The Madness of Reverend Carmichael

On the cold afternoon of January 5th, 1909, Reverend John Carmichael, fifty-six years old, kissed his wife and children goodbye and stepped out of their small Michigan cottage. He wrapped his black cloak tightly around his suit, mounted his horse, and set out into the snow-covered countryside.

The Reverend was headed to the nearby town of Columbus, about nine miles away, to host a large religious revival — a sermon meant to bring new souls into his church. As he rode through the village, children were outside having snowball fights and building snowmen. Every few yards someone called his name — a parent waving, a child shouting hello — and though he smiled warmly and tipped his hat, it slowed his journey.

Finally, after half an hour, the houses faded behind him, and he reached his favorite stretch of the road — quiet, empty, and lined with frost-covered trees. Here, he could think in peace, rehearsing the words he would soon deliver to a crowded hall in Columbus.

But that calm didn’t last long.
Behind him came the sound of pounding hooves — fast, uneven, getting closer.

When Reverend Carmichael turned, he saw a man galloping toward him. The rider wore a long, stained coat over a filthy brown shirt. His hair was slicked back and greasy, his smile too wide, his wave too eager. The Reverend’s heart sank.

It was Gideon Browning — a man from his own town, known for his erratic temper and his fondness for whiskey.

Carmichael had run into Gideon several times in recent weeks — too many times, in fact, for it to be coincidence. Each encounter left him uncomfortable. The man had a way of looking at him that felt invasive.

Still, the Reverend was the town’s spiritual leader. He couldn’t turn away a friendly greeting, no matter how much he wanted to.

“Afternoon, Reverend!” Gideon shouted as he drew near. “Mind if I ride with you?”

Carmichael forced a polite smile. “Of course,” he said.

He regretted it almost instantly. Gideon talked endlessly — rambling about nothing and everything, asking prying questions about where the Reverend was headed, how many churches he owned, and what business he had in Columbus. Out of politeness, Carmichael answered honestly: he was going to preach at a revival and had a small church in a nearby village called Rattle Run.

As they rode, Gideon did something strange. Without breaking his gaze from the Reverend, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver coin. He began flipping it into the air, catching it in his palm, flipping again, catching again — all without faltering in his riding.

At first, Carmichael found it irritating. Then, oddly soothing. The metallic ring of the coin slicing through the cold air… the soft slap as it landed in Gideon’s palm… again and again… a rhythm that slowly pulled at his focus.

He felt his thoughts drift. The road blurred. His body relaxed. He couldn’t explain it, but the sound of that coin felt hypnotic.

By the time they reached a crossroads with a small general store, Carmichael was in a fog. Gideon stopped his horse, pocketed the coin, and nodded toward the building.

“Come on, Reverend,” he said. “We need to make a stop.”

“I… I really must get to Columbus,” Carmichael replied, though his voice sounded distant, uncertain.

Gideon grinned. “We just need one thing. Go inside and buy me a new hatchet.”

The Reverend blinked, confused. “A hatchet?”

“Yes. You’ll get it for me.”

And for reasons he couldn’t explain, Carmichael simply nodded. He dismounted, walked into the store, bought a small hatchet with his own money, and brought it out to Gideon — handing it over as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

He wanted to ride away right then. But when he climbed back onto his horse, Gideon stopped him.

“Not yet,” he said. “Now we’re going to your church in Rattle Run. I’m getting married soon, and I might want to hold the ceremony there. I’d like to take a look.”

Carmichael knew Gideon was already married. The request made no sense. But once again, he heard himself agree.

“Alright,” he said softly.

Gideon smiled, pulled out the coin again, and began flipping it. The two men rode in silence through the snow, the soft rhythm of metal and skin echoing between them.

When they reached the small white church at Rattle Run, the Reverend unlocked the front doors and lit the stove inside. The air filled with the scent of burning wood and melting frost.

He turned back toward the entrance, where Gideon still stood, the coin glinting between his fingers.

“Well,” Carmichael said uneasily, “would you like to look around?”

Gideon didn’t answer right away. He kept flipping the coin — eyes locked on the Reverend — then finally said:

“No. There’s no wedding.”

