Hallelujah

By Kim Fielding and F.E.Feeley Jr.

Can you hear it?

Whispering in the dark.

Secrets only the dark knows.

Joseph Moore, choir director for the First Baptist Church of Lenora, Nebraska, has secrets of his own. Terrible, lonely secrets. One that involves natural human desire. One that calls forth powers he cannot begin to understand. Both with the potential to destroy him and those he loves.

Now the world is changing. The darkness, the shadows, the ghosts, are closing in—and Joseph and his lover, Kevin, are being stalked by a merciless demon, hell-bent on possession.

Can you hear it now?

There in the dark.

It's whispering your name.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kim Fielding
• Release date: Mar 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463397855

Kim Fielding

Kim Fielding is pleased every time someone calls her eclectic. Her books span a variety of genres, but all include authentic voices and unconventional heroes. She’s a Rainbow Award and SARA Emma Merritt winner, a LAMBDA finalist, and a two-time Foreword INDIE finalist. She has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California, where she long ago ran out of bookshelf space. A university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full-time, she also dreams of having two daughters who occasionally get off their phones, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, and a cat who doesn’t wake her up at 4:00 a.m. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others. Blogs: kfieldingwrites.com and www.goodreads.com/author/show/4105707.Kim_Fielding/blog Facebook: www.facebook.com/KFieldingWrites Email: [e-mail] Twitter: @KFieldingWrites

Book preview

Prologue

July 1991

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Darkness surrounded her as she strode through the dew of the field, away from the cheerful lights of the midway. The carnival barkers who begged the strolling marks to Step right up, step right up! were far behind her now. As were the sounds of screaming people being spun, flipped, dropped, and flung up into the ether, attached to bungee cords and a bit of plastic and steel.

Glancing once behind her, she saw the temporary structures painted in lively colors and the tops of the tents billowing in the wind. It was a warm summer night, and the smells of freshly mowed grass, popcorn, and fried food wafted on the breeze.

It was her home, that carnival. She had a booth where she told fortunes… and so much more. It was her gift, doing what she could. It was so lively, so entertaining to travel the dusty roads with the outcasts of society. The carneys—traveling like the Roma of old traversed Europe—were her beloveds. They kept her secret, and she repaid them.

She looked like a goddess standing there in her long blue satin ball gown, with a delicate scarf around her shoulders and golden coins fastened into her dreadlocks and reflecting the moonlight. She was a goddess in her own right, and with her proud chin, her almond-shaped Nefertiti eyes, and her dark skin, she appeared a woman out of time.

Her breasts rose and fell with each breath as she gave the only home she’d known one last watchful gaze, ensuring they all were safe. Then she gathered her skirts and continued her trek up the hill, the grass whispering beneath her feet. Fireflies danced upon the breeze around her, and up ahead the woods began.

She’d felt it all day. She’d seen it twice lurking on the midway between the throngs of people or darting in and out of the shadows of the stalls and tents, its large eyes watching her. Its short, fat body appeared and disappeared around corners, on top of stall roofs, between porta potties.

But she—Francine Decoudreau Basil—Creole granddaughter of Celine, descendant of Erubi, was on the hunt now. It was her job. Her life.

The stars overhead were obscured by the ambient light of the carnival, the nearby city, and the glow of the moon, which lit the world around her. It would be another hot Michigan day tomorrow, and the marks would be out in droves for the Fourth of July fireworks display. Right now, though, the breeze was forgiving as she moved across the landscape like a ghost.

She came to the woods at the top of the hill and ducked quickly under the low-hanging branches, the leaves brushing her skin. The world became momentarily darker, until her gaze happened upon the thing she sought.

There it was, right in her path: a childlike body sitting on a fallen tree in a small clearing and swinging its legs. The creature turned its bright green eyes toward her and smiled.

Cherub. Francine nodded her head in greeting.

It laughed and clapped its hands, its chubby face splitting in a near toothless grin as it rocked back and forth.

Have you been sent to me?

The angelic figure, smile still in place, nodded.

Francine sighed and knelt down in front of it. The cherub laughed again, clapping its hands—and with the third slap, the world exploded with pure white light.

She was standing simultaneously in the past, the present, and the future. She was in Kuwait, watching Saddam Hussein’s forces invading; she was standing in Vukovar, Yugoslavia, watching the beginnings of a civil war. She saw it all: the horror of Hussein’s retreating forces and the Allies hunting them down. The nightmarish Yugoslav ethnic cleansing.

