The Devil Hates Sundays - A Short Story Collection

By T. Wolfe III

A Collection Of Four Short Stories Set In The Strange City Of Brakenport, Texas.

 

A Disgraced Former Priest Returns To His Former Parish Only To Meet A Stranger Who Promises The Answer To The Question He Has Pursued His Entire Life. Though Much Like The Sins Of His Past, The Answers Come At A Cost That He May Not Be Ready To Pay.

 

The Day Before The Interview Detailing His Harrowing Tale Of Survival Of The Neon Cowboy Massacre Debuts, Eddie Winters Reflects On The Events That Actually Transpried That Day. Events That Have Haunted Him And Made Him Question The Depths Of Depravity That Loss And Fantical Belief Can Lead To.

 

June 10th, 1878. A Posse Made Of Regulae Iuris Private Detectives, Bounty Hunters, And Brakenport Locals Began Their Pursuit Of The Soto-Whitmore Gang. They Were Never Seen Or Heard From Again. This Harrowing Tale Chronicles Their Descent Into Madness As They Pursue The Soto-Whitmore Gang Trail Of Carnage.

 

The First Chilling Tale From The Brakenport Mythos. Called To Investigate The Brutal Ritualistic Murder Of A Local Business, Private Investigator, Thea Wolfe Is Brought Further Into A World Of Secrets And Abominations. All She Knows Is That If The Elder Gods Sleep, Then Some Other Terrible Creature Has Brought These New Terrors To Brakenport. A Terror That Answers To The Name Vril'yah.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brakenport Apocryphal Publishing
• Release date: Jul 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223435532

T. Wolfe III

Thaddeus “T.” Wolfe III is a would-be writer, part-time game master and full time slacker. He is the author of the short story collection, The Devil Hates Sundays. A fan of horror, fantasy, sci-fi, and romance, T was initially introduced to reading by his parents who had no clue that their eldest child would be more than happy to get lost in the worlds between the covers of a book rather than going outside. He is at his happiest in used bookstores, his wallet is generally at its most miserable.

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The Devil Hates Sundays - A Short Story Collection is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Devil Hates Sundays - A Short Story Collection Copyright © 2023 by T. Wolfe III.

All Rights Reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. All quotes subject to copyright by their respective owners.

First Digital Edition Originally Published July 2023 by T. Wolfe III & Brakenport Apocryphal Publishing

Second Digital Edition December 2023

Edited by Jennifer Tamez

Co-Edited by T. Wolfe III

Cover Design by T. Wolfe III

Book Design by T. Wolfe III

Author's Photo by Chi-Chi (Copyright ©️ Chi-Chi, 2023)

Published by T. Wolfe III & Brakenport Apocryphal Publishing

ISBN : 9798223435532

Brakenport Apocryphal Publishing

Hereford, Texas 79045

Email: [e-mail]

The Devil Hates Sundays

Be sober, be vigilant ; because your adversary the Devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour: Whom resist steadfast in the faith, knowing that the same afflictions are accomplished in your brethren that are in the world

-  1 Peter 5:8-9

WHAT DOES MAN TRULY know of the Devil and its nature? Is it simply the Great Beast lumbering towards Babylon? An infernal plague in its belly and unending hate in its heart. Nothing but bittersweet lies on its tongue. Or perhaps it is just the first of the Fallen, cast out of heaven down into the depths of hell for the pride that led them to rebellion? It could simply be a test from our Lord. One of our will and devotion. All our most shameful and selfish desires manifested and offered up to us on a silver platter.

So, I ask again what does man truly know of the Devil and its nature?

You must understand that from the moment that question first entered my mind, I needed to know the answer. In that pursuit, I devoted myself—mind, body, and soul—to God and his teachings. I learned the scripture. I poured over every word of the gospel—even the apocrypha—until I could recite it in my sleep. I found no satisfactory answers, only contradicting interpretations. In an attempt to make sense of it, I took the next step and became a priest. A righteous shepherd of men.

What little knowledge I gained, I passed on to my flock. How to resist the devil's temptation and walk a Path of Righteousness in their Armor of True Faith. The ways to dismiss the lies and justifications that they would tell themselves when they strayed from the Path. Accepting the path, the Lord had put you on, even if that path was filled with trials and tribulations.

It was humbling at first, a testament to my hard work and devotion. Though that humility was short-lived, for as my flock grew, so did my ego. I soon came to believe that I and I alone would be worthy of receiving the truth I had tirelessly searched for. I had been placed on the most righteous of paths, and nothing short of the Angel of Death would remove me from it.

How truly arrogant I was.

It took nothing more than the promise of temptation to rip me off my pedestal and strip me of my hard-earned titles. With nothing more than a whisper, I was transformed from a man of the cloth into a man of nothing. No closer to the truth than when I started.

As I fell from grace, I found myself comparing my plight to that of Moses. We had both faltered in our duties and been denied our entrance into the Land of Milk and Honey. It pained me greatly, but I did come to accept that all of this was part of God's plan for me because I and I alone was worthy.

The sheer arrogance.

It was that arrogance that brought me back to my church. I had spent the better part of a decade carving out the path my flock was supposed to follow. I was it's mighty, beating heart. Without me or my guidance, it would falter and die.

In truth, I was nothing so grand, because in my absence, my church had carried on just fine.

To this day, they still spread the good word and do charitable works for the downtrodden and the privileged alike—the Brakenport Sentinel even covered them in an editorial. Something they hadn't done during my tenure. All that had changed was that any mention of me—and her—had been erased. It was as if I had never existed. All my hard work was for nothing.

FORGIVE ME, FATHER, for I have sinned, They said, as they sat next to me.

I now know why they had started our conversation that way. They had seen the pain in my soul and the suffering I had endured, and they wished to mock me for it. I was a man of faith reduced to a man of nothing.

It has been one month, three days, four hours, six minutes, and twenty-four seconds since my last confession, they said, a low growl underpinning their words. Which made the hairs on my neck and forearms stand on end.

Facing them, I thought that perhaps my mind had begun to crack. They were changing shape. Shifting