[Round The Fire] The Gospel Of Haven - Chapter 1: Incubation

Offer a message for your place around the fire.

A ragged but resolute group of friends has appeared on the slopes of Wolf Mountain, bringing stories and companionship aplenty.  We do give them welcome.  

The Gospel Of Haven is a religious horror podcast set inside Haven, an isolated community dwelling within the body of the god they worship. It explores autonomy, the power of faith, and individual identity. Created by the minds behind Eeler’s Choice, Poe: Evermore, and SCP Archives.  

Season 2 will be bigger and better than ever- more characters, more episodes, and a look at the world outside of Haven’s walls. It’s time to explore how we got here and where we go.  

Season 2 will release July 31,  2026.  

Dr. Rebecca Moore is voiced by Janine Bower.  
Isiah Whitlock is voiced by B. Narr.  
Shiloh Crane is voiced by Kale Brown.  
Rachel Pierce is voiced by Nhea Durousseau.  
Naomi Henderson is voiced by Bailey Wolfe.  
Zaley Allen is voiced by Jordan Cobb.  

Theme song by Skip K.D.  

Sound design by Derrick Valen.  
Music by Dana Creasman.  
Art by Kalgalen.    
Written, edited and produced by Daisy McNamara.  
Executive Producer is Pacific S. Obadiah.  

Produced by Eelsong Studios and Bloody FM.  

Find The Gospel of Haven on Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts. Visit daisymcnamara.com for more information.  

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/EelsongStudios 

Tumblr:  https://www.tumblr.com/thegospelofhaven  

Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/thegospelofhaven.bsky.social

The Gospel of Isiah, Chapter 1, Verse 1.

The heart in the wall was leaking again.

Normally, the liquid exuded by a living organ would be absorbed by the flesh cavity surrounding it and repurposed; but this heart oozed strong-smelling fluid at a rate even the god-flesh couldn’t match. It nearly filled the bowl Isiah’s mother had placed underneath it to catch the drippings, but they didn’t want to be the one to dump it out. Vital liquids stained clothes and left your skin stinking, so that chore they were happy to shove off onto someone else. Their family shouldn’t even be taking care of this, really. 
Hearts, as a vital organ, were highly prized in Haven, and they were typically kept close to the central chambers of the community. But, Isiah’s great-uncle Luke had sacrificed the heart, and the replacement Haven had provided had failed him early. Only a few weeks after his heart had been removed, the red jewel shining in his chest had sputtered and winked out unexpectedly, ending Uncle Luke’s separate life and beginning his united life before its natural time. The surgeon-priest at the time had expressed regret for the loss, which, while not unheard of, was rare, and allowed Isiah’s family to be custodians of Luke’s heart as recompense. 
The honor therein provided them with slightly higher status among the citizens of Haven, and they were called upon less often to make sacrifice. Isiah wasn’t sure if that was so their care of the heart was uninterrupted, or because it had been proven that their family had a history of rejecting Haven’s replacement organs. The last, they’d never know. No one would dare speak such heresy aloud. To reject a replacement would be to reject the very flesh of Haven itself, and that would be unthinkable.  

The Whitlock family was not shunned, after the death of their patriarch. He died for Haven, which was heroic. But his death brought the shadow of failure onto his surviving relatives. Isiah had never been... popular among their peers. They asked too many questions, stared too much, were direct to the point of bluntness. After great uncle Luke, only a few of their peers would deign to share more than a few words with Isiah over lunch or in the hall. They did not resent this. Isiah knew that they were strange, and the taint of strangeness was catching. They cherished the friends who didn’t fear that contagion and counted themself lucky.

