Where Angels Fear to Tread

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Remy nodded, staring into his cup. The old priest knew about the relationship, but didn’t understand the complexity. Most believed that Madeline was Remy’s mother, not his wife and the love of his life.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, brother,” Coughlin said, and reached out to grab Remy’s arm, squeezing it in a powerful grip. “May the Lord God have mercy on her soul.”

  “Thank you,” Remy said, looking into the priest’s wise and caring eyes. “It’s been hard.”

  “It always is. No matter how old we are, it’s never easy to lose someone we love.”

  Remy remained silent, and then Father Coughlin was out of his seat again. “How about another pot?” he asked, breaking the tension as he headed for the stove.

  “I’m good, Father,” Remy said. “I don’t want to be floating out of here.”

  “Well, I might as well make a fresh pot anyway.” The old man rummaged around in a cabinet and pulled out a can of coffee. “What else do I have to do these days?” he asked as he prepared another pot. “Most of the time I’m just sitting around, waiting for somebody to visit me.” He turned his head slightly, looking at Remy from the corner of his eye.

  “You got me,” he said. “I should come by more often.”

  “Damn right you should,” the priest scolded. “The only time I see you is when you need something.”

  The old priest loved to complain, and Remy doubted the old-timer had had a boring day since supposedly retiring. From what he understood, the Vatican kept him quite busy with the research and cataloguing of ancient religious beliefs and practices.

  “Which brings me to why I’m here today,” Remy said.

  “See?” Coughlin turned the pot on to percolate and slowly returned to the table.

  Remy removed the folded flyer from his back pocket, straightening it out as he spoke. “What do you know about the Church of His Holy Abundance?”

  “The Church of His Holy Abundance,” Coughlin repeated, taking the pamphlet from him. “Sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t remember why . . . probably something I read in passing.” He studied the flyer. “Somerville, huh?”

  “Yeah, I was thinking of checking it out, but thought I’d talk to you first. See what you knew.”

  “Sorry I can’t help you,” the old priest said, taking his seat, and another cookie. “This for a case you’re working?”

  “Yeah, missing person . . . a little girl.”

  Father Coughlin picked up the pamphlet and studied the cover again. “Hmm, this is pretty odd,” he commented after a moment.

  “The symbols?” Remy asked. “Thought you’d have something to say about them.”

  “Yeah, really old stuff . . . ancient Sumerian, I think.”

  “That old?” Remy responded. He was a bit rusty on his ancient writings.

  “It’s a little strange seeing them on something like this,” Coughlin said. “Can I keep this?” he asked, holding up the flyer.

  “Sure,” Remy told him. “Just give me the heads-up on anything you find out.”

  “No problem,” the priest said, his attention already back on the symbols. Remy could practically smell the plastic burning as the old priest started to lose himself in the new distraction.

  He stood and slid his chair back under the table. “I should probably get rolling.”

  Coughlin grunted a response before looking up. “Did you say something?”

  “I’m leaving,” Remy said with a laugh.

  “Sure you don’t want to stay for another cup?” the priest asked him. “I’ve got a few Italian cookies left that some stranger dropped off.”

  “I get the hint,” Remy said as he headed down the hall to the front door. “I’ll visit more often.”

  “You’re going to have to,” Coughlin said, following him with a twinkle in his eye. “How else are you going to know what I’ve found out?” He held up the pamphlet.

  “Got me there,” Remy said. “Give me a call as soon as you’ve got something, no matter how small. We’ll settle what I owe you next time I come.”

  “Two boxes from Mike’s ought to cover it,” the priest said.

  “With prices like that,” Remy complained, “no wonder I only visit once a year.”

  He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, turning back for a final wave to the priest, but the old man was already heading back to the kitchen, the ancient markings on a church pamphlet providing him with the kind of mystery that piqued his voracious curiosity.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Katie Allen had been chosen.

  At least that was what her sponsor had told her.

  She sat nervously on the sofa in the sparse living room of Pastor Zachariah’s home and waited to be called.

  Elijah, her sponsor to the Church of His Holy Abundance, had said that the pastor was very sick, and that only very special novices were granted an audience with the holy man.

  Her stomach gurgled noisily from a combination of nerves and hunger. Placing a hand on her belly and feeling the vibrations, she tried to remember the last time she’d eaten. She’d had a bag of chips and a Coke at the bus station before meeting Elijah.

  He’d approached her as she was waiting for her bus. He’d said she had the look of somebody very important and promised her that would be true if she agreed to go with him to the compound.

  There was something about Elijah and the way he spoke. Katie could smell a creep from a mile away, but Elijah wasn’t that at all. He hadn’t even tried to touch her the entire ride, and when she’d asked him why, he’d just smiled that very special smile of his and said it wasn’t his place.

  If only her stepfather had been so polite, she thought with a chill. Maybe she wouldn’t have been at the bus station, looking for a place where she wouldn’t be afraid.

  And Elijah had promised her that; all she had to do was become a member of the church.

  The Church of His Holy Abundance.

  She looked around the room. It reminded her of a furniture store display—nothing out of place, unlived in.

