Hastum
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87. Interviews
🕑 Added 2025-09-03 18:57:59 +0000 UTCI went on with the group of people who called themselves ghost hunters. They had apparently managed to set up a few interviews with local youth and community leaders, and I got to participate. I had mixed feelings about the whole situation.
On the one hand, it made information gathering much easier, but on the other hand, I had to pay the price at the cost of my nerves. After explaining the “viability” of holy gun-swords and rosary nunchucks, I was close to adding a new haunted spot to the town, one with a gruesome history.
After walking for around an hour and then driving, we finally arrived at the spot. It was a small-town church, located away from the city center on a swath of land with a small forest. The place was relatively well taken care of.
We got out of the cars and, after loading all the interview equipment, went towards a small house on the same property, at the back.
“So this is where the preacher and his family live,” Cecil informed me.
“Family?” I furrowed my brow. Last time I checked, priests weren’t allowed spouses, unless…
“So he is a Protestant preacher?” I clarified.
“Yeah, dude, you gonna get in a debate or something? Like about Protestant demon–”
“No.” I cut Victor off before he could give me another brilliant idea about special Protestant weapons or something in that ballpark.
“Yeah, don't get into an argument with him, please. We left the town like four years ago, and he was an annoying holier-than-thou type back then. I doubt getting older made him any better.” Mercy said.
“I still remember when we wore short skirts, and his precious little boy saw us. I thought he was gonna kill us or something.” Liz added.
“No kidding.”
The two women went pale at the memory.
“Was it that bad?” I asked, now curious.
“Yeah. Grown-ass man called us whores, screamed it so loudly the whole neighborhood heard it.”
Lovely. I couldn’t wait for the meeting.
We finally made our way to the door, and Cecil knocked. We waited for some time, and finally the door opened. But instead of the face of a priest, we saw that of a middle-aged woman. There wasn’t much that stood out about her aside from one thing. She had gray, tired eyes. She looked like someone who hadn’t slept well in a long time.
“Yes?” she asked, looking at us with confusion.
“Um, we had an interview scheduled with Pastor Frank?” Cecil half-stated, half-asked.
The woman looked confused for a minute before finally opening the door wider.
“Sorry, my husband must have forgotten. He is tired lately. Please get yourselves seated, and I will go wake him up,” she said, pointing inside as she went deeper into the house.
We entered and sat down in the living room.
I looked around. The house wasn’t anything special. It was a cozy place with an old fireplace, wooden furniture, and a lot of pictures on the wall. Many of those were icons of religious figures, but there were a few family photos. They depicted a middle-aged man with harsh features and short, almost military-style hair. Next to him were his wife and two children in front, a girl and a boy.
So far, nothing out of the ordinary, aside from the tiredness, but that could be explained by many different things.
“I have to go to the toilet,” I said and got up.
I would look around the house as much as I could and get some quiet time in the process, as the four were wearing on me already.
I walked around the house trying to spot the toilet and checking for anything interesting. After nothing came up, I went to the bathroom and then returned, stopping in the kitchen on my way. But nothing out of the ordinary jumped out at me either.
I picked up a glass and began pouring myself water when I heard someone coming down from upstairs. Someone came downstairs, but instead of going to the living room, I could hear someone enter the kitchen. I turned to see a middle-aged man from the pictures. If his wife looked tired, then he looked like a man who suffered from severe insomnia.
His aura radiated a mix of bad emotions.
The man looked up and met my eyes. I could see his breath stop for a second. Even with my own presence dialed down, it affected his weakened spirit.
“Are you here to punish me?” he whispered.
I furrowed my brow. Did he take me for some grim reaper or a demon?
Before I could ask what he was talking about, his wife entered the kitchen.
“Sorry, we need some coffee first. Could you wait a little longer?”
Her voice seemed to wake the man slightly as he shook his head and looked at me again, this time with a grimace.
I could smell a faint smell of alcohol coming from him.
I nodded and went to join the rest in the living room.
