Reverend Meares could sense the readying of pitchforks. The time for righteous action was at hand. Ordering his fledgling militia to stand guard the Temple, Meares sequestered himself inside for a days-long prayer ritual. He sought an ultimate revelation from the voice in the walls… and he would receive it. 

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On February 11th, 1956, a boom ripped down Princess Street. Temple of the Seven Trumpets caved in, and The Reverend Meares finally went to meet his angry god. 

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Investigation yielded no sign of any man-made device or detonator, and there was nothing to indicate a sudden natural disaster. The event defied explanation, though that mystery would be immediately overshadowed by another.

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Surviving among the shattered stones were the last hints of what Meares had been doing in his final hours on Earth. He had exhumed several bodies from the old graveyard, cutting them open and toying with the rotten remains in macabre ways. There was almost a curiosity to the work, as if he had been trying to solve an infernal puzzle. Reverend Meares’ journal had survived too, and scrawled within were mad ramblings and unsettling symbols. If it wasn’t clear from the color, you could tell by the smell. The latter pages of the journal were written in fresh blood.

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There was another little detail, and people who claimed to know would say it with a laugh, but their eyes would tell a different story. They’d say that Meares’ body, obliterated by the impossible explosion, was found pieced together in a profane way. A gory heap of his parts and the parts he played with. It was as if some otherworldly being had tried to assemble a man from scratch without ever having seen one. But people love to embellish. What was left of the Reverend was tossed unceremoniously into that same graveyard he’d defiled. 

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With the sickness of Meares on full display, clarity came to the feral folk of Seven Trumpets. Some answered for their abuses, willingly or otherwise. The rest scattered to the wind, embarrassed to have knelt before such a deranged man.

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The broken bones of Seven Trumpets lay untouched for years. Folks warned that if you were to venture there during the witching hour, you’d see a strange light emanating from within the ruins. You might even catch a glimpse of the mangled mess of Meares himself, continuing his putrid work at the behest of the voice in the shattered walls. Consequently, people came to believe that if you died in that cursed place, your soul would stay there forever. But these were likely just tales to scare away the beatnik youth in search of a secluded necking spot. 

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Whatever the answer to Reverend Meares's ambitions, that was blown away with him. And the one previous lost life aside, the most the Reverend had achieved was to fuel campfire stories for a few decades. Unfortunately, even when one evil man fails in his works, he sometimes leaves the door open a little wider for the next.