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By C. G. Bauer

"Scars at the Face of God is an excellent novel. Congratulations on hitting one out of the park, Chris." -Jonathan Maberry, a number of Bram Stoker Award winner "C. G. Bauer writes with ardour and depth, tackling the mysteries of religion and worry. warmer than the flames of hell." -Scott Nicholson, writer of Scattered Ashes Hex indicators guard each barn and outbuilding. The neighborhood tannery spews its poison at the land and within the river. And infants disappear at beginning. An orphan and one-time felon who earned his nickname "from the sound a crowbar makes while it hits a man's head," Johannes "Wump" Hozer is now the custodian of Our woman of the Innocents parish in 3 Bridges, PA. Wump is previous and drained. he is fought all his existence opposed to the tannery's waste, opposed to God, and opposed to the blind eyes of his sturdy pals. these days he attempts to disregard the previous priest's exploits with the younger women of the parish and the strangeness surrounding the neighborhood orphanage, and does what sturdy he can for his spouse, the church, the sisters who run the orphanage, and the bad orphans themselves. Then adolescence stories and unusual presentments start to plague Wump whilst a brick wall unearthed on the web site of a brand new eating place collapses, and uncooked sewage incorporates 1000s of child bones into the pit left in the back of. appears like the devil's made 3 Bridges his playground, and Wump must discover why; the infants maintain screaming and he has to make it cease.

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It’s one of many purposes i used to be assigned to this parish. ” “Then I take it you understood what Adam stated again there. ” I shifted the truck from first to moment apparatus; 3rd apparatus by no means received a lot use if you have been cruising the shorter aspect of those urban blocks. As we neared the subsequent cease signal I acquired a peek at Father’s face. there has been all over again and position on it. “Yes, I understood it,” he stated, eventually. “It gave the impression of a quote, yet I can’t say I’ve ever heard it prior to. ” The truck bucked a bit and that i driven within the take hold of to maintain it from stalling then nursed the brake till we stopped. Father persevered. “What he acknowledged was once, ‘Die, and behold God’s scarred face. ’” “My translation, too, Father. by no means heard it prior to neither. at the very least now not precisely. ” “What do you suggest, ‘not exactly’? have you ever heard anything love it? ” I pulled out them tiny previous German dying bulletins from my blouse pocket and passed them to him. “Here. Closest I ever obvious to it. It’s in there someplace. ” It was once in my head now too, someplace. simply needed to style via approximately sixty years of crap to get to it, then I’d have the capacity to inform Father what issues were like round the following, again while i used to be a child. A lesson in parish background. focus, I instructed myself. chanced on it. “It used to be 1911, Father, overdue June. The parish monsignor had simply died. loads of parishioners have been on the cemetery for the burial, even us youngsters …” **** wrinkly arms grabbed the doorframe of the carriage from the interior. An outdated monsignor I by no means visible prior to dropped his foot onto the carriage step and pulled himself out. anticipating him within the dust, together with his hand out like a gentleman tending to a girl, was once a tender priest with an open umbrella. It was once a Thursday but humans was once all dressed up like they received for Sunday Mass. i used to be sidled up subsequent to Sister Irene, me and her huddled lower than her huge black umbrella. Heinie will be in a heap of hassle if he skipped the Monsignor’s funeral. Heinie ultimately confirmed on the a ways finish of the cemetery garden, traipsed up the hill and squeezed throughout the crowd of good city people and oldsters who all took to pulling their young ones in shut while he brushed prior. He edged in subsequent to me, me nonetheless subsequent to Sister Irene less than her umbrella. Sister shot Heinie a raised-eyebrow, you-oughta-know-better gander. The traveling monsignor dragged his cassock during the rainy grass on stiff legs that evidently had a few outdated person’s the best way he was once jogging. all of the sniffling parishioners bought out of ways so he might hobble as much as the casket. at the back of us was once the recent gravesite for our lifeless monsignor. should have been 2 hundred humans right here come to pay their respects, other than elements of what I heard, from mom and dad who didn’t imagine their youngsters have been listening, advised me greater than what their tears did: these types of - forty five - C. G. BAUER folks have been right here simply to be certain he used to be lifeless. Sister Irene I figured was once one in every of them. I poked Heinie within the ribs. “You nonetheless stink,” I whispered. “You used to be alleged to get washed up from this morning. Them everyone is all taking a look at us.

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