God Will Make It
The first time I heard the phrase, it sounded comforting.
"Don't worry," Mrs. Alvero whispered as the storm swallowed our town. "God will make it right."
The power had gone out hours ago. Wind pressed against the windows like something trying to get in. The church bells had rung once—long and low—before falling silent.
We all gathered inside Saint Bartholomew Chapel, candles trembling in our hands. The storm wasn't normal. It hadn't appeared on forecasts. It hadn't rolled in gradually.
It had arrived all at once.
Like it had been sent.
Father Tomas stood at the altar, his shadow stretching unnaturally long behind him. "This is a test," he said calmly. "God will make it."
Make it what? I wanted to ask.
Better?
End?
Stop?
The doors of the chapel rattled violently.
Outside, something moved in the rain.
It started with the disappearances.
First, old Mr. Herrera. He stepped outside to secure the generator behind the chapel. We watched through the narrow stained-glass window as lightning flashed.
He was there one second.
Gone the next.
No scream.
No footprints in the mud.
Just absence.
The wind howled louder.
"God will make it," Mrs. Alvero repeated, rocking back and forth in the pew.
Then the statues began to weep.
At first, we thought it was rain leaking from the ceiling. But the droplets were dark—thick. They slid from the stone eyes of the saints and pooled at their feet.
Someone began to cry.
Father Tomas raised his voice. "Faith! Hold onto your faith!"
The doors burst open.
The wind didn't rush in.
It stepped in.
It moved like a shape wearing the storm as clothing—tall, shifting, made of rain and shadow. Lightning flickered inside its body like veins of light.
The candles went out one by one.
In the darkness, I heard whispers.
Not from outside.
From inside the chapel.
From inside us.
"God will make it," the voices echoed—but distorted, stretched, wrong.
The shadow stopped in the center aisle.
It did not have eyes.
But it was looking at us.
One by one, people began to stand.
Not because they wanted to.
Their bodies moved slowly, as if pulled by invisible strings.
Mrs. Alvero stood first. Her face went calm. Peaceful.
"God will make it," she said one last time.
Then she walked forward and stepped into the storm-shape.
She didn't disappear.
She dissolved.
Like ash caught in water.
The others followed.
Not screaming.
Not fighting.
Just surrendering.
Father Tomas fell to his knees. "We are yours!" he cried. "Make it right!"
The storm-shape bent toward him.
For a moment, I thought it would take him too.
Instead, it passed through him.
He gasped—and began to change.
His shadow peeled away from his body, rising up like smoke. It joined the storm, strengthening it. Growing it.
The thing turned toward me.
I was still seated in the last pew.
Still breathing.
Still thinking one forbidden thought:
What if this isn't God?
The whispers grew louder.
"God will make it."
I shook my head.
"No," I said aloud, my voice trembling. "God doesn't make people disappear."
The storm paused.
The air felt heavy, pressing against my chest.
"God doesn't demand you walk into darkness," I continued, though fear clawed at my throat. "God doesn't erase."
The shape flickered violently, lightning bursting within it like a heartbeat skipping.
For the first time, it recoiled.
The whispers twisted into something harsher, angrier.
Not divine.
Hungry.
I understood then.
It had fed on surrender. On blind faith. On fear disguised as devotion.
Every "God will make it" had been an invitation.
I stood slowly.
"You're not God," I said.
The word echoed unnaturally in the chapel.
The storm screamed.
Not like thunder.
Like something exposed.
The walls shook. The stained glass shattered inward. Wind tore through the pews. But this time, it wasn't stepping forward.
It was unraveling.
The lightning inside it dimmed.
The shadows collapsed.
And then—
Silence.
When morning came, the storm was gone.
The chapel was destroyed.
The town was empty.
No bodies. No footprints.
Just me.
People from neighboring towns would later say it must have been a tornado. A rare weather event. A tragedy.
They rebuilt the chapel.
They placed a new statue at the front.
And carved beneath it were the words:
GOD WILL MAKE IT
Sometimes, late at night, when the wind presses against my windows, I hear whispers riding the storm.
Soft.
Patient.
Waiting for someone to say the words again.
Because faith can save you.
But blind faith?
It opens the door.