Chapter 2: Accusation in Red

She thought, What kind of nutjobs are these…

She shot them a sideways glance, sizing them up the way you do when someone’s acting off in public. Maybe they were street preachers, or part of one of those weird new-age groups that sometimes handed out pamphlets at the mall. Either way, she wanted nothing to do with them.

There were two men and four women. None of them seemed like they came to eat—they just ordered a couple things, then started whispering at their table.

Their food just sat there, fries going cold, sodas sweating rings onto the table. Instead, they leaned in close, heads together, voices hushed but urgent. Every so often, one of them would glance around the room, eyes sharp and searching.

Among them was a bald man in his fifties, tall and burly, with a mean face. Mariah only glanced at him for a second. A chill ran down her spine, and she quickly looked away.

He looked like he belonged in a biker gang, not a fast-food joint—tattoos snaking up his arms, jaw clenched tight. When he caught Mariah looking, his eyes narrowed, and she felt a cold prickle crawl up her neck. She stared hard at her tray, heart thumping just a little faster.

Even stranger: across from him sat a woman in a red dress, maybe thirty or so. Since she walked in, she’d been frantically scanning the room, neck twisting nonstop.

The red dress was flashy, out of place in the fluorescent light of McDonald’s, and the way she kept craning her neck made Mariah uneasy. It was like she was searching for someone—or something—that might pop up at any moment.

“A chosen soul… a chosen soul,” the woman kept muttering as she looked around.

Her voice was thin and reedy, barely more than a whisper. But it carried. Every time she said it, the other members of the group seemed to tense up, eyes darting to wherever she was looking.

Like it was some secret signal, the two younger women beside her got up and started approaching every customer in the restaurant.

They moved with purpose, weaving between tables. Stopping in front of families and lone diners alike. Each time, they leaned in a little too close, their words too quiet for anyone else to hear. It was unsettling, watching them make the rounds like that.

As they talked, they pulled out their phones, like they were taking down numbers.

Mariah watched as they tapped away at their screens, thumbs flying. It was almost like they were collecting something. Names, numbers, maybe even photos. The whole thing felt off, like the start of a bad dream you can’t wake up from.

Is this some new scam? Mariah wondered.

She’d heard stories—people getting their info stolen, or worse. Maybe these women were running some kind of con, preying on folks too tired or distracted to say no. She clutched her purse a little tighter, just in case.

Soon, a short-haired girl came over to her.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Nervous smile, clipboard tucked under her arm. Her eyes flicked from Mariah’s face to her phone, as if she was rehearsing a script.

“Ma’am, I feel a connection with you. Can I get your number?”

The girl’s voice was syrupy sweet, but her eyes were dead serious. She held out her phone, thumb hovering over the keypad, waiting for Mariah’s answer.

“For what?”

Mariah’s tone was flat, skeptical. She wasn’t about to give out her number to some stranger in a fast-food joint, especially not after the day she’d had.

“The end is coming. Only those who join us will be saved.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and strange. The girl’s smile never wavered. But there was something desperate in her eyes, like she really believed every word she was saying.

Mariah immediately thought of that crazy lady from her old neighborhood who used to mutter about the apocalypse at the bus stop every day—stuff like “the world’s ending, God’s got a plan for me,” and so on…

She remembered how that woman would wave her Bible around, warning everyone that judgment day was just around the corner. Mariah always felt a little sorry for her. But mostly, she just kept her distance.

“I don’t buy that stuff. Go ask someone else.”

She didn’t bother to sugarcoat it. Her voice was firm, her eyes back on her phone. She hoped that would be enough to send the girl packing.

The girl paused, then walked away, clearly annoyed.

Mariah watched her go, relieved but a little uneasy. She could feel the girl’s glare burning into her back, but she refused to look up. She just wanted to finish her meal in peace.

A moment later, the woman in red barked, “You gotta be bold! Just ask her straight for her number!”

Her voice was sharp as a whip. For a split second, the whole restaurant seemed to go quiet. The other customers shifted in their seats, some glancing over with curiosity, others pretending not to hear. The tension in the room ratcheted up a notch.

So, the girl came back to Mariah again.

This time, her tone was way harsher: “Give me your number! Are you giving it or not?”

She slammed her phone down on the table, her face twisted in frustration. It was clear she wasn’t taking no for an answer this time.

“Back off.”

Mariah was already worn out, body and soul, so she snapped.

Her voice was sharp as a whip. For a split second, the whole restaurant seemed to go quiet. She clenched her fists under the table, willing herself not to lose her cool any further.

To her shock, the girl started pounding on the table:

“I said give me your number! Are you giving it or not?!”

The girl’s fists rattled the salt shaker and made Mariah’s drink jump. People at the next table looked over, alarmed. Someone whispered, “Should we call security?” but nobody moved. Mariah’s heart pounded in her chest. She gripped her phone so hard her knuckles went white.

These people are actually nuts, Mariah thought. She just turned away, fiddling with her phone, doing her best to ignore the girl’s angry glare.

She scrolled aimlessly, pretending to text. Her hands trembled, just a little. She could feel the girl’s eyes boring into her, but she kept her gaze glued to the glowing screen, praying the whole thing would just blow over.

She naively thought that would be the end of it.

It was wishful thinking, the kind of hope you cling to when you’re too tired to fight. Still, deep down, Mariah knew things were only getting started.

But what happened next was way beyond anything she could’ve imagined.

The air seemed to shift, heavy with the kind of tension that makes your skin crawl. Mariah’s stomach dropped. A cold sweat prickled at the back of her neck. Something terrible was coming—she could feel it.

After the girl came back empty-handed, the woman in red lost it…

She slammed her palms on the table, sending a half-empty cup flying. Her face twisted with rage. Eyes wild and unblinking. The rest of her group snapped to attention, like soldiers waiting for orders.

A disaster was about to unfold.

Time seemed to slow. Every second stretched out. Other customers started to gather their things, edging toward the exits. Mariah’s breath came in shallow bursts, her mind racing with worst-case scenarios.

“This woman’s bad news!”

The woman’s voice rang out, sharp and accusing. Heads turned, conversations died. The whole place seemed to hold its breath.

“She ignores the Lord—she must be possessed! A demon!”

The accusation was so wild, so out-of-left-field, that for a second, nobody moved. Then, slowly, the fear began to ripple through the room. Mariah felt every eye in the place slide toward her.

The woman in red suddenly stood up, her face twisted in fury.

Her chair screeched back, and she loomed over the table, pointing a trembling finger at Mariah. Her voice was a raw, ragged scream. Even the fry cooks in the back froze in place.

Her wild screams echoed through the McDonald’s, bouncing off the tile and glass.

The sound bounced off the tile and glass, rattling the napkin dispensers. Kids started to cry, and someone dropped a tray with a crash. Mariah felt like she was trapped in a nightmare, unable to wake up.

She jabbed a bony finger at Mariah:

It was like being singled out in church for a sin you didn’t commit. Mariah’s face burned. Her heart hammered in her chest. She wanted to disappear, to melt into the plastic seat and vanish.

“Look at her! Her shirt’s moving over her stomach—that’s her using dark powers!”

The accusation was so absurd, so utterly bizarre, that for a split second Mariah almost laughed. But the look in the woman’s eyes told her this was deadly serious. The room seemed to close in around her.

The middle-aged woman from earlier nodded: “So it was her. She’s been attacking us all along…”

Her voice was trembling, but full of conviction. It was like they’d all agreed on this story in advance. Now Mariah was the villain in their twisted play.

“Yes, she’s…