The Sinister Shores
Pastor Gideon stood by the window of his modest home, the evening sea breeze gently rustling the curtains. The distant murmur of the waves crashing against the rocky shore was a constant in his life, as was the sight of the setting sun dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of red and orange. It was a sight that brought peace to many, but tonight, it brought none to him. His thoughts were far too dark, tainted by the gravity of his actions, the weight of his guilt, and the dread of what was to come.
The island community held Pastor Gideon in high esteem. He was a man of God, a beacon of hope in their small world, where life was often harsh, and the future uncertain. The island was remote, a speck of land in the vast Caribbean Sea, where news from the outside world was scarce and slow to arrive. Here, the pastor’s word was as good as law, and his guidance was sought by many. But beneath the veneer of piety and righteousness, Pastor Gideon harbored a secret that gnawed at his soul.
Shandice, the young girl from the church choir, had always been a bright light in his congregation. Her voice, clear and pure, soared above the others during Sunday services, and her presence brought warmth to the cold wooden pews of the old church. She was sixteen, just blossoming into womanhood, and her innocence and beauty had not gone unnoticed by the pastor. He had watched her grow from a child into a young woman, and somewhere along the way, his admiration had turned into something darker.
It had begun innocently enough—compliments on her singing, words of encouragement after choir practice, a reassuring hand on her shoulder when she was nervous. But it had escalated, slowly, imperceptibly, until one evening, alone in the church after practice, he had crossed the line. He had taken advantage of her trust, her naivety, and had led her down a path of sin.
It had been months since that night, and now Shandice was pregnant. She had confided in him, her voice trembling with fear, her eyes wide with confusion and shame. Pastor Gideon’s mind had raced as she spoke, his heart pounding in his chest. A baby would ruin everything—his reputation, his marriage, his standing in the community. He had to do something, and quickly.
As he stared out at the darkening sky, he knew there was only one person on the island who could help him—Ma Lamby, the obeah woman. She lived on the far end of the island, in a place where the sea was rough and unforgiving, and the land barren and wild. No one ventured there unless they had to, and no one spoke of Ma Lamby unless absolutely necessary. She was a figure shrouded in mystery and fear, her name whispered in hushed tones by the islanders. It was said that she could cure any illness, fix any problem—if you were willing to pay the price.
The Obeah Woman
The path to Ma Lamby’s house was narrow and overgrown, winding through thick foliage that seemed to close in on itself the farther they went. Pastor Gideon led Shandice through the darkness, his grip tight on her arm, her steps hesitant and slow. The night was pitch black, the only light coming from the distant glow of the moon, casting eerie shadows on the ground.
When they finally reached the shore, the sound of the crashing waves grew louder, more menacing. Ma Lamby’s house stood at the edge of the beach, a rickety old structure made of weathered clapboard, leaning precariously to one side as if it might collapse at any moment. Two black cats sat on the porch, their eyes glowing like embers in the darkness.
The interior of the house was dimly lit by flickering candles, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and incense, and the floor creaked underfoot as they entered. Ma Lamby appeared from the shadows, her presence both unsettling and commanding. She was ancient, her skin wrinkled and dark, her eyes sharp and knowing. A necklace made of chicken bones hung around her neck, and her dreadlocks spilled out from beneath a red satin headscarf. Her voice, when she spoke, was raspy and high-pitched, a sound that sent shivers down Shandice’s spine.
“Why you come here?” Ma Lamby’s gaze bore into Pastor Gideon, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene before her. She knew trouble when it walked through her door, and tonight, trouble had come in the form of a man of God and a frightened young girl.
Pastor Gideon hesitated, his words sticking in his throat. He had never felt fear like this before, not in all his years on the pulpit, not even when faced with the most difficult of sins. But here, in the presence of Ma Lamby, his authority meant nothing. “She’s pregnant,” he finally managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. “I need… I need you to take care of it.”
Ma Lamby’s eyes flickered to Shandice, who stood trembling beside the pastor. She approached the girl, her movements slow and deliberate, and placed a gnarled hand on Shandice’s stomach. “How many moons?” she asked, her voice like the rustling of dry leaves.
