On a cold January afternoon, the year was nineteen-oh-nine,
Reverend John Carmichael left, his heart and suit divine.
He kissed his wife, his children too, and stepped into the chill,
His cloak wrapped tight, his mind set firm, to preach the holy will.
Through Michigan’s white countryside, his horse began to glide,
Nine miles away in Columbus town, his sermon would abide.
The snow was soft, the air was still, the laughter filled the land,
As children built their frosty men with mitten-covered hands.
Each home he passed waved warm hellos, the Reverend tipped his hat,
But soon he reached that peaceful stretch—he much preferred it flat.
No chatter there, just quiet thoughts beneath the ashen sky,
A tranquil road for prayerful minds to let the world drift by.
Then—hooves behind! They thundered close, the sound came sharp and near,
He turned to see rough Gideon Browning with a crooked sneer.
A greasy grin, a ragged coat, his eyes both wild and wide,
The Reverend knew this troubled man—his soul had long since died.
“Oh Reverend!” cried the drunken man, “Let’s ride, just me and you!”
John forced a smile, though deep inside he wished this wasn’t true.
For Gideon reeked of whiskey’s curse, of anger, pain, and sin,
Yet being kind was duty’s path, so Reverend let him in.
They galloped side by side awhile, through cold and frozen air,
But Gideon’s voice just would not stop—his questions peeled the prayer.
He asked about the churches’ gold, the sermon soon to start,
And as he spoke, the Reverend felt unease within his heart.
Then Gideon grinned and flipped a coin—it shimmered in the light,
A silver disc that spun and gleamed, and glittered pure and bright.
He tossed and caught, he tossed again, a rhythm soft yet deep,
The clink, the clap, the gentle sound—it lulled John half to sleep.
The coin’s soft hum, the spin, the slap—it filled the Reverend’s ear,
Till thought itself began to fade, replaced by cloudy fear.
His will dissolved, his body swayed, his mind grew strangely numb,
For every flip, each silver spin, felt like a beating drum.
They stopped beside a general store, where Gideon softly said,
“Go buy a hatchet, Reverend dear, a sharp one, clean and red.”
Though terrified, the Reverend bowed, his voice not his to own,
He paid the price, returned outside, the chill cut through his bones.
Then Gideon grinned and said again, “Let’s ride to Rattle Run—
Your church will do, I think, quite fine before my wedding’s done.”
And though he knew the man was wed, the Reverend could not fight,
The coin had bound him, body, soul, beneath that dying light.
To Rattle Run they galloped fast, through endless winter’s breath,
And in that lonely, snow-capped church, they met the face of death.
The Reverend lit the stove inside, his body moved by spell,
While Gideon stood with coin in hand, that token spun from hell.
“Raise your arm,” the drunk man said, the Reverend’s arms obeyed,
His left, his right, both stretched like Christ—his faith and reason swayed.
Then Gideon’s grin began to fade, his gaze grew cold and grim,
He dropped the coin—it hit the floor—and darkness entered him.
The next day when the caretaker came, he froze before the door,
For crimson stains were everywhere, blood pooled upon the floor.
The pews, the walls, the altar cloth—all soaked in scarlet hue,
And torn cloth scraps with buttons known—his Reverend’s, through and through.
He followed trails of dragging red, to where the stove did glow,
He opened it—and there inside, a skull lay deep below.
The church fell still, the whispers spread, the tale went wild and wide,
That Reverend Carmichael was dead—some beast had took his life.
But miles away in Illinois, a stranger pale and worn,
Named “John Elder” took a room, his clothes tattered and torn.
He whispered “I am fasting now,” and locked his door with dread,
While in his dreams, that silver coin still flickered in his head.
Three days had passed, then cries were heard—the landlady ran in fright,
For in the outhouse, John was found, his throat cut through the light.
He bled away, his eyes still wide, his secret soon was known,
For in his pocket lay a note—the truth now overthrown.
The letter told a twisted tale, of madness and of fright,
Of hypnotism, spells, and guilt that clouded reason’s sight.
For Gideon’s corpse was found instead—the skull within the flame,
And “John Elder” was the Reverend’s own forgotten, cursed name.
He’d killed the man he thought had cursed, then fled in fevered fear,
Convinced the devil’s coin had made his mind and soul adhere.
And when the guilt grew loud enough, when silence broke his trust,
He slit his throat to cleanse his sins, and left his tale to dust.
So ends the tale of faith and fear, of madness, snow, and sin,
Of Reverend John, whose haunted soul was torn apart within.
A silver coin, a cursed man, a church that smelled of flame—
And in the snow of Rattle Run still echoes Carmichael’s name.