It had been a long time since the town of Red Creek, Montana had seen any law enforcement. The previous sheriff, old Sheriff Daniels, had retired after his wife passed in 1867, and since then, the town was mostly left to its own devices. It wasn’t a perfect town, being overrun with crime, but people got by. Then, one day, without warning, a new sheriff rode in.
Sheriff Abner Black was a tall man with a grim face, dressed all in black. His eyes were sharp—almost too sharp—like he could see straight into your soul. He didn’t introduce himself with pleasantries, viewing them as a waste of time, but simply walked into the sheriff’s office, claimed the badge, and declared, “There’s a new sheriff in town.”
People were wary, but they figured he would bring order back to Red Creek. At first, things seemed calm. The sheriff cracked down on petty theft, rounded up some drifters who were causing trouble, hung outlaws, and even organized a monthly town meeting. But soon, folks began to notice something wasn’t quite right about him.
The first sign was the curfew. Sheriff Black imposed it just a week after his arrival. No one was to be outside after sunset, not even for an emergency. Those who disobeyed were thrown in jail—without trial. The last straw was when a man took his wife to Dr. Lester’s after curfew when she went into labor, and Sheriff Black threw them both in jail. The sheriff’s presence began to feel more like a dark cloud than a protector. The townspeople began to fear him more than they feared any outlaw.
But it wasn’t just his iron grip on the law that unsettled people. It was the way he spoke. Whenever he mentioned sin or lawbreaking, he seemed almost… gleeful. And when someone asked him where he came from, he simply smiled and said, “I’ve been sent to collect the wayward.”
Then came the nightmares.
It was a strange pandemic, beginning with a few townsfolk, but soon most of the town was gripped by the same terrible dream. In it, they were dragged down into a dark pit, chains wrapping around them, pulling them toward a terrible figure with glowing eyes and a voice that laughed as it spoke about their sins, even the ones most secret. And in each dream, just as they were about to be consumed by darkness, Sheriff Black would appear—only, in the dream, his face was monstrous, a twisted smile stretched too wide for his face, his eyes burning like fire.
People tried to leave town, but it was as if Red Creek had been surrounded by an invisible barrier. Wagons would break down, horses would panic, and even the sky darkened whenever someone attempted to escape. The sheriff, standing at the edge of town, would always watch them, his eyes filled with a terrible knowing.
In desperation, the townspeople turned to the only person who might understand the darkness they were facing: Pastor Martin, the town’s elderly pastor of Holy Trinity Lutheran Church.
Pastor Martin had always been a quiet man, keeping mostly to his studies and sermons. But when people came to him, speaking of their fears and the sheriff’s strange power, the old pastor knew something was terribly wrong.
“I fear he is more than a man,” Pastor Martin whispered to the gathered crowd in the church. “I believe he is a dark force—an agent of judgement. But not God’s judgement, which is just and righteous. He is here to sow nothing but despair, not to save.”
The townsfolk were silent, a chill settling over them. “Then what can do we?” one woman asked.
“There is only one force greater than any darkness,” Pastor Martin said, his voice growing firm. “The power of Christ. We must stand against this evil, not with weapons, but with faith in God, our Mighty Fortress.”
That night, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the eerie glow of the sheriff’s lantern was seen once again walking the streets, Pastor Martin gathered the townsfolk in the church. The sheriff hadn’t been seen at the service, but everyone knew he was near.
As the townspeople prayed responsively through the Psalms, led by Pastor Martin, an oppressive force filled the church. The church doors creaked, and the wind howled through the windows, rattling the walls. And then, there he was—Sheriff Black, standing at the entrance of the church, his eyes glowing like moonlight in the dark.
“What is this?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. “It’s past curfew.”
Pastor Martin stood firm at the altar, clutching a large wooden crucifix in his hands. “You have no power here, ‘Sheriff Abner Black,’ whoever you are. This house belongs to the Lord.”
The sheriff’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. “The Lord?” he sneered. “Where was He when your town was drowning in sin? Where was He when people stole and lied? I am here to bring justice. To claim what is mine.”
“No!” Pastor Martin said, stepping forward, his voice filled with conviction. “You are here to destroy. To sow fear and despair. But you forget, Sheriff, there is a greater justice than yours. God’s justice is not condemnation, but redemption. And His light drives out every shadow.”
Sheriff Black’s smile faded, replaced by a deep, simmering rage. The lantern in his hand flared, casting long, twisted shadows across the church. “Do you think you can stand against me, old man? I am eternal. I am the reckoner. Do you not know that God indeed condemns? He condemns sinners to Hell! That is His justice!”
“Silence, you vermin!” Pastor Martin yelled, holding the cross out. “Behold, the justice of the Lord: Christ crucified and risen! ‘For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved!’”
As he finished these words, the crucifix began to shine. The sheriff stepped forward, but the closer he came, the more the crucifix radiated and the more his form began to flicker, as though the light from the crucifix were burning away his very essence.
“No!” he growled, his voice distorting. “You cannot drive me out!”
“Not I,” the pastor said, “but the Lord!”
The church trembled, but the light grew brighter. Then, in a burst of brilliant light, the sheriff let out a scream, his form unraveling, turning to ash that scattered into the wind.
The oppressive darkness lifted. The town felt lighter, as though a great weight had been lifted from their hearts.
Pastor Martin fell to his knees, exhausted, but filled with peace. The townspeople gathered around him, and for the first time in weeks, they felt safe.
The next morning, the sheriff’s office was empty. The badge lay on the desk, cold and lifeless. The sun shone brightly over Red Creek, and the nightmares never returned. The town had been delivered, not by force or fear, but by faith.
One parishioner had posed a question to Pastor Martin. “Pastor, something Sheriff Black said has been bothering me. He said where was God when we were drowning in sin? Did this man—or whatever he was—oppress our town because God was not with us?”
Pastor Martin merely said, “Even in the shadow of sin, God’s light never dims; it shines all the brighter, calling us back to His grace. For where sin abounds, God’s mercy overflows.”
The Lutheran Column 