Church Services
As his shouted prayer reached a crescendo, Jerome Tucker opened his eyes and watched the demon leave the young man.
Inside the canvas revival tent, the blasphemous thing emerged from the teenaged boy’s nostrils and throat like poisonous smoke mixed with a swarm of bees: crackling, buzzing, and writhing. Demonic whispers built to a scream. A trickle of blood followed the thing as it slid and tore its way out of the possessed boy.
The demon had no choice but to obey. Jerome had commanded it with the compulsion of God Himself.
He had lost count over the weeks, but he had summoned and trapped at least a hundred demons on the slow wagon trek through the farmlands of Illinois, across muddy and rutted roads to the wilderness and new homesteads of Wisconsin Territory. In this barely settled land, there were many secrets, many buried shadows of times past. So many demons had been cast out in Biblical times, the evil had to have gone somewhere. What better place to seek refuge than among the heathen in the New World? It made perfect sense.
Inside the large tent crowded with farmers, their wives, their children, and a few shopkeepers from Bartonville (the closest thing that could have been called a town), Jerome raised his hands. His full, rusty red beard stood out like flames on his chin. “Leave this boy, I command you!”
Even after the demon had fully emerged, the teenager continued to spasm and moan, his jaws clenched, lips drawn back. The audience gasped; several women fainted, while others uttered their own prayers. Two lanky farmers swore with coarse language that would not have pleased an eavesdropping God.
“As Jesus Christ trapped the demon Legion in a group of pigs, so I contain you here, Demon, where you can do no further harm.” With an imperative gesture, he stuck out his hand, touched the ornate, pot-bellied clay jar covered with runes and designs—symbols now rusty with dried blood.
The demon struggled and wailed, shifting and convulsing like a tornado of flies, but the crackling black mist was sucked into the containment jar—the holy relic from ancient Egypt, or Babylon, or Assyria (Jerome wasn’t exactly sure which). Like smoke swirling up a chimney in a harsh draft, the indefinable thing vanished into the clay vessel with a last alien howl, and when it was trapped in its new prison, the maddening sound stopped with the abruptness of a slammed door.
“Glory to God on high!” called out Jerome’s wife, Mollie. She dutifully stood beside him at the pulpit, holding open the tattered Bible, knowing exactly which verses Jerome would need for the next step of the process.
The teenager’s weeping mother rushed forward, knocking over one of the thin wooden benches as she came up to throw her arms around her limp son. “Oh, he’s saved, he’s saved!”
Blood dribbled from the boy’s mouth as he groaned; he opened his eyes and stared around with a sparkling awareness, as though he’d been asleep for months. The audience applauded wildly, called out choruses of “Amen!”
Mollie read aloud from the 23rd Psalm, because it was her favorite passage, not because it was especially appropriate. Her high, musical voice gained strength as she read verse after verse.
Jerome was the forceful personality with a passion for his calling, but he couldn’t have achieved so much without Mollie’s help, without her faith. She had followed him from their home, after his fever, after his parents died, leaving everything behind to journey across untamed country, staking her future on him.
Jerome Tucker had always wanted to be a preacher, but he needed a flock. And with so many homesteaders moving west to stake their claims in uncharted lands, those people needed to hear the Gospel. After a near-fatal bout with scarlet fever, Jerome had known exactly what to do. So, he had gathered up whatever money his family had and bought a wagon and horses, a large tent and Bibles, everything he needed.
He went to the land surveyor’s office to study maps of Illinois and Wisconsin all the way to the Mississippi River. The owlish-faced clerk had shown him available plots and claimed areas where farmland was being cleared by hardworking pioneers. Jerome did not want acreage for himself; he just needed to find a large enough group of people who required his services.
He knew he would find the right place. He’d been so eager to grab the plat books that he’d cut his finger on the countertop’s ragged wooden edge. Sucking on the wound absentmindedly, he had turned pages, following the geography up into south-central Wisconsin. By smeary light that passed through flyspecked windows, he stopped to study farmland, roads, and neighboring towns.
A droplet of blood fell and splashed on one particular area, a bold crimson mark on the map. Jerome considered it a sign, a position chosen by his blood. That was where he would go. A place he would call Tucker’s Grove.
As they made their way westward while his brother Clancy took care of details back home, he and Mollie preached to crowds, and Jerome had cast out and captured many demons to purify the population along the way, doing God’s work. The cross-country journey had taken months, over slushy roads and through falling snow, heavy rainstorms, and a miasma of humidity and mosquitoes. He felt as if he and his wife were required to pass through the very plagues of Egypt to reach this particular Promised Land.
Finally, on a low hill that overlooked recently claimed farmlands, sprawling fields of corn, and uncleared trees that marked land boundaries, Jerome and Mollie erected their big tent for the last time. There, he held nightly services.
