𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐍 ⸻ a plotted au starter for @necrotiic
The heat hit different in Waco, Texas. It wasn’t just the sun, though that alone could melt a person if they stood still long enough. It was the weight in the air — a kind of clinging heaviness like molasses on skin. Slow. Sweet. Suffocating. Miriam had lived her whole life surrounded by devout voices and stiff collars, but this place . . . this place radiated a different kind of devotion. There was a sharpness in the smiles here, a hush beneath the greetings. Everyone knew everyone. And now, they knew her too.
Miriam’s parents had moved the family here just weeks ago, chasing a promise of stability, rooted in the deep conservatism of this town. They spoke often about God’s plan and the blessings Waco would bring, but Miriam felt like an outsider, a shadow in a town where everyone’s footsteps were already mapped.
Her parents said it was the Lord’s will that brought them here. That the chaos of the outside world — the protests, the poison in politics, the “ filth on the screens ” — was proof that they needed to come back to real faith. A town with values. A town that feared God the right way. Her father found work at a Christian publishing house on the edge of town, and her mother wasted no time enrolling them into the largest Baptist church Waco had to offer. Waco was a place where church was not a habit — it was a way of life. And deviation was not welcomed.
Her Sunday dress felt stiff and unfamiliar as she approached the grand white church rising against the pale blue sky. The wooden doors were heavy and polished, adorned with gold lettering spelling out “ First Baptist Church of Waco. ” She swallowed a lump in her throat, clutching the small leather-bound Bible her mother had given her as a welcome gift.
So here Miriam was — pressed into her Sunday dress, hair pinned in the back like her mother preferred, Bible clutched to her side. The sanctuary was old, the pews groaning with every shift of weight, the wood worn smooth from generations of penitent hands. Stained-glass windows filtered the rising sun into jeweled patches of red and gold, casting halos across the congregation. She felt like an intruder. Like the colors weren’t meant for her.
Inside, the sanctuary was packed. The air was thick with the mingled scent of old wood, waxed floors, and the faint perfume of lavender and powder. Rows of neatly pressed Sunday bests filled the pews, families sitting together with hands folded in quiet anticipation. Miriam found an empty seat near the middle, trying not to stand out, but she could feel eyes flicking toward her — curious, wary, measuring.
Then the murmuring hush settled as he stepped to the pulpit. Trevor Philips. The reverend himself. The town’s golden son. He didn’t look like a preacher, not really. He looked like someone out of a story — the kind where God and the Devil both walked the earth in boots. Miriam had heard about him — how he was beloved in this town, the charismatic young priest with a way with words that could bend a room to his will. But seeing him in person was different. He was tall, with sharp features softened only slightly by the warm, steady gaze he cast over the congregation. His voice, when he began to speak, was deep and sure, carrying effortlessly through the room like a current pulling everyone along.
His sermon was on faith, discipline, and the dangers lurking beyond the town’s borders — warnings against temptation, pride, and the ever-looming presence of sin. Miriam listened, each word echoing in her mind, but it was his eyes she found herself drawn to. Not just his eyes, but the way they searched the room, flicking over faces until they briefly settled on her. Just a flash — no more — but enough to make her heart stumble.
Her hands gripped the worn pew beneath her, knuckles white. Around her, the congregation sang hymns in perfect harmony, voices raised in praise and unity. Miriam’s lips barely moved, uncertain of the melody, the words foreign on her tongue. She glanced at the initials carved into the pew in front of her — T.P. — and a chill ran down her spine.
The final “ Amen ” rang through the room like the last note of a long-held breath. Pastor Philips closed his Bible, his voice still echoing faintly in the air, a residue that clung to the walls like incense. A polite wave of murmurs followed as the congregation began to stir — polished boots scraping the floor, hymnals thudding shut, women adjusting hats and handbags.
Miriam stayed beside her parents, forcing a polite smile as townsfolk introduced themselves with handshakes and compliments. The air buzzed with warm welcomes — but she barely heard any of it. Because she felt it. A stare, hot and fixed on her back. She didn’t dare turn around, not at first. Her fingers tightened slightly around her purse. When she finally glanced toward the pulpit, pastor Philips was no longer there. But the feeling didn’t stop. It crawled beneath her skin, unsettling and heavy.