‘Here to punish him’ for what? I was slightly curious. It could be something completely ordinary, like a drinking problem, or some sin a godly man believed was worthy of punishment. But still… my interest was heightened as I prepared myself for some mental magic to sense the man’s emotions.
We waited for some time until the couple returned. After his “morning” coffee and a quick shower, the man looked much better, although it was still evident he was tired.
We were offered drinks and finally all sat down for the talk.
“I apologize. I was reading Scripture late into the night and forgot about our meeting.”
“No need to apologize, Pastor,” Cecil said, smiling.
The man gave a tired nod in acknowledgment.
“So, about addiction,” Cecil started.
What followed was an interview about addictions, substance abuse, and local youth. As they spoke, the man was giving harsher and harsher answers. I was sitting silently, slowly working my way into his mind, trying to sense his overall feelings.
I didn’t attempt any deep infiltration in case he sensed me. I just wanted the overall feelings about what he was saying.
And they were interesting, to say the least. The man was harsh and happy to quote scripture with passages like “I will punish you according to the fruit of your doings, says the LORD, and I will kindle a fire in her forest, and it shall devour all things round about her.” That was from Jeremiah, I think.
When he spoke that, I could see Mercy and Liz flinch on the ‘her’ part. The feeling inside the man was something akin to righteous anger. But there was one quote that interested me the most.
When the topic of the interview moved to the town’s youth and their partying habits, the priest went on a tangent about punishment, finally quoting loudly, “My son, do not despise the Lord’s discipline, and do not resent his rebuke, because the Lord disciplines those he loves, as a father the son he delights in,” as he almost rose from his seat.
I couldn’t remember the origin of the passage, meaning it was most likely from a part of the mortal Bible that wasn’t connected to the original that much. But the sensations of the man were strange. His mind was flooded with feelings of righteousness and belief in his own words, but then those were immediately followed by guilt and sadness, which he immediately fought off and pushed into a corner of his mind, replacing them with anger.
I looked to the woman, who was sitting to the side, and could see her flinch at the quote.
I furrowed my brow. My first thought was fear, but I didn’t think that was it. I let go of the preacher’s mind and extended myself to the woman this time, as I decided to steer the conversation in a direction I needed.
I quickly went over the quotes I remembered and spoke up. “I will punish the world for its evil, and the wicked for their iniquity. I will put an end to the pomp of the arrogant, and lay low the pompous pride of the ruthless,” I said simply, then pushing down my aura as much as I could, looking at the preacher.
“Isaiah 13:11,” he answered, nodding in appreciation.
“Excuse me for breaking into the conversation, but the quote came to my mind when you talked about the current youth.”
“Oh?” The man looked at me with interest.
“Oh, right, Sam, our ex—” Cecil started, clearly not happy about the interruption.
“Youth counselor,” I immediately interrupted, shouting over the idiot. “I’m a Christian youth counselor. So we might disagree about the Pope,” although for different reasons than you suspect, I added in my head, “but we agree about the approach to teenagers.”
The man looked at me with clear skepticism. “You don’t look like a counselor,” he commented.
“Do you think youth would listen if I did?” I used the same excuse, which seemed to work this time as well.
“True that.”
“Although no matter my looks, the young people seem to turn away from God more and more,” I said with deep regret in my voice.
“Sadly, they don’t know what’s good for them. Care about the pleasure of the body, not seeing the rot of the soul,” the man said, evident anger in his tone.
“Yes, well said, Pastor. So,” I focused on the wife’s feelings. “I can see in the photos that your children look like godly people. How do you do that? I could always use a tip,” I said out of the left field.
It was an awkward transition, but all I needed was a reaction.
I could see the man flinch slightly. But the woman’s feelings were much more interesting: guilt, resentment, sadness. Something happened with their children, I imagine. A bad relationship with one's child wasn’t anything new, but those emotions were too raw for it to be something old. This was a fresh issue.
“Yes,” the man said quickly. “Discipline is what youth needs. Discipline and responsibility.”
More resentment from the wife. I switched to the man.
I could see Cecil was starting to get annoyed, so I quickly went for another awkward question for a reaction.
