I Married a Church Man, But Ran the First Night

Everyone kept saying I was lucky.
“A church man, Ruth! A God-fearing husband! You’re blessed.”

I smiled. I laughed. I believed them.

During our courtship, Michael was the perfect gentleman — always calm, always quoting Scripture, always smiling.
He never raised his voice. Never touched me in anger.
He led Bible studies, visited orphanages, fasted twice a week.
Maybe that’s why I never truly knew him.

At the altar, he held my hands and whispered, “Our home will be built on prayers.”
And even during the reception, he paused halfway through his meal just to pray again. Everyone applauded his devotion.
I thought I had finally found peace.

But peace is fragile.
And that night, it shattered.

1. The House at the End of the Street

We arrived late, just before midnight. His house stood at the very end of a quiet cul-de-sac — tall, narrow, with a cross nailed crookedly above the door.

When he unlocked it, a strange scent filled the air — not perfume, not candle wax. It smelled like burnt oil mixed with ashes.

“Don’t worry,” he said softly, catching my expression. “Just my midnight incense.”

“Incense?” I laughed weakly. “You pray with that?”

He smiled. “You’ll understand soon.”

Something in his tone made me uneasy, but I brushed it off. I was tired, overwhelmed, still in my wedding gown. I followed him inside.

The living room was spotless — but lifeless. No family photos, no books, no clutter. Only a single Bible on the glass table, open, its pages blackened around the edges, as though burned.

I touched it carefully. “What happened here?”

“Anointing fire,” he said. “It purifies the Word.”

He said it so casually that I didn’t question him.

2. The Order

In the bedroom, I started to sit down, but his voice stopped me.
“No. Hold on. There’s an order here.”

I froze. “Order?”

He didn’t answer.
He walked straight to the wardrobe, opened it, and stood there silently.

At first I thought he was praying. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Five minutes passed. Then twenty. Then an hour.

The clock ticked. The air grew heavier — thicker — until I could hear my own heartbeat.

“Honey,” I whispered. “It’s late…”

He raised one hand without turning around. “Don’t speak.”

I fell silent. My throat felt dry.

Outside, the wind rustled. Then, through the window, I saw two figures approaching the house — tall men in dark suits, moving in sync, like shadows.

My chest tightened. “Are you expecting anyone?”

Slowly, Michael turned toward me. His eyes were open but glassy, unfocused.
“Stay where you are,” he said.

Something inside me screamed: run.

3. The Visitors

A knock echoed through the hallway — slow, rhythmic.
Three knocks. A pause. Then three more.

Michael opened the wardrobe wider. Inside, I saw something I’ll never forget.
It wasn’t clothes — it was filled with dozens of glass jars.
Each jar held a folded scrap of paper… and what looked like small, shriveled pieces of something — hair? Skin?

He reached in, took out a jar, and kissed it.
“Tonight,” he whispered, “is the seventh.”

My stomach flipped. “Seventh what?”

Before he could answer, the front door creaked open on its own.
Two men stepped inside. Their faces were expressionless, pale. Their shoes left no sound on the tile.

“Brother Michael,” one said, voice low and hollow. “It’s time.”

He nodded slowly, eyes still distant. “I’ve prepared the offering.”

“Offering?” I whispered.

They turned toward me in unison, like puppets on invisible strings.

Michael smiled. “My wife has come to join the altar.”

4. The Run

I bolted. Instinct overrode everything.

The first man moved toward me, too fast. I grabbed the lamp and threw it — glass shattered, sparks flew, plunging the room into flickering darkness.

“Ruth!” Michael shouted. “Do not run from consecration!”

But I was already at the door.

The air outside was sharp, wet with rain. My wedding gown snagged on the step, ripping at the seam. I didn’t care. I sprinted down the driveway barefoot, heart hammering.

Behind me, I heard chanting — a deep, guttural hum that didn’t sound human.
It rolled through the night, vibrating in my bones.

The streetlights flickered as I ran past. The closer I got to the main road, the louder the hum became, until I realized — it wasn’t coming from behind anymore.

It was inside my head.

Return… return… return.

I screamed.

A passing taxi screeched to a halt. The driver jumped out. “Madam! What happened?”