  But Elijah did say the pastor had been sick.

  She’d arrived at the church compound with five others Elijah had found along the way—all lost souls that were now found; at least that was what he’d called them.

  Katie smiled. She found it kind of special to be called a lost soul, and even more so to think she had been chosen. Of the six who had arrived together, only she had been picked to meet the pastor. Her travel companions had been paired up and led away with other members of the church.

  There was a mirror over a fireplace that looked as though it had never entertained a fire, and she got up from the couch to stand in the middle of the room, staring at her reflection.

  Was she special? She couldn’t really see it.

  The kids at school had always called her fat, and as she looked at herself in the mirror now, she had to agree that she was a little overweight. But it didn’t matter anymore.

  Because she was chosen.

  She ran her fingers through her short blond hair and wished she’d had a chance to wash up before meeting the pastor. She had that travel funk about her, and she hoped the church leader wouldn’t be offended.

  What if he doesn’t agree with Elijah? she wondered, suddenly on the verge of panic. What if he was wrong and I’m just like everybody else?

  Katie scrutinized herself again in the living room mirror and almost began to cry. The T-shirt she wore was stained from her time on the road, and her denim shorts were perhaps a little too revealing.

  What was Elijah thinking? Katie wondered. What could he possibly have seen in her that made her different from all the others?

  The sight of herself was enough to send her running from the pastor’s home, but just as she was about to do so, she heard a door opening somewhere nearby and the sound of footsteps coming toward the living room.

  “Elijah,” she said, suddenly very self-conscious.

  He smiled at her from the doorway. “Are you ready?” he asked, holding out his hand for her.

  “Look at me,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I can’t meet a holy man l
ooking like this.”

  Elijah chuckled softly and shook his head. “You’re fine,” he reassured her. “In fact, you’re better than fine; you’re perfect. And he wants to meet you.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “I smell kinda funky, and my clothes . . .”

  “None of that matters to him,” Elijah said.

  He stepped farther into the room and gently took her hand in his. His touch was warm and calming, and she trusted him.

  “C’mon,” he said, pulling her from the living room. “We don’t want to keep Pastor Zachariah waiting.”

  They walked hand in hand down the dark corridor of the ranch-style house, heading to the back where the bedrooms were. Elijah stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall and placed his hand on the knob.

  “Are you ready?” he asked as he smiled that wonderful smile and opened the door into a room filled with darkness.

  “I’ve told him all about you.”

  The thing wearing the skin of Pastor Zachariah lay upon the bed, feeling itself slipping away.

  Its flesh was rotting, each cell exploding with decay, deep, bloody sores blossoming on the surface of its thin epidermis.

  Shifting upon the hospital bed, it felt the rub and tug of the sheet, tearing the delicate skin like paper. It moaned in the darkness, the pain almost too much for the godly being to bear.

  It hated this fragile form it had been caged in, but the alternative was even more distasteful. The deity recalled the void and how it had come so very close to no longer existing. No, it would endure this torment a thousandfold rather than experience the guarantee of oblivion.

  To no longer be was something even a god feared.

  The body that housed its omnipotence was a fragile thing, not anything like it had been promised when it was cajoled from the other side. Its followers had guaranteed undiluted devotion and a body of worship that would grow by leaps and bounds.

  It had been so long since it had fed upon the prayers of the faithful, so it swam from the darkness, fighting the undertow of inexistence, and entered what it thought was a world that awaited its return.

  The deity raised its trembling hands, looking upon its pasty, sore-covered flesh and malformed fingers.

  Is this wreck of a form suitable to house a god?

  It was not, but it could do nothing to alter the circumstances; nothing except prolong its physical torment, staving off the decay of this fragile human shell with sacrifice.

  The first thing Katie noticed was how very dark it was.

  “Hello?” she called out, blinking rapidly, trying to acclimate herself to the darkness.

  She could just make out the red and green lights from various pieces of medical equipment positioned beside the pastor’s bed, and she moved in that direction.

  “Pastor Zachariah? My name is Katie Allen, and Elijah said you wanted to meet me?”

  The second thing she noticed was the smell. Katie couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it caused the hair at the nape of her neck to bristle. She thought it might be the damp coolness blowing from the air conditioner that purred in the window, but she couldn’t be sure.

  “Come closer, child,” said a voice that sounded incredibly old and weak. It seemed to come from the area of the darkened room where Katie imagined the pastor to be.

  Her eyes had adjusted enough that she could make out the shape of the looming hospital bed, and of a figure lying beneath a blanket upon it.

  Katie did as she was told, and that was when she noticed the third and most unusual thing.

  With each footstep, she heard the rustling of plastic; the floor seemed to be covered with it.

  At once her mind tried to explain it. The most logical thought was that it was a leak of some kind, perhaps from the ceiling, and the plastic was meant to protect the flooring. Then, of course, there was the consideration that maybe Pastor Zachariah was so sick, he couldn’t control his bodily functions, and the plastic was there to keep . . . stuff off the floor.

  Gross, Katie thought, although it would help explain the funky smell in the room.

