The stranger never hesitated as he closed on Eli. He wrenched the shotgun from his grip. Spilled shotgun shells littered the floor. He scooped up a handful, popped the barrels, and reloaded.
Daniel watched in horror as Eli pulled the blade from his chest. Smoke singed his hands as they touched the carved crucifix on the hilt. He screamed in monstrous agony as fire grew between his hands. His face changed and melted into one of the monstrous creatures. The stranger wheeled around and leveled both barrels. The shotgun roared and the thing that had once been Eli vanished in a smoking cloud of mist. The stranger reloaded and aimed down the hallway towards the sounds of the sheriff’s labored breathing. He thumbed the hammers back and waited.
The sheriff pounded into view. He stared straight into the twin cavernous barrels and slid to a sudden halt. “Please, mister. Don't shoot,” he cried, dropping to his flabby knees.
“Get the leg irons, kid,” the stranger said, pointing to a set hanging on a hook in the hallway. Daniel struggled to his feet. Still shocked by seeing Eli vaporized only feet away. “Come on, kid. You want to get this Rebecca back, we need to get a move on,” the stranger said. The mention of her name snapped Daniel out of the fog. He shackled the sheriff and locked him in a cell.
“He knows you're here, you know,” the sheriff called to the stranger. “Oh, that's right. He'll be coming for you,” the sheriff giggled as he said it. The stranger turned and looked into the sheriff’s eyes. A cold piercing look that chilled Daniel to the bone.
“Not if I get to him first,” the stranger said as he walked out into the night.
“You really going after him, mister?” Daniel asked.
“We. We are going after him kid,” the stranger said. He loaded his pistol and dropped it into its holster. He held the shotgun out for Daniel. Side by side they marched down Main Street.
* * *
Stinging, acrid smoke rose from the barrel of the stranger’s pistol. His aim was true. A large hole, clean through, appeared in the middle of the preacher’s stomach. Slowly, he looked down, cupping his hands to the wound. Shocked horror washed over his face as the blood drained out of him. One of his foul parishioners let out a piercing scream. Blood pooled at his feet. Crimson. Angry.
Daniel moved quickly to Rebecca. He wrapped his arms around her. He caught hold of her, kissed her cheeks, her forehead, felt her against him. There was something unfamiliar about the way she felt in his arms. He looked deeply at her face. Her eyes were different.
Rebecca, in shocked horror, pushed Daniel away. “I told you to leave me be!” she yelled. Her strength surprised him. Daniel recoiled.
From behind them a cold voice called. “Oh Joseph... you thought shooting me would end it all,” the preacher said. Icicles of laughter flew from him. “Fool!” he thundered. Gnarled, twisted, his torn flesh knit itself back together. His hands became terrible claws. His teeth grew into glistening fangs. Four shots rang out in quick succession. Four terrible explosions followed by four crimson holes appeared in the preacher’s chest. Every bullet struck home, but the preacher just laughed, low and guttural.
The stranger, the man once known as Joseph, retreated, scooping Daniel up off the floor. With liquid speed the preacher reached Rebecca. She turned her face up towards him as he lightly caressed her. Staring into Daniel's eyes, he kissed her neck softly. Without warning, he sunk his fangs deep into her. Blood spurted from her throat. Greedily he drank. She moaned longingly. She smiled her sweetest smile.
Joseph hit the doors and ran, dragging Daniel into the darkness.
* * *
Froth ran from the horse's mouth in long strands. Purgatory lay far behind them. Its malice radiated. The sun had risen and set twice since they had faced the preacher. Joseph pushed their horses to their limits. Around mesas, through dry ravines filled with scraggly cotton wood trees, they rode. Daniel slumped in his saddle, red-eyed and bleary. He bobbed and weaved like a dead man with every stride the palomino took. As the sun set low in the distance, they stopped to make camp. Daniel slumped against the trunk of a large scrub pine. Exhaustion took him.
* * *
Daniel smiled as he settled deeper into bed. He could hear Rebecca's soft, sleepy breaths. Shadows were chased away from her face as clouds moved, allowing moonlight to creep through the window. She pulled closer and nuzzled in against him. A cold wind blew through the room. His eyes, heavy with sleep, caught movement from her side of the bed. Maybe she's just turning over, he thought. He closed his eyes.
