His eyes snapped shut; his body simply couldn't handle the exhaustion any longer. He couldn't keep them open. A faint sizzling sound reached him from the distance, a tiny anchor to the waking world. He was balanced on the very edge of consciousness, that strange liminal space between awake and asleep where his senses felt as sharp as a hawk on a hunt, yet his body was leaden. At least this is better than being on the wrong side of the Lord of the Living, he thought, the words forming slowly in his mind. His nervous system, humming with the recent chaos, had only just begun to cool down, soothed by the simple knowledge that he was not alone.
In the rectory, Sarah, still cooking, started pacing. The food bubbled and spat on the stove, filling the combined sitting room, dining area, and kitchen with the rich, savory scent of stew. She moved through the rooms past the store laundry, another storage room, the dimly lit chapel. Her eyes scanned the space, landing on the tabernacle. She genuflected automatically, the motion a ghost of a memory, and left. She opened another door.
It was an office. Books lined the walls, their spines bearing the names of dense theological authors. Then she saw three books laid out on the table. He could feel her walking around his house. But he couldn't get up. This was the closest he had come to sleep in what felt like an age. Better to let her be.
She walked to the desk, the old floortiles scratching softly under her weight, and sat in the Preston Leder chair. Its worn leather sighed as she settled into it.
One of the books was labeled St. Denis Catholic Church. Death Records. It was large and wide, its purpose obvious. Opening it, she found a ledger filled with names, dates of birth and death, baptismal card codes and numbers, all in perfect order. With each flip of the page, the handwriting changed, the ink fading from crisp black to watery blue and sepia, the paper growing more brittle and worn by the hands of time.
The other book, a journal, had no name on its cover. Opening the first page revealed "Fr. Bernard," a date, and his signature. She opened a chunk of the book. It was filled with names: Felicia, David's mom, little Lizzie... on and on and on. Events were written with painful accuracy. That catastrophic date, 16 Sept. News of 7 children dying in a fire during a party. Then, Date 17, January. The girl that got hit by a car on my way home from my sister's place. I am not sure if she was baptized. Hope she is granted eternal life. The ink there looked faded, and a simple heart was drawn in black ink beside the note. Something cold and sharp clicked into place in her mind. She ran to the kitchen, her heart in her throat, to see the pot bubbling over. She grabbed it, the metal handle searing her palm for a fleeting second, and moved it from the fire. She served a portion into a bowl for it to cool before the man with the bloodshot eyes emerged to chow down.
Intrigued and unsettled, she went back to the office. She opened the third journal. The first entry she saw read, Now that I am ordained, I can perform my promised ministry to God. She opened a chunk of the book to a random page. I guess the devotion I choose is like service to the poor who can't help themselves.
Another random page: A bell in my head now rings 11:30 exactly to wake me up for Mass. It's nice. I am happy about that.
Another random page: The bell woke me up again today, 11:30 as always, for my vigils. When the Body of Christ was raised, I saw something move in the distance, a shadow detaching itself from the others.
Random page: I have been hearing screams in my...
She snapped the book shut with a dull thud. She noticed her hands and legs were shaking, a fine tremor she couldn't control. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. She took several deep, shuddering breaths, the air cool in her lungs, hoping to slow the frantic rhythm.
She walked to the front of Fr. Bernard's room and knocked softly on the door. "The food is ready." Bernard opened his eyes. His mind felt a bit refreshed, the gritty fog of exhaustion slightly lifted. I wouldn't call that sleep, he thought, but it was good enough. He sat up from his bed, the old frame groaning in protest.
She asked through the door, her voice tight, "Father, please, what is the time?"
"Fifteen minutes to five," he responded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
She replied quickly, "Father, please, I have to go. Practice starts by five."
He replied, "Sarah, okay, you can go. Tell me when you are going home, okay?"
"Yes, Father," she replied.
She hurried to the exit, her footsteps echoing in the quiet rectory, and bolted for the church, the heavy door swinging shut behind her with a solid, final sound
His eyes felt clearer, his mind rested. He was still tired, but it was a vast improvement. He went to the bathroom, the cold water from the tap shocking him awake as he brushed his teeth. He splashed water on his face, the droplets tracing icy paths .
He walked to the kitchen cabinets and saw the food she had prepared. He ate the stew, and the flavors exploded on his tongue rich, hearty, and deeply comforting. A soft "Hmm" escaped him after each bite, a small, genuine sound of pleasure in the quiet rectory. The warm food settled in his stomach, a simple, earthly comfort that felt like a blessing. After the meal, he let the hot water run, the steam rising to warm his face as he washed the dish and pot, the methodical task soothing his spirit.
He went to his office. Seeing his desk disorganized, with the journals slightly askew, he couldn't get mad. He simply straightened them with a gentle touch.
He went to his wardrobe, his fingers brushing against the coarse black wool of his cassock before he put it on. He then grabbed a purple stole, its fabric soft and familiar, before heading out.
"Good evening, Father," a parishioner said. He could only nod in return, his body feeling broken and heavy as he made his way to the confessional. A cold chill entered his nose with each breath, the air of the church calming his frayed nerves. The choir's choruses, a distant memory from a long-ago practice, echoed faintly in the halls of his mind. He opened the door to the confessional, a small room at the back of the church a place Saint Anthony of Padua described as a place of dragons and serpents.
He entered the chamber with the confidence of a child but with the mind of a warrior sent to his doom. He moved to his seat and closed the heavy curtain that divided the room into two one for him, and one for the penitent. He sat, feeling the weariness in his bones, and asked himself.
He made the sign of the cross, then lifted the stole to his lips to kiss it. As he moved to put it on, he resisted. He hesitated. A tear, hot and sudden, dripped down his cheek, followed by another. He started sobbing, his shoulders shaking silently in the dark for close to ten minutes. Finally, he decided to pray.
Lord, I thank you for everything. For your love, your compassion. I don't even know what to say anymore. I am scared of everything. He sighed, sniffing in the quiet darkness. I pray that these people will make a true and absolute confession. Amen.
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, the rough skin catching on the dampness. With a resolved breath, he finally put on the stole, the weight of it a familiar yoke upon his shoulders. He then switched on the light outside, the small bulb glowing to signal that the priest was inside.