Estimated reading time — 23 minutes

On August 20, 1968, the armies of the countries forming the Warsaw Pact, primarily led by the Soviet Union, invaded Czechoslovakia less than an hour before midnight. Three hours later, I watched my village, the only world that I knew, burn.

The invasion of my home country didn’t last long. The attack was well-coordinated, and the Czech forces were barely able to mount a defense. It was long enough, though. Long enough for a mother and her son to lose everything.

I was six years old when my mother woke me and pulled me from my bed in the darkness. She quickly dressed me and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. Too busy to answer the questions that started to flow out of me, she snapped at me to remain quiet as she tossed food and supplies into a bag.

My mouth immediately closed, and I watched her wide-eyed as she worked. My mother was a kind and patient woman. She had never yelled at me before, not like that. It scared me.

When she was finished packing, she put her arm around me and we hurried outside. People, our friends and neighbors, were fleeing in every direction. Soldiers wearing unfamiliar uniforms were marching through the streets. Behind them, visible even through the heavy smoke, were the silhouettes of the huge tanks. To my inexperienced eyes, they seemed to be demons emerging from Hell.

Thinking back, I believe that my mother’s plan was to go to her sister’s house less than twenty miles down the road. Whatever her intentions, the invasion forced us off the roads and into the woods outside of town. The moonless night made it incredibly dark under the trees, and the chaos of the situation made things even more disorienting. By the time the sun came up we were completely lost.

When we had entered the forest, there had been other people plunging into the trees with us. During the mad dash to escape from the invading forces in the darkness, though, we had become separated from the others. We were alone.

Without any other real choice, we continued on.

I remember looking at the tears in my mother’s clothes as we walked. She had led the way during the night, making sure to keep herself in front of me so that she could guide me around obstacles and keep me as safe as possible. This meant that she had taken the brunt of every sharp branch and gnarled root. Each bleeding scratch and blackened bruise was a pain that she had kept me from suffering.

We walked throughout the day, exhausted and our bodies aching from exertion. We stopped infrequently to rest for a few minutes and to eat dried meat from the supplies my mother had taken from the house.

The more that we continued on, the more isolated I felt. Everything around us grew quieter as we walked. The early chirping of the birds fell silent. The wind blowing through the trees died down until coming to a stop entirely. The only sounds were our footsteps on the leaves and natural debris covering the forest floor.

Every so often my mother’s grip on my hand would grow just a bit tighter. I think that I understood even then that it was because things felt so… wrong. The forests of Czechoslovakia were normally filled with the noises of life and the natural world. This silence was unsettling. Perhaps it could be explained by the invasion scaring away the animals. This far into the woods, however? Perhaps not.

Eventually the sun began to set. I dreaded the thought of spending another night in the all-encompassing darkness of the forest. I could tell by the way her jaw was set that my mother’s thoughts were the same as mine. She still spoke only words of encouragement, though, even if the thoughts she conveyed weren’t reflected in her eyes.

As the sky was filled with the reds and oranges of the last light of day, the forest suddenly ended. We found ourselves standing near a large lake. The water was still and deep, but I barely noticed it. My attention was on the large church near its shores.

I had never left our small village before. This building was the largest that I had ever seen before. It was also the strangest. I immediately recognized the tall steeple as the same, albeit larger, as the one that adorned the church in my town. In the center of the structure, though, a huge clocktower rose up towards the sky. The round face was illuminated with a sickly yellowish light shining from within. The enormous iron hands made me nervous in a way that I couldn’t explain.

That discomfort was completely overshadowed by the sense of relief. Here was a sanctuary in the wilderness at the time we needed one most. The odds of stumbling upon this were so low that they might as well not have existed at all. It was as if God Himself guided us there.

The last rays of sunlight disappeared as we hurried to the church. As we drew closer, I saw that the structure was even larger than I had originally thought. It loomed over us as we walked up the stone steps to the tall wooden doors.

My mother raised her hand before hesitating. She stared at the doors for a long moment before looking back over her shoulder at the forest we had passed through. Nodding once to herself, she curled her hand into a fist and knocked.