Piercing. Tearing. Pain flooded his body. His eyes sprung open, His hot blood dripped from gleaming white fangs. Each dark drop framed against the moonlight. He tried to scream but jets of crimson sprayed from the ragged hole torn in his throat. With pleading eyes he saw her. She smiled as sweetly as ever. Dark eyes shining with lust. Greed. Hunger.
Daniel screamed himself awake into the dark night. The fire burned low. Joseph sat, still as the night, silently watching Daniel in the darkness. On the dry desert breeze, low voices singing choir hymns floated to their ears.
THE END
FATHER HENRY’S LAST HOMILY
By Christopher T. Hamel
Sunday, May 5th, 2019
If I told you that I used to be a priest and that, as of now, I am in prison due to something in relation to a child, what are the first words that come to your mind? Is it, That monster! Or how about, I hope he rots in Hell! And of course, there’s always the bitter question: What do you expect from a corrupt church? You all, of course (unless you know my case), are thinking that I performed the only crime a priest is infamous for—that of sexual molestation.
It isn’t like that. I’m not in prison for what you think.
One of my favorite sayings—unbiblical, but true—is that “assuming makes an ass out of you and me.” I am not here, propped up in a bed above my snoring cellmate, using a small flashlight to write upon the desk of my knees, because of child rape. No, I am here for murder. Mass murder.
But I did not do it. I was not responsible for those three-dozen parishioners at St. Joseph’s in Kennington, Connecticut: their throats drained fountains of blood, their eyes wide and shocked and full of an ever-remaining terror.
Let me explain my case because what’s happening to me now may ruin any chance I have of true confession. Both to God and to man.
Saturday, April 6th, 2013
If you ask me, what one thing is more dying than attendance to Sunday mass, I say it is the decrease of people going to confession. There are lots of reasons, most of it revolving around the question of: Why should I? Even I, who had gone to confession twice a week since my youth, never fully bought into the sacrament as truly Christ-inspired.
Whether authentic or not, there are those still loyal to the sacrament. Brenda and Luis Levi and their daughter Lilly were regulars at the confessional booth. Each other Saturday, they would confess to me their most grievous and mundane sins.
When Lilly came into the confessional booth, she said: “The Devil is inside me.”
I scowled, saying nothing for a full minute or more. “Lilly... You’re supposed to say, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’”
“But I don’t want forgiveness,” Lilly said. “I just want you to believe me.”
“I do. But can you explain to me what you mean by ‘the Devil is inside you’?”
“Father Henry, if you don’t believe me—and I mean totally believe me—bad things are going to happen to the Church. Very bad things.” I felt something like an icy worm crawl up my neck. I ignored, counting the feeling as irrational unease
“I believe you, my dear.” But really, I thought this delusional. I knew mental illness ran in her family. Her father, though a highly successful therapist, had some form of bi-polar disorder that was prevalent in youth groups when he was younger. And from what Monsignor Bradly told me about Lilly’s grandfather—he’d been a bit peculiar as well. Obsessive was the word I think he used.
“The Devil is inside me,” Lilly r
epeated. “But he is not the true Enemy.”
“What do you mean, sweetheart? Satan is the Chief Enemy of God.”
“No,” Lilly said with absolute conviction. “The Chief Enemy of God is His evil twin.”
“His evil twin?” At this moment, I thought of blatantly accusing her of blasphemy. She was old enough to take the sting. Never had I heard such a ridiculous claim.
“His name is Nihil. He hates your Yahweh, His brother, because He brought the chaos of creation into the Void that Nihil ruled with all the other gods.”
“There is only One True God, Lilly. And creation is beautiful. A work of art.”
“I know. I agree. But that’s not what Nihil says. Nihil says peace is attainable through absolute nihilism, which is to say gray nothingness.”
“Does Nihil talk to you?”
“He talks to the Devil… and the Devil talks to me.”
“Whom you say is inside you—the Devil, I mean.”
“Yes.”
