Presented by Vincent Cheung
In the vast, ceaseless hum of cyberspace, where the thoughts of the world converged and collided in endless threads, forums, and feeds, there lived a man named Ethan Griggs. He was not a remarkable man, though he believed himself to be. His mind buzzed with borrowed convictions, second-hand theology that he regurgitated with the fervor of the self-assured. He prowled Christian forums like a scavenger, hunting for opportunities to correct, rebuke, and condemn, cloaking his words in the guise of orthodoxy.
Ethan’s laptop screen glowed in the dim room, a blue-white rectangle of judgment. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, poised to strike as he scrolled through a discussion on miracles. The thread was aflame with testimonies—accounts of healings, deliverance, baptism of the Holy Spirit, speaking in tongues, prophecy, and visions. Ethan sneered. Fools, he thought. Signs and wonders have ceased. These people are deceived by their own emotions, mistaking human feelings for divine acts.
He began typing. His words, like arrows dipped in scorn, flew fast and unrelenting:
“Miracles ceased with the apostles. This so-called ‘healing’ is nothing but emotional manipulation and spiritual delusion. You call this the Holy Spirit? This is nothing more than the product of misguided fervor.”
He hit “Post” with the finality of a gavel striking wood. The comment appeared, stark and venomous, among the others. Ethan leaned back in his chair, satisfied. The truth, he believed, needed defenders, and he was one of the few brave enough to wield it.
But something strange happened as his words settled into the thread. The cursor blinked on the screen, unnervingly steady. The glow of the laptop seemed to intensify, spilling a cold light that painted his walls in sharp relief. A notification popped up—a reply to his comment. He smirked, ready to demolish another misguided soul.
The reply was from an unfamiliar username: Paraclete_117.
“You have spoken carelessly. Retract your words, though perhaps it is already too late.”
Ethan chuckled. “Too late for what?” he muttered as he began typing:
“Another one duped by so-called ‘miracles.’ You can’t even discern the Spirit of truth from the spirit of error. Pathetic.”
He clicked “Post” again, but instead of his comment appearing, the screen froze. The cursor blinked once more, and then the reply changed.
“Blasphemy against the Spirit will not be forgiven.”
A chill crept into the room. The laptop fan whirred loudly, then stopped altogether, leaving a silence so complete it felt oppressive. Ethan frowned and pressed keys, but nothing responded. The screen began to flicker, words rewriting themselves across the frozen display:
“By your words, you are condemned.”
His heart raced as the screen filled with text—his own words, every mockery and denial he had ever typed. Each comment scrolled by in a parade of arrogance: accusations of fraud, dismissals of testimonies, and mocking denials of their validity. They scrolled faster and faster, a digital mirror reflecting his soul.
“Stop this,” he whispered, his voice trembling. But the screen obeyed another master.
A new line appeared, bold and searing in the pale glow:
“You have insulted the work of the Spirit. You have called the Holy Spirit a deceiver. Save yourself, Ethan Griggs. if you can.”
He slammed the lid of the laptop shut, but the light spilled out through the cracks. The device hissed like something alive, and he flung it onto the floor. His phone buzzed on the desk, drawing his gaze. A notification banner lit the screen: Paraclete_117 has replied to your post.
With shaking hands, Ethan picked up the phone. He unlocked it and opened the app. The same words greeted him:
“Blasphemy against the Spirit will not be forgiven.”
“Who are you?” he shouted at the screen, his voice cracking.
The phone vibrated violently, and a reply appeared. “Paraclete.”
Ethan dropped the phone as if it had burned him. The words on the screen burned themselves into his mind, each letter branded onto his thoughts. He stumbled away, but the devices came to life—laptop… phone, even the smart speaker on the shelf. They chanted in unison, their synthetic voices echoing through the room:
“Every careless word… Every careless word… Every careless word…”
The screens showed visions now: faces of those who had testified of healing, their joy mocked by Ethan’s comments; preachers casting out demons, their faith scorned by his dismissals. Then came another image: a courtroom, with Ethan himself standing as the accused. The accuser spoke with a voice like thunder, reading aloud the words Ethan had typed. His accusations against the Spirit of God were evidence against him, each sentence a chain wrapping tighter around his soul.
“No!” Ethan screamed. “I didn’t mean it! I was defending the faith!”
The voice replied, calm and unyielding:
“You have spoken. By your words you are justified, and by your words you are condemned.”
The laptop screen went black, and the room fell silent. Ethan collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath, his heart pounding like a war drum. The devices were lifeless now, but the words lingered, etched into the stillness: Blasphemy against the Spirit will not be forgiven.
Days later, Ethan’s forum account vanished, erased without trace. His name faded from the threads, his voice silenced among the cacophony of online debates. But those who had seen Ethan’s words would not forget. They whispered of Ethan’s vanishing presence, and the cryptic warnings that had appeared in the threads—messages that seemed to echo judgment from a source beyond the screen.
And in the corners of cyberspace, where light and shadow interwove, the username Paraclete_117 would appear again, a sentinel against those who dared to mock the Spirit and defy his works.