  She could sense Elijah behind her, and almost wanted to turn to him and ask, but she was distracted when the old voice, much closer now, began to speak to her again.

  “Do you willingly give yourself to me, Katie Allen?” the voice croaked. “Do you bestow unto me your flesh, your blood, and your soul?”

  She tripped on a fold in the plastic covering. “What?” she asked, almost losing her balance in the darkness. “I don’t understand. . . .”

  “Say yes,” the old voice growled, sounding much stronger now. The bed creaked, and Katie could just make out the almost-human shape moving upon it.

  “Yes,” she said quickly, suddenly more afraid than she’d ever been in her life. She stopped and began to turn back toward Elijah.

  The sudden blow to the back of her head was brutal, and she dropped heavily to her hands and knees, gasping, the synapses in her brain firing like fireworks on the Fourth of July. She clutched at the floor, the slick plastic sliding beneath her fingers.

  “What happened?” she managed, her speech slurred, as if she were drunk. “Elijah, what . . . ?”

  She struggled to stand, but the room was spinning and she felt herself falling to her side on the plastic-covered floor.

  “Shall I hit her again?” she heard the sweet voice of Elijah ask.

  Her vision blurred, but through the haze, she could see the young man standing over her. He was smacking something against the palm of his hand as he looked down on her.

  “Help me,” she begged, raising a hand to him.

  “No, leave her be,” the old voice responded to Elijah’s question.

  And then Katie could sense movement from nearby. She could hear the creak of the hospital bed . . . feel the thump of something heavy landing upon the floor . . . the sound of something moving . . . crawling across the plastic covering.

  She tried to move, but the room continued to spin, the throbbing in her skull nearly blinding in its intensity. She was crying now, wanting to scream, but the pain . . .

  Cold fingers from the darkness grabbed onto the flesh of her thighs, a hard, bony body pulling itself onto hers.

  She tried to push it away, but it clung to her with unwavering tenacity. Katie screamed for Elijah to help her, but the handsome young man simply watched, his eyes glistening wetly in the darkness.

  “Your flesh, your blood, your soul,” Pastor Zachariah growled, his old, withered face floating above her own.

  Katie Allen was suddenly too tired to fight the old man lying atop her, and she tried to prepare herself for what was to come.

  But nothing could have prepared her for what followed.

  The old man opened his mouth far wider than humanly possible. He lowered his head, taking a huge bite of the flesh on her neck.

  And he began to feed.

  On her flesh, her blood, and her soul.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Remy lay upon the bed that he’d once shared with the love of his life, and pretended to sleep.

  He went through all the motions: removing his clothes, climbing beneath the covers, and closing his eyes.

  But he didn’t sleep; not really.

  Remy had learned to send himself into a deep fugue state, a kind of healing, dreamlike place where his mind wandered to review and reexamine. Of course, he found himself thinking an awful lot about Madeline on these long, lonely nights.

  It was torture to see her again, but at the same time it made him so very happy.

  She was young in this place inside his head, young, beautiful, and healthy. It was how he liked to remember her . . . how she always appeared to him, even when time and the ravages of her illness sought to take away her beauty.

  They were reclining in beach chairs, side by side in the sand as the sun slowly set and the tide inexorably drew closer. He wore a loose-fitting cotton shirt—unbuttoned—exposing his hairless chest, and shorts, while she wore that red one-piece swimsuit that had always flattered her figure, large-framed sunglas
ses, and an impossibly floppy hat.

  She reached out and took his hand in hers; he turned to smile at her and couldn’t help but laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked, giving his hand a loving squeeze.

  “Nothing,” he said, still taking her all in. “It’s just really good . . . ,” he said, pausing as he felt himself fill with emotion. “It’s just really good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you too,” she said, and brought his hand to her mouth to kiss it.

  They sat there like that for quite some time, listening to the sounds of the beach. They were alone here, and Remy relished every moment of having her near him again.

  Even though she was only a product of his memories.

  “The case is a strange one,” she said, staring out at the approaching tide.

  “What?” he asked, looking at his wife.

  “The case you’re working on,” she said. “It’s turned into another strange one, hasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” He stuck his bare feet beneath the cool, damp sand. “It has.”

  “What do you think it means?” she questioned. “The lip marks on the back of that man’s hand and on the doctor’s neck.”

  Remy shook his head. “I really don’t know. It’s not a tattoo. It’s almost as if the flesh had been burned . . . burned by a kiss.”

  He looked across to see that she was staring at him, a dreamy smile on her beautiful face. “What?” he asked.

  “Aren’t you glad my kisses don’t burn?” she said, leaning toward him.

  Remy did the same, their faces almost meeting.

  “Even if they did, I’d tolerate them,” he said.

  “Even if they hurt like hell?” she asked, pulling back slightly.

  “Even if they hurt like hell,” he said.

  And they kissed, gently at first, but becoming more passionate the longer their lips touched.

  “I think that one almost burned me,” Remy said, the first to break the lock.

  “We’d better try again, just to make sure,” Madeline suggested.

  And they kissed again, long and passionate, stopping only when she brought her hand to the side of his face, and unlocked her lips from his.