I mulled this over. Lilly was thirteen now and quite bright, perhaps able to make some type of symbolism of her current adolescent struggle. You wouldn’t believe how unconsciously poetic some people are.
“I think the Devil’s in me too,” I said. “I think he’s inside all of us. After all, human nature is—”
“I’m not speaking metaphorically, Father Henry,” Lilly said. “The is Devil inside me. You must believe me for the future to stay bright. For the Church to stay bright.”
“I believe you,” I said again. But I didn’t. In fact, I was committing a sin for saying I believed her.
O ye of little faith, I think to myself now.
Sunday, April 7th, 2013
As are many occupations, the life of a priest is overwhelmingly demanding, yet will seem quite docile when described to another person. For this brief homily, I will only be speaking of the three odd Sunday masses that took place post-Lilly’s confession—if you want to call it that, since she did not invoke the necessary opening line all confessors must say (Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned). In retrospect, because she did not confess anything per se, I could have spoken to her parents, for fear of Lilly's own delusional mind. I may have saved their lives. Yet, what happened to all those devout Catholics likely would’ve happened still, even if I altered the script fate seemed to have provided.
St. Joseph’s is incredibly small for a Catholic church. Though I’ve never said it, their crucifix has always made me uneasy. Everything about it is as all Christians are taught of Christ’s sacrifice: His body torn, scraped, and bruised by the Roman knights, eyes full of sorrow, pain, and hatred for the sin seeping into Him. The difference with this Christ than with any other crucifix I’ve seen is that Our Lord’s torso lay twisted to the left side of the cross as if His body were part-serpent.
That day’s Gospel reading concerned the Lord’s Prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane.
In my homily, I said: “I think it’s amazing that Jesus Christ Himself could have said no to His destiny.” I looked up at our strange crucifix to show reflection upon that mystery. Instead, I saw the twisting torso of Jesus and imagined Him giving His Father a big fuck you; jumping off the cross, and laying waste—first to the Romans, then to the Hebrews, and then to the rest of this sinful universe. At one moment, I thought that was exactly what had happened. That Christian history had become altered at the moment I glared up at Christ, a type of historical self-destruction and cosmic renewal.
I heard the shuffling of uncomfortable parishioners move about, whispers of concerns, clearings of throats, coughs, and a sneeze or two. I turned and continued my homily about choice and free will. And suddenly, it all seemed so pointless.
When Perry and Layla, the altar servers, brought me the bowl of hosts and the goblet of wine, I did everything by rote.
“The Body of Christ.”
“Amen.”
“The Blood of Christ.”
“Amen.”
When I drank the blood, it tasted sour—like old milk. And when I tasted the host, it felt not dry and brittle as usual, but waxy and moist. I wonder now if that is what literal shit tastes like. Everything else about that Sunday went as usual.
April 14th, 2013
Kennington, Connecticut has three separate churches scattered through town. St. Joseph’s, St. Mary’s, and St. Anthony’s. For these three churches, we have three priests (Father Adam, Father George and myself) and one deacon (Gregory Levi) to lead the parishioners in Mass every Sunday. Because Deacon Gregory could not be present for the seven o’clock mass due to the flu, it was up to me to take his place.
I am not an early bird, by any means. Groggily, I walked into the church, up upon the stage, and into the back room where today’s vestments hung. Already, the early birds were taking their seats, saying their rosaries, praying in silence. When I came out of the backroom, clothed in my emerald green vestments, I bowed before the altar. And felt a drop of warm liquid drip onto the back of my neck and slither downward like a hot worm. I touched it and beheld blood on my fingertips. I looked up and saw an amazing sight: the nails thrust into Christ’s hands and feet were gone. If not for the plaster, the figure of Our Lord and Savior would’ve fallen upon my head.
I looked at the five or six parishioners to see if they saw the same thing, but all of them were too engaged in their prayers. I looked up and saw that Christ remained as He’d always been.
No. Not quite. His torso twisted serpentine to the left, instead of to the right. And there was something about His face. It was no longer the face of pain, anguish, and agony—but one of pure delight. Of malice, too.
Mass went slow that day. The readings seemed to drag on.
Numbers 11:4-15, where the Israelites complained about their lack of food, even when God Himself was giving them mana from Heaven, made me want to claw my eyes out for reasons I could not understand.