Those friendships had served them well for the last three days, as they’d been able to arrange to be at Leah’s or Matthew’s for dinner. Their mother always dumped out the bowl before cooking in the evening, so the scent didn’t fill the kitchen during meals and put them off their feed. But their luck couldn’t last forever. When they shouldered their backpack and attempted to slip out the door at 6:45, they were brought up short by a grip on their ear. 
JUDITH: “And where are you going?”
 Their mother demanded. Isiah pawed at her hand ineffectually.
ISIAH: “Mom, you don’t need to grab me, I’m just going to Matthew’s.” 
Isiah’s mother smiled. 
JUDITH: “Empty the bowl before you go.”
Their shoulders slumped.
ISIAH: “Mommmmmm-”
The grip on their ear tightened to a pinch. Just for a moment. 
JUDITH: “You can laze about with your friends AFTER the chores are done, and not before.” 
Their mother had a will of steel and fingernails to match. Isiah sagged in defeat.
(Director’s note: Isiah sounds resigned until the task is done)
ISIAH:  “Okay.”
 Their mother let go with a more genuine smile. She walked towards the kitchen, calling over her shoulder.
JUDITH:  “Tell Amalia hello for me, and that I’m grateful for the knitting pattern she lent me.”
ISIAH: “Yes, Mom.”
 Isiah replied, dropping their bag by the door as they pulled on the apron and gloves required when opening the heart chamber. The clothes had been blessed by Dr. Moore herself, and the apron was embroidered in an arterial red with the prayers of incisions. 
Technically, one was supposed to recite the prayers whenever they opened the chamber, in thanks to Haven for allowing them access to its sacred body. Isiah just held their breath to avoid the smell. It didn’t work. The bone china of the bowl on the floor of the chamber was almost completely obscured by the greenish pus that filled it to the brim. The heart above beat steadily, but every pump sent drops of fluid splattering outward, sliding off Isiah’s apron and onto the ground. They swallowed hard to keep their gorge from rising and picked up the bowl, moving slowly so as not to spill any of the vile stuff on the ground, or worse, themself. 
Six steps to the opening in the wall that led to the waste disposal pipes. They fumbled for the hatch with one hand, unlatching it with difficulty. Their mother’s voice stopped them. 
JUDITH: “The PRAYERS, Isiah.” 
Isiah thought a quiet curse. Of course she had to come back and delay them when they were almost done. They need to breathe to speak. They took a deep breath through their mouth, tasting green viscera on their tongue. 

(Director’s Note: Fast and frantic prayer)
ISIAH: “Thank you, oh great Haven, whose body houses us, whose flesh feeds us, who’s blood bathes us, for taking this which we consign to you for your use, as all things are and will be, amen.” 
Isiah’s prayers were more frantic than pious, and they could sense their mother’s disapproval, but she didn’t insist they repeat them again, 
JUDITH: “Like you MEAN it, Isiah!”. 
They were free to dump the liquid into the vein, close the hatch and return the bowl to the floor of the heart chamber. They shucked off the apron and gloves with relief.
Isiah stopped to give their mother a kiss on the cheek before retreating to their room to find a bottle of squashflower water Matthew had given them for their last birthday, infused from the imperfect blossoms he picked at his afterschool job on the hydroponics level. Isiah dabbed the water at their wrists, neck, and put a good sized drop under their nose, for good measure. The smell didn’t go away completely, but it receded enough Isiah could manage to keep their stomach from rolling. A change of clothes, and they were out the door in search of cleaner air, and to avoid their mother’s eyes boring into their back, worry and sternness mingling in her gaze. No parenting advice group on Haven ever spoke on what to do with an impious child.

Isiah didn’t want to worry her. They knew both of their parents feared what a reputation of disobedience could spell for their future. But they couldn’t help it. Even when they tried, and they did try, they couldn’t understand why they weren’t supposed to ask questions. Why things must be done the way they had always been.

They hunched their shoulders under their backpack. They’d grow out of it. Everyone said teenagers grew out of unfortunate habits. They didn’t pick their skin anymore. This would be no different.

Even in their own head, the words sounded unconvincing. Isiah knew that there was something fundamentally wrong about them. Their fervent hope was that no one else found out.

Lost in thought, Isiah didn’t notice the flags until they were at Matthew’s door. Their stomach twisted. A white square of fabric with a red scalpel emblazoned on it hung over the door. Someone in the family had been chosen for a sacrifice. Isiah stopped dead, trying to calm their racing heart.

It would be fine. Almost everyone who made sacrifices came out of it alive and well.

Mostly. If their movements were a little different, if they seemed a bit dazed, well, major surgery would do that to a person.

It would be fine.

Isiah rubbed their palms against their pants, trying to hide the sweat that coated them. They fixed a smile on their face for the benefit of the empty hallway, then turned and walked away.

They waited until they were around the corner before speeding up. They couldn’t run. People would wonder why. But they walked quickly.

Another shame. Another silent heresy. Another thing no one, NO ONE, could ever, ever find out.

