A screech, bloodcurdling and maintained, something like a baby’s crying, a woman being violated, and an ambulance siren, pierced Horace’s ears; then a yellow-face harpie, complete with shot-through-with-electricity hair and red eyes, walked up to him, her song of indignation searing through his head. With a swipe of her clawed hand she slashed Horace’s face, knocking him down. His face stung and he felt the blood trickling warmly.

You are worthless, the demon said to Horace.

Through the blood, tears, and sweat Horace heard feet padding on the carpet next to him, he heard the rustling of cloth and looked up to see a tall figure clad in dull black, hooded and carrying a gleaming silver scimitar.

The voice in Horace’s head seemed to giggle, and the figure began toward the pulpit. Horace heard no sound, not the sound of the old women in the Amen Corner fanning, not the sound of a child—himself?—shifting his weight, not the sound of the piano player’s foot slipping or the cars passing by on the highway. All he heard was the sound of those damned and accused black feet pounding, like the beat of his heart, stepping, stepping, walking toward the pulpit. He looked, but he had to cover his ears—yet the sound did not dull. The figure carrying the scimitar, its robes flowing beautifully, magnificently, walked up to the pulpit and stood next to the praying minister. Reverend Barden’s lips were moving. Horace could not hear, but he knew the pastor was praying, that his supplication was for all God’s children, to deliver them from sin. Horace did not have to hear, he knew that everyone within the sound of Reverend Barden’s voice heard, but he did not have to hear to know he was excluded.

The figure raised the shining sword and without pause brought it to bear on the thin, wizened neck that held the praying head of the old man, lopping it off with such elegance that Horace first registered admiration rather than terror; and as the head rolled through the air, rolling like a football, the mouth still working, crafting holy words to its Lord, rolling toward Horace, there came a deep rumble, louder, louder. The head hit the carpet with a dull thud before Horace, the eyes staring, and Horace heard one word from those brown lips: Unclean.

Horace looked up to the hooded figure standing in the pulpit and saw himself grinning, clad in black.