The Bible of Worms

It's time to go back to church.

September 12th

I was always a bit uncertain in my life devoted to the The Good Book. My pa was too, apparently. It's been a month since Pa passed away and I have been reading through his journal. Turns out he was only pushed to read the Bible because Grandpa didn’t want him growing up illiterate. But Pa always used to complain that no matter how much he bellowed, his sermons only drew half the crowd of Grandpa's. And, frankly, if that is the case, I feel much shame. As my own flock is not but a of third my father's. What could work the town of Lowbog to the righteous God-fearing people they once were?

September 19th

My father wasn't a man keen on sharing. Reading his journal has been very insightful into his inner workings. Turns out that his longest days and nights were consumed with obsession. Seems he thought that his old man's bible was his secret to such a fervent following. He made Pa study from the family bible. Never let anyone read his private one. Seems like folly, if not a sin, to put your stock in the superstitions. One bible is as good as most others.

September 22nd

Looks like I am having a bit of a helping of crow for breakfast. I find myself in my idle times dwelling on that damned book. I was ready to write it off to the dregs of bog superstition that my pa had clinging to the bottom of his coat. After my Sunday sermon, to a room of no more than a dozen committed believers, I started to think about it. I would toss the thoughts away. No magic book had more answers then the Good Book itself. But...well, the Bible says to honor thy father. Maybe pa was onto something.

September 28th

Pa searched the house. A lot. More than two dozen times, completely clean from top to bottom. Figures his old man hid it somewhere. I am not sure when he did it. Probably sometime when me and Ma weren't around, as I have no recollection of any such fervor. I have not the trappings of marriage nor much else to do during the week. Church-going on a day other than a holiday or Sunday is unheard of these days. I moved all of my furniture outside and searched everywhere. Everywhere. For a sign of a secret compartment or hidden switch or anything. The house was pitch black by the time I was done. I didn't notice the sunset. Nor did I hear the rainstorm that must have passed. All of my furniture is soaked. I do not care. My damp mattress feels cool against my feverish flesh as I plan for sleep. I think my curiosity is sated now, if not fulfilled, this fool's errand put behind me.

October 3rd

My furniture still isn't dry. I have made some attempts to aid in the process. I turned on the furnace and even some heaters I scurried up from the basement but for some godforsaken reason the dining table drips and the chairs squelch. I am more disconcerted with how comfortable I am in with the sogginess. How much I have grown accustomed to to the drips of water. The mold and moss I have found growing in the harder-to-reach corners doesn't even upset me. If anything, the heat has started to become bothersome. I might blow out the furnace.

October 17th

I skipped my first sermon in years. I didn't call ahead. I didn't tell anyone. Not a word from anyone. No one missed my dis-passioned pleas for them to respect their creator. I don't know if I am doing it right. A real book about God should make me burn with passion. No. I should feel chills. Cold is whats comforting. Cold envelopes you and makes you still. Cold is quiet and still.

Wet. My house is still wet. The sludge that was my rug now slurps rottenly between my toes. The fungus and moss and life surrounds me in my home. I started tearing down one of my walls, the wood rotting away. Crumbling in my hands. I look down in my hands and I figure it out. My father never liked the damp of the bog. He rejected it. Hated it, I reckon. But it was the answer all along. I can see my grandpa in the rot. He has his book.

October 20th

Tonight was the happiest night of my life. It took me a few days to find Grandpas' grave. I wasn't at his funeral on account that he died before I was born. I should have known he wouldn’t be in the local cemetery. Too far from the wet. And the earth. My pa's journal had the location. Took a while to track it down since my Pa didn't date any of the pages. Had a particular tree in the land out back grandpa was fond of. Pa said it was easy digging since the earth was soft and the tree was dead. Roots were rotten.

Tree must not have been too rotten since it was still standing when I got there. Grandpa's name carved into it, marking where I needed to dig. The earth was soft but the hole filled with water. The cool water was a blessing under the hot sun. Couldnt see the bottom of the hole though. Only knew I'd found him when the shovel hit something different. Not hard, just different. I reached through the water and dug my fingers into the sides of the wet rotten wood of my grandpa's casket. I yanked off the top with surprising ease, given how sore my muscles were. The water changed. It was already thick with silt but suddenly flooded with worms. Fat earthworms. I kenned that they were evicted from their home of rot when the water flooded the casket, but that thought quickly pushed from my head as the number of worms in the water was more than that. Too many.

They swam and glided past my skin better than I ever thought worms could. I was so focused on what was happening that I didn't feel myself start to sink. Into the mud. Into the water. My weight hit Grandpa's casket and I was hoping it would slow my fall. I wasn't panicking. It felt like going back somewhere familiar. I didn't even panic when the rotten wood buckled beneath me and I sank beneath the surface.

The water came upon me first. The chill once again felt like something familiar. Then the worms came. They were much more invasive. Burrowing into my mouth and nostrils. My ears. My eyes. They were forceful. Insistent. Gliding slick over my skin as the water became thick with them. Like blood. Cold blood.

I awoke lying in the rain upon the ground I had recently disturbed. There was no hole now. The earth was still moist but supported me fully. The tree still gnarled and rotten, but a fresh name was carved below my Grandpa's. My own.

And sitting in the crux of two gnarled rotten roots was the bible of my grandpa. The Bible of Worms. It sits now on my desk, but it feels more comfortable in my hand. I have not yet cracked the sanctity of its spine, sought sanctuary in its pages. Though my body, my mind, my soul yearns for that release I must make the right choice my future followers. I must document these moments surrounding my glorious rebirth.

October 31st

I have read the book. Cover to cover. I can feel the worms beneath my skin. They make my body better. More accommodating for what is to come. I am being made better, paths slowly traced through me. Like worms through soft earth and rotten wood. I will be remade by them. I will be made better, and I will be like them. I will make the world better. Rot is natural, but I must be renewed. I will consume what has become rotten in this world. I have read the book. Cover to cover. It's time to go back to church.