There’s a moment as he steps beyond the invisible threshold, when we half expect him to burst into flames. To shriek and scream. For at least a puff of smoke from beneath his Italian leather shoes…
None of this happens.
He stops, alerted by the way we stare. “This is consecrated ground, isn’t it?”
We can but nod.
“Thought so. The mealy taste of hypocrisy is thick upon it.”
And then we know. Our crucifixes, bibles, and holy water are no defense against his kind. Because, unlike our ancestors, we no longer believe.
Stakes and beheadings and fire it is, then.