The knock sounded much louder than it really was in my ears as it echoed off the stone arch. Eventually it faded, and we were once again surrounded by silence.

That silence was broken by the shriek of metal on metal. It only lasted for a moment, and it was quickly followed by a thump as the left door slowly opened inward. Light poured out from the gap, framing a elderly nun that looked at us with an expression that quickly changed from suspicious to sympathetic.

My mother quickly explained what had brought us there. The nun listened closely to every word, nodding at times and sadly shaking her head at others. When my mother finished, the older woman gave us a smile and beckoned us inside, telling us that we were welcome and that we were now safe.

A small entryway led into the church nave. Rows of pews lined both sides, and a long red carpet ran up the center, through the crossing, and up to the three steps leading to the pulpit and sanctuary. Instead of an altar on the raised platform, however, there was an ornate throne with velvet padding the same color as the carpet.

A loud click drew my attention. I looked up at the ceiling high above me and saw giant gears moving and rotating in the rafters. They were everywhere. I stared at them in both awe and incomprehension.

The nun, who I would later learn was named Sister Marie, must have noticed me. She knelt down and placed a hand on my shoulder. Speaking gently, she told me that they had been installed decades earlier by a grateful genius architect that had been saved by the church. The gears I was looking at controlled the clock in the tower along with other things throughout the structure. She made it sound whimsical, almost magical.

Sister Marie led us deeper into the church, away from the nave and toward a doorway on one wall. She told us that we would work out a more permanent arrangement in the morning, but for this first night we could rest in one of the unused nun cells.

Her voice was calm, soothing.

She pushed the heavy door open, revealing a stone corridor. More gears, smaller and more clustered than the ones in the nave, moved overhead. A quiet hum was coming from the walls, and I wondered if more machinery was present behind or perhaps inside of them.

I squeezed my mother’s hand.

She reassured me that everything was fine in hushed tones. She kept her voice steady, but I saw the uncertainty on her face. She wasn’t afraid. It was more that she didn’t understand exactly what was happening in this odd church.

We walked deeper into the corridor. The walls were lined with smooth, cold stone, and a number of closed doors were on each side of the passage.

My thoughts were constantly on the gears. Their metallic groans and clicks filled the air, creating an unsettling symphony of metal. Sister Marie seemed to pay it no heed. She walked with the air of someone completely comfortable with her surroundings.

I forced myself to be brave. Just because all of this was unfamiliar to me didn’t mean that it was something to be scared of. This was my first time out in the greater world beyond my village. There were bound to be many things that I didn’t understand.

Eventually, the corridor opened into a courtyard. All four sides of the roofless area were surrounded by walls. At the center was a large fountain with three tiers. It was illuminated by four lampposts, one at each corner. Although it was mostly hidden by the noise of the water pouring down into the pools, I could just make out the sound of machinery coming from it.

We crossed to the far side and went back into the building. Sister Marie beckoned us to follow as she went down a side passage before coming to a stop in front of what appeared at first glance to be a blank section of wall.

Sister Marie reached out and pressed on a dark gray brick. To my surprise, it sank into the wall and a series of clicks and whirs filled the air. Slowly, the section of wall began to rise up. Moments later it had risen far enough to reveal a room inside.

Sister Marie reached inside and turned a knob on the wall. The bulb inside of a sconce turned on and illuminated the room. There wasn’t much inside, just a small bed, a table and chair, and a cabinet. A single window, its shutters closed, was on the wall above the bed. The cells the nuns called home were simple by design.

The nun motioned for us to go inside with a smile. She spoke briefly with my mother in a voice barely above a whisper, and my mother nodded. The nun disappeared back down the passageway.

She returned a short time later with a basket containing a filled pitcher, two cups, a basin of water, and soap. She set them down on the table and turned around just in time for a second nun to come into the room carrying half a loaf of bread and two bowls of stew. My mother thanked both of them profusely, barely able to keep the tears in her eyes from falling.