Then time skipped forward and she saw an airplane crash into the World Trade Center. Then another. Structures crumbled. People fled. Across the face of the Earth: Death. War. Famine. Terrorism.

She saw the waters of the earth rise up as the ice melted. She saw forests burning.

And when that took her to the brink of madness, she saw the darkness and all that it contained: Faces of people in peril. Whispered names. Orders. Directives from heaven itself to find a person of interest.

Then she saw the demons crawling out of the shadows, nameless creatures. Fallen angels the lot of them, hell-bent to see the world burn. Others poured unabated out of the darkness. Unchecked. All encouraged by the evils of mankind.

War was coming, unlike anything the world had seen.

As her body was assaulted by the force of these images, Francine fell to the ground and the unearthly white light disappeared. Staring up into the starry sky beyond the canopy of trees, her hand pressed to her bosom, she wept for humanity.

Lying there, her hair fanned out and the golden coins again twinkling with moonlight, she slowly pieced together the images and what was being asked of her.

She heard the cherub leap down from the log and pad over the forest floor to where she lay. It gave her another smile before leaning over and kissing her forehead.

Yes, she promised. When it’s time, I’ll go.

The cherub giggled once more and disappeared into the night.

---

Deep into its long slumber, the demon drew upon the surface world for its sustenance. Greed, hatred, violence, lies… all of these were born in humans on the face of the Earth and trickled down through the soil of the Great Plains, increasing the demon’s strength. The demon grew in the dark luxury of its hiding place, dreaming of scorched, empty landscapes.

Until… there was something else. A bitter yearning that spoke of power. A trembling that augured possibilities. A delicate balance of what might be.

The demon woke.

Chapter 1

August 1991

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A ghost haunted the First Baptist Church of Lenora, Nebraska. It was a faded thing, the spectral remains of an old woman who’d collapsed in her pew sometime during the Depression. It wandered restlessly during sermons, distracting Joseph and sending shivers up parishioners’ spines when it passed close to them. But during choir practices the ghost settled down. Sometimes it even opened its mouth and joined silently in the songs. Maybe it hoped to find salvation—or at least eternal rest—via the hymns. Or maybe it simply remembered the enjoyment once gained through singing. In any case, it didn’t frighten Joseph the way other ghosts did.

Today, in fact, he almost envied it, apparently unaffected by the oppressive heat that made every movement a challenge. The air felt like warm soup and smelled of sweat, perfume, and rotting flowers. The ceiling fans did nothing but deliver false hope of comfort.

Joseph took a long swallow of water and sighed at the wilted choir members. Altos, you need to tone it down a little. You’re overpowering the sopranos. Let’s give it one more run.

Usually the choir members were enthusiastic, but today they grumbled, likely dreaming of a Saturday afternoon inside air-conditioned houses—if they had them—or sprawled on comfortable furniture with cold drinks at hand. Joseph didn’t blame them. He’d been pushing away fantasies of stripping out of his damp clothing, putting on his swim trunks, and plunging into the pond at the edge of his family’s farm. Not yet, though. The choir needed more practice.

Honestly, the next rendition of Rock of Ages wasn’t any better than the ones before, but Joseph had neither the heart nor the energy to push the choir further. Ignoring what might have been a disapproving glare from the ghost, he nodded at the assembled men and women. Okay, I guess that’s it for today.

The choir members showed the most enthusiasm they’d had all day, dispersing in a flurry of conversation and laughter. Joseph smiled at each of them as they filed past, but nobody stopped to talk. When Roger Hansen had been choir director, people used to stick around for a long time after practice, discussing music or simply chewing over local gossip. Round and gregarious, Mr. Hansen had been the type of person who attracted attention wherever he went. Everyone loved him; charisma, Joseph supposed. Mr. Hansen hadn’t been all that skilled at leading the choir, but nobody seemed to care. Then one night he died in his sleep. Joseph, with a newly-minted degree in music, had been his obvious successor. At least he had the solace of knowing his education wasn’t completely wasted. He’d improved choir performances considerably over the past ten months, but people weren’t drawn to him as they had been to Mr. Hansen. Maybe they sensed that a part of him remained deeply in the shadows.

After everyone had left, Joseph stuck around to tidy up. He straightened the sheet music at the piano, collected empty cans and water bottles and threw them in the trash. The ghost wandered aimlessly among the pews, no longer interested in him now that the singing was over. After a final look around, Joseph switched off the lights and exited the church. He was startled to discover one of the choir members sitting at the bottom of the steps.