The Reverend froze.

Gideon’s voice grew cold. “Raise your left arm, Reverend.”

Without meaning to, Carmichael’s arm lifted.

“Now your right.”

The Reverend’s other arm rose, stretching him wide, like a man nailed to a cross.

Terror coursed through him, but his body would not obey. He stared at Gideon — who was still flipping the coin, that wicked grin on his face — until suddenly the man’s expression shifted. The grin vanished. The coin dropped.

Gideon stepped forward.

The next day at noon, the church caretaker rode up the same snowy road to check on the building. Reverend Carmichael, he knew, was supposed to be in Columbus for several days, so the sight of smoke curling from the chimney puzzled him.

He dismounted, climbed the steps, and found the door unlocked.

Hand on his pistol, he pushed it open — and froze.

Blood covered everything. The pews. The altar. The walls. Shredded pieces of fabric lay strewn across the floor. One scrap bore a button the caretaker recognized — from the Reverend’s suit.

A dark drag trail streaked down the center aisle toward the altar, then veered out of sight behind it.

Swallowing his fear, the caretaker followed the trail. Halfway down the aisle, he noticed a silver coin, sticky with blood, lying in the middle of the floor.

When he reached the back of the church, he saw that the stove was still burning. He opened the metal door.

Inside, among the glowing embers, was a human skull.

News of Reverend Carmichael’s murder spread rapidly across Michigan. A statewide manhunt began within twenty-four hours.

All evidence pointed to Gideon Browning. Witnesses had seen him arguing violently with his brother-in-law earlier that day before riding off in anger. Children playing in the snow recalled seeing both the Reverend and Gideon on the same road, one after the other.

To the authorities, it seemed clear: Gideon had snapped and slaughtered the Reverend in a drunken rage.

But the truth was far stranger.

Three days later and five hundred miles away, a man arrived at a small boarding house in Illinois. He was pale, thin, and shivering — dressed in a stained brown shirt and long coat.

“My name is John Elder,” he told the innkeeper, Miranda Hughes. “I need a room.”

He looked ill — haunted. But he paid in cash, so Miranda showed him to a small room upstairs. When she offered him a meal, he shook his head.

“No. I’m fasting.”

He closed the door behind her.

For days, he didn’t come out. Miranda left food at his door, but it remained untouched.

Then, on the morning of January 12th, she heard moaning coming from the outhouse. She rushed to the door and called out, “Are you alright?”

No reply — only pained whimpers.

She pushed the door open.

John Elder was slumped on the toilet, eyes wide, his throat slit from ear to ear. Blood soaked his clothes and pooled on the floor. He was still alive for a few terrible seconds, staring at her in panic, before collapsing forward.

When police searched his body, they found a bloodstained letter in his pocket — addressed to the sheriff of Rattle Run.

Inside was a confession.

John Elder was no stranger at all.
He was Reverend John Carmichael.

The letter revealed the horrifying truth.

Carmichael had indeed met Gideon Browning on the road that day. But Gideon hadn’t hypnotized him — not really.

In the weeks leading up to that encounter, the Reverend had become increasingly paranoid. He believed Gideon could somehow track him, appearing wherever he went as though guided by a supernatural force. When Gideon began flipping that coin, the Reverend’s delusions deepened — he became convinced the man possessed the power to control minds.

In his frenzied belief that he’d been hypnotized, Carmichael simply obeyed — stopping at the store, buying the hatchet, leading Gideon to the church.

There, in the midst of his hallucination, Carmichael imagined Gideon commanding him to raise his arms — and when the coin slipped from Gideon’s hand, the Reverend believed the “spell” was broken.

He panicked. He grabbed the hatchet.

And he butchered Gideon Browning to death.

After the killing, Carmichael tore his own suit to shreds, scattered the pieces around the blood-soaked church to stage his own death, dressed himself in Gideon’s clothes, and fled the state — living as “John Elder” until guilt and madness consumed him.

By the time investigators pieced it all together, both men were dead — one murdered, one driven insane by his own delusions.

Reverend Carmichael’s letter ended with a plea for forgiveness, written in a trembling hand:

“I was not myself. The Devil walked beside me that day.”