As the other nun left with a smile, Sister Marie placed her hand on my mother’s elbow and led her back over to the doorway. Her voice was hushed, but it was just barely loud enough for me to make out what she was saying. When she closed the door, it would remain shut until dawn. At that time it, along with all the doors to the other cells, would open once again. Everything was on a timer and was automated by the mechanical systems that had been built into the church.

My mother questioned this, of course. She was careful to remain respectful, but it was only natural that she would be suspicious of this strange system. Sister Marie assured her that everything would be fine. These automations had been built to make things easier on those that resided there. It made the members of the church that lived there more efficient and productive. She said that she would explain more to us in the morning. Now, though, it was getting late, and she had other duties she had to attend to before she adjourned to her own cell.

My mother thanked her again, and Sister Marie returned to the hallway. I heard her push the brick once more. The door slowly slid back down and locked into place. We were alone.

We cleaned ourselves, ate the warm meal that had been provided, and went to sleep. Despite the strangeness of the church, it was the first time that I felt safe since we fled our home.

I was awoken by a gentle chiming sound. It seemed to be coming from the ceiling, but as I wiped the sleep from my eyes I couldn’t spot the source. It sounded five times before stopping.

As the final chime faded, the cell door began to rise. At the same time the shudders blocking the windows retracted. It was still dark outside, but I was just able to make out the first signs of day in the sky.

A nun carrying a tray with bread and cheese came into our room. She placed it on the table and collected our empty dishes from the previous night. She smiled as my mother thanked her and informed us that morning services would soon begin, and that while we weren’t required to attend it would be appreciated.

My mother was a deeply religious woman. While she was not Catholic, she believed that our surviving the invaders and finding this place were gifts given to us by God. She had brought a change of clothes for me in her bag, and as I ate she got me dressed and fixed my tangled hair as best as she could.

We started towards the part of the church that we had originally come in, but we encountered a group of nuns that were going in a different direction. One of them was kind enough to inform us that the morning services were held in a smaller chapel on the other side of the building. They led us through a number of twists and turns until we eventually arrived at our destination.

The sisters called it the West Chapel. It was much simpler than the main house of worship, consisting of little more than a dozen short pews and a large wooden crucifix. We took a seat in one of the back pews.

I was surprised to find that there were other people present. They were villagers like my mother and me, although I was certain they weren’t from the same town that we were.

The ringing of a bell filled the chapel. There wasn’t any bell there that I could see, though, and it didn’t seem to be coming from outside. Along the walls, tall sections of rock slid out of the way, revealing intricate stained glass windows that had been hidden behind them.

The now familiar mechanical noises began. The crucifix rose up from the altar and into the air. Those of us that were outsiders stared at this in shock, like we were watching a real miracle unfolding before us.

Sister Marie stood up from one of the front pews and turned to face the assembly. I thought that she was going to start the service, but instead she began by acknowledging those of us that had sought refuge in the church. She said that despite the terrible circumstances that had brought us there, she and the other members of the church were glad to have us among them. She realized that their church must seem strange and perhaps even intimidating, so she would share the story of the place in hopes of easing our fears.

Around the turn of the century, an architect named Bartholomej Kolar had been traveling through the area on his way to Prague when he was accosted by bandits. He was brutally beaten before being left for dead by his assailants. Because of the remote nature of this part of the country, he laid in the middle of the road for over a day before a priest happened upon him. The priest managed to get Kolar into his wagon and back to his church. This church.

It took months, but Kolar eventually recovered thanks to the hard work and dedication of those that called the church home. He was a man of science, and he knew that he should have died from his severe wounds. To him, the only answer was that God had spared him.

During his recovery, he had nothing but time on his hands. He used this time to create a series of sketches of devices he could design and build to help the lives of those that had saved him. Kolar created plans for completely converting the entire church into an automated machine that was controlled by switches and timers.