To sacrifice a part of one’s body for the good of the community was an act of outstanding service.

It was selfless. Moreover; it was natural. Every citizen in Haven would be expected to do it at some time in their life. The especially pious or favored might sacrifice several times. It was the highest of honors.

It horrified Isiah.

This was of course, the highest of heresies. The body and the soul belonged to Haven. It only spent some time separate from the heavenly flesh of the facility for the sake of providing maintenance. Isiah knew this. Every child born of Haven knew it as surely as they knew their own name. But no matter what they did, Isiah couldn’t seem to squash the desire to remain apart. To stay in their separate life and never move on to the next stage.

Isiah accepted their failures. They were a heretic, but they would not be allowed to practice any of the falsehoods they wondered about. They would choose a partner, have children, sacrifice, and be taken into the body of Haven. No one would ever know. No one could ever know.

But they still walked briskly, frozen smile plastered on their face, in the vain hopes that a little distance from the flags would buy them time to escape the knife entirely.













Rebecca

The Book of Haven, Gospel of Rebecca, Chapter 1, Verse 1.

“Shhhh,” Rebecca crooned.
Her hand was steady on the knife as she skillfully guided it along the dotted line that would become the incision. Her other hand stroked the hair of the donor. His name is Gerald, a fifty-two year old hydroponics worker. Four children, and a wife, Amalia. This was his third sacrifice. Rebecca approved of Gerald. He did his work well, provided Haven with a fine set of children, and submitted to the knife without complaint and with a minimum of whimpering. A model citizen, in her opinion. No wonder he was chosen to be blessed by her scalpel this many times. Gerald had given a lung, a liver, and now his pancreas to their god. 
She could see the ruby glow of the substitute organs shining beneath his skin, growing brighter as she opened him. Gerald did not complain, but she kept up a steady stream of soothing chatter and gentle touches anyway. She did not address any comments to him directly, to spare him the effort of composing a response when he was focusing on remaining still. Instead, she spoke to Crane, her chief deacon. Their discussion was unimportant enough to take up almost none of her concentration. She was fully intent on her task, in perfect union with her duty and the man on the table and her god. 
His hands clenched, white knuckled, as his pain worsened.  She smiled reassuringly, though he could not see it. “You’re doing fine. Almost there.” Gerald nodded quickly, his teeth digging into his lip to suppress whimpers. Rebecca did not hasten her movements. Her work would be done in good time.
(Director’s Note: True reverence and faith in these prayers)
She found it helped the donors to hold fast through the discomfort if they were reminded of the reason behind it. So, Rebecca prayed. She spoke the truths upon which Haven’s society was based. The body of the individual was nothing but a component for the body of the god, the home, in which they resided. All came from Haven. All would return to Haven. Gerald was participating in that glorious purpose, bringing himself closer to their god by becoming a part of it in body and soul, and when their separate life was over, they would be reunited with all who came before within the very body of their god, the cradle that held all there would ever be. 
Gerald seemed to calm a little at her voice. The prayers were often a comfort to her donors, and she’d said them more times than she could count. Rebecca did not need to pay attention to the words. She was watching the organs.
 Enter the lesser sac, take down the hepatic flexure… Rebecca barely noticed the surgery itself. She’d performed it dozens of times. The substitution was the most dangerous part. She had to place the soma in the exact position occupied by the organ, and coax it to assimilate into the body. Gently, she lifted Gerald’s pancreas from the abdominal cavity and placed the ruby sphere into the gap. 
The soma lay motionless. 
(Director’s Note, Nerves but controlled)
For a long moment, Rebecca’s heart dropped. Perhaps this was a rejection. Unlikely, so unlikely, with two successful sacrifices before, but not impossible. She reached to caress the substitute. Her hands were slick with blood and viscera, and it was hard to get a grip. She settled for a hand placed over the substitute. 
“You know what you want to be.” It was hard to give a whisper authority, but Rebecca had been doing this for a very long time. “His flesh is your flesh. His blood is your blood. His body is your body.” The sphere began to shudder under her hands, then to elongate. She could cheer, but continued her prayer. No stopping now. “His heart beats for you. His lungs breathe for you. He is you and you are him, as you are all of us. You are not separate. You are one being. Accept his flesh, for it is yours. Accept your flesh, for it is his.” The soma writhed, wriggling and stretching, until it settled into place. Once it was impossible to tell where flesh ended and substitute began, Rebecca took her hand away. She allowed herself a moment to catch her breath. Then, conscious of the time her donor had spent opened on the altar, she got back to work.