“Two,” Shandice whispered, tears streaming down her face. She was terrified, every fiber of her being screaming to run, to flee from this place, but she stood frozen, unable to move.
Ma Lamby nodded, her expression unreadable. “Good,” she said. “Not too late to fix you.”
Pastor Gideon exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “How much?” he asked, already reaching for his wallet.
Ma Lamby’s eyes narrowed. “A lot,” she said simply, her tone making it clear that she would not be bargained with.
The pastor bristled, his sense of entitlement flaring up. “That’s extortion,” he snapped, his voice rising. “I could have you arrested for this, you know. Practicing obeah is illegal.”
For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Ma Lamby glared at him, her eyes narrowing to slits, a dangerous glint in their depths. But then, she smiled—a slow, sinister smile that sent a chill down the pastor’s spine. Without another word, she turned and moved to the shelves lining the walls, her hands deftly selecting a jar of moldy black roots.
She worked in silence, boiling the roots in a small pot over the fireplace, the room filling with the acrid scent of the brewing potion. The pastor watched her every move, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing with the implications of what he was doing. This was madness, this was wrong, but he couldn’t see any other way out.
When the potion was ready, Ma Lamby poured the dark liquid into an old tin cup and handed it to Shandice. “Drink,” she commanded, her voice brooking no argument.
Shandice’s hands shook as she took the cup, her eyes wide with fear. She looked to Pastor Gideon, her eyes pleading, but he only nodded, his face a mask of cold determination. With a trembling breath, she brought the cup to her lips and drank.
The Aftermath
The next day, Shandice woke with a sharp pain in her abdomen. It was a pain unlike anything she had ever felt before, deep and agonizing, as if something inside her was tearing apart. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, tears streaming down her face as she stumbled to the outside toilet.
It was there, alone and afraid, that she passed the fetus. The pain was unbearable, but the horror of what was happening to her was even worse. She sat on the cold wooden seat, her body wracked with sobs, her mind unable to process the enormity of what she had done. The tiny, lifeless form that slipped from her body was a sight she would never forget, a memory that would haunt her for the rest of her life.
When it was over, she staggered back to her room, her legs weak and trembling, and collapsed onto her bed. She lay there for hours, unable to move, her mind a whirlwind of emotions—fear, guilt, shame, and an overwhelming sense of loss.
Her mother, unaware of what had happened, assumed Shandice was simply unwell and left her to rest. But later that afternoon, Shandice’s cousin, Petra, came by to visit. Petra was a year older than Shandice, a bright and inquisitive girl with a keen sense for when something was wrong.
“Shan, what happen to you?” Petra asked, her brow furrowing with concern as she sat on the edge of Shandice’s bed.
Shandice didn’t answer at first, her eyes red and swollen from crying. But Petra was persistent, her questions gentle but probing, until finally, Shandice broke down. She told Petra everything—about Pastor Gideon, about the pregnancy, about the trip to Ma Lamby’s house, and about what had happened in the toilet that morning.
Petra was horrified, her face paling as she listened. “You have to tell your mother,” she insisted, her voice trembling with shock and anger. “You can’t keep this a secret, Shan. This is… this is wrong. He can’t get away with this.”
Shandice was terrified, but she knew Petra was right. That evening, when her mother came to check on her, Shandice finally confessed. She told her everything, the words spilling out in a flood of tears, her heart breaking all over again as she relived the nightmare.
Her mother listened in stunned silence, her face a mask of disbelief. But once the truth had sunk in, the disbelief turned to anger—a deep, burning anger that she had never felt before. Her hands shook as she held her daughter, comforting her as best she could, all the while plotting her next move.
The Confrontation
Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, the sky a brilliant blue, the sea calm and serene. The church was full, as it always was, the congregation gathered to hear Pastor Gideon deliver his sermon. He stood at the pulpit, his Bible open before him, his voice ringing out strong and sure as he spoke of sin and redemption, of forgiveness and the love of God.
But beneath his calm exterior, he was a man on the edge. The events of the past few days had shaken him to his core, and though he had managed to keep his composure, the fear gnawed at him constantly. He knew that what he had done was unforgivable, and he prayed fervently that it would never come to light.
