"Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven," the man in the red flannel shirt droned over the loud speakers.

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," the congregation uttered back to him in a reverent voice.

They were gathered at a campground in the woods where several tents had been erected. A wooden stage had been hastily built on the northern side of the clearing and that was where the fifty-some-odd people gathered to listen to the bushy-bearded mountain man who was preaching into the microphone on the stage. His reflective sunglasses and red flannel shirt made him look anything but a preacher but the rapt audience hung on his every word, regardless.

The early morning was damp. The sky was gray, just beginning to turn pink with the coming dawn. It bathed the misty central clearing in pale purple light that made it look eerie to Heather. The sixteen-year-old stood next to her father, hugging her middle against the chill in the air. Her clothes weren't weather-appropriate: A sleeveless flower-print frock shirt and red shorts with flip-flops. Her father's jeans and t-shirt offered him slightly more protection, as did the extra fifty pounds he carried. Their inclusion in the church trip had been late and they hadn't known what to pack.

He listened to Reverend Jimmy-John with the same brainwashed devotion the other adults did. Heather had never liked the Reverend or understood why so many people did. Even his name: Jimmy-John. What kind of preacher had a name like that? He gave her the creeps.

But the man was a charismatic speaker and he'd somehow managed to convince a whole mess of people to come with him out into the wilds on this spiritual retreat. Most of the congregation of the 'Church of God and Jesus' had already surrendered their money to Reverend Jimmy in return for getting to join him in his refuge away from the evils of the corrupt cities of man. Heather had heard more than one proud member say they'd sold their house and had given that money to the church as well. It was like they were competing to be the best Christian with their generosity.

Her father wasn't competing. He didn't have the money. As it was, they nearly weren't able to come to the retreat because his paycheck had been delayed. Without the funds, they would have been left behind, unable to cover their portion of the travel expenses. Every member of the congregation had to do that much, at the very least.

As the preacher continued to intone the Beatitudes over the speakers, several people dressed in long white robes started to circulate through the crowd. They carried trays bearing cups of purple liquid which they passed out to everyone they encountered. Adults with children were given a cup for their child as well. Heather's father was given two cups.

"Now, my people," Reverend Jimmy-John intoned, raising his hands. "It's time. It's time. Mothers, fathers, it's time to escort our children into the arms of the Lord!"

The congregation gave an enthusiastic cheer.

"Children," the preacher went on. "Drink of the blood of Christ and wash the evil of this world from your souls!"

Heather's dad handed her one of the cups and smiled at her, a peculiar look in his eyes. "Go on, honey," he said. "Do it for God. Do it for Jesus."

The girl looked into the cup. It looked like purple Kool-Aid. She didn't like purple Kool-Aid, or any fake grape flavor. She was about to say as much when she noticed a little boy not far from them suddenly collapse. His mother knelt down beside him and scooped his head into her lap but didn't offer him any assistance.

Heather was trying to figure out what had happened to the boy when another nearby child—this one an older girl—also collapsed. Then another child. And another. One by one, the kids in the throng were dropping to the ground. Some of their parents cried but many just held them. No one did anything to help them.

"Go on, honey," her father murmured more urgently now. "Drink it."

There were sounds in the congregation now, children moaning and crying. Vomiting.

"What is it?" Heather felt fear curdling in her stomach. She couldn't have put anything in it if she wanted to.

"It's just juice. Drink it, honey," he insisted. "You have to. It's for God."

The wails in the crowd were getting louder. She saw one child being forced to drink from one of the cups by his parents.

"Shh," Reverend Jimmy-John said. "Don't cry. This is not death. This is the way to a new life! Mothers, fathers, hold your children. Tell them you'll be coming soon. Parents, it's your time. Drink of the blood of Christ."

Heather's alarm mushroomed into full-blown panic. Everywhere around her people were dying and her father wanted her to die with them. She saw a flurry of motion near the edge of the congregation. One teen boy was making a run for it. He didn't get far. One of Jimmy-John's henchmen was after him immediately and brought him back to the fold where he, too, was forced to drink the stuff.

She looked back to her father, who looked worried. If she said no, would he force her to drink it? She wasn't sure and that scared her even more. Heart racing and hands shaking, she brought the cup to her lips but she only pretended to drink from it.

