On the first Sunday of every month, the men of Black Hollow carried their rifles into church.
No one questioned it.
The rifles rested beside polished pews while mothers sang hymns and children colored pictures of Noah's Ark. Mud clung to worn boots. Hats were removed before anyone crossed the sanctuary doors.
It had always been that way.
Because Black Hollow had always lived with monsters.
Not the kind from fairy tales.
The kind that left empty cradles.
The kind that drained livestock without leaving tracks.
The kind whose names mothers refused to whisper after sunset.
The pastor stood behind the pulpit, one weathered hand resting on an open Bible.
His voice echoed through the small white chapel.
"Evil does not always arrive with horns."
The congregation answered together.
"Amen."
"It may come beautiful."
"Amen."
"It may speak kindly."
"Amen."
"It may look like one of God's own children."
"Amen."
"It lies."
"Amen."
"It tempts."
"Amen."
"And it wears a face."
The pastor closed his Bible.
"So do not love what God has already condemned."
Silence settled over the room.
In the third pew sat Asher Whitlock.
Twenty-six years old.
Broad shouldered.
Dark hair trimmed short.
Clean shaven.
His suit was plain black, his tie neatly fastened despite the July heat. A silver cross rested beneath his collar, hidden from sight but never from touch. Whenever he felt uncertain, his fingers found it without thinking.
Today was no different.
His thumb brushed the cool metal as the sermon continued.
He had been taught the same lessons since he was old enough to understand words.
The Lord created man.
The Devil created monsters.
Anything that blurred the line between the two belonged in the grave.
He believed it.
Completely.
When the service ended, people gathered outside beneath the old oak trees.
Children chased each other through the grass.
Women exchanged recipes.
The men checked ammunition.
Asher loaded silver-tipped rounds into his rifle with practiced hands.
His younger cousin leaned against the truck beside him.
"You hear about the Mercer farm?"
Asher nodded once.
"Three cows."
"They say nothing screamed."
"They usually don't."
The cousin swallowed.
"You think it was one?"
"I know it was."
"You going tonight?"
"I leave at dusk."
His cousin hesitated.
"My mama wants you to be careful."
Asher slid the last round into place.
"I will."
"She said vampires are getting bolder."
"They're getting desperate."
"They're demons."
"They're both."
He closed the rifle with a sharp click.
Conversation over.
A little girl wandered over holding a wilted daisy.
She couldn't have been older than six.
"Mister Asher?"
He knelt so they were eye level.
"Yes, ma'am?"
She held out the flower.
"For your pocket."
He accepted it carefully.
"Thank you."
"My daddy says you'll keep us safe."
For the first time that morning...
He smiled.
Just barely.
"I'll do my best."
She nodded as though that was enough.
Children always believed promises.
Asher wished adults still could.
By sunset, he'd be riding north toward the Mercer property.
Another hunt.
Another monster.
Another reminder that evil walked this world wearing a human face.
He had never doubted his calling.
Not once.
Not yet.
YOU ARE READING
The man I prayed against
FantasyHe was taught to hunt monsters. He never expected to become haunted by one. As faith collides with longing and hatred gives way to impossible love, one man must decide whether the greatest evil is the creature before him... or the fear he carries wi...