He presented these designs to the head of the church, Father Anton Novak. Novak immediately saw the advantages that the plan presented. Tasks that took large amounts of time and manpower could be done with the flick of a switch. The nuns and priests could be kept to strict schedules with timers to be more efficient. A system like that would allow them to focus on prayer and their pursuit of understanding God rather than the distractions that plagued their days. Countless possibilities came to Father Novak’s mind, and he eagerly accepted Kolar’s designs and offer to make those designs a reality.

That was where Sister Marie’s story ended. With a nod of finality, she placed her hands together and called for the first prayer of the service.

It wasn’t until the service had concluded that she returned to our unique situation. Instead of continuing to address the machinery built into the church, she talked about the plight their visitors were enduring. She knew that we wanted to get back to our homes as soon as possible, but that we couldn’t until it was safe to do so. They had come up with a solution for that problem.

Each week, one of the priests went into the closest town to purchase supplies. This gave that priest the opportunity to learn the news of what was happening in the surrounding country. He would act as our eyes and ears, and he would let us know when the invasion was over and we could return home.

Sister Marie made it clear that we were all welcome to stay as long as needed. She did request two things as conditions of staying, however: that we attend daily services, and that we help with the chores around the church. They were two very small requests, and we all agreed to them eagerly.

It turned out that helping with chores wasn’t just limited to the adults. Besides myself there were two other children, and we were assigned to assist a nun named Sister Gisela. She was a pleasant woman with a wide smile. I took to her at once.

Our assigned duty was to assist with the maintenance of the mechanical systems throughout the church, specifically with keeping them oiled so that they continued to work smoothly.

Sister Gisela led us down into the storage rooms below the cells of the priests, located on the opposite end of the church from the nuns’ cells. The stairs and passageway were narrow, and even with the glow coming from the electrical lights strung up on the ceiling it was difficult to see where we were going. She didn’t turn down any of the many side passages, instead opting to continue straight ahead.

Eventually the passage came to a dead end with a wooden door. Sister Gisela pressed a button on the wall. There was a click as the door’s lock disengaged, followed by a hiss of air as it swung inward. It was cold inside the room, and I shivered as she crossed over to a large crate and took off the lid. Reaching in, she removed three black buckets with lids and handed one of them to each of us.

Sister Gisela told us that these buckets contained a special oil for the machinery that ran throughout the church and the surrounding grounds. While the priests took care of most of the maintenance, there were some places that they struggled to get to due to how narrow those spaces were. We three children were going to assist with oiling those mechanisms.

She took us down a passageway to a small door in one of the walls. The door only came up to my waist. When she opened it, it revealed a tight crawlspace. Large exposed gears could be seen at regular intervals, sticking out of the sides and ceiling as they slowly rotated.

Sister Gisela asked for a volunteer. My two companions looked terrified and wouldn’t meet her gaze.

I don’t know why I told the nun that I would be the first to perform this task. It wasn’t due to some inner bravery. I was just as scared as the other children. The only reason that I can think of is that my mother had taught me to always be helpful whenever possible. That sense of duty must have overcome the fear.

Reaching into the pocket on her apron, Sister Gisela produced a small pry bar and handed it to me. She showed me how to get the end underneath the lid of the buckets before having me open one of them. The liquid inside was a dark red, almost black substance. She then gave me a small oil can and showed me how to use it to apply the liquid.

Within minutes I was moving through the crawlspace on my hands and knees while pushing the bucket in front of me. To keep myself calm I repeated the directions that Sister Gisela had given me. Go to one of the gears, fill the oil can from the bucket, locate the spot where the shaft meets the gear, and apply a generous amount of the oil on both sides.

The instructions were easy enough. As the gears creaked and moaned and the floor shook from the strain of the machinery, though, I felt like I had the most difficult task in the world.

It took some time, but I managed to complete my assigned task without incident. I turned around in the tight corridor and headed back towards the open door. I was about halfway down when one of the gears caught the back of my shirt. For a brief moment I felt an odd tug and my body seemed to lift slightly off the floor. With a loud ripping noise my shirt tore and the sensation was gone. I pressed my body against the floor for the rest of the crawl back. I knew that I was lucky to have escaped with just a torn shirt.

