I used to think I was one of the good ones. You know the type—student leader, Bible study captain, knew Scripture better than most of my teachers. I was the kid who brought his Bible to school and actually read it. I thought that mattered.
But then the Scarlet List appeared.
It was a Thursday morning. We walked up to the front doors, and someone gasped. Red letters—dripping, not painted—were burned into the glass:
SCARLET LIST: HE WHO COVERS HIS SINS WILL NOT PROSPER, BUT WHOEVER CONFESSES AND FORSAKES THEM WILL HAVE MERCY.
It looked fresh. No one saw who did it. No cameras, no smudges—just… there.
By second period, a red slip was pinned to Casey Nguyen’s locker. By third period, she was gone.
Not sent home. Not suspended. Gone.
Phone off. Social media wiped. Parents crying on the evening news. Her Bible—yeah, she had one too—was found open in her locker with John 15:2 underlined: “Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit He takes away.”
I started paying attention then. Every day, a new name appeared. Six total after Casey, and each one had something—some secret that eventually surfaced. Stuff nobody was supposed to know. Stuff like shoplifting. Or sleeping around. A hit-and-run. Whatever it was, the List knew.
And then one day… a red slip appeared on my locker with my name on it.
ELI GRANT
I stood there, staring at it, heart pounding like it was trying to dig out of my chest. People stopped and stared. No one said anything. Just gave me this look—like they were relieved it wasn’t them.
I kept telling myself I didn’t deserve it. I led prayer groups! I evangelized! I even fasted every Lent!
But the List didn’t care about performance. And the truth? The truth was I’d seen something last summer.
There was a girl: Brianna. Under the bleachers. She said no. I saw it. Heard it.
And walked away.
Because if I said something, they’d come for me too. I told myself I didn’t know what I saw.
But Someone did see.
During third hour, two people I didn’t recognize walked into my classroom. Not staff. Not cops. They were dressed in black robes, eyes like charcoal soaked in oil, faces an empty void.
“Eli Grant,” one said. “Come with us.”
I asked why, but I already knew.
But they replied anyway. “The Scarlet List does not expel the wicked; it reveals the whitewashed tombs.”
They led me to the gym. Only… it wasn’t a gym anymore. The floor was polished black, the walls lined with mirrors. But the reflections didn’t match reality. My body was there, yeah—but in the glass?
I saw everything. The masks. The lies. The rot.
And something inside me looked back.
It grinned. Because the darkness wasn’t around me. It was mine. And it had been waiting.
I don’t know what happened after that. I’m not gone—not exactly. I still walk the halls. People don’t see me, but sometimes they shiver, like a cold draft passing through. The List still appears. New names—new scarlet slips—every Thursday. And every now and then, I lean over their shoulders and whisper the truth: You can carry a Bible in your backpack. You can lead the prayer circle. You can quote the Word to justify your sins and bigotry. But if you’re only a whitewashed tomb… eventually, your name is inscribed on the List.
The Lutheran Column 