Chapter 2: Chapel Showdown and Revelation

“No—I’m telling them myself!”

The river spirit swept up the nine girls and me, whisking us straight to the mortal world, headed for her chapel.

I barely had time to process the shift—one second, underwater; the next, standing on solid ground in front of a little white church overlooking the river, sunlight glinting off its stained glass.

“Look, the chapel they built for me.”

She pointed at the little white church with its steeple and stained glass, looking oddly proud. It was a sign of the people’s reverence for her.

She sounded almost wistful, like someone showing off a trophy from better days. The place had that small-town charm: the kind of chapel where everyone knew your name, where hymnals were dog-eared and bake sales were legendary.

Then we were stopped at the entrance by the chapel caretaker.

“You girls know better than to come in here. You’ll just rile up the spirit.”

The nine girls, the river spirit, and I all stared, wide-eyed.

You could’ve heard a pin drop. Even the river spirit’s jaw dropped for a second before her expression hardened.

“Who said so?” The river spirit blinked, then exploded. With a shout, a wild wind whipped up, rattling pews and blowing out candles inside the chapel.

The sky darkened, thunder rumbled, and the stained glass flickered with shadows. The caretaker’s face went pale as the wind howled through the chapel like a warning.

“See? The river spirit is angry! All of you, leave—don’t come near the chapel again!”

The caretaker was terrified, brandishing his broom and shooing us out.

He waved the broom like it was Excalibur, hands shaking so hard he nearly dropped it. The irony of shooing the river spirit out of her own chapel wasn’t lost on me.

The river spirit’s fury spiked; the pride from earlier was gone.

She clenched her fists, the air around her crackling. For a second, I thought she’d actually do it—tear the place down.

The nine girls and I quickly stopped her, coaxing and comforting her in gentle voices.

We reached out—soft words, hands on her arms, like calming a friend after a bad breakup. The energy in the air eased a little.

“My lady, folks don’t know your true identity. That’s why there’s this misunderstanding. Let’s just explain and clear things up.”

I sighed, worried it wouldn’t be so easy.

I looked at the chapel, the river, the stubborn lines on the caretaker’s face. Sometimes, explanations just weren’t enough.

With the nine girls coaxing her, the river spirit grudgingly calmed down, then simply waved her hand and rose into the air, hovering above the chapel.

Her figure shimmered, rising with the wind—draped in water and moonlight, a sight both beautiful and terrifying. Honestly, she looked like something out of a movie.

“I am the River Spirit of Maple Hollow. Let everyone come see me.”

Her commanding voice sliced through the air, echoing across town. Within moments, a commotion broke out as people gathered before the chapel.

The sound carried over the rooftops, pulling folks from porches and shops—even the barber stepped outside, scissors in hand—drawing a crowd like a Fourth of July parade gone sideways.

The caretaker at the door, still holding his broom, was stunned and trembling, scared out of his mind.

He shrank into the doorway, mouth open, broom forgotten at his side. For once, he had nothing to say.

I looked up at the river spirit. She hovered in the air, her face dignified and majestic, her presence otherworldly, her dress billowing—truly extraordinary.

Honestly, she looked like something out of a dream—untouchable, powerful, and yet so deeply alone.

More and more people gathered. Some, seeing the river spirit’s fluttering robes, hurriedly knelt and prayed, their faces full of awe.

A few older folks dropped to their knees, crossing themselves, murmuring prayers they’d learned as kids. The rest just stared, wide-eyed, unsure whether to run or worship.

But most people looked confused, staring up at the figure in the sky with puzzled faces.

I caught snatches of whispered debate: "Is that really her?" "Since when was the river spirit a woman?" "Looks like a trick to me."

When most people didn’t kneel, the river spirit’s face darkened.

The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. You could practically taste it.

“Why don’t you kneel when you see me?”

The river spirit’s words came down heavy with anger, and everyone felt a weight on their heads. Many were bent by the pressure.

It was as if the air had gotten heavier, pressing everyone toward the ground. Even the bravest among them wavered, backs bent.

Everyone was about to kneel, when suddenly someone shouted, trembling, “She’s not the river spirit! Don’t believe her!”

A ripple of shock moved through the crowd. I craned my neck, searching for the source of the voice.

Surprised, I looked for the source of the voice and saw it was the caretaker, still clutching his broom.

His voice was shrill, but it carried. Even the river seemed to pause for a moment, listening.

Seeing everyone’s eyes on him, his body trembled even more, but he gritted his teeth and shouted louder, “How could the river spirit be a woman? Don’t be fooled by this demon!”

His words did the trick—they stirred up doubt in the crowd.

People shifted uneasily, exchanging nervous glances. Doubt was contagious, and the caretaker had just lit the match.

The old stories ran deep around here. For generations, the river spirit had been a man in every story, every painting, every statue.

Even with the truth in their faces, people balked.

Some folks clung to the old stories like a lifeline, refusing to let go even as the truth stared them in the face.

Called a demon, the river spirit snapped; with a wave, the sky broke—wild wind and a sheet of rain.

Lightning split the sky. The river churned, and rain lashed down so hard it stung. The chapel groaned in protest.

The chapel collapsed in the storm, and after the roof was blown off, the imposing statue of the river spirit—square-jawed, muscular, and male—was revealed inside the hall.

The rain washed away years of dust, exposing the stone figure in all its masculine glory. Of course he had abs. The irony was almost too much.

The fleeing, crying people saw the statue and immediately found their backbone, kneeling down to beg the river spirit to show his power and drive away the demon.

They pressed their foreheads to the ground, calling out for the river spirit’s protection. They didn’t even look up at the real one hovering overhead.

This act enraged the river spirit even more. Her eyes turned red, and she summoned lightning to strike the statue, which instantly turned to dust.

The thunder was deafening. The statue crumbled, leaving only a smoking crater. Silence fell, thick and heavy.

The chaotic crowd suddenly fell silent. After a moment, as if they finally realized what had happened, furious shouts erupted among them.

“That demon woman destroyed the god statue!”

“Get her! Get the demon woman!”

“The river spirit statue must not be desecrated!”

The place went nuts. People shouted and cursed, picking up rocks and hurling them at the sky without care.

Panic turned to fury. Rocks sailed through the air, and the mob surged forward like a tidal wave of anger and fear.

I ducked and dodged among the crowd, afraid of being hit by flying stones, but accidentally bumped into someone.

My heart thudded in my chest. I muttered a quick apology, then looked up—and froze.