Is everything okay, Michelle? He paused to lock the door before hurrying down to join her.

She stood and brushed off her jeans. I’m just waiting for my ride. He’ll be here in a minute. She gave a sweet little smile that was belied by the sharpness of her gaze. Want us to drive you home?

He shifted uncomfortably. I can walk. It’s hardly over a mile.

But it’s hot. You’ll melt before you get there. C’mon. Kevin’s driving our parents’ station wagon today instead of that nasty old truck of his, so we’ll stay nice and cool. And you know you’re not much out of our way.

Kevin. Joseph tried to ignore how the name sent an extra rush of heat to his already too-warm skin. He should reject her offer and slog home on foot. But the sun pressed down on his shoulders; the air felt too thick to breathe. Michelle still smiled hopefully at him.

Okay, sure. Thanks.

She gave a pleased little shrug. He’ll be here any minute. He probably got distracted working on his truck—that’s why he can’t drive it today. I think he’s crazy, playing around with metal and all that grease when it’s a thousand degrees outside, but that’s Kev. Stubborn.

Joseph was sure his answering nod looked stiff and unnatural, but Michelle didn’t comment. She kicked her sandaled foot a bit, sending up a small cloud of dust and disturbing a grasshopper, which hopped away.

I hear you’re working on getting a teaching credential, he said in a desperate attempt to break the silence.

Yeah, I’ve been going to classes at Kearney State. She laughed. I mean University of Nebraska, Kearney. They changed the name last month, and I keep forgetting. Anyway, I have two more years, but I don’t know if I want to go back.

Why?

Another shrug, this one seeming to indicate a lack of interest in the topic. Dunno. I can get a job here instead.

Joseph knew what kinds of jobs were available in Lenora for someone without specialized skills or training. Conway’s Market or one of the handful of shops downtown. Four restaurants and a bar, plus Dairy Queen and McDonald’s. A feed store. A movie theater. A couple of motels along the highway. Two banks. The post office and the library.

And of course, there was always the family farm.

Perhaps oblivious to Joseph’s thought process, Michelle toed at the dirt. I think I’d rather take care of my own kids than teach someone else’s anyway. When I have them, I mean. She stole a quick glance at him before looking away.

Michelle was a pretty young woman, with no hint of makeup and her dark blonde hair pulled into a practical ponytail. She’d shown up on time all summer for every rehearsal, where she sang enthusiastically if not spectacularly. He didn’t know her especially well—she’d been three years behind him in school—but he liked her. He was fairly certain she didn’t have a boyfriend.

He opened his mouth to say he’d forgotten a task inside the church. It wasn’t true. He actually wanted to sit down in the silence, in the ghost’s oddly calming presence, and pray. But before he could get the lie out, a pale blue Buick turned the corner and rolled to a stop in front of them. The windows were rolled up, and the glint of the sun made it hard to see who was inside. Lou Reed was audibly purring his way through Walk on the Wild Side.

Michelle caught Joseph’s hand. C’mon. She tugged him to the car and opened the back door with a flourish. Back seat okay?

Sure.

Joseph got inside and instantly regretted it. Kevin sat behind the wheel, shirtless, his tanned skin glistening with sweat. He smelled of engine grease and cigarettes. He didn’t twist his head to see Joseph, but their gazes caught in the rearview mirror for one heart-stopping moment before Joseph looked away and said, I should—

But Michelle had just closed her door, and Kevin was accelerating away from the curb.

Is he coming over to our place? Kevin had a deep voice—he would have been a nice addition to the choir if he could carry a tune—but he spoke quietly, barely audible above Lou Reed. He didn’t sound happy.

No, Michelle said. We’re dropping him at his house. It’s too hot to walk.

Kevin grunted and rolled through a stop sign without fully halting. Why didn’t you drive yourself? A little louder this time, apparently for Joseph’s benefit.

Joseph flushed. I don’t have a car. Sometimes I borrow my father’s truck, but he had to drive down to Grand Island. One of the irrigators needs a new motor, and he’s looking to replace our sprayers. Besides, he likes to stock up on groceries at the Hy-Vee there. Better prices and more variety than Conway’s, he says. Realizing he was babbling, Joseph shut his mouth.