As he began to speak, Shandice’s mother rose from her seat at the back of the church. Her heart was pounding, her hands clammy with sweat, but she was resolute. She couldn’t let this man stand before them and preach about morality and righteousness, not after what he had done to her daughter.
“Pastor Gideon,” she called out, her voice cutting through the air like a knife.
The congregation turned to look at her, murmurs of confusion rippling through the crowd. Pastor Gideon froze, his eyes widening in shock as he recognized her. “Yes, Sister Grace?” he replied, his voice strained, his mind racing.
Shandice’s mother took a deep breath, her hands trembling as she clutched her Bible. “I have something to say,” she announced, her voice loud and clear. “Something that everyone here needs to hear.”
She stepped forward, her eyes blazing with righteous fury, and pointed an accusing finger at the pastor. “This man,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion, “this man who stands before you, preaching about sin and salvation, has sinned against my daughter. He has taken advantage of her, used his position of power to manipulate and abuse her. And now… now she is suffering because of him.”
A shocked silence fell over the congregation, the air thick with disbelief. For a moment, no one moved, no one spoke, as the gravity of her words sank in. And then, as if on cue, a cry rang out—Pastor Gideon’s wife, had passed out at the altar, her body crumpling to the floor in a dead faint.
Chaos erupted. The congregation broke into a frenzy, shouting and arguing, some rushing to help the pastor’s wife, others turning on Pastor Gideon with accusations and demands for the truth. The air was electric with anger and betrayal, the small church now a battleground of emotions.
The noise drew the attention of the two island constables, who had been patrolling nearby. They entered the church, their presence barely enough to restore order as they assessed the situation. It didn’t take long for them to piece together what had happened, and they approached Pastor Gideon, their faces grim.
“Pastor,” one of the constables said, his voice low but firm. “We need to take you in for questioning. There’s been an accusation made against you—a serious one.”
Pastor Gideon, his face ashen, nodded numbly. He had known this day might come, but he had never imagined it would be like this, so public, so humiliating. As the constables led him away, the congregation watched in stunned silence, the reality of what had happened settling over them like a dark cloud.
The Fire
Off in the distance, hidden in the shadows at the edge of the churchyard, Ma Lamby watched the scene unfold. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction, a slow smile curling her lips as she saw Pastor Gideon taken away in handcuffs. She had known that the truth would come out eventually—truths always did, in her experience—and she had made sure to be there to witness it.
But her satisfaction was not enough. As the night fell and the churchyard emptied, she returned to her home by the sea, her mind turning over the events of the day. Pastor Gideon’s downfall had been a long time coming, and now that it had finally arrived, she felt a deep sense of fulfillment. But she was not one to leave things half done.
That night, as the full moon rose high in the sky, Ma Lamby performed her rituals by the beach. She danced around the fire, her movements slow and deliberate, her voice rising and falling in a rhythmic chant. The sea crashed against the shore, the waves rising higher and higher as if responding to her call.
In her hand, she held an empty kerosene container, the smell of the fuel still lingering in the air. She threw it into the fire with a final, decisive gesture, the flames roaring as they consumed it. The fire crackled and popped, the shadows dancing wildly on the sand as she continued her dance, her chant growing louder, more intense.
And as the fire burned, the church burned too. Flames licked at the wooden walls, the roof collapsing in on itself as the blaze consumed everything in its path. The islanders awoke to the sight of the inferno, their cries of alarm echoing through the night as they rushed to try and save what they could. But it was too late—the church was gone, reduced to a smoldering ruin.
No one could say for sure how the fire had started, but there were whispers, suspicions. And as the islanders gathered the next day to survey the damage, Ma Lamby watched again from a distance, a satisfied smile on her lips. She had done what needed to be done, and now she would return to her solitude, her work complete.
The island would heal in time, the scars of the past slowly fading away. But the memory of that night, of the fire and the destruction it brought, would linger on, a reminder of the darkness that lay hidden beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.
©A. Derek Catalano/ChatGPT