On the speaker system Reverend Jimmy-John had to abandon his soothing tone to be heard above the din. "Parents, it's your time! All of my flock, it's time to make the ascension! It's time! Drink, my brethren, and heaven is ours!"

Her father smiled, features relaxing greatly. "I love you, sweetie," he whispered. He kissed the top of her strawberry blonde head then upended his cup, tossing it aside once it was empty. She tossed hers the moment he tipped his head back to drink his. She couldn't stop him but she wasn't going to join him either.

He gathered her in a hug then and sank to the ground with her. She didn't resist. In just a few moments he began to convulse and gag. Seconds later he lay still, tongue protruding slightly between his ashen lips. Heather peeked around without moving, too terrified to move. Very few people were still on their feet. When the reverend's henchmen started shooting those people, Heather lay down close to her dead father's side and tried to look dead.

She stayed that way for a long time, listening to them finish off the survivors. She felt half-frozen there on the damp ground. She was afraid her shivering might give her away. Then she heard the sound of a helicopter followed shortly by a loud man's voice on a bullhorn.

"We have you surrounded! Don't try to run! You are under arrest!"

A human stampede followed as Jimmy-John and his co-conspirators scrambled to escape. Guns were fired. Eventually everything quieted down but Heather continued to lay there, locked in place by terror. She had no idea who won the gunfight or where anyone was at. One wrong move could mean a bullet in the brain.

It took the SWAT team nearly an hour to reach her. When they did, she still didn't know who was who and when one of the fatigue-clad men touched her arm, she bolted upright with a feral scream and leapt on him, ready to kill before she could be killed. Surprised, he shoved the hysterical teen off. One of his teammates was there to catch her, restraining her as gently as he could.

"Holy shit, one survived!" exclaimed another rescue worker.

"Get her to an ambulance!" someone else hollered.

Heather was rushed off to the nearest hospital. Too hysterical to manage, she would be sedated, treated for exposure, then shipped off to Briarcliff.

...

-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-

...

Monday

"The folks at the hospital said she wouldn't speak," said Sister Jude. She was sitting at her desk looking at the file of the newest admission to Briarcliff. "Hasn't said a word since they found her there at the cult camp."

Sister Mary Eunice shook her head slowly, aghast. "Shocking," she murmured. "How could one person manage to convince so many to do such a thing?"

"Mass suicide?" said Sister Jude. She gave a short, humorless laugh. "Hitler talked a whole country into mass genocide. Some people just have 'it', I suppose."

"But why couldn't they use their charisma for good?" wondered the younger nun.

"God only knows," Sister Jude said brusquely.

"Should I give her a gown?"

"Heavens no!" said Sister Jude, offended by the suggestion. "Give her a full uniform. The poor girl's suffered enough already."

Sister Mary nodded and left the senior nun's office to go tend to the new patient.

...

Tate's second weekend at Briarcliff was much the same as the first. He still wasn't on any special lists for jobs or classes. Church was just as dull as the previous time, though this time he didn't have to wear the restrictive cuffs. Still had to sit near the back, though. The white pill had returned to his dailies, which helped with the headache, but that was hardly a bonus during church. He spent most of mass glaring at the statue of Saint Mary that stood behind the Reverend Monsignor.

The saints that Catholic churches displayed in their audience halls bugged him. Life-sized and painted, they always seemed to be staring at a person no matter where one sat in the chapel. He supposed their expressions were intended to be serene but they didn't look it. Theirs was a strange dead-eyed breed of accusing stare only antique China dolls could top.

Typically, Tate avoided meeting those stares but that day he challenged the Mother Mary herself. How could she be so high and mighty in a place where people like Max and Sister Jude held the reins of power? A place where abuse in the name of her son occurred routinely.

He was still brooding come Monday afternoon. He hadn't been chatty all weekend but the people he'd come to think of as friends didn't pester him about it. He had a head full of frustration and theories he was saving to spew at Dr. Thredson later that day.

Tate was sitting on the end of a couch next to John, who was writing. Shelley was nearby in an old armchair trying to knit using just her fingers and a length of yarn she'd swiped from Art Therapy. Each was quietly minding their own business when a skinny young woman in an asylum dress came over to where they were sitting. Her shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair was disheveled and the look on her face was nothing short of crazed.

"You!" she exclaimed, leveling a finger at Tate. "Murderer! Agent of Satan!"

