“Allie’s House is a stupid name for a cult.”

“I’m sure they’ll love to hear that.”

“Whatever happened to fluff pieces?”

“Oh, yeah? That’s what you want? You wanna take John’s story on the cat cafe adoption? You wanna review Guy Fieri’s new restaurant? You wanna hug and some apple juice too?”

“Jesus, Daniel. I’m just saying, man. When did I become the cult guy?”

“When you got a Pulitzer, Max. That’s when.”

Fucking Pulitzer. That’s how I ended up on the front lawn of the Allie’s House compound, my camera slung heavily around my neck and my messenger bag stuck on the front gate covered in NO TRESPASSING signs. A fucking Pulitzer.

I’d give it back if it meant I could return to being a travel blogger with only a handful of yen in my pocket.

No. No, you wouldn’t. Then you wouldn’t have The New Yorker, you whiny bitch.

It’s like Daniel lives in my head now. My annoying fucking former classmate turned editor-in-chief. How the hell did he manage that anyway? His stories in the Lampoon only drew laughs because of how laughably bad they were.

Still, I don’t know why I’m so resistant. I can quit any time. I can start over. I can get hired somewhere else, pitch whatever I want—I have a Pulitzer, for fuck’s sake!

“You must be Maxwell.”

I nearly jump out of my skin, and I hear the telltale sound of my bag ripping slightly as the metal gate tears into the cactus leather. “Shit!” I look at my bag before I look at the speaker. Fortunately, it’s only slightly torn at the handle; we’ll be fine. Then I glance at the woman. The young woman. She’s gotta be only, what, twenty? Twenty-one? Who joins a cult fresh out of college?

Sorry, not a cult. A “community.”

“Max is fine,” I say gruffly and hold out my hand for her to shake. “I’m guessing you’re not Allie.”

She laughs, a wind-chime-y sound that makes my hair stand on end. She ignores my outstretched hand. “No, no. I’m Leah. You’ll meet Allie soon enough.”

Well that sounds fucking ominous.

“Come.” She waves her hand at me and doesn’t wait as I unhook my bag from the gate and hesitantly climb over it. She just keeps walking. For what it’s worth, she doesn’t look much like the God’s Love followers, who had committed to a lifetime of wearing only undyed cotton mumus, per their leader’s heavenly decree. But hey, not all cults are built the same, right?

Also unlike God’s Love, Allie’s House seems to be small, humble, oddly modern. Leah leads me up the grassy path to the farmhouse I’d noticed on my drive over. I only start to see more people as we get closer. Like Leah, they’re all wearing normal civilian clothes—jeans, band shirts, flannels—are those Doc Martens?

These people are weird. Weird in that they aren’t more weird.

Plus, they barely even look at me. At God’s Love, I’d gotten rushed at the front gate, covered in colorful leis and buried in hugs and affectionate words from complete strangers. At Allie’s House, everyone seems to be chatting and working the farm as if it’s just that: a farm. There’s a garden being tended, cows being led out to pasture, even a few farm dogs lolling about by their stainless steel water bowls. I guess this is what you’d call a commune. The Allie’s House members are of all races, ages, and cultures. For a cult, it’s strangely diverse. There are a few older men with turbans, a woman in a sari, and a gaggle of Cali girls with the latest iPhones. So they’re open to technology, I note to myself.

“How exciting that you want to do a story on us,” Leah is saying to me, forcing me to snap to attention. “I read your piece on God’s Love.” She raises an eyebrow at me, quirks a playful smile. “It was… harsh.”

I look back at her flatly. “Yes, well, the women were being sexually abused by the leader.”

She nods seriously. “You won’t find that here. Allie doesn’t do things like that. She really doesn’t do much at all.” Leah shrugs. She’s walking into the farmhouse now, so I guess I’m walking into the farmhouse now, and nobody seems to care.

“She doesn’t do much at all?” I repeat.

“That’s right. You’ll see. We’re almost there.”

“You’re… taking me straight to Allie?” I pause. She pauses as well, tilting her head at me.

“Yes. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Well, I… Usually I talk to the members first for a bit before meeting the leader. Just to get a lay of the land.”

At that, Leah laughs again. That freaky, twinkling sound. “One thing you should understand about Allie’s House is that we aren’t exactly a family, and we don’t pretend to be. We’re all here because of Allie. We stay to witness more of her miracles. She doesn’t ask anything of us, and we don’t ask anything of each other. It just made sense for us to make the farm self-sustaining so we’d all be around Allie in case another miracle occurred.” She leans in conspiratorially, and I lean back automatically. “Seeing Allie’s miracles is like an addiction. Once you witness her, you’ll never want to leave. Sometimes when I think about all of the miracles I missed out on before meeting her, I feel this pain in my heart.” She clutches her chest meaningfully. “But I’m here now. And I’ll make sure I see every miracle to come.”