“Well said. I was saddened when I heard about the sinful gatherings going on in the slaughterhouse, but it is a relief to know at least two young people stay away,” I proclaimed with as much admiration in my voice as I could muster.
Embarrassment flooded him, and then it quickly morphed into anger.
Gotcha.
“Yes,” the man nodded.
The slaughterhouse was becoming more and more interesting by the day.
“Ahem,” Cecil coughed loudly. “If we could get back to the interview.”
“Of course, I apologize,” I said and relaxed back in the seat.
From what I knew, the overdoses were two local kids, but not one of the preacher’s. So why all those emotions? Was it just family drama? But coinciding with the murders this closely, and his children frequented the parties, if his reaction was anything to go by. Well, I would need more info before any conclusions.
The interview went on for thirty minutes more, mostly about addiction and the party habits of the youth. Cecil tried to awkwardly suggest a demon forcing the youth to party, but the man laughed at him, which killed the topic quickly.
We left the house after finalizing the interview.
“Why was I needed?” Rey barked at the man.
“In case we find a suspect. Duh. Who knew if the preacher wasn’t behind it? You could go full cop. Oh, I know. Next time, I will be a good cop, and you will be a bad cop.”
“No,” Rey shot down the proposition.
The two argued some more as I was deep in thought.
The plan for today was three more interviews. I would like to question Mercy about her experience, but that could wait. I planned to use the evening to contact the mortician to get some info about the bodies, or the mortician’s cat if the man wouldn’t talk.
We went through two interviews, both with parents of the children. One with the father of a guy named Rick and another with the mother of a guy named Danny. Both were uneventful. In both cases, Cecil tried to get the kid alone and offer some cash for info on the parties. I used that moment to try to check their reactions, but one didn’t even know about the parties, and another knew about them and went, but just told us about music, alcohol, and drugs. They didn’t know anything about the overdoses.
Overall, not very eventful.
It was getting late, and after getting something to eat, we went to the last person. A girl by the name of Sandra, who, like the previous cases, was a friend of the victims. The interview wasn’t with the girl herself, but with the mother.
We arrived at a small suburban house and were greeted by a thin woman with large eyes and short blond hair. She invited us in and then, without even offering water, started raving about how weed burns kids’ brains and how everyone there is surely going to be a drug addict.
After some time letting the woman go on, Cecil finally suggested speaking to her daughter.
“Why?!” the woman exclaimed. “She was never at any party.”
I winced. The idiot really asked that after the whole “worthless drug addicts” speech. It was Mercy who went for the save this time.
“We want to warn her. Our friend here is a policeman, and we talk to those close to the overdose victims and warn them about the dangers of drug use.”
I was impressed. Rey, less so. The woman looked at him until he finally relented and showed her the badge.
She led us to her daughter’s room.
After a small argument with the girl, we were finally let in by the unhappy owner of the room, thanks to the strong argument of “you don’t own the house, young lady.”
We were greeted by a pissed-off teenager. Around eighteen, by the looks of it.
After some small talk, with Rey giving the most passionless anti-drug speech I ever heard, the woman finally left us to prepare some tea. As if on cue, Mercy and Liz pulled up some of the recording equipment.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Cecil quickly started. “Ten bucks, we blur you and change your voice, and you tell us about those parties.”
The girl was clearly taken aback.
I extended myself to her mind.
“No way!” she protested. “I-I’ve never been to them,” she said.
I didn’t have to sense her emotions to know she was lying.
Now to check what I was interested in.
“Oh?” I interrupted. “You sure? I’m pretty sure even the preacher’s kid was there.”
Others looked at me in confusion as the girl froze.
But I paid them no attention. I was focused on the link I had to her mind. A deep frown formed on my brow because what flooded my senses wasn’t the simple feeling of recognition I expected from the previous interviews.
No, it was an overwhelming and crushing sensation of guilt.
Comments
Hastumo
Thanks! Awesome to hear
Thomas Downing
Thanks for the chapter! Can’t wait for the next one!
