Church of Feng

Table of Contents

It had been two quiet, uneventful days since the tour buses arrived in town. They came early in the afternoon—four massive vehicles painted in muted colors, yet somehow imposing as they rolled down the main street, their engines humming like great beasts at rest. The sight alone was enough to turn heads, as the town rarely saw visitors in such numbers. The strangers who stepped out did not behave like ordinary tourists. They didn’t wander toward the old church with its worn bell tower, or the dusty museum that showcased faded photographs and cracked artifacts. They didn’t marvel at the rolling hills or the winding river that glistened beyond the fields.

Instead, their focus seemed to fall entirely on the locals themselves. At first, no one knew what to make of it. The strangers, men and women of varying ages, moved among the townsfolk with a kind of quiet intensity, scanning faces, taking in postures, speaking in low voices. They asked questions, not about history or culture, but about diet, sleep patterns, illnesses, and physical activity. They seemed fascinated, almost unnervingly so, by those who appeared healthy, strong, or youthful for their age.

The conversations, though polite on the surface, carried a strange undertone. Some locals found it flattering to be noticed and asked about their lives. Others felt as though they were being measured, evaluated for something unspoken. A few even began to avoid the newcomers, unsettled by the way they would lock eyes and hold a smile just a fraction too long.

By the second day, patterns began to emerge. The visitors began gravitating toward a select group of townspeople—those who were visibly fit, clear-eyed, and full of energy. The chosen few received small gifts: imported chocolates, fine scarves, sleek watches. These gestures, though generous, only widened the gap between them and the rest of the town. The unchosen were met with cold indifference, as though they were beneath the strangers’ notice.

Despite the oddness of it all, there was no open hostility. The chosen ones seemed to enjoy the attention, basking in the compliments and the sense of being special. The others simply shrugged it off, muttering about strange city folk and their stranger tastes.

Then came the third day.

Just before dawn, when the town still lay wrapped in the soft blue haze of early morning, the buses’ engines rumbled to life. Their deep vibrations shivered through the quiet streets, accompanied by the hiss of air brakes and the soft thud of doors closing. Without fanfare, the vehicles rolled away, heading along the narrow road that led toward the mountains, their tail lights glowing faintly before vanishing into the mist.

It was several hours later before anyone realized what had happened. The chosen locals—the ones who had been singled out by the visitors—were gone. All of them. Not a single one remained. At first, people assumed they had gone willingly, perhaps promised jobs, opportunities, or a better life beyond the mountains. But then came the unsettling detail: every one of them had left behind all their possessions. Clothes, photographs, heirlooms—everything remained in their homes as if they had stepped out for only a moment.

That night, the town was restless. Doors were locked, curtains drawn. Conversations were hushed, carrying just enough speculation to feed fear without daring to voice the worst possibilities.

By midday the next day, the quiet was shattered. A convoy of vehicles swept into town—sleek black SUVs, police cruisers, and two unmarked vans. Men and women in uniforms and plain clothes spilled out, their movements sharp, purposeful. They fanned through the streets, knocking on doors, speaking urgently to whoever answered.

They asked the same questions over and over: Had four tour buses come through the town? Had they spoken to anyone? Had they taken anyone with them?

When the townsfolk confirmed the details, the officers exchanged grim looks. The tension in the air thickened. Only then did they share the truth.

The people who had visited were not tourists. They belonged to an elusive and dangerous organization known as the Church of Feng—a religious cult with roots that stretched across borders, their presence whispered about in police reports and classified files. The cult traveled from town to town, singling out individuals they deemed “pure” or “worthy.” But these selections were not acts of kindness. Those chosen were taken away, never to be seen again. The cult believed that through ritual slaughter, they could cleanse the world of corruption and prepare it for the arrival of their god—a being they claimed would bring “true order” through destruction and rebirth.

The officers’ explanation sent waves of shock through the town. Many had never heard of such a group, and the idea that they had walked among them, smiling and handing out gifts, was almost too much to grasp. Relief mingled with horror. They had been spared, yes—but the same could not be said for those taken.

The officials assured the townsfolk that they were safe for now. Extra patrols would watch the area. But the urgency in their eyes betrayed their fear that time was running out for the missing.

Within the hour, the convoy pulled out of town again, engines roaring, tires kicking up dust. They were heading toward the mountains, toward the winding road the buses had taken before dawn. A few of the locals stood at the edge of the street, watching the vehicles disappear into the distance.

That night, the wind carried strange sounds from the hills—faint, echoing noises that could have been anything: the cry of an animal, the shifting of trees, or something far worse. The town slept uneasily, haunted by the knowledge that somewhere out there, in the dark beyond their fields, the Church of Feng might already be preparing their altar.

Days would pass without word from the authorities. Whispers grew louder in the absence of news. Some claimed the cult had been seen in other towns, moving swiftly, always one step ahead. Others believed the missing had been sacrificed already, their bodies left in shallow graves in the wilderness.

And yet, the strangest rumors were the ones spoken in the lowest voices—the ones about a glow sometimes seen deep in the mountains at night, pulsing like a heartbeat, and the faint echo of chanting carried on the wind.