When the people began to understand that Jerome could truly cast out demons, that he could take away their sins and purify their thoughts, his flock began to grow.…
Now, seeing the teenaged boy get shakily to his feet and collapse in his mother’s arms, both crying, Jerome felt tears roll down his cheeks. He had saved at least thirty people in this area already, and they all owed him a great deal. He would forge them into a community, a town, a new place.
Smiling, he lifted his hands and called out once more. The canvas tent was old when he’d purchased it secondhand, patched and stained—by no means was this an adequate house of worship. Now that Jerome knew with all his soul that this was the place … now that all the people in the revival tent listened to whatever he had to say, he called them together and he made his request.
“I must ask something of you, my friends. This ground has been consecrated with all our prayers. Now, I require your help, your wood, your tools, your labor, and your love. We will build a church here, and then we will establish a town.”
During their journey west and north through Wisconsin, at the edge of a river that drained into the Mississippi, Jerome had found the ancient symbol-bedecked urn that changed his life.
He and Mollie had stopped for the night in a small village where flatboats delivered cargo downriver and brought new supplies back upstream. There, they met a man with clumpy brown hair and three fingers missing on the left hand. His face was weathered and more deeply tanned than could be explained by any Midwestern summer, and his eyes had a distant stare, focused on memories rather than the landscape, as if he had already seen more than his share of wonders and nightmares.
The man struck up a conversation with Jerome but did not introduce himself. He explained how he had traveled the Ancient World looking for oddities and treasures.
Interested in the man’s experiences, Jerome said, “Pharaoh held the Israelites in Egypt. In ancient times.”
“Egypt is an ancient place full of dead things. I’d heard rumors that there were so many treasure-filled tombs scattered across the desert that a man could simply walk along and pick up gold and jewels. There are tombs, all right. The entire land is like a skeleton.”
Jerome knew about wealthy Europeans, gentlemen archaeologists, who explored Egypt and returned with mummies and artifacts, telling ludicrous tales of curses and the revenge of ancient gods. Jerome knew all such stories to be false, of course, because he had read the Bible—carefully—several times.
The man held up his left hand, showing the three stumps of his fingers. “A jackal did this. Bit them clean off, when I tried to retrieve a demon jar from a tomb.”
“What’s a demon jar?” Mollie asked. The man looked at her, surprised that she had spoken.
Jerome had no patience for those who didn’t respect his wife. “What’s a demon jar?” he repeated.
The man opened the large trunk that held his belongings and moved a rolled rug and some cloth aside to extract an ivory-pale urn made of ancient clay; it looked as if it had been cast from liquefied bone. Its surface was stippled with indecipherable writing, odd designs, one of which Jerome recognized as the Star of David; another, prominent in the center, was unmistakably the Cross.
“Moses wasn’t God’s only prophet in Egypt,” the man said soberly. “This jar was created by one such holy man as a vessel to capture and hold the demons that filled the land.” He lifted the lid of the urn and gazed into its dark interior. “It’s empty now—either the demons have escaped over the years, or it was never used. But you can tell by the symbols that it must be a sacred relic.”
Mollie was more skeptical. “If this was created in ancient Egypt or Sumer, that was many years before Christ died for our sins. How could it carry the symbol of the Cross?”
The man regarded Mollie with no small amount of annoyance. “And what is it, ma’am, that a prophet does? Why, he prophesies! He knows the future. Wouldn’t God’s chosen know about the impending arrival of God’s son?” He turned back to Jerome. “If you are a preacher, and if you are truly guided by the Holy Spirit, then you must already know how to cast out demons.”
In fact, Jerome didn’t, though he’d always thought about it.
“Any preacher can cast out demons,” the man continued. “But then what? They are freed from one host and sent to wander the world, where they continue to wreak havoc. With this urn, however”—the man patted the rough clay surface—“you not only withdraw demons from the possessed, you will also imprison them, seal them in this jar, where they can cause no further harm.”
The man sounded tired and disappointed. “To be honest, I have no use for this relic. I am not a holy man.” With a smile he extended it toward Jerome. “Take this as my gift. It is better off in your hands, since you can do God’s work with it.” Suddenly embarrassed or shy, the stranger added, “However, if you could spare some coins, I need to buy passage back home. Thieves in Constantinople took my last money, and I have had to beg my way, working for passage across the sea, on riverboats down the Ohio, then across country, finally to here. My mother has consumption, you see. I am trying to get home, so I can be with her before she dies.”
Jerome felt the earnestness in the man’s voice, and he knew how much good work he could do with this demon jar.
“Whatever you think the jar is worth …” The man left the idea hanging.
