“The Leech Behind the Pulpit”

They said the church was a house of healing. A place of peace. But to Jermaine, it felt more like a stage. Not for God, but for something darker—something hungry.

The pastor, Bishop Cleary, had a way of speaking that made people cry, dance, shout, even faint. But Jermaine started noticing a pattern: people came in full of life and walked out hollow. Not everyone—but the ones who had joy, clarity, or some spiritual fire—they always left quieter. Tired. Shaky. And they never questioned it. They called it “spiritual warfare.” But warfare against what?

One Sunday, Jermaine sat in the back. Didn’t sing. Didn’t clap. Just watched. The choir stirred the crowd, building energy like a thundercloud. When the bishop took the mic, his voice dropped low—smooth like oil, but with a pull like a snake’s hiss.

He didn’t read from the Bible. Just talked.

"Somebody here got a sister plotting against them."

Murmurs.

"Somebody’s mother working obeah in the kitchen."

Gasps.

"Your own blood is blocking your blessing!"

People stood. Tears ran. But Jermaine… he felt a cold breath run down his spine. This wasn’t prophecy. This was manipulation.