That’s how the next two months went. We would wake up early each morning to attend service, eat a small breakfast, and get to work. While I continued to assist with oiling the mechanisms, my mother helped with washing clothing and linens. We would see each other again at lunch before going back to our tasks until dinner and, finally, evening service.

In the first week of November there was an accident.

One of the other children, Ida, was oiling a particularly difficult to reach set of gears when she slipped. Her hand went into the mechanism and was crushed by the gears before being torn off completely. Her screams echoed through the church. Sister Gisela quickly crawled in and retrieved her, trying to comfort the girl the entire time.

Thankfully, I wasn’t there to see that happen. Myself and the other child in our group, Tomas, were performing our duties in a different part of the church. I could hear Ida’s screams as they echoed through the machinery, though, and that sound is burned into my memories.

I could hear something else as well. At first I thought it was just the turning of the gears. They could create strange noises due to the way they echoed through the crawlspaces. This was something else, though. It was a deep male voice. I could just barely distinguish it from the machinery, but I couldn’t make out the words themselves. After a few moments the voice fell silent.

I didn’t tell Sister Gisela or my mother about the voice. I couldn’t be sure that I had actually heard what I thought I did, and even if I had, it was likely just the sound of one of the priests praying. It didn’t seem important, especially in light of Ida’s horrific maiming.

The days turned from fall into winter. The priests that left the church grounds to purchase supplies from town brought back reports from the war. Each of these reports were worse than the last. It continued not to be safe to return to our homes.

I continued to apply fresh oil to the gears on a rotation. Each set was oiled at least once a week by myself or Tomas. Ida, for obvious reasons, was no longer asked to be a part of this maintenance. Instead, she helped my mother with the laundry.

When I finished with my daily tasks, I would go to the large underground room that was used for washing the linens to spend time with my mother. Because of this, I was present on the freezing Christmas Eve that Isla confided in my mother about the day she had lost her hand.

As Isla told it, she had been careful when applying oil to the gears. She was terrified of them, and because of this she was cautious to keep as far from them as possible when using the oil can.

She had just finished when she heard a voice echoing through the machines. She described it as a man’s voice in a cadence that sounded like prayer. I immediately sat up in the chair I was seated in. She was describing the voice that I had heard.

As if suddenly coming to life, the gears had sprung forward and clamped down on her hand. The machinery had crunched through bone and torn through flesh without slowing down. Ida has instinctively pulled back, and her ruined hand had torn free from the wrist with no more difficulty than paper being torn.

Later that night my mother and I spoke about Ida’s story as we prepared for bed. She told me that she felt bad for the girl, as she had clearly been so frightened by the ordeal that her mind had played tricks on her. I nodded and agreed with my mother, but I wasn’t so sure. I had seen and heard many things during my time keeping the machines oiled. I had dismissed these events as simple figments of my imagination. Ida’s story called that into question.

The next day, early on Christmas morning, Tomas was found dead on a narrow catwalk above the church sanctuary. He had been oiling the gears along the ceiling. His body was mangled almost beyond recognition. Sister Gisela called it a terrible accident, but gave no further details beyond that.

To my surprise, the Christmas morning service still went on as scheduled. I couldn’t help but constantly look up at the catwalk high above the pew I was seated in.

The sermon was given by Father Vladimir. He spoke of Tomas, about the sadness that came with losing one so young and full of promise. However, he went on to say that we must not look at his death as a tragedy, but as a joyous event. The Lord had called Tomas home to be with Him in Heaven. That was a cause for celebration.

Most of the people present smiled and nodded along as Father Vladimir gave his sermon. My mother and I were both uncomfortable with his words. A child had died. No amount of flowery words or promises of rewards in the afterlife changed that.

Immediately after the service, my mother went to Sister Marie and informed the nun that I would no longer be assisting with oiling the machinery. Between Ida’s injury and Tomas’ death, she believed it was far too dangerous and feared that I would lose my life while performing the task as well. Sister Marie listened to her with an odd expression on her face, but ultimately she agreed to find another chore for me to perform.