Mollie shot her husband a sharp glare as Jerome opened his money pouch and withdrew far more coins than they could spare. Jerome was sure, though, that once he began casting out demons, grateful parishioners would quickly contribute to the offering plate.
“How do I use it?” Jerome asked.
The man regarded him earnestly. “You’ll know. God will show you.”
Late at night, under a buttery-yellow moon, Mollie found Jerome within the framework structure of the nearly completed church. The glass windowpanes had not yet been installed, but the walls were finished, and the roof partially covered. The smell of mingled sawdust and sweat hung in the air, aromas of sweet pine and devoted labor. For the past month, people volunteered their time, several days a week, to finish the great work.
In the large window opening that would soon be filled with beautiful stained-glass panels shipped all the way from Chicago, Mollie could look down the hillside to the silver-lit fields and the small cluster of new buildings, the embryo of the town that her husband had coaxed into existence.
The altar was completed first, covered with an embroidered, lace-edged cloth—a gift from three farmers’ wives who had worked their fingers sore to finish it. In the center of the altar lay the large old Bible next to the pale demon jar. Jerome had held regular services here as soon as the framework was erected, and he had packed away his tattered old revival tent for good. He expected his brother Clancy to bring their parents any time now.
Now, he knelt before the altar in the dark. Unlit candles stood in freshly lathed wooden stands. As Mollie entered the skeletal church, her soft step creaked the new-laid pine floorboards, but he did not stop his prayer. Eyes half-shut, he pulled out his knife, touched the razor-edged tip to his thumb, then sliced. The blood looked like black molasses as it welled up.
Mollie stood behind him, bowing her head, not interrupting the sacred ceremony. Jerome extended his thumb and pressed the warm wetness to the cross symbol that stood out in sharp relief among the other designs. The ancient jar seemed to draw the blood and drink it greedily.
“God will protect us from demons,” Jerome muttered. “God will contain them inside here.”
It wasn’t exactly a recitation from the Scriptures, but the demons could hear him. Trapped in their jar, they would be afraid.
The Scripture had a long tradition of blood sacrifice: just as Abraham had been willing to make a blood sacrifice of his son Isaac, just as Moses marked the lintels of the Jews with lambs’ blood so that the Angel of Death would pass over their homes, just as God had demanded the blood of his own son Jesus to save humanity. So, Jerome was willing to give up a small amount of his blood to strengthen the demon jar, to keep the evil things inside.
He regained his feet, turned to his wife. “Every demon I’ve removed and imprisoned is one less soldier that Satan has for the Final Battle. Not only am I making my new town a pure and holy place, I am aiding the whole world.”
Mollie, though, was concerned. “All the times in the Bible where a godly man casts out demons, he never tries to collect them. He never keeps them like old coins in a purse. And what happens when the vessel is full? Do you know how much evil it can contain? I’m worried about what that jar really does.”
“Why, it imprisons demons, Mollie.” Jerome leaned closer in the deep shadows of the unfinished church. “And when we bless this new house of worship, when my congregation comes from miles around, they will join together and make a similar sacrifice. We’ll purge this area of all sins and evil thoughts. This land, this town of Tucker’s Grove, will become a new Eden.” His eyes were shining in the moonlight. “Yes, I’m sure, Mollie. I’m sure of our future, I’m sure of this place, and I’m sure of my mission. Not a shred of doubt.”
“That’s all I wanted to know,” Mollie said with a smile, “because I have news for you as well, joyous news.” She took his hand and a smear of blood went down the front of her palm. “I’m pregnant, Jerome. I’ll have our first child in your new town.”
When the church was finished—when all the siding had been painted white, the black shingles laid down, the bell installed in the steeple that perched like a triumphant hand raised toward Heaven—it was time for a great celebration. The three men who had delivered the stained-glass window from Chicago stayed for the festivities; Jerome hoped they would remain permanently, since the town needed glaziers.
Jerome felt that he had lived his entire life for this day. His clothes were freshly laundered, his hair combed, his beard trimmed. Mollie had sewn herself a fine new dress from a bolt of pink fabric she’d purchased at the general store in Bartonville. She left the waistline loose, because now the curve of her belly was becoming noticeable. Jerome thought she looked radiant.
The bell pealed out a shrill, melodic tone as two young farm boys took turns yanking the rope to set up a clangor that rang from horizon to horizon. The people streamed in: more men, women, and families than Jerome had thought lived in the area. They came to dedicate the church they’d helped to build. Though Jerome had not yet secured a piano to lead the music, they would sing familiar hymns in unison. That was all a church really needed.
Jerome spoke up when everyone had squeezed into the pews. “This place of worship stands on holy ground, for I have made it so. All of your crops will be blessed, and all of your children will be strong and protected from evil. I will make it so. We will make it so. We will be a community, a bastion against darkness.”