Tate regarded her like the insane person she was. "Leave me alone."

"You will be judged!" the teen girl shrilled. She was beginning to draw attention but she didn't care. "The lives you took taint your immortal soul!"

She was beginning to attract attention. Billie Dean wasn't far away and she moved to the younger woman's side, eyeing the nearest orderly warily. Carl was the only one on duty that afternoon and while he'd noticed the outburst he wasn't inclined to do anything about it just yet.

"Please," Billie Dean said to the girl as she gently took her skinny wrist. She offered the younger woman a weak smile. "You don't want to get in trouble."

The blonde girl allowed Billie Dean to lead her away but she continued to stare at Tate intently, and he at her, until there were too many people between them to see each other.

"Crazy bitch," Tate muttered. He glanced at Shelley who offered him a supportive half-smile.

...

"What's your name?" Billie Dean asked the girl as she led her away.

"Heather."

"I'm Billie Dean," the woman smiled. She ushered the girl to chair on the far side of the piano, near the record player, where Tate couldn't be seen from any angle. "Billie Dean Howard."

She settled into her seat and waited for a sign of recognition but the girl had grown up in a small community and had never heard of the medium or her popular Los Angeles radio show.

"You're new here," Billie Dean plowed ahead. "I'm still new myself. I really shouldn't be here though. I'm not crazy."

"Then why are you here?" Heather's question wasn't accusatory.

The psychic lifted her slim shoulders in a slight shrug then examined her fingernails. Her manicure was suffering. It had only been a few days and already she'd broken one nail and chipped the polish on three of her oval nails. "I told someone something they didn't want to hear."

That didn't make any sense to Heather. "Like what?"

Billie Dean's lips formed a thin line and she looked at the younger woman grimly. "I told them someone they loved was dead."

"Were they?" Heather couldn't make herself say the word 'dead'.

"Yes."

"Then... why'd they lock you up?"

Billie Dean offered her a melancholy smile. "Because they didn't believe my source." She paused, then added: "I'm a medium. I can speak with the dead."

"Oh."

"It's okay," Billie Dean said though her smile had grown rueful. "Most people who don't know me, don't believe me. I'm not offended if you don't."

The girl just stared at her.

"Why are you in here?" Billie Dean asked, to change the subject.

Heather blinked and seemed to come out of a daze. "The preacher at my church killed everybody."

The medium pressed a hand to her collarbone. "Gracious! Everyone?"

"Everyone except me. And himself. I think. I think they... they arrested him." The girl shuddered involuntarily. She didn't want to think about Reverend Jimmy-John. He couldn't get to her in here.

Stunned, Billie Dean reached for one of the girl's hands. She'd meant it as a supportive gesture but at the touch, Heather yanked her hand away like she'd been burned.

"I'm sorry," Billie Dean apologized, both for touching without asking and in general sympathy at the girl's condition. Heartbreaking.

Heather shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Me too," she said softly. She folded her arms over her middle and stared at her lap.

Billie Dean's heart hurt for the girl. So young and wounded. "If you ever need a friend," she said. "I'm here for you. I won't pretend to know what you're going through, but if I can help... I will."

Heather gave a shrug and a nod but didn't look up.

...

"So... She's the only survivor?" Tate said in his therapy session a couple of hours later. "Did they torture her?"

"I'm afraid I can't discuss the details of the case," said Dr. Thredson. "I'm bending the rules just telling you what I have. I just want you to understand that she's bound to be extremely emotional after what she went through. Seeing someone with a... history like yours must have triggered something."

"Are they going to keep her locked up now?"

"No," said the doctor. "The two of you are going to have to find a way to live together. Just... try to stay away from her if you can. It would be better for both of you, I think."

"Easy for you to say," Tate sulked.

"It will be easier than you think," assured the doctor. "So, how was your meeting with Doctor Heath?"

Tate shrugged. Despite the pain medication he was on, he was still feeling very surly. He'd had nightmares about his encounter with Max. He knew he should probably tell Dr. Thredson about what had happened but it was too humiliating. Plus it would put Violet at risk. He didn't want her to get in trouble. She was one of the only things in Briarcliff that made it tolerable.

"He said we wouldn't know if there's anything weird for a couple days or so," he paraphrased.

The doctor nodded and jotted down a couple of quick notes. Then he looked at his patient. "At the risk of sounding very cliche'... if you don't mind, Tate, I'd like to ask you more about your mother."

