Free Ancient Eyes by David Niall Wilson

from the front of the church as if they'd all been caught masturbating in a closet, not like a man of God who was troubled over the loss of a fallen comrade. Abraham had spent every Sunday of his life in that small stone church, and the sensations Reverend Forbes brought with him had felt as alien and impossible as the loss of his father.
    That preacher stared them into silence and began to speak. He began while they were still coming in the doors. He had his Bible in his hand, like he was afraid that if he let it touch the old stone pulpit of Abraham's father's church, it would be contaminated.   He shook it at them. He fanned the air with it, and he gripped it white-knuckle tight in the dying light of the later afternoon sun, but he did not let it touch the stone. He did not touch the stone. If he could have floated above the floor, Abraham was sure he would have done so.
    Reverend Forbes did not talk about Jonathan Carlson at all. He railed against sinners everywhere, the tone of his voice showing clearly that he felt that everything beyond his own church in Friendly became steadily more evil, and that Satan's blood dripped down the sides of the mountain, infecting all of those below with his darkness.
    There were reasons for his words, of course. Some of the meaning had been clear to Abraham, even then.   The stone chapel was not the only church close by, and though there was no one preaching at that other, there was no longer anyone preaching at this one either.   No one that belonged.
    Both houses of worship lay empty, waiting for God, or someone, to fill the pulpits and draw the people. Between those times they would live beyond the sight of God, unless of course they wanted to find their way further up the mountain to Friendly every Sunday. Reverend Forbes mentioned that too. He'd been very concerned for their souls.
    It was obvious early in the ceremony that he had not known Reverend Jonathan Carlson, and equally obvious he did not count this as a spiritual loss. He intimated that God had begun to cleanse the mountain. He spoke of shadows hovering beyond the sight of civilized men, waiting to sweep in and blot out the light of the Lord's love.   He talked for what seemed hours, though in retrospect, Abraham knew his mother and the others gathered would not have stood for that, even if he did frighten them. It had probably lasted no more than an hour.
    The words had poured around Abraham in a meaningless jumble. He'd sat huddled up against his mother, who sat numb and motionless, staring through the preacher and the back wall of the church as if gazing into the pits of hell. Abraham was used to his mother being close and far away at the same time. He was used to her mumbling words he couldn't understand, or starting from her seat and crying out when nothing had happened. He was used to the stares of his neighbors, and the quiet disapproval of his family.
    Jonathan Carlson had been loved and respected, but Sarah Carlson had never been welcome on the mountain. She was not one of them; her beliefs were not their beliefs. More than once Abraham had heard it whispered that she belonged more with that other church—that other preacher.    The one who'd led the congregation at the white church. They said she dragged Jonathan Carlson into the shadows, and now, with his body not even in its grave, their enmity bubbled to the surface.
    When the spew of fire and brimstone finally burned itself out, they trickled outside. Reverend Forbes, looking exceedingly uncomfortable in the bright sunshine, hovered in the back corner of the small graveyard. They had brought Jonathan Carlson's body around slowly, his box built of the same rough-hewn wood they used in the church—taken from the mountain, and returned to it—as was their way.
    Reverend Forbes said nothing, but his mood darkened. His brow knotted with furrows of disdain and his lip quivered with the desire to scream at them all. Abraham saw it in the man's eyes, and the