Newark Bible Fellowship Church Novels & Stories

Kristina prepared their breakfast early morning as they will all go to church to attend the mass. It will be Baby Princess' first time to be brought to church. Kristina recalled the times when she and Nathaniel were both kids and attended the mass in Saint John Nepomucene Parish. This Church had great memories of her and Nathaniel.

I just nodded, distracted, as the driver started pulling out of the driveway. The ride was long and awkward. Mrs. Bennett kept talking about the pastor, about the woman who told her about the church, about miracles and restored marriages and how obedience was the real test of faith. I just nodded. Sometimes hummed. Looked out the window mostly. I didn’t trust myself to speak. We finally turned off the main road. The sign outside read “The Necessity Church: Divine Order is Restored.” The parking lot was already full. Men in dark suits. Women in long skirts and hats. Nobody smiled. They all looked like they were on their way to something heavy.

“I’ll be there, too.” “Wonderful. Dak, you should come.” Ellie smiled at him, and he stared, wide-eyed, not sure how to reply. He hadn’t thought about going to church while he was in town, but it might be a good idea. It would give him a better feel for the people who lived here, and Christmas was the best time of year to attend a house of worship. He loved Christmas music, and everyone tended to be happy, at least while they were in church. “Cornerstone Baptist, on the corner. Made of stone. Can’t miss it.” She laughed at her own joke, and Dak and Memory joined her politely.

Reverend Joseph Hill’s church wasn't in a city. It wasn't even in a town. It was a small, white-clapboard building at the end of a gravel lane, nestled in a valley of apple orchards in eastern Washington. "New Canaan Fellowship," the sign read. "All Are Welcome." The air smelled of ripe apples and cut grass. Peace so profound it felt like a trap. I parked the grey sedan under a gnarled oak, the thermite stones and the obsidian a hidden weight in my bag. I wore the clean, anonymous clothes the FBI had provided, but I felt like I was wearing my mother’s ghost.