Psalms 81:12-13, 14-15, and 16-17 sounded to me like a whine from the Almighty. (12 So I left them to their stubborn selves, to follow their own devices. 13 If only my people would listen to me, if only Israel would walk in my ways, 14 at one stroke I would subdue their enemies, turn my hand against their opponents. 15 Those who hate Yahweh would woo his favor, though their doom was sealed forever, 16 while I would feed him on pure wheat, would give you your fill of honey from the rock.)
When I read the gospel readings aloud (Matthew 14:13-21, where Jesus tries to coax Peter to walk on water) my imagination offered me a visualization of Peter drowning and Jesus Himself watching the affair, telling Peter, “You see, Peter? Now you’ll get to see my Father before I do. No worries, this is much better than being hung on the cross, upside down. Die this way, Peter. It’s much less blasphemous. You’ll never have a chance to deny me thrice.”
I jerked my mental gaze away from that image, staring at the three-dozen parishioners. I stood, walked to the pulpit, and said not a word written for my homily, which had to do with faith and trust. A force seemed to control my words, letting them flow like water leaking steadily from a punctured bucket hanging by its handle.
“We’re all a bunch of whiners, aren’t we?”
Confused faces regarded me.
“Since the beginning of time, all we do is complain about something, someone, or someplace. Drama queens, my mother called them. I’m beginning to think that human is a synonym for drama. Tell me, folks, what kind of peace do you think Christ brought in? Was it for wars to continue, for famine to continue, for hate to continue? Don’t you think it would’ve been better for God to say, ‘Well, that was a total failure. Let’s wipe the slate clean. Y’know? Bye bye earth and all that.’”
Several of my parishioners stared at me in wonder, frustrated awe, and outright malevolence.
I sighed. “Folks, Jesus said that He came to bring chaos. Remember that! Matthew chapter ten, verse thirty-four: ‘Don’t imagine that I came to bring peace to the earth! I came not to bring peace, but a sword.’ Why though? Why doesn’t He just . . . He
just.”
At last, I looked up at the crucifix. Christ stared down at me, smiling, urging me to continue with a series up.
I screamed up at Him: “Why doesn’t He just have Daddy put us all out of our miseries!”
Paul, the lector, grabbed me by the arm and told me enough was enough. His touch seemed to drain all manner of control that this force—this Unholy Ghost—seemed to have on me. I told Paul that I was fine.
“That’s what the Enemy wants us to think,” I said, trying to clean up the psychological mud that I had splashed upon these devout Christians’ hearts. “Christ is perfect and His ways are perfect. May the Lord be with you.”
* * *
Though I tried to clean up the mess I made that Sunday, Monsignor Bradly paid me a visit. We sat on the back porch of the rectory, drinking decaf coffee. I had a lot of French vanilla creamer in mine. He only put sugar in his; no milk.
“Is everything OK, Henry?” Monsignor Bradly asked.
I didn't say anything for a while, but as was Monsignor's way, he remained silent and patient.
“I think . . . the Enemy is plaguing my mind,” I said.
Monsignor Bradley nodded. “There are quite a few parishioners that are concerned.”
“Outraged, you mean. You don't have to sugarcoat it, Phil. I used God as my own punching bag—and in front of three dozen parishioners.” I put my hands over my eyes.
Monsignor Bradley placed his hand on my knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I think more of us do that then you think. A spiritual illness, eh? Come, my friend, let us pray.”
We did. And at the end of it all, I thought I heard an unsexed voice whisper in my ear: Yahweh is not the only Almighty. Your prayers to Him come to Me as well. Nothing you say is in true confidence.
Sunday, April 21st, 2013
Due to my spiritual illness, to use Monsignor Bradly's term for it, Deacon Gregory said Mass for both the seven o'clock and the eleven o’ clock Mass. I attended the eleven o’clock Mass. I sat in the pew nearest the altar, watching the clergy prepare for Mass. I wanted desperately to look up at the crucifix and see what state the Savior was in today. But equally desperate, I would do anything—absolutely anything—not to look.
Blood and Blasphemy Page 3