Gaslight Gospel
The preacher’s lantern flickered like a dying heartbeat as he stepped onto the cracked wooden stage. The congregation—twisted faces lit by the dim glow—hung on every word, even as the shadows behind them danced in mockery.
“Believe,” he whispered, voice thin as smoke. “Even when the light tells you otherwise.”
A girl in the front row raised her hand. “But… what if the light lies?”
The preacher smiled, teeth sharp in the gloom. “Child, the light always lies. That’s why we follow it.”
He opened the worn Bible, its pages curling like autumn leaves. Every verse seemed to twist, letters bending into shapes that made your brain itch. He read on, each word a spark against the dark, each sentence a hand on your shoulder, steady but untrustworthy.
By the end of the sermon, everyone was trembling, some from devotion, some from doubt—they could no longer tell the difference. The preacher closed the book with a final snap, and the lantern guttered. Darkness swallowed the room.
In the silence, one thing was clear: faith had become a shadow, and the shadow was the only gospel anyone would ever know.

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