• The sign had said West Farrel Baptist Church, but the exterior of the once white-washed building betrayed not only the interior of the house of worship, but also its former and current inhabitants. The cross atop the steeple was missing the arms, leaving only a splintered center beam that showed its wear from the Georgia storms.

    The interior was far worse, the foul odor only a hint at the damage. The stained glass windows still allowed for light to shine through with a colored hue, but the dust film made the resulting color so that even the fire of God would become a corrupted beige. Drafts coming from everywhere and nowhere blew through the rotting pews, causing the wood to further moan and buckle as if in tortured pain. The odor was strongest toward the altar, a vandalized table of sacrifice stabbed and sliced with profane and unholy words. The cross was no better. What was supposed to be a figure of Jesus of Nazareth was now a headless creature coated with dry urine stains, blood, and sexual secretions.

    God refused to walk here. West Farrel had long ago burned, inexplicably. Investigations started and ended in states of puzzlement, as neither a fuel source nor site of ignition were found.