He turned to the altar and touched the demon jar. “You have seen me cast out demons. The most powerful and most dangerous of those evil fallen angels are here, trapped inside this urn.” He brushed the surface of the vessel. “They are locked there by the grace of God, by the holy symbols … and by the gift of blood.”
Jerome extended his thumb toward the congregation. “Today, we make one grand final summoning to draw out all the evils and ills that permeate this land, that permeate our hearts. We will draw away the pain and darkness, so that Tucker’s Grove can be a perfect place, a shining example for mankind.”
The people in the church shouted their Amens. Some stood from the pews.
“A drop of blood,” Jerome said, “from me, from you—from all of you, and this town will lock away those evil spirits forever.” With a flick of his knife, he sliced open his thumb once more, this time a little more extravagantly than he’d expected. The blood flowed, and he touched it to the Cross symbol so that the ancient, mysterious urn drank the scarlet liquid. He held up the knife. “Who will be the first to join me?”
The people in the front pew nearly fell over themselves to come to the altar. Each took up the knife, drew blood, and touched red thumbprints or fingerprints to the pale ivory curves of the ancient vessel.
The second row came forward, jostling and pushing one another. Some wept with joy, while others closed their eyes and prayed as they made their offering. This was not like a somber Communion ceremony: they were an army laying siege to the evil things that had troubled their lives.
With Jerome’s command, a great wind of shadows, dark thoughts, evil deeds, frightening memories—the very manifestation of sin—swept up the hills and blew like a quiet winter wind into the church. The congregation could sense how much more darkness the demon jar was drinking, but their blood maintained the seal, trapped the bad things forever.
Jerome felt his heart swell with love for these people, his people. Mollie stood looking preoccupied, maybe a bit worried. He slipped his arm around his wife’s waist. “Why are you so quiet, my dear? This is our finest, most perfect hour.”
Mollie bit her lower lip and shook her head, afraid to answer at first. Finally, she said, “All that blood … Instead of trapping the demons, what if it’s feeding them?”
With a great outcry, the last of the parishioners stumbled back from the urn. The incredibly old Egyptian—or Sumerian, or Assyrian—vessel had begun to glow a faint orange, like fire within an eggshell. The embellished clay walls pulsed in a heartbeat, as if the demons inside were fighting and struggling to break free.
Jerome took a deep breath but could find no words. He had gathered numerous demons from across the countryside on his travels up to Wisconsin, collected them from suffering people over the course of his journey. Victims had come to him from far and wide, and he had torn out the demons and imprisoned them in the vessel, carried them here to his new town.
And they were all furious.
Cracks appeared in the ivory ceramic, then fire belched out of the fissures. The demon jar exploded with a thunderstorm whirlwind of black, screaming voices, buzzing flies. Howling anger and dripping vengeance, they roared out with enough force to snuff a tornado.
Parishioners ducked, throwing themselves onto the pews, onto the floor. The unleashed demons filled the church and swirled around; some streaked through the open front door. A black, smoky jet smashed through the stained-glass window, sending jewel-toned shards flying in every direction.
The evil blackness whistled around Jerome and Mollie. He grabbed his wife, tried to protect her, but he didn’t know how. A murky, miasmic face that was made of fangs rose before them, screaming—a scream that sounded more like laughter.
Mollie cringed. The shadows pummeled her, wrapped about her as though she were being sprayed with mud. She collapsed to the floor, crying in terror.
Jerome balled his fists and shouted, “Begone, I command you all! Begone!”
And the demons fled the church, racing out and away to find new hosts in the vicinity of Tucker’s Grove.
The evil storm subsided just as abruptly as it had begun. The interior of the new church had been shredded, leaving clouds of dust, splinters, and fear. The people were stunned, moaning, touching small cuts and inspecting tattered clothes. As Jerome ran among his people to help, some of them looked away in deep shame, afraid to let him see the shadowed hollows in their eyes, the new darkness that glinted from their gaze.
Jerome felt his bones turn to ice and understood that his dreams were dashed. He had meant to establish a perfect town, to create a new Eden free of sin or evil or hate. Instead, he had brought more darkness to the area and saturated this very place.
He clung to the sharp foundation of his faith. He would not surrender. He refused to leave his town. He had far too much work to do here.
Crumpled and sick, Mollie retched onto the floor, cradling her abdomen. Jerome knelt beside her, helped her to her feet. She swayed against him. “Are you hurt? Are you all right?”
Mollie drew a deep breath. “I’ll be fine. I just felt the baby kick, that’s all.”
He didn’t ask her why she was shuddering.
And she didn’t tell him that the kick had felt distinctly like that of a cloven hoof.