That afternoon, Sister Marie told my mother that she had found such a chore. A few of the old chambers underneath the church were being cleared out to create a larger cellar, and someone was needed to clean those chambers after everything was removed. One of them was ready to be cleaned now. She assured my mother that it would only take an hour or two, and that I’d be back in plenty of time for dinner and the evening service.

Sister Marie personally escorted me down into the lower levels of the church. I noticed that she didn’t have any cleaning supplies with her, and I said as much. She told me that the supplies were already at my destination. While she kept her voice light, I didn’t feel any of the kindness that had been there the day that my mother and I had arrived at the church.

The stone stairs seemed to go on forever. My feet were starting to feel sore by the time we reached the bottom level. The air was cold down here, nearly as cold as the winter outside of the church walls. I shivered as I followed her down a hallway light by flickering strands of light bulbs.

We reached a thick wooden door with bands of metal adorning it. Sister Marie pulled a small lever. I heard the distinct sound of gears grinding before the door slowly swung open. She motioned for me to go inside the room beyond the doorway. She informed me that she would be back to collect me once I had finished my assigned task. I walked into the room. Almost before I was inside the door closed with a loud bang.

It was immediately obvious that I wasn’t where I was told that I would be. Instead of an empty room, I found myself standing in a vast chamber. Thick purple carpet lined the floor, and a row of six pews ran down the center. Old tapestries depicting scenes from the Bible hung from the rafters. There were no windows. Instead, the walls were completely covered by large gears that moved and grinded against one another.

At the far end of the chamber upon a raised platform was a throne. It was constructed of finely polished metal, and the seat and back were cushioned with soft material the same color as the carpet.

Seated on the throne was a man. His skin was a sickly gray, and it pulled tight against his bones. Thin wisps of white hair were all that remained of what had once been a beard. His eyes were sunken and black. He was adorned in fine robes and had a silver crown on his head.

As I watched, faint pinpricks of red light appeared in his hollow eye sockets. They turned towards me as the corpse-like man slowly stood up. I remained frozen in place.

He took one step away from the throne. I was now able to see the thick black cables that connected his back to the chair.

The man’s mouth opened with the sound of bones snapping, and he spoke in a voice of gravel and dust.

“Greetings, young Jakob,” the man said. “I am Father Anton Novak.”

It took me a moment to place the name. Sister Marie had told us that he was the person that had commissioned the clockwork-like changes to the church. That didn’t make any sense, though. She had said that was nearly seventy years earlier.

“Do not be afraid, child,” Father Anton continued. “I know that my appearance may be frightening to you, but what you must understand is that this body is not as it appears. It is, in fact, the physical trappings of the divine.”

I tried to tell him that I didn’t understand. I couldn’t find my voice. All that I could do was stand still and stare as he very slowly came towards me.

“Did Sister Marie tell you the story of Bartholomej Kolar, the visitor that came to us so many years ago? Ah, good, I can see from your face that you know the tale. Bartholomej was a great friend, and he opened my eyes to so many things that they were previously closed to. I’m ashamed to say that before I met him I believed science to be somehow unclean. A testament to man’s soul-staining pride.”

He stepped down off of the platform and onto the carpeted lower level of the chamber.

“I was wrong. When the Lord sent Bartholomej to me, He did so to share with me a vision. A vision of His message to the modern world. Science was given to us so that we could gaze more perfectly at His creation.”

Father Anton moved past the first pew, the cables connected to his back dragging across the carpet.

“Bartholomej showed me that science is more than that, though. It is also the means through which we can transcend our limitations and come to the divine. Genesis 1:27. ‘So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them’. Do you see? Look upon me and understand.”

He stepped beyond the second pew.

“God created us in his image. We know that the Lord is perfect, and yet mankind is flawed. I long struggled with that contradiction.”

A grotesque grin spread across his gaunt face.

“I struggle with it no longer, for I have come to know a great truth. Mankind is not perfect because we are meant to strive towards perfection. We are not meant to just follow His example. We are meant to push ourselves beyond our limitations and transcend to the full potential that the Lord gave us upon our creation. We are meant to become equal to Him.”