Michelle twisted around in her seat to look at him. I’m getting a car as soon as I earn a little money. Not a big ugly truck. Something little and cute, like a Miata.

That made Kevin snort. That stupid little toy isn’t gonna do you no good when you have to haul shit.

"I won’t be hauling anything, Kevin. That’s your job."

Yeah, and what about when the roads are icy or snowy? You’re gonna slide all over the county.

She punched his upper arm. Will not. She turned her attention back to Joseph. It’ll be bright red, and when the weather’s like this I’ll put the top down and zoom along the highway, not caring how hot it is.

That sounds nice, Joseph said, ignoring Kevin’s humor-filled eyes in the mirror. Blue. They were dark blue, like new denim, and his lashes were as long and lush as any girl could want.

Bedroom eyes. Joseph didn’t know where he’d heard the term—maybe on one of the soap operas his grandmother watched—and he tried to push it out of his head. It was inappropriate.

Oblivious to his struggle, Michelle was still going on about her dream car and the places she would drive to. Joseph hoped his nods looked genuine.

With a hard brake and a sharp left turn, Kevin pulled into the long driveway leading to Joseph’s house. Well, Joseph’s father’s house, to be more accurate. It wasn’t haunted, thank God, but in the unforgiving sunlight it seemed as if it ought to be, with the white paint beginning to peel off the clapboard siding and the roof over the front porch sagging. Weeds now grew around the foundation where Joseph’s mother had planted pansies in spring and marigolds in summer. Her peonies and lilacs sagged from years of neglect. Joseph’s father didn’t see the point of planting anything that couldn’t be eaten or sold.

Joseph hopped out as soon as Kevin stopped the car. Thanks for the ride. He looked at Michelle because that was much easier than looking at Kevin, whose hair was the same color as his sister’s but wavy instead of straight.

No big deal, she said. You’re practically on the way. See you tomorrow morning.

Kevin circled the car in the gravel and left without another word. Joseph watched until they’d disappeared behind the row of firs that lined the property. Time to go in and check on Grandma, then change clothes and get started on chores.

---

The heat was as bad or worse on Sunday, and as the service continued, the assembled bodies made the church nearly unbearable. Fortunately Reverend Klempel’s sermon was on the short side, and he motioned Joseph to skip a couple of the hymns. A few of the faithful might grumble, but everyone else was relieved.

After the service, Joseph’s father and grandmother stood talking to some of their neighbors, but Michelle pulled Joseph away to stand near her parents, ostensibly to discuss the practice schedule for the remainder of the summer. Kevin wasn’t there. He never attended services, at least not in recent years. Joseph had hazy memories of Kevin’s presence back when they were kids. Like Michelle, the Schoenberners were outgoing and talkative. They smiled a lot, and sometimes Mrs. Schoenberner stopped waving her paper fan and briefly laid her free hand on Joseph’s wrist, as if she hoped to ground him in the conversation.

You’ve been doing such a good job, she said. Her eyes were a paler blue than Kevin’s and crinkled at the corners when she smiled. The choir sounds much more modern now.

Thank you, but I really haven’t made many changes from Mr. Hansen.

Well, I think even one or two new arrangements makes a big difference. We’re so fortunate you decided to return to Lenora. I know your father appreciates your help on the farm too, now that Richard’s gone.

Joseph tried not to wince at her phrasing, which made it sound as if his younger brother were dead instead of alive and well and occasionally phoning to bitch about the weather in Fort Lewis. I’m so goddamned tired of rain, Ricky would moan. Makes me almost wish I was back in Saudi Arabia.

But nobody’s shooting at you in Washington, Joseph pointed out.

Not if I can help it.

Joseph exchanged a few more niceties with the Schoenberners before his father waved an arm and began marching toward the parking lot. With a couple of quick handshakes and a smile for Michelle, Joseph hurried to catch up.

All this sun ain’t good for your grandmother, and she can’t stand around all day.

Sorry, Dad.

Joseph didn’t bother with any excuses; they would do him no good. His father marched on, his shiny church shoes gone all dusty.

Grandma waited in the Chevy’s front seat. The windows were rolled down and her head lolled slightly. Each week, church seemed to exhaust her a bit more, but she insisted on going. She’d put her hair in curlers the night before, and Sunday was the only day she wore something dressier than a housecoat or bathrobe. Not many of her friends were left, but she looked forward to seeing them at church and catching up with a little gossip. Besides, she said, praying never felt as uplifting when she did it at home.

