by Pete Altieri
Father Timothy Reilly sat at the head of the table, as he was the Abbot of the institution and had been for the past ten years. He was a fit man in his early 60’s with a military-style buzz haircut, chiseled jaw and piercing blue eyes. The Abbot was pleasant enough to those who barely knew him, but to anyone who worked at St. Michael’s, he was despised for his brash demeanor and elitist attitude. It didn’t take long to pick up on that quality in him. He was hardly what most would have assumed a priest to be like. He spent his early years growing up in Albany, New York, before his calling to enter the priesthood. It was years later, as an instructor at a seminary outside of Richmond, Virginia, where he met the other three priests that he chose to dine with on this Saturday afternoon in March of 1927.
To the Abbot’s right was Father Cordero Rosa, who made the trip to McHenry, Illinois, by train two days before, from his congregation at Holy Trinity Catholic Church in Cottonwood, Arizona. It was a four-day trip by rail, yet he didn’t question the Abbot when he was asked to come to St. Michael’s. To the Abbot’s left was Father Roger Wilkes, who also had a long train ride to northern Illinois from his own St. Luke’s Catholic Church in Hartford, Connecticut. He was looking forward to catching up with the Abbot, as well as the other priests that he had kept in touch with since they were young priests-to-be at the seminary. Lastly, at the opposite end of the table from the Abbot, was Father Frank Bartolini. He arrived to St. Michael’s by car the day before, since he had the shortest trip of the priests, from his Epiphany Catholic Church in Des Moines, Iowa. All three of the priests were roughly 20 years younger than the Abbot and looked up to him as a father figure. In some ways, they even regarded him more dearly than that.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said the Abbot sharply, straightening up in his chair and adjusting his red habit. He wore it for special occasions such as this.
“Lunch is ready, Abbot,” said Brother Francis, the head chef at St. Michael’s. His job entailed keeping a sensible menu designed for the high school students who attended the prestigious academy and the staff as well. Yet for the Abbot and his inner circle, the monk was tasked to provide some of the most extravagant meals he could conjure. In the ten years the Abbot was in charge, Brother Francis found himself making some of the most challenging dishes since learning how to cook at culinary school. He didn’t like the Abbot much, but in his subservient role in life, the monk never said a word. He could recall a few rare times when the Abbot disliked a dish he prepared, and he would be punished for it. One time in particular, the monk had diarrhea for two weeks after the Abbot had the monk’s food poisoned. The Abbot was known for exacting harsh punishment and for extremely narcissistic behavior. Very few of the staff knew about the culinary decadence that went on in the Abbot’s private dining room.
“OK, Brother Francis. Then bring it in,” the Abbot replied. The other priests could smell the incredible aromas seeping in from the doorway as two monks assisted the chef in bringing in the delectable spread. The monks worked silently and quickly, wanting to leave the room as soon as possible.
The Abbot insisted his guests try some of the monastery’s homemade elderberry wine with their lunch, as well as a very expensive sherry that he kept in a private stash. As the four men sipped their wine and sherry, the table was soon filled with an incredible array of fine foods that the other three rarely saw. They enjoyed lobster bisque soup, followed by succulent roast duck over baked rice Milanese, and asparagus in a rich garlic and butter sauce. There was also fresh-baked French bread with homemade butter and honey, freshly made pecan pie and blueberry cobbler (the Abbot’s favorite). The deserts were kept warm on a small nearby serving table, with two large carafes of black coffee. It took the monks nearly fifteen minutes to get everything situated.
“That will be all, Brother Francis. Let the Prior know we do not wish to be disturbed for the remainder of the afternoon. Now go!”
The chef nodded to the Abbot and said something quietly to the monks assisting him before quietly closing the door behind them. The Abbot rose and walked to the door, locking it securely before returning to his seat to begin eating his lunch.
3
The Abbot enjoyed his pecan pie and black coffee, then looked around the table at his guests.
“I want to thank you all for coming on relatively short notice, but this was important.”
Father Bartolini also sipped at his coffee, but he had passed on any dessert after eating such a large lunch. “Of course, Abbot. None of us would have missed this. The blood moon is such a rare occurrence, and we hold it in such high regard.”
“Yes, that’s true. Last night was one of the most wonderful masses I’ve ever attended, since our days in Richmond,” Father Rosa added. “I have read many Christians believe the blood moon has a foreboding quality, a prelude of bad things to follow. You know, the superstitious types.” He laughed.
“I thought you would all enjoy that. The sisters from the convent haven’t seen much male companionship lately,” the Abbot said, smirking from behind his coffee mug, “but from the sound of it, you all gave them something to remember for a long time.”
The four priests laughed out loud at his reference to the black mass they all attended the night before. Father Wilkes was correct in the power of the blood moon when it came to occultists like the four men seated around the table. The Abbot had picked the date years ago, long before any of them had any idea of what his plan was.
Father Wilkes said, “If I may say so Abbot, you looked like you also gave the Mother Mistress a good time across the altar.”