Father Anton continued to approach me. He was close enough now that I could hear the popping of his joints and the hum coming from the cables.

“What is the greatest achievement that the son of our Lord accomplished while he was here on Earth? He rose from the dead. On the third day he came out of the tomb and was as God Himself. This wonderful science has allowed me to do the same. I am immortal, Jakob. I am as God himself.”

I was already afraid, but this pronouncement absolutely terrified me.

“I am connected to all the machinery throughout the church. It gives me the strength to continue to live. All that is needed is the right oil to keep it running. Look again to the Bible. Isaac was willing to sacrifice his son for God. He was willing to spill the child’s blood for God’s plan. It is man’s blood, Jakob, that keeps the Great Work going.”

I thought back to the buckets of reddish black liquid that I used to oil the gears. I felt my stomach churn. It had been human blood.

“Sister Marie tells me that you refuse to assist in the Great Work, Jakob. No matter. The longer that the machine runs, the more that it requires. It grows hungry. I grow hungry. If you will not help me, I will take what I need from you just as I took from the other girl and boy. Give yourself to God, Jakob.”

The door behind me opened. I turned to find my mother standing over the unconscious body of Sister Marie in the hallway. She took one look at the monster coming towards me and hurried forward, grabbing hold of my hand to pull me out of the chamber.

We ran through the hall and up the stone stairs. The lights flashed all around us, and whenever we passed a set of gears they bent and contorted to reach out towards us. We ignored them and kept going.

We finally reached the top of the stairs and emerged into the church itself. The machinery was going crazy here, breaking free of its restraints as it tried to stop us. The people gathered for the evening service screamed and cowered in fear at the hell that had been unleashed all around them.

The gears around the front door spun rapidly as we approached. My mother, always keeping her wits in the worst of circumstances, pulled me off to one side and snatched up a wooden chair that was leaning against the wall. With all of her strength, she swung it into one of the tall stained glass windows. The window shattered into thousands of brightly colored shards that fell to the ground with a great crash.

I remember the look on my mother’s face as she shielded me from the sharp glass. It was one of determination. She was not going to allow this place to claim her son. In that moment I felt more love for her than I ever had.

She helped me through the window and into the snow outside. As she started to follow me, one of the largest gears in the sanctuary came hurtling towards her. She barely managed to dive through the opening before it smashed into the wall. The entire wall bulged from the impact, but it held.

We ran for hours, never looking back as we did so. I believed that if I did I would see Father Anton pursuing us, and I think that she had the same thought. It was freezing cold on Christmas night. The odds of our survival were slim, but it was certainly better odds than if we returned to the church.

We were due a miracle, and we found it when we reached a road. That road led us into a small town. I learned later that it was the same town that the priests used to trade for supplies. It was also a town where dozens of people had been reported missing over the years. Oil for the Great Work.

We told our story to the town constable. He listened to us intently, even silently nodding to himself several times. When we finished, he advised us to tell no one else what we had gone through. He made it clear that it wasn’t because he didn’t believe us. It was because he did, and the church had eyes and ears everywhere.

We left the small town the next morning and made our way back to our home. It turned out that the church had been lying to us in more ways than one. We had been led to believe that the Warsaw Pact’s invasion was ongoing. It had actually ended in less than a month.

When I was in my twenties, I gathered the courage to go back to the church. We hadn’t been the only ones affected by those insane enough to seek to become God. I needed to know what happened to those people.

The church was no longer there. I couldn’t explain it. The only things that I found were small bits of scrap metal and a few tiny pieces of glass. It was as if it had never been there at all.

I buried my mother yesterday. With my wife and children I stood next to her casket as we put her to rest. I watched as the small gears turned as it lowered into the ground and mourned the extraordinary woman that had finally found peace.

I wonder if I will find peace before my own final day. I wonder if my dreams will ever be free of the Church of the Clockwork God.

Credit: Tim Sprague

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Please note the author of this Creepypasta does NOT give permission for this story to reproduced in any medium