God Will Make It – Part II: The Whisper Returns
They rebuilt the chapel in less than a year.
No one questioned how quickly the funds appeared. Donations arrived anonymously. Volunteers came from neighboring towns, speaking in soft, reverent tones about "restoration" and "renewal." It was as if tragedy had purified the place.
They called it a miracle.
I called it bait.
The new Saint Bartholomew Chapel stood taller than before. The stained glass was brighter. The statue at the altar gleamed white and untouched.
And beneath it, carved deeper than before:
GOD WILL MAKE IT
I stopped going near the building after dusk.
But whispers don't respect distance.
The first sign was the dreams.
I would wake up soaked in sweat, hearing the same phrase repeated over and over—not in comfort, but in rhythm. Like breathing.
"God… will… make… it…"
In the dream, I stood alone in the rebuilt chapel. The pews were filled with faceless figures. Their heads tilted in unison toward me.
Not accusing.
Expecting.
The statue at the altar began to crack.
From inside it, something shifted.
I always woke up before it stepped out.
People started changing.
It was subtle at first.
Mrs. Villanueva, who had once lost her husband in the storm, began smiling too often. Too widely. She would stand outside the chapel doors and greet everyone with the same phrase:
"God will make it."
Her voice didn't sound like hers anymore.
Children who had been too young to remember the night of the storm began drawing pictures in school. The same picture.
A tall shape made of scribbled black lines. Lightning inside it.
When teachers asked what it was, they answered calmly:
"God."
I tried to warn them.
"It wasn't God," I told the new priest, Father Ignacio. "It was something feeding on faith."
He listened politely, hands folded.
"Trauma reshapes memory," he said gently. "You survived something terrible. It's natural to look for a villain."
"I saw it," I insisted. "It reacted when I questioned it."
He smiled.
"Doubt is a test. God will make it."
The way he said it made my stomach twist.
Not reassurance.
Programming.
The storm returned three months later.
No warning.
No forecast.
The sky turned black in seconds, like ink spilled across it.
This time, the church bells rang on their own.
The entire town gathered inside the chapel before the first drop of rain fell. They moved calmly. Willingly.
I stayed outside.
Through the open doors, I watched them kneel.
Father Ignacio raised his arms. "We are ready."
Ready for what?
Lightning struck the steeple.
But instead of breaking it—
The bolt traveled downward.
Into the statue.
The stone split clean down the center.
And from the hollow inside, the storm stepped out again.
Bigger.
Denser.
Stronger.
It had been growing.
Feeding on repetition. On belief. On every whispered surrender.
The congregation did not scream.
They stood.
"God will make it," they chanted in perfect unison.
The storm-shape pulsed, expanding with every word.
I realized then what it was.
Not a god.
Not a demon.
An echo.
A thought given form.
A belief repeated so often it became alive.
And it was hungry again.
I ran inside.
"Stop saying it!" I shouted.
No one reacted.
The chant grew louder.
The storm turned toward me.
Lightning flickered inside its shifting body. I felt the same pressure as before—the weight in the air, the pull at my chest.
It wanted me to surrender.
To accept.
To repeat the words.
Instead, I screamed something else.
"God doesn't need you!"
The chanting faltered.
The storm flickered.
"You're not divine!" I shouted. "You're what happens when people stop thinking!"
A crack split through its body like glass under strain.
Some of the congregation blinked, confusion breaking through their calm expressions.
"God gives choice!" I yelled desperately. "You take it away!"
The storm shrieked—a violent, metallic sound that rattled the bones.
Wind tore through the chapel again, but this time people stumbled backward instead of forward.
The chant dissolved into frightened murmurs.
And without the rhythm of surrender—
The storm began to collapse.
It thinned like smoke in strong wind. Lightning snapped wildly before dimming into sparks. The shape clawed at the air, unraveling strand by strand.
Until it was gone.
Again.
This time, people remembered.
They remembered standing.
Walking.
Almost stepping into something they didn't understand.
The chapel remains empty now.
No statue.
No carving.
The words have been scrubbed from the stone.
But sometimes, when storms roll in too quickly and the air feels heavy, I hear it faintly—like a thought trying to return.
Waiting for someone desperate enough to say:
"God will make it."
Because belief is powerful.
And anything powerful can be twisted.
The difference between salvation and surrender is only one question:
Are you choosing it?
Or is it choosing you?