“Yes, indeed I did,” the Abbot replied, his smirk widening. “She gets horny when the moon is full, and so do I.” He laughed aloud, gazing out the window, as if imagining them engaged in the act the night before, savoring every bloody kiss and decadent stroke.
“The ritual last night and the infant sacrifice was necessary for what we are about to embark on,” the Abbot continued, “and the true reason I asked you all to come here to St. Michael’s will now reveal itself.”
Father Bartolini had wondered where the infant came from, but was too afraid to ask the Abbot of his origin.
As if on cue, the Abbot said, “The sisters brought that infant from the church. It was found two weeks ago in the vestibule of the convent. No one knows who left the boy, but he was wrapped in blankets and left for the sisters to find. It was like an omen from Lord Satan himself.” He smirked at Father Bartolini with a sort of infernal amusement. The priest felt a pit in the bottom of his stomach that nearly forced him to vomit at his seat. As soon as the feeling came over him, it fled in fear.
The three priests sat in uncomfortable silence as the Abbot explained his true motive for the visit. The only noise that could be heard in the third floor private dining room, aside from the Abbot’s voice, was the wind and rain against the large picture window that faced the east.
“I need each of you to find three nuns from your region of the country that we can use to participate in a special tour of hospitals, infirmaries, and asylums, to cheer up those less fortunate for Christmas,” the Abbot said to each one, as they squirmed amidst the tension. He knew they would be confused. He also knew that staring at them like he was would ratchet up the fear. Despite their many years removed from the seminary, the teacher-student roles were difficult to absolve. With their continued friendship over the years, the younger three definitely respected and revered the darkly mysterious Abbot.
“Surely you didn’t ask us to come all the way here for this, Abbot. I’m sure you could do such a thing with the fine nuns here at St. Michael’s,” said Father Rosa, “or certainly with the large pool of sisters from the many churches in Chicago.” He forced a smile, wondering if he was going to be reprimanded for speaking out of line.
The wind continued to howl outside as the sun hid behind the clouds and made the grounds outside darker than before. The temperature in the dining room dropped several degrees as well. Father Rosa
noticed, as did the Abbot.
“The nuns I need for this mission are not just any nuns. I need nuns who have experienced pure evil in the world. I need nuns who have come face-to-face with the worst of the worst.” He leaned back slightly in his chair, noting the curiosity in each of their faces. The Abbot could see their wheels spinning voraciously before him. It was for their incredible intellect and devotion to the cause that the three priests were picked many years before to assist him with this most precious mission.
The Abbot continued, “I’ve been working on this project almost my entire life, gentlemen. I have spent countless hours studying and translating texts from various languages around the world. I have done this in secret, for fear that someone would know what I was working on. I have been reading in the shadows and compiling an incredible amount of data. I even kept it from all of you. I hope you know I did it because it was just too important to trust anyone. Even all of you, my closest friends.”
Father Wilkes finished the last of his sherry and poured himself another. His hand shook slightly. The Abbot noticed, of course. It was his nature to notice such things. In the warehouse section of his memory, the Abbot kept every morsel of data collected, knowing it would likely become of use to him at some point down the road. He was almost always right.
“I believe that I have discovered a dark secret from the very manuscript of one of the earliest Satanists of the modern age. I bet none of you have even heard of Wilfred Weeks from England. He was a prominent doctor in London in the early 1600’s. He was able to cure people of illnesses that no other doctor could. Many said he had made a pact with the devil in order to marvel London with his medical capabilities. They weren’t too far off, actually. Dr. Weeks was a Satanist and held some of the earliest black masses ever documented,” said the Abbot, looking around the table at the other priests. They were amazed at what they were hearing. “Even Aleister Crowley was said to have been enamored with Weeks, but he was never able to read what I have read.”
The Abbot went on, “He was working on something that no one else knew about. He believed that through a very precise satanic ritual, with lots of moving parts that involved magic he was still discovering, he could cause Satan himself to manifest in human form. Much like the son of God claims to have done in the body of Jesus.”
Father Bartolini continued to sip at his coffee. He was staring at the Abbot, focusing on every word he was saying. “Please continue, Abbot.” He was still in shock from the odd mannerisms surrounding the Abbot reading his mind. There was no telling what dark secrets and magic the elder priest had mastered during his endless hours of study. His mastery of four languages, including Latin, and his encyclopedic knowledge of nearly any subject of conversation made everyone else in the room several notches below his abilities. The Abbot knew this and was always the alpha male of the pack.
“A young woman stumbled on Dr. Wilfred Weeks’ papers one morning, after he was found in bed ill. She was part of his cleaning staff and removed some documents that detailed his denouncement of God and celebration of Satan. She turned him in to a very politically influential Catholic priest in London, Father Portis Larimer, who had the good doctor arrested by police. Most of the papers were burned to ash, and he was hanged by the neck as a public execution, for crimes against the church, only five days later. Only the documents I came across survived, but thankfully he wrote most of it down and hid it well. Dozens of searches of his house were conducted, but the secret documents remained safe. The rest I had to piece together myself, which was incredibly difficult.”
