by Pete Kahle
Footsteps echoed from the west wing, Sister Nettles appearing, a small candle cradled in her hands. “You’re not going to open it?”
Her British accent tugged at the strings of my heart which was no good, considering she had already tied them into a jumbled knot. She was adorable, Sister Nettles – a tiny thing at only five foot two. A small crook for a nose, long neck and bony chin and eyes which were much too large for her face, but the disjointedness came together like a tightly woven collage creating something far more magnificent than the sum of the individual parts on their own. While I would not have admitted so back then, I see no harm in doing so now; I was taken by her, and despite my vows there were many nights when she visited me in the lucid realms of sleep.
Before I had a chance to gather my thoughts, Nettles swept past both Sister Bedford and me, cupping her hand around the flame so as not to let it die.
“Allow me!” I shouted, hurrying after her.
She, of course, did.
The ornate iron doors, crested with scenes from the bible so analogous each square could represent your pick of stories, were set in the floor with heavy pins that dropped down latching them closed. The pins, each a good eighteen inches in length, required an inordinate amount of effort to free from their catch not only due to their weight but the levers within the flooring that had to be turned just so. Once I wriggled the damnable pin free, I pulled the door open, sliding the pin beneath as a doorstop, as we commonly did at the time.
Heavy rivulets poured down just beyond the alcove of the porch, the night black beyond the stoop. I swallowed hard, noting that no one was there – no gust of wind could have come at the doors with that much alarm, and then Sister Nettles was crouching down, her little bottom pursed out towards me. With reddened cheeks almost as rosy as Nettles’, I quickly glanced away. The sound of that sweet Sister cooing brought my attention back, her soft voice answered by a piercing wail.
A baby.
Someone had dropped it at our porch. Like a bag of groceries or an advert for the local theater. And whatever depraved soul left it, had failed to turn it from the stuck position of ff - FORTISSIMO.
Nettles motioned for my assistance, gathering up her skirt and glancing out at the darkness. I noticed that despite the lack of a breeze, the candle’s flame had blown out. I took in the woven reed basket and infant swimming within a sea of churning pink cloth. Her face was the color of a plum and I marveled at how much anger something so small and innocent could manifest. Oh, if we had only known.
After carrying the bundle inside, I placed it on a raised bench. Sister Bedford crowded in beside me. Her heavy jowls curved her lips downward in a permanent frown though it was apparent she was beaming inside.
“Oh, she’s such a sweetheart!” Not surprising – I did mention she was partially deaf.
While Nettles still hovered out on the stoop, Sister Bedford reached down taking the screaming infant, blankets and all, and brought her up to bounce against her … well, bouncy chest. “Shh, shh, shh, you are a sweet thing, aren’t you?”
“You should wait for the Olfac,” Nettles said.
“Huh?”
I knew the name by which Maggiolini was called by the attending nuns, Olfac or Factory, in reference to the persistent body odor which always accompanied the man, redolent of a wet and hirsute dog. It was said that the Archbishop Alcote had once nearly fainted in Maggiolini’s presence and, while he had attributed it to his fasting, we all knew the true offender. ‘If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee.’ Not so simple with the pungent musk of one’s own pores.
Knowing that Sister Bedford was just as habituated with the name, I presumed she just hadn’t heard. “She said you should wait for Father Maggiolini,” I said.
“Nonsense. We used to see this sort of thing all the time at the Rectory on Forty-Second – young girls knocked up by married men who should exchange their wedding rings for chains, if you ask me. And besides, a man – even a Father, Sister Nettles – lacks the proper equipment. Now close that door! It’s drafty as a turnip field in Poland in here.”
“I’ll get it.” My enthusiasm this time wasn’t for aiding Nettles but rather born of sheer desperation to escape the gales of the child’s cries.
“Here, here, you sweet thing. Now when they haven’t a teat to suckle you can slip them a finger and most times they’ll pacify themselves to sleep.”
“That’s disgusting,” Nettