“Pray for me, anyway,” he whispered.
So I did.
When I left, his daughter was crying quietly in the kitchen.I blessed her.She clung to my hand for a little too long.People often did that; they mistook the collar for strength and borrowed from it.I let them.God knew I had borrowed from it long enough.
Clouds had gathered over the town, turning the sky the colour of bruised pewter.I returned to the church, parked beside the courtyard, and sat in the car for a moment before going in.
It was an old habit I had never quite shaken.
When I entered the church, the nave was empty.
Sometimes I preferred it that way.The dying light slid through stained glass in red and blue fragments, spilling over the pews like broken jewels.Dust drifted through the air.The saints watched from their cracked frames.Somewhere in the roof, a bird scratched and settled.
I moved through evening duties slowly, putting order back where the day had worn it thin.
The altar.The candles.The collection box.The confession schedule.
I wrote notes for Sunday’s homily and crossed half of them out.Forgiveness.Mercy.The prodigal son.All worthy topics.All dangerous in the hands of a hypocrite.
Outside, rain began to fall.
The town had gone quiet as darkness fell.I locked the front doors but left the side entrance unlatched for another hour, as I always did.People in desperate need rarely arrived during waking hours.
I prepared a simple supper in the small rectory kitchen: bread, olives, cheese, an apple.I ate standing at the counter.
Afterward, I washed the plate, dried it, and placed it back in the cupboard exactly where it belonged.
Order.Repetition.Peace by design.
The rain had strengthened, drumming against the roof and streaking the tall windows until the saints beyond the glass looked like they were weeping.The church was colder now.Shadows gathered in the corners.The red sanctuary lamp flickered like a tired heart.
I walked to the altar.
One candle had burned low, its wax spilled over the brass holder in pale rivulets.I trimmed the wick, replaced it, and lit a fresh flame.Then another.And another.Small lights blooming against the dark.
I had always liked this part of the night.The town asleep.The hollow church.My hands busy with something harmless.Flame.Wick.Wax.
I bent to light the final candle.
Behind me, the side entrance crashed open.The sound split the church apart.
I turned.
A woman stumbled through the rain and into the nave.
For one frozen second, she was only a shape against the storm.Then the lightning flashed behind her, and I saw the blood.
It ran down the side of her face, dark through her hair, bright at her mouth.Her dress was torn at the shoulder and soaked through.One sleeve hung loose.Her feet were bare, filthy, cut open from stone or glass or God knew what else.Bruises in the shape of fingers marked her throat.
She took one step in.Then another.
Her eyes found mine.
Terror lived there.It wasn’t fear.It was pure, unadulterated terror.
My body went still.
The church disappeared around me.