.. .

Tate was thirteen. It was the Saturday before Halloween. His mother had been in and out of the house twice that day. The first time she left, she was in a good mood. When she returned, she barely said anything to him. She just went straight to her bedroom where she stayed for the next five hours.

When she finally emerged, she fed the dogs and fixed Tate and his siblings some supper which she ate with them without saying a word to anyone. She only rolled her eyes once when Addie made a bad joke. It wasn't an affectionate expression either; it was a look that said she thought her daughter was being tiresome and irritating.

Tate tried to lighten the mood with talk of Halloween. His brother and sister happily took the bait but his mother was having none of it. After dinner she left without tidying up the kitchen. Tate spent the next three hours hanging out with Beau and Adelaide. When the time came he helped Addie get Beau ready for bed. Then he and Addie both got ready for bed and went to their respective rooms. Neither slept.

It was another hour before Tate heard his mother's car pull up. He put aside the book about birds he'd been looking at and got out of bed. It wasn't his plan to confront her when he left his room. He was looking for reassurance. His feelings were hurt by her day-long silent treatment. The boy didn't feel he or his siblings had done anything to deserve it, but he was never sure with her. Sometimes his mother got mad at them for things that they weren't even aware they were doing wrong.

He mostly just wanted to be able to go to bed and sleep. If he tried to sleep without making sure he hadn't done something bad, he would never relax. If he was going to be punished, he wanted to know why.

Tate met her in the living room when she let herself in. She wasn't drunk, which was a relief. It meant he could talk to her—in theory.

"Welcome back," he said.

She shoved her keys in her purse and flicked a sour glance his way. "Go to bed."

Constance swished passed him then, heading for her bedroom. Hurt all over again, Tate followed her.

"What's the matter, mama?" he asked. "Did we do something wrong?"

He followed her into her bedroom and watched her remove her jewelry.

"I don't want to talk about it," the woman said shortly.

That response didn't reassure him. "Can you just tell me if I did something?"

She shut her eyes in that way that said she was resisting the urge to scream and hit. The reaction only confused him more. He was just trying to make things right between them again.

"I had a bad day. I don't want to talk about it," she said tightly. She opened her eyes and fixed him with a withering stare. "I just want to go to bed."

But at that point he wasn't sure whether she was saying that because it was true or because he had done something bad and she just didn't want to get into it with him so late. It wouldn't be the first time one of them had lied to the other in order to avoid an inevitable screaming match. So he just stood there indecisively in the doorway till her cold silence finally drove him away.

He went back to his room and curled up in the middle of his bed. It seemed like she hated him most of the time these days. And when she wasn't yelling at him for screwing up, she ignored him. At some point he had crossed some invisible line with her where it didn't matter what he did. He would always fall short of what he should do or be. He just wasn't good enough.

He wasn't perfect.

.. .

Tate sagged in his chair, his dark eyes finding a corner of the ceiling. He didn't want to talk about Constance. He didn't even want to think about her at the moment. His mood was too foul.

Noting the reaction, Doctor Thredson verbally retreated. "Are you comfortable with that? We can talk about something else, if you like."

In spite of his bad mood, Tate appreciated the man backing off. "Let's talk about something else."

"All right," agreed Thredson, noting that without writing it down. "Why don't you tell me what you're comfortable with talking about."

Tate gnawed a bit of dead skin off his thumb then said, "Can I have a cigarette?"

Thredson pushed the pack and lighter across the desk toward him. After a moment the teen sat up to take them.

"Why did you decide to be a shrink?" he asked once he had a cigarette lit.

"I want to help people," said the doctor. "People like you."

He knew Tate was trying to take command of the session again. Oliver had reviewed his previous sessions with the patient and had been chagrined at how often he let the boy do just that. The therapist allowed it for now, but with deliberation.

"People like me," Tate echoed like he was tasting the words. He shoved his shaggy bangs back from his eyes. "Have you met lots of people like me?"

"No," Dr. Thredson admitted. "No one quite like you."

"I hope that's a good thing," joked the teen, not sure whether he should be flattered or not.

The doctor smiled. "It's not a bad thing." His expression became thoughtful. "I believe therapists and patients are like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The skills of specific doctors are best suited to the needs of specific patients. No doctor can be everything to everyone. Even a 'general practitioner' doesn't practice dentistry or perform heart surgery."