The process of closing the body cavity and settling the sacrificed organ into an ice box to be subsumed into the body of Haven was a simple one. Gerald was on his feet and on his way home in under half an hour, though his gray face and unsteady feet showed just how close they had come to a rejection today. If he realized that, he didn't say as much to Rebecca, just clapped her on the shoulder with a “Thank you, Doctor” and a promise for tea the next time she was in his corridor. Rebecca thanked him politely and sent him on his way. She waited until the door was closed before allowing her shoulders to sag.
It was too close. It’d been too close too many times now. She would have thought that it was her, that her faith was waning or her hands were unsteady, but the deacons had noticed it too. Their own ministrations to the god were less effective. Infections were growing more common, sacrifices rejected, and now, even a man who’d sacrificed multiple times with no issues nearly passed on her altar with no explanation.

Rebecca knew in her marrow that something was wrong with Haven.


Her chief deacon, Crane, raised their eyebrows at her.

REBECCA: “What?” 
Rebecca sighed, stretching her arms overhead to get the kinks out of her back.

CRANE: “Again.” 
Crane said. Their eyes were on her, but their hands did not slow or falter as they wrote the report of the sacrifice, steady as her own on the scalpel. She didn’t know how she’d manage without Crane. Their head for numbers and passion for forms kept Haven’s day to day affairs running and allowed her to focus on the spiritual health of the community. They passed her the form, and pen, and she signed with a flourish. The reddish brown ink dried almost immediately, she noted with approval. There had been an issue with the blood that supplied the last batch. It had gone hours without drying, making writing ANYTHING a nightmare. She’d had to personally supervise the cleaning and blessing of the veins. But, work well spent.

With reluctance, she returned Crane’s gaze. The concern in them matched her own. But, the chief surgeon-priest of Haven did not have the luxury of nerves. If she panicked, her faithful would panic. So, she offered them a smile.

REBECCA: “Almost, again. The soma took with a little encouragement. He’ll be fine.”

Crane snorted.
CRANE:  “He’s lucky to be walking out of here under his own power. Rebecca, if a man with two successful sacrifices under his belt comes that close to failure-“

REBECCA:“I know.” 
Rebecca cut them off sharply. In another person, that remark would border on heresy. If she didn’t know the deep anxiety that led to Crane’s bluntness, she might have allowed the annoyance that spiked at their words to blossom into rage. But Crane wasn’t wrong.
REBECCA: ‘Let’s not focus entirely on the bad here, Crane.  Gerald is fine. The sacrifice was successful, and we can implant the donation into the education level.”

CRANE: “I’m not focusing entirely on the bad. There’s so much bad that I can’t think of much good to talk about.” 
Crane replied, waspish and stiff.

Rebecca sighed once more. She placed a comforting hand on their shoulder.
REBECCA: “I’m not trying to belittle your concerns. You’re not wrong to worry. But you need to have faith in our work.
Nothing can happen that is against the will of Haven.”

For some reason, this wasn’t enough. Rebecca’s eyes flitted to the ceiling. Most of the walls, ceilings, and floors of Haven were covered with flat bone tiles, to avoid contamination of the divine flesh by the mundane mess of mortal living. But here, in the operating room, the ceilings and walls had multiple spots left bare, to allow the donors to be close enough to their god to touch. Rebecca had always felt at her most safe in rooms like these. Here, under the watchful eye of Haven, she was unable to shake the conviction that all will be well. How could anything so all encompassing as the very body they reside in be fallible?

Crane, as far as she can tell, did not share her comfort. Their devotion to their duty had always been admirable, and their skill had well made up for this lack, but she wouldn’t be able to induce obedience by appealing to faith alone.

Before they could open their mouth, she headed them off.
REBECCA: “After services  tomorrow, I’d like to start a proper diagnosis. Will you ask Martha to take the reading so we can focus on it?”

The peace offering worked. She could see some of the tension in their shoulders release.
CRANE: “I’ll speak to her.”

Rebecca gave them another reassuring smile.
REBECCA: “Relax, Crane. Have faith.”