She startled awake when Joseph’s dad got into the front seat, but she waited until after Joseph was in the back of the truck cab before she said anything. Was that the Schoenberner girl I saw you talking to?

Yeah, Grandma.

What were you talking about?

The choir.

She huffed. That’s a good family. You should ask her on a date.

She’s going back to school in Kearney at the end of the summer. A lie, but a plausible one. He’d pray for forgiveness later.

Maybe she wouldn’t go if she found a husband here. You’re a grown man, Joey. You need to stop acting like a shy little boy.

I’m not shy. I’m just not romantically interested in Michelle Shoenberner.

"Well, then who are you romantically interested in?"

Joseph didn’t answer. After a moment or two, she huffed again. Ray, talk some sense into your son. He can’t stay single forever.

When Joseph’s father remained silent too, his hands clutching the steering wheel, she grumbled and crossed her arms.

As soon as they arrived home, Joseph scrambled out to help her dismount. Then he stood back, watching as his father marched stiff-backed into the house and his grandmother followed at a slower pace. She used the handrail to haul herself up the porch steps. She’d take a nap in her reclining chair before beginning preparations for dinner, and Joseph’s dad would hole up in the cramped bedroom he called an office. He was supposedly going over paperwork, but he always came out of the room smelling of cigarettes and bourbon.

For several years now, Joseph had thought that his relationship with his father would be better if the old man could just be honest about having those small vices. But Joseph never confronted him over it, just as his father avoided discussions of Joseph’s lack of girlfriends. It was like a well-practiced dance, with every footfall landing on broken glass.

On Sundays, Joseph often spent the afternoon cleaning the house. His grandmother wasn’t really up to it anymore, and his father pretended not to notice clutter and dust. Joseph didn’t mind the task. He liked the small magic of vacuum cleaners and Windex. He’d put on his Walkman and headphones and listen to symphonies or soundtracks from musicals, and he’d let his mind drift into a pleasant formless haze.

Today, though, he wasn’t in the mood. If he stayed inside, the walls would feel confining and the air too thick to breathe. He needed space. He trotted inside and up the stairs to his bedroom, the same room he’d slept in every night of his life except when he was in college. Faded posters for Return of the Jedi and Indiana Jones still decorated the walls. After removing his church clothes, he put on an old Huskers T-shirt, a pair of shorts, and tennis shoes. Then he thundered down the stairs and out the back door, exactly as he had when he was twelve and shirking chores.

The cleared area behind the house was covered in weedy grass. His mother had kept chickens, but that didn’t interest his father, and now the coop was falling to ruin. An old tractor-tire swing hung from a pin oak, a souvenir of Joseph and Ricky’s childhood. One spring when Joseph was seven or eight, he’d run outside on the season’s first balmy day, intent on the outdoor joys he’d missed over the long winter. But as soon as he sat in the tire and started to swing, wasps attacked. They’d begun to build a nest inside the tire. Joseph went screaming back to the house, saved from more than a few stings by his heavy jeans and light jacket. That afternoon, his dad had gone out with a spray can of poison.

It had been years since anyone had used the swing, and maybe the wasps had reestablished their home, but Joseph passed the tire without investigating.

The farm encompassed a little over two hundred acres, most of it planted in corn or soy. A little river—or perhaps more accurately, an overgrown creek—ran along the back of the property and was lined with stands of cottonwoods. When Joseph was a child, his parents had sometimes tried to farm near the river, but the crops always failed when the water overflowed the banks. The plantings also withered during the dry years, since the pivot irrigation didn’t extend that far. Eventually, attempts to use that portion of land were abandoned. Brush grew among the trees, and birds and small mammals flourished. It was like a tiny patch of wilderness. There was a pond there too, formed long ago when the river changed course. It made a noisy springtime home for frogs and an excellent swimming hole for children. And sometimes for grown men.

But despite his earlier daydreams, Joseph wasn’t in the mood to swim today. Instead he’d decided to sit on a fallen tree trunk and watch the river flow lazily by. He might even pretend he was somewhere other than Nebraska. Somewhere peaceful and a bit exotic, where worries evaporated like morning fog.

You’re not Judy Garland, and this isn’t Kansas, Joseph mumbled as he made his way past the towering rows of irrigated corn. He hoped the heat wouldn’t stress the plants too much. The farm operated on a razor’s edge and couldn’t afford lowered yields.