I nod stiffly. “That sounds great.” Nice job, Max. Way to sound convincing. I clear my throat and fall in step with her as she continues her journey to the fabled Allie. “So, Allie performs miracles.”

Leah smiles up at me brightly. “Like nothing you’ve ever seen before and nothing you’ll ever see again.”

“Could you be more specific?”

She taps her chin thoughtfully. “It’s hard to be specific. Each miracle is so different. It’s like… trying to describe beauty. What is beauty? Is it a feeling we get? Is it a sound or a sight catching close to perfection? Is it a sunset, a person, a moment? Is it all around us, or do we create it in our own minds?”

Jesus fucking Christ. I resist the urge to sigh. Thankfully, Leah seems to be coming up on a room, so I don’t feel compelled to play philosopher with her. “Is this it?”

“Yes,” Leah says, her voice breathy with reverence. “Allie’s room. She doesn’t always stay in here. Sometimes we take her outside for some fresh air. I think she likes it.”

You… think?

Then Leah swings open the door without any further fanfare, and I’m met with the sight of a woman—Allie, no doubt—collapsed in a wheelchair, her eyes blank, her mouth hanging open slightly, her chest barely moving with weak breaths. Her dark hair falls into her face, probably tickling her cheek like an itch she’ll never be able to scratch. A chill moves through me, cold and quick. “This woman is in a vegetative state,” I hear myself say, my voice coming out stilted and raw.

Their leader… their leader is…

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Allie,” Leah says softly, sweeping over to the woman’s side and leaning down to speak into her ear. “This is Maxwell Houston. He’s a journalist who has come to see your miracles.”

I need to call someone. Allie looks half dead, and who knows from what. I wonder if, somewhere deep inside, she’s screaming at me, begging for me to save her from these little psychos who apparently just wheel her around the farmhouse and wait for her to “perform miracles.” But her eyes don’t move to look at me. They don’t move at all. For all I know, this woman is completely braindead.

Leah waves me over, motioning to Allie’s limp open palm. No fucking way. I am not holding this woman’s hand.

“I’m not sure she wants me to touch her,” I sputter out, standing stock still in the doorway, with no plans of ever moving from it.

“Please,” Leah says dismissively. “I don’t think she minds at all. Though, suit yourself. We’re not in the business of forcing people to do things they don’t want to do.”

Yeah, except for keeping this lady locked up like she’s your pet!

“Allie,” Leah continues, “I’ll see you soon, okay? For your walk around the property.” Then she returns to me, passes by to lead me back into the main living area. I stare back at Allie for a moment, as if I’m expecting her to give me a wink or something, but she’s just as silent and motionless as ever. It seems as though even a strong breeze couldn’t move a hair on her head. I’ve seen statues with more life than her.

I finally tear my gaze away and follow Leah, who’s humming happily to herself. “Is there a bathroom I can use?” I ask her. I keep my voice steady. Fuck fuck fuck this is creepy.

“Fourth door on the right,” she replies cheerfully, pointing one finger down the hall.

The second I shut the bathroom door behind me, I’m pulling out my phone. I text Daniel to call the cops and include the address. When he responds with an unencouraging “for what?” I reply, “wellness check.”

We’re out in the middle of fucking nowhere, several hours away from the nearest town, so I know I have to be patient.

The next few hours are spent at the kitchen table, my head bent over my laptop as I take notes and interview a select few volunteer members who seem happy to talk about their experiences at Allie’s House. As they chat, I occasionally snap pictures of them. My hands move robotically, automatically, as I keep my ears pricked for the sound of sirens.

“My first miracle was the poison cleansing.”

A few other members, sat around listening to my interviews, ooh and aah. “That was a beautiful one.” Leah, hovering behind me like a prison guard, wipes her teary eyes.

“Wasn’t it?” The interviewee turns to me. “My son—you’ll see him around here, I’m sure—well, he went berry picking on his own. He was only eleven at the time and came upon a snake. It bit him in the leg—right behind the knee! The bite was clearly venomous and horribly swollen and infected by the time he made it back to us. He’d collapsed on the front steps of the house, hardly able to make a sound. Alexei and Hasan ran in and wheeled Allie out. I was seconds away from dropping to my knees and begging when it happened. Allie… Allie saved my boy.” I want to ask more, like fucking how? But the woman is crying so heavily now that it hardly seems appropriate. I bite back my hundredth sigh today.

All the stories are the same. A man gets trapped in the well. Allie saves him! A child falls from a tree. Allie saves them! A mother is struggling during birth. Allie saves her and her baby! Allie’s giving Lassie a run for her fucking money.

And how, you may be asking yourself, does Allie save all these poor little fuckers?

Who knows? Because I sure don’t.

They all skip over that part, like it’s impossible to describe or maybe some kind of sworn secret. Either way, there isn’t a story here. There’s only a possible hostage situation.

