When the ministry first arrived, the town welcomed them. They came in a battered white bus painted with a fading cross and the words River of Living Fire Ministry. Their leader, Pastor Gideon, was a tall man with a booming voice and eyes that seemed to burn with certainty. They set up their tent near the old market square and preached every evening.
At first, it was just sermons. Then the miracles started. A woman claimed her blind eye opened during prayer. A man threw away his crutches, walking the length of the square while people shouted and cried. Each night, more testimonies came. The crowds grew. Offerings overflowed.
But the town noticed something strange. None of the healed were from the town. They all said the same thing. I’ve lived here for years. Yet no one recognized them. Not the shopkeepers. Not the elders. Not even the children who knew every face in the streets. Suspicion grew.
A group of townsfolk followed one “healed” man after a service and saw him slip behind a closed shop, where another member of the ministry handed him an envelope of cash. Another was caught boarding the white bus late at night, her limp gone, laughing.
Within days, the truth came out. The miracles were staged. The sicknesses were fake. The testimonies were rehearsed. They were scammers, drifting from town to town, feeding on faith. When confronted, Pastor Gideon didn’t beg. He smiled.
“People need hope, we just sell it.”
He said. That was when the crowd snapped. Old Nana raised his walking stick and said.
“You use God’s name to steal from us. Then let Him judge you.”
They dragged the pastor, his followers, and every fake healed witness through the streets to the river at the edge of town. The same river used for baptisms.
“If your God is real, you will rise again on the third day, just like you preach!”
they shouted. They tied them with ropes. Some cried. Some prayed. Some cursed the town with their last breath. Then they were thrown into the dark, rushing water. The river swallowed every sound. The town burned the tent. Smashed the bus. By morning, nothing remained. They waited.
On the first day, people stood by the river, watching. On the second, fewer came. By the third day, the whole town gathered in silence, eyes fixed on the slow, brown water. Nothing rose. No bodies. No miracles. No signs. Just the river, flowing as it always had. Someone finally whispered,
“I think… they’re not coming back.”
Relief spread through the crowd. But it didn’t last. That night, the screams started. Not from outside. From inside their dreams. People saw hands reaching from water. Heard gurgling prayers in the dark. Children woke crying, saying wet figures stood by their beds, asking for help. The river began to stink.
Days later, bloated bodies surfaced miles downstream, caught in fishing nets and reeds. Faces half eaten, eyes gone, mouths frozen open as if still preaching. The town elders ordered them buried in a mass grave, without names. Without prayers.
After that, the town changed. Churches emptied. No one spoke the name of God aloud. No one went near the river. Because deep down, everyone knew the ministry were frauds. But the town had become murderers.
And some nights, when the wind carried the sound of rushing water through the streets, it almost sounded like a crowd singing hymns under the river’s flow. Reminding them that even if the dead never came back, they were never really gone.