“Please,” I gasped. “Drive. Just drive.”

He didn’t ask questions. He slammed the door and sped off.

Through the back window, I saw the house — the cross above the door glowing faintly red in the darkness.

5. The Morning After

By morning, I was at my cousin’s flat across town, wrapped in a blanket, shivering.
She wanted to call the police, but I begged her not to. “They’ll think I’m crazy,” I said.

When she left for work, I searched Michael’s name online.

The church website was gone. Deleted. But there was a news link from two years ago:

Local Pastor and Six Followers Found Dead After Midnight Ritual Fire
Police say Pastor Michael Okon was among the deceased. Investigators ruled it an accident caused by a gas explosion.

I read it three times. My stomach turned to ice.

I had married a dead man.

6. The Pastor’s Wife

I went to the police anyway.

At the station, the officer looked skeptical until I showed him the article.
“That case is closed,” he said. “The bodies were burned beyond recognition, but one matched his dental records.”

“Then who did I marry?” I demanded.

He frowned. “When did you say you last saw him?”

“Last night. After the wedding.”

The officer stared at me, then quietly called someone into the room — another officer, older. They exchanged a look.

“Ma’am,” the older man said. “That house you’re describing? It’s been sealed for years. Burnt from the inside.”

7. The House Again

I didn’t believe him — until I saw it.

That afternoon, the police drove me there.
Same street. Same number. Same crooked cross.

But the house was nothing like the one I’d entered.
The windows were boarded up, the walls black with soot.
Inside, everything was ash — brittle furniture, melted glass, a Bible fused to the table.

In the bedroom, a wardrobe half-collapsed against the wall.
The shelves were lined with glass jars, their contents charred.

“See?” the officer said. “Fire gutted this place. Nobody’s lived here since.”

I reached for the wardrobe door. It creaked open.

There, beneath the ashes, was a photograph — half-burned but still clear enough to see:
Michael standing beside a woman in a wedding gown.
A different woman.
Her eyes were hollow, her smile forced.

On the back of the photo, written in shaky handwriting:

“Our home will be built on prayers.”

8. The Seventh Wife

I didn’t sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the wardrobe, the jars, the men with silent shoes.

At 3:00 a.m., my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number:

“You left before the offering. The altar waits.”

I dropped the phone, heart racing.
Then another message came — a photo of me from the wedding.
Only, in this one, Michael’s eyes were black voids, and his hand rested on my shoulder like claws.

The caption read: “The seventh must complete the circle.”

I blocked the number, packed my things, and took a bus out of town before sunrise.

9. The Church

Three months later, I was living in another city under a different name.
New job. New apartment. New life.

One Sunday, I decided to attend church again — a small congregation downtown.
The pastor smiled warmly. “Sister Ruth, first time here?”

I froze. I hadn’t told anyone my old name.

He laughed softly. “Relax. I know you. Michael spoke of you.”

The air went cold.

“Excuse me?” I whispered.

“He was a great servant,” the pastor said. “A man of vision. He started the Order. We continue his work.”

I backed away. “No…”

“You shouldn’t have run,” he said kindly. “But it’s not too late. The altar is eternal.”

Behind him, I noticed something glowing faintly on his wrist — a black band pulsing with light.

The same one Michael wore.

10. The Run, Again

I ran again.
Out of the church, into the sunlight, across the street.
My pulse hammered in my ears.

When I looked back, no one was following — but every person who passed me seemed to hum the same melody: low, steady, like a prayer I couldn’t escape.

That night, in my apartment, I found something under my pillow.
A jar.
Inside: a folded scrap of paper.

I opened it with shaking hands.

“For Ruth. Our home will be built on prayers.”
— M.

The light in the jar flickered once, twice… then went out.

11. Epilogue

I moved again after that. Changed my number. My name.
But sometimes, just before midnight, I wake to the faint smell of burnt oil and ashes.
And in the distance, a man’s voice whispers Scripture through the darkness:

“He who finds a wife finds a good thing…”

Then, softly:

“…and obtains favor from the Lord.”

That’s when I remember — I was the seventh.

And if the circle ever completes, I don’t think I’ll be running anywhere.