Cue the panicked yelling. Fucking finally.

“Police are here!” a young man cries. He bursts into the home and repeats, “The police are here,” in a breathless, frightened voice. I dare a glance at Leah, who’s frowning at me.

Obviously this is my fault, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Should I get my shotgun?” the man asks.

Shotgun? Fuck. I gotta get out of here.

“No! No guns.”

“But what if—”

“Allie will protect us if necessary.”

“It’s true! Allie always protects us.”

“Wheel her out!”

“No, hide her in the shed.”

“We have nothing to hide. Everyone needs to calm down!”

As they squabble, I quickly pack my things, then sneak through the crowd to the front door. No one stops me as I leave. Outside the farmhouse, people are running around in a panic as the police cruiser ambles up the pasture. Looks like they cut the lock on the gate to get in. I walk up to the car as the officer rolls down the window. He and his partner glance up at me.

“You the one that called?”

“More or less. You probably got the call from my boss. I texted him.”

“What’s the deal here?” The cop’s eyes travel across the scattering people surrounding the farmhouse. “This some kind of commune?”

“A cult. They’ve got this woman in a wheelchair that I think they’re keeping hostage. Though she doesn’t seem capable of speaking or communicating, so it’s hard to know if she wants them here or not.”

“A woman in a wheelchair?” the partner asks.

“That woman?” The cop nods at something behind me.

Guess they decided to wheel her out after all. Allie looks the same as before, her body bouncing limply in her wheelchair as they push her across the gravelly driveway surrounding the house.

“Yeah, that’s—”

The cop’s hand flies out of the car, pushing me to the ground as he shouts something that sounds like “Get down!” His partner flings open their door and crouches behind it, gun drawn. “Put the gun down,” one of them barks at someone in the distance. I feel a bit of blood on my cheek—a scrape from hitting something on the way down. I glance up, my hands trembling weakly as I steady myself low to the ground.

The followers are screaming now as they flee for hiding spots. Beside Allie is the young man from before, the one who’d wanted to get his gun.

Well, he got it. And he’s aiming it right at the cop car. “Get out of here!” he shouts, his voice cracking. “We don’t want you here!”

One of the female followers is wailing, trying to get to him as the others hold her back. His mother? His lover? I can’t tell from this distance.

“I said, put it down,” the cop shouts, loud enough to make me flinch. “We’re not here to cause any trouble.”

“Leave us the fuck alone!” The young man yells back, and he moves in just the wrong way to make it look like he’s about to fire.

The cops are faster, more trigger happy, who the fuck knows, but the loud crack of their guns going off has my hands automatically shooting up to cover my ears.

Then it happens.

Time slows.

I can see them, the bullets from the cops’ guns, spinning their way through the air, heading toward the young man at a languid, drifting pace. Allie rises from her chair. No, she doesn’t just rise. She floats. She floats higher and higher, her clothes fluttering in the wind as if it were thick as water. Her eyes are bright, alive, her mouth shut in a small smile, her hair swirling around her like a dark cloud. It would be frightening, and she would be unrecognizable, if she were not so… beautiful.

She moves with a grace that is indescribable, like a ballet dancer floating through space and time, like a dove at the first unfurling of its petal-light wings. She flies toward the bullets, taking them in her hands as if she were just plucking olives from the low branches of a tree, her body spinning through the air with the fluidity of a surfer cresting a wave.

I can’t tear my eyes away. Especially not when her gaze meets mine, her eyes crackling with a warmth and power like I’ve never seen before. Like an angel. Like a god. She smiles at me—I have been forgiven.

My cheek stops bleeding.

In a wide circle, she dives up and back, returning to her people, who are still stumbling away slowly, their eyes wide with love and reverence as they turn their faces up to her graceful figure. She removes the gun from the young man’s hands with a gentle touch as he watches her with tearful, loving eyes, and delicately places the now stilled bullets into his palms. She lays the shotgun on the ground, then carefully returns to her wheelchair.

Time speeds back to pace. I collapse onto the ground, my arms forgetting to steady me, and I see many others fall in the same way. The followers drop to their knees, crying and wailing praises for Allie, now still once more in her wheelchair. The young man buries his face in Allie’s lap, sobbing what I can only assume are repeated apologies and thanks.

The sound of boots hitting the earth pulls my attention back to the cops beside me. They’re crying too, almost as if they can’t help themselves, their eyes transfixed on Allie, their guns lowered in their shaky hands.

I’m crying too, I realize. When did I start crying?

I stumble to my feet and follow the cops to Allie, now frozen with that same empty look on her face from before.

“Thank you,” I hear myself saying.

“Thank you,” I hear the cops saying.

“Thank you,” I hear everyone saying.

I join the young man on my knees before Allie. I rest my head in her lap beside him. His eyes, streaming with tears, meet mine.

Understanding.

I understand now.

I will never leave.