, backing toward the car. The proximity to the vehicle seemed to offer some small comfort, as if the skeletal occupants were old friends welcoming her home.

"Of course you don't, not yet," the Patriarch said, moving closer with those unnaturally fluid steps. "Understanding comes with acceptance, and acceptance comes with knowledge. Let me tell you a story, Elara. A story about family, about tradition, about the prices we pay for prosperity and the gifts we receive in return."

He gestured to the skeletal congregation, and they turned as one to face him, empty sockets fixed with the rapt attention of devoted parishioners.

"Long ago, when your ancestors were nothing more than poor farmers scraping survival from unforgiving dirt, they made a choice. A bargain. A pact with something far older and more powerful than human understanding." His voice carried the cadence of a sermon, practiced and hypnotic. "They offered their most precious gift—their daughters—in exchange for wealth, influence, the power to shape the world around them."

Elara felt a chill that had nothing to do with the storm outside. "You're talking about human sacrifice."

"I'm talking about love," the Patriarch corrected, his borrowed features radiating warmth and sincerity. "The greatest love possible—a parent's willingness to give everything for their family's future. Each daughter who answered the call, each young woman who embraced her role as the Harvest, she didn't die, sweetheart. She transcended. She became part of something eternal, something beautiful."

He moved closer to the car, running his fingers along the Lincoln's pristine chrome. Where he touched, the metal seemed to pulse with that same organic rhythm as the chapel walls.

"Every twenty-one years, when a daughter reaches the proper age, the proper ripeness, she hears the call. She follows the road that leads between worlds, climbs the sacred steps, and takes her place in the great continuity." His eyes—her father's eyes but somehow more—fixed on her with an intensity that made her feel transparent. "The Patriarch who guides her feeds on her essence, her vitality, her very soul, and in doing so gains the strength to serve another generation."

The pieces clicked together with horrifying clarity. "The consulting business. The wealth. Everything our family had..."

"Built on sacrifice," he confirmed with obvious pride. "Built on the willing gift of daughters who understood their purpose. Your great-great-grandmother was the first Harvest in America, though the tradition stretches back centuries in the old country. She fed your great-great-grandfather, who grew strong and prosperous and sired the next generation. And so it continued, each Patriarch growing in power, each family line flourishing, all because of the sacred gift of consumption."

The Lincoln's engine revved softly, and the skeletal passengers seemed to shift in their seats, turning to look at her with something that might have been encouragement. The child in the passenger seat—the last Harvest—lifted one delicate bone hand in what could have been a wave or a blessing.

"They were children," Elara said, her voice breaking. "You killed children."

"We liberated them," the Patriarch replied, circling the car like a predator assessing prey. "We freed them from the burden of ordinary existence, the pain of growing old, the disappointment of unfulfilled dreams. They became part of something greater, something eternal. Their essence lives on in every Patriarch who followed, their love sustaining generation after generation of prosperity."

The skeletal congregation began to hum again, that same lullaby from her childhood, but now she could hear the individual voices within the harmony. Women's voices, girls' voices, all singing with joy and contentment. They didn't sound like victims—they sounded like willing participants in some cosmic celebration.

"But why me?" she asked, though part of her already knew the answer. "Why now?"

The Patriarch's smile widened, showing those too-sharp teeth. "Because the current vessel is failing, sweetheart. Because this body"—he gestured to himself—"has served faithfully for decades but is beginning to break down. The entity that gives us power, that honors our ancient pact, needs a new host. And tradition dictates that the transfer must be... intimate. Personal. It must be an act of love."

He moved closer, and she could smell something emanating from him—not decay, exactly, but something organic and rich, like soil after rain mixed with the metallic tang of fresh blood.

"The Harvest feeds the Patriarch," he continued, his voice taking on the rhythmic cadence of ritual. "But when the Patriarch grows old and weak, when his body can no longer contain the entity's power, then comes the greatest honor of all. The Patriarch becomes the feast, and the daughter who consumes him becomes the new vessel. The Matriarch. The mother of the next generation."

The words hit her like physical blows. "You want me to eat you."

"I want you to love me enough to take everything I am into yourself," he said, extending his arms in a gesture of offering. "To honor our bond by making it literal, making it complete. You've always been daddy's little girl, haven't you? This is just the natural evolution of that relationship."

The chapel walls pulsed more rapidly now, and she could feel something vast stirring in the darkness above. The entity he spoke of, the thing that had made the original pact, was awakening to witness the culmination of another cycle.

"Every successful family has its traditions," the Patriarch continued, his voice now coming from multiple sources—his throat, the car's radio, the walls themselves. "Birthday parties, holiday gatherings, coming-of-age ceremonies. This is ours, sweetheart. This is how we mark the passage from one generation to the next."

The skeletal child in the passenger seat turned fully toward Elara, and for a moment she could swear she saw flesh on those bones, could see a young girl's face filled with love and anticipation.

"She's eager to move to the back seat," the Patriarch said, following her gaze. "To make room for the new Harvest. Because the cycle doesn't end with you, Elara. You'll be the Matriarch for a time, but eventually you'll guide your own daughter home. And she'll guide hers. And the family will continue to prosper, generation after generation, world without end."

The humming reached a crescendo, and the Lincoln's engine revved in harmony. Outside, she could hear the congregation on the road cheering, their voices carrying through the storm like distant thunder.

"The choice is yours," the Patriarch said, though his tone suggested there was really no choice at all. "You can fight this, deny your heritage, and spend eternity as one of the watchers on the road—trapped between worlds, never fully alive, never properly dead. Or you can embrace your destiny, consume what I offer, and take your rightful place as the head of our family."

He began walking toward a dark alcove she hadn't noticed before, his movements becoming more labored with each step. As he moved away from the car's light, she could see the truth of his condition—the way his expensive suit hung on a frame that was slowly collapsing, the way his carefully maintained appearance was beginning to crack and reveal the corruption beneath.

"The current Patriarch is dying," he called over his shoulder. "The entity's power is too much for this failing flesh. Come, sweetheart. Come and see what awaits in the darkness. Come and claim your inheritance."

The skeletal congregation turned to watch her, their eternal grins somehow conveying encouragement. The Lincoln's engine purred like a satisfied cat, and the warm light from its interior seemed to pulse in rhythm with her heartbeat.

Elara looked at the car one last time—at the skeletal family waiting patiently for her to join them, at the empty space in the back seat that seemed to be calling her name. Then she turned away from the promise of reunion and followed the Patriarch into the shadows.

After all, she'd come this far to find her father.

It was time to see what he'd become.