The Preacher at the Crossroads

 

The preacher

Title: The Preacher at the Crossroads

The rain came down in sheets the night Brother Malachi arrived in Hollow Pine.

He stepped off the midnight bus with nothing but a worn leather Bible in his left hand and a long-handled axe in his right. The blade was wrapped in oilcloth, but the shape was unmistakable. People stared from the diner windows. Nobody asked questions. They never do when a man carries both the Word and the means to end it.

He rented the old chapel on the edge of town for a single silver dollar and preached the next evening.

His voice was honey over broken glass.

“Repent,” he smiled, “for the Kingdom is closer than you think.”

The pews filled fast. Folks said his sermons made their skin itch in a holy way. When he raised that Bible, every secret you ever buried crawled up your throat. When he rested the axe against the pulpit (still wrapped, still silent), you felt the weight of every sin you’d confessed and every one you hadn’t.

Three nights in, little Ellie Grayson went missing.

They found her shoes on the chapel steps, soles soaked red.

The sheriff knocked on Malachi’s door at dawn.

The preacher opened it barefoot, calm as sunrise.

“Seen the girl?” the sheriff asked.

Malachi lifted the Bible and smiled the same gentle smile he used from the pulpit.

“Child, the Lord taketh as easily as He giveth.”

The sheriff noticed the axe was gone from its usual spot by the coat rack.

That evening the chapel was packed tighter than ever. People came for answers, for comfort, for blood. Malachi stood taller than before, eyes shining like wet coal.

He opened the Bible with his left hand and read from Revelation, voice rolling like thunder trapped in a jar.

Then, with his right hand, he unwrapped the axe.

The congregation froze. A few tried to stand. The doors were already locked from the outside.

Malachi spoke softly now, almost tender.

“The wages of sin is death. Tonight we settle the account.”

He walked the aisle slow, Bible open, axe resting easy on his shoulder. Every time the blade passed a face, that person remembered the worst thing they’d ever done. Tears came. Prayers came. Pleas came.

He never swung wild. One clean stroke for every soul that had lied, cheated, hurt, killed.

The chapel floor drank deep.

When it was over, Malachi stood alone among the quiet. Blood dripped from the axe onto the open pages of the Bible, blotting out verses one by one until only a single line remained legible:

Behold, I am coming soon.

He wiped the blade on a hymnbook, wrapped it again, and walked out into the morning light.

The doors unlocked themselves behind him.

By noon the chapel was empty. No bodies. No blood. Just overturned pews and a faint smell of brimstone and lilac.

They say if you drive past the crossroads on a rainy night, you might see him waiting for the next bus, Bible in one hand, axe in the other, smiling that gentle smile.

And if he asks you whether you’re ready to meet your Maker,

you’d better have a good answer.

Because Brother Malachi doesn’t preach forever.

The End