The Monster in Shepherd’s Clothing

A pastor who fakes people's soul testing is caught. And punished?

The Monster in Shepherd’s Clothing
A Soul Searcher story.


Orrin Wilson looked at his phone. It was 12:42 pm. Yesterday, at this exact moment, he was delivering the “Begging at the Gate” sermon at GracePoint Congregational. A day later, right now, he was dressed in a sweater and jeans, sitting towards the back of a Greyhound bus, slowly rolling towards Arches National Park, Utah.

The fresh tattoo under his left eye was throbbing. He had foolishly rubbed it in an attempt to dull the pain somewhat.

For five or six years, he expected this day to come at any moment. Then, he began to get complacent. No one seemed to be seeing the trend or, more likely, far more likely, they noticed, but it was in their, in everybody’s, best interest to look away.

The idea had been the former pastor’s and Orrin felt obligated, despite his nerves and guilt, to continue the tradition. It was simple, they would pay the tester a significant amount of money to get a positive result for every congregation member who passed away as an Unknown. They wouldn't ask about the real result and, since they paid the same amount for the test, far more than they would pay had they gotten actual results, the bribe was neither apparent nor a clue. A simple case of a tester fleecing a Church. Not uncommon and, at worst, poor oversight.

While he knew he was complicit, he would never need to lie. Not that he was ever asked. The S, true or not, was better for the family, the burial options and, to their ongoing work by means of donations.

Leaving people in the room with the deceased had never been a problem before. Why check the result when you had already gotten the result you wanted? This time, however, the “bereaved” had done another test. A real test.

Orrin had learned this afterwards, of course.

The son and elder daughter called him into the viewing room. As the door was being closed behind him, Orrin recalled wondering where the younger daughter was and, suddenly, he felt a debilitating pain on the back of his neck.

Orrin rubbed his neck as he thought of the pain. He now realized it must have been a stun gun. Was she a police officer? Was the son? Makes no difference, he knew.

He felt himself falling and then, magically, was sitting in chair, the results of his own blood test, negative, in his hand. And sharp pain under his left eye from having been tattooed.

That’s when Orrin heard the whole story. Almost word for word what he expected to hear. He knew this chapter had already been written, this episode already filmed. It was only a matter of when it was aired.

He looked at the test strip in his hand. Negative. No soul. Even this part he had expected. Otherwise, how could he have gone along with the ruse. Just gone along.

The eldest daughter pulled his face upwards into hers. “What you were doing, faking the results, had nada to do with us. We Clancefelds mind our own business.” She paused. And Orrin mouthed her words as she spoke them. “Until father died.”

“He was a horrible man,” the son spit more than said. “A horrible, terrible man. I knew, we all knew, we all hoped he had no soul. If he had a soul, then all is wrong with the world.” The son smiled and softened. “In a sense, a great sense, this is reassuring.”

The eldest daughter again leaned directly into Orrin’s face and, before he could react, she poked his new tattoo, sending a sharp pain through his body. “Only a soulless monster would give another soulless monster an S tattoo.”

The son added, “Aren't you supposed to be a man of faith?”

“Leave him alone.” This was the younger daughter. “God has already repaid him for that sin. And all his previous ones. We can and should do no more than we have already done.”

As Orrin recalled this conversation, and understood that she had been the one who stunned him, he wondered if her anger was spent or if she were, simply, a vessel. He wished he had taken the time, beforehand of course, to get to know her better.

“An argument for another day,” said the son. Wordlessly, the three of them left the room.

Orrin sat for a few moments and then tested his restraints. He had none. He was simply sitting in a chair with a test strip, showing the negative result, in his left hand. Bound by consequence. Bound by repercussion.

Before he left, he looked at Gerald Robert Clancefeld’s face to see if his children had re-tattooed his face with the “N”. They hadn’t. The S tattoo remained. Orrin didn’t bother to look at his own face in mirror. He knew what he’d see.

Clergy were exempt from the Tattoo Laws and the Church had decreed that no one in their ranks was to be tested, so no one questioned that he left the funeral parlor with a flu mask covering his entire face. It was common practice and clergy were not required to have the transparent slot in their mask. Physically, leaving was easy.

Orrin walked the six blocks home, along the rejuvenated main street (in a great part due to his thriving Church), changed into street clothes, and took a taxi to the bus station.

Two buses later, he was on the way to Utah. Grand Arches National Park.

He doubted Clancefeld’s children would be surprised he did not arrive for the memorial service. He expected many others to be both worried and disappointed, but they would soon find another shepherd and GracePoint would move forward. He expected nothing would change. The tests would continue and, miraculously (he smiled at this mental word choice) the congregation’s streak of S’s would continue.

Orrin’s smile slowly slid off his face as he realized he had no intention of ever returning to GracePoint. Or to the Church. Those days were over.

Across the aisle, a young woman was applying flashgems to her face, one by one, using a magnifying mirror, careful not to let any touch her S tattoo. She caught him watching her and, instead of reacting either with the light embarrassment or eye-roll his profession normally produced, she glared. He turned his face forward quickly. He would need to get used to this public shunning, instead of the familiar weak smiles and guilty looks.

He looked at his phone again. 1:33 PM. Monday. Twenty-four hours since he was stunned unconscious, tested and tattooed. There were messages and texts waiting for him, but he didn't bother to enter his passcode to see them.

He looked out the window at the sameness of the scenery. Scrubland with a few distance mesas.

Then, without thinking, he let his eyes focus on his reflection in the mirror. What he saw made him gasp. Very loudly. Heads turned towards him.

He stood up. Most of the riders were now watching him. He didn’t care. He snatched the mirror from the young woman’s hand. She started to object, but was suddenly frozen. All was suddenly frozen as he raised the mirror to his face. An S. They had tattooed him with an S.

The mirror fell from his hand, hitting the rubber aisle runner. It didn’t break.


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