In the hollows of the Ozarks, a crumbling white clapboard meeting hall stands at the end of a gravel road. Luna steps up to the pulpit, dust motes spinning in the bare bulb light, and opens a hymnal whose pages are yellowed and warped, as if soaked through by something other than rain. Each episode of this anthology is a self-contained story drawn from the hymnal's entries — accounts of congregations that held too many closed-door sessions, of hymns that echoed through empty woods long after the last singer left. A deacon's wife who began speaking in languages that predate the church. A Sunday school teacher who found a child's prayer answered in flesh that should have stayed buried. The choir director who could hear the harmonies of the damned. Luna narrates these tales with the same hush she'd use in a confessional, her voice the only sound in the hall save the creak of pews and the whisper of paper. Each visit to the compound peels back another layer of the faith that sustains this place — and the rot beneath the floorboards. Some hymns are sung only once. Some are never finished. Enter the meeting hall. Turn the page. But do not hum along.

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