"I'm glad you think so," Tate smiled. "Because I've been talking with Doctor Harmon."

Thredson stared at the youth for a moment then forced a smile he didn't feel. "I thought we'd agreed to wait on sessions with Doctor Harmon."

Tate widened his dark eyes and glanced about, searching the room like it was his memory. "I don't remember that. I just remember me asking you about it and you saying you didn't think it was a good idea." He sucked on his cigarette once more then put it out in the ashtray on the desk.

Dr. Thredson's smile dissolved. "I still don't think it's a good idea."

"But you sent me to Doctor Heath."

"Doctor Heath is a surgeon, not a psychiatrist."

"What's wrong, doc?" Tate asked with a crooked grin. "Jealous?"

The doctor folded his hands on the desk. "Why do you want to talk to him?"

Tate shrugged a shoulder and his lower lip pooched out as he considered. "I don't know. I guess because he's all hot to talk to me. It's kind of funny."

The doctor didn't find it funny at all. "How many sessions have you had with him?"

"You are jealous!"

Dr. Thredson leveled a flat gaze at his patient. "No. I'm concerned that my colleague has deliberately overstepped certain boundaries he shouldn't be overstepping. This could be a serious matter."

Tate's amusement dried up and he turned on his contrite face. "We just talked for a little bit. Once. We didn't even talk about anything important. He said he wanted to talk to you about my medicine first. I'm sure he's not, like, trying to do weird shit behind your back or anything." He brightened then. "And he recorded it, too. You know. If you wanted to know what was said?"

"Thank you, Tate," the doctor said. "I think I'd like to have a chat with Doctor Harmon before we continue. I'll have Cecil escort you back to your room. "

..

Oliver wasn't able to track down the other doctor till late that afternoon, when the other man was getting ready to go home. Ben already had his briefcase packed and was putting his jacket on when Thredson entered his office without knocking.

"I can see you're anxious to leave," he said with iron-clad control over his tone to keep it briskly polite. "So I'll get straight to the point. The recording of the unauthorized session you had with my patient? I want it."

The man's attitude rubbed Ben the wrong way. "I don't need your authorization to speak to a patient who seeks out my counsel."

"Actually? You do," said Oliver, losing a little of his self-control. "If you'd like, we can bring the matter to Sister Jude and let her decide what to do about it."

Ben was unimpressed. "What's your problem? I'm just trying to help."

"There are plenty of other people in this institution who need your help."

"Amazingly, I have the ability to help more than one person," said Ben. He smiled. "I'm versatile that way."

"Just make sure that tape is on my desk in the morning," Thredson snapped.

He left then, quick steps taking him back to his office where he grabbed his own things, and left the building. He saw Ben further out in the parking lot and, when he got his car started, he wound up having to follow the man out. They crossed the bridge and merged with freeway traffic. Ordinarily Oliver would head for the north lane and follow the wide strip of road around to his side of town but this time he kept to the middle lane.

He allowed a couple of cars to get between his and Ben's vehicles but he kept the other man in sight. When Ben's car pulled off the freeway, Oliver tailed him at a distance. He followed his co-worker all the way home, stopping a few houses down when he saw Ben pull into a driveway. From there Oliver watched him get out and head into the house. He jotted down the street address then sat staring at the home for several minutes before finally driving off.

...

Author's Note:

First: The fact that the backwoods preacher's name is "Jimmy" is a coincidental overlap with AHS Season 4. This chapter was written before I knew any of the characters' names. I could rack it up to an uncanny ability to predict the future but in actuality, I named him Jimmy-John after a restaurant chain I was mad at when I was writing this part. It really is just wild coincidence. Often when I'm mad at someone or something, I'll write them into a story with something awful happening to them or around them. It's cathartic.

Moving along... The whole opening scene was a cross between the Jonestown massacre and the Heaven's Gate mass suicide. Believe it or not, this sort of thing really does happen. Repeatedly, throughout history. While writing it, 'Heroin' by the Velvet Underground was playing. They work surprisingly well together.

Heather is a name taken from Silent Hill 3. It's my all-time favorite horror video game. I figured if I was going to have a cult, why not tap the it too?

Lastly: I'd almost forgotten Oliver Thredson was a freak until that last scene. Yikes.