His gaze was focused on his feet, and he nearly walked into the ghost.

Oh, no. Joseph stumbled back a few steps in horror and then froze. It had been more than a decade since he’d seen this particular spirit, and he’d assumed it was gone. Yet here it stood, as terrifying as ever.

The man had been young when he died—probably close to Joseph’s age. He was bare-chested, with leather leggings, breechclout, and moccasins. Several beaded necklaces hung around his neck, and more jewelry decorated his ears. His hair was shaved except for a narrow strip down the center of his skull. And unlike the church ghost, he wasn’t silent. He spoke low and fast, every syllable sounding urgent, his hands moving to emphasize his points.

I’m sorry, Joseph choked out. I can’t understand you. But he’d said the same to this ghost years ago, and just like then, it had no effect. The ghost continued his earnest monologue.

Back in junior high, Joseph had done some research on this ghost. He had no idea exactly who this man had been, how he’d died or when. But Joseph had concluded that he’d been a Pawnee Indian, one of the original residents of this area. Maybe he’d lived right here on what was now the Moore farm. Maybe his earthen house had stood on the banks of the river, and he and his family had hunted buffalo and, like the Moores, had grown corn and beans.

But now he was dead. And although there was nothing overtly threatening in his expression or posture—he didn’t carry a weapon—Joseph found him so frightening that he couldn’t move. It seemed to him now, just as it had when he was a boy, that this ghost could bring him ruin. Bodily corruption? Eternal damnation? Joseph had no idea—and no desire to find out.

With a sound somewhere between a whine and a moan, he managed to unfreeze. He turned his back on the ghost and sprinted toward the house.

The ghost didn’t follow him; it never did. But he kept running even after he reached home, thundering up to his room to grab his keys and then down and out the back door again. He dashed around the corner of the house, down the driveway, and onto the road. He didn’t stop running until he reached the front steps of the Lenora First Baptist Church. There he paused long enough to catch his breath and unlock the door. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he lurched into the oppressive, comforting darkness and collapsed onto the altar’s blue-carpeted stairs.

And there the old familiar words tumbled out. It was intended as a prayer, but begging was a more appropriate word for it. Oh Lord, save me from these spirits. Please. Remove them from my vision. I’ll be a good man, a better one, I promise. But please take away the ghosts.

He lay prostrate before the cross, confessing his sins, weeping, and pleading with God to remove his burden. By the time his sobs and mumbled prayers began to quiet, the sun traveled for several hours across the sky.

Chapter 2

It was the singing that woke him.

The melody.

The harmony.

Perfection.

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee

With a startled gasp he opened his eyes. What lay before him was not the church altar with the cross above, but a glorious wide-open field with tall grasses and a red-and-white-striped tent in the center. An old forest of tall trees surrounded the field on three sides.

Let the water and the blood,

From Thy wounded side which flowed

Joseph felt himself moving forward into the field, his outstretched hands touching the tips of the tall grass. He could feel them tickle his palms, and he felt the stems collapse underfoot as he walked.

What? he whispered aloud.

The trees swayed with a gentle breeze that descended into the field, making the grasses and the flag atop the tent dance in its wake. When the breeze caught up with him, it brushed over his body so luxuriously that it caused him to shiver with relief as gooseflesh rose up on his skin.

The place was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. Its colors were brilliant, not like the washed out, baked colors of Nebraska in high summer. Not the sun-bleached storefronts of the town or the faded signs along the highway. On the air he could smell warm earth and something sweeter, like honey, as he walked on.

Joseph cast his gaze downward and realized with horror that he was stark naked. Yet despite attempts to stop moving, he couldn’t.

Be of sin the double cure,

Save from wrath and make me pure.

His soul ached for the music. He could feel it pulling him, begging him to come closer. His feet followed its command.

A scarlet blush crept up his naked torso and up the sides of his neck, burning his cheeks with embarrassment and shame. Tears clouded his vision as he tried with all his might to slow his advancement.

Yet before he knew it, he stood at the entrance. It reminded him of the tent their preacher used during tent revival season in the fall, after the harvest had been pulled in and sent to market.

As he reached out an unwilling hand, knowing there must be scores of people inside, he shut his eyes once more and whimpered in denial of what was about to happen. Finally his foot stepped in, and just as soon as it did, the music died.

Joseph suddenly had full control of his faculties and made a concerted attempt to cover his nakedness. What his hands grasped, however, was