“Amazing that you found it,” said Father Rosa. “How ever did you secure such a rare document?”
“Don’t ask questions you’re not prepared to hear the answer to, Father Rosa.” The Abbot was cold in his reply, yet his eyes burned holes right through the priest. His mind was immediately filled with dread as those icy blue eyes dug into the depths of his soul.
Father Rosa shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The other two priests looked down to avoid eye contact.
The Abbot continued, “This ritual would be a way to bring Satan himself to human form to walk the Earth and wreak havoc upon God’s children. Only those of us who have accepted the dark arts would be immune from his wrath. We, instead, would live on Earth for eternity at his side, while the human race would be at our mercy. We would experience pleasures beyond our own imaginations – forever.”
The three priests stared into the Abbot’s piercing blue eyes, unable to speak or move.
“Each of us must come up with three nuns who have experienced true evil. Each of them will make up this procession of twelve, in a direct perversion of Christ’s twelve apostles. It will be the residual evil that each of these nuns possesses that will combine to summon Satan himself into human form. They will be sacrificed as Wilfred Weeks’ manuscript explains, in every painstaking detail, and we will have our own dark salvation, my brothers!” the Abbot said in a low whisper, as if to avoid anyone outside the private dining room from hearing what he was saying. The Abbot was nearly short of breath at the excitement of being able to finally explain his life’s work. Just hearing his own voice recount the happenings at hand was enough to get his blood to boil with anticipation.
“The sacrificial blood that was spilled last night will give each of us the drive to find these nuns. With the incredible magic of the blood moon coupled with that spilling of sacred blood, our bodies will soar, and our search will be swift. Search every church in your regions of the country. Find three nuns that have had traumatic experiences with the sinners of the world, and together we will have our twelve. We will send them on this pilgrimage across the Midwest, and they will end their tour at a location I have chosen, where the sacrifice will be done.” The Abbot stared into every fiber of their collective being as he looked around the table. He knew these men had strong convictions from their time at the seminary, when he introduced them to Satanism. He knew even back then, this day would come, and he would need their help. Now was that time, and he could see each of them, in their own way, preparing themselves to fulfill his grand plan. The Abbot seemed pleased that his plan had worked so well.
“You each have nine months to get me three nuns. The first Saturday in October, we will meet here again. You will bring those three nuns here with you. We will keep them in the convent, under lock and key, until their tour starts in Chicago. They will make their way down the state to an asylum outside of Peoria in Bartonville,” he continued, “where the last stop will take place. It is there they will die.”
Silence came over the room once again. Oddly, the wind and rain no longer made any sound outside against the window. It was as if a giant fishbowl was placed over the four men who sat at the large oak table as they plotted to bring Hell itself upon the Earth.
4
The Abbot sat in his office after the other priests had gone to bed in the guest quarters he provided them for the duration of their stay. They would all be leaving St. Michael’s in the morning, to go back to their parishes and begin searching for the nuns as he had asked them to do. He had no doubt that they would be successful. The Abbot had already done his own exhaustive search prior to the meeting and found his own three nuns that would be perfect for the job at hand.
There was one other person he needed to make the tour successful. The Abbot knew that many of the nuns were elderly and would need assistance of someone younger that could help them along. He needed someone who could handle the baggage that they would have, tend to the train tickets and keep them together along the way. The Abbot also knew that this person would also be killed along with the twelve nuns, as part of the ancient rite told in the secret manuscript of Wilfred Weeks. It was a sacrifice that he had to be willing to make, in order to see this plan come to fruition before he became too old. He was in his 60’s now, and his fear was that if he waited much longer, he might die himself before seeing his life’s work through to the end. He couldn’t trust another living person with such a responsibili
ty, if he were unable to do it himself. The Abbot knew that now was the time to strike and that nothing would get in his way.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
“Yes, come in,” he said from behind his large desk. He was still in the red habit from earlier in the day. It was dark outside now. He had the beloved Boris on his lap, purring loudly as he stroked his dense orange fur.
Sister Mary Concordia opened the door gingerly. She was obviously afraid, as most were when summoned to the Abbot’s office, especially late at night. Many had heard stories about him and that he sometimes made improper advances on the younger women. She didn’t want to believe such things, but after what she had seen the night before, Sister Mary Concordia was repulsed to be in his presence. She asked one of the other sisters to go along with her, but Mother Mistress insisted she go alone to see the Abbot. The Mother Mistress did not let on that she knew what the meeting was about, nor did she give Sister Mary Concordia any indication that she had seen her the night before under the blood moon, while she was being taken upon the stone altar.
The Abbot smiled at the attractive novitiate. “Please sit, Sister.”
She immediately noticed Boris purring on his lap. Her heart was rising up into her throat as she did her best to control her emotions. She thought Boris was gone for good. She hadn’t seen him since he ran outside the night before, when she was throwing garbage away. Now he was purring on the Abbot’s lap, and she felt sure that the priest was doing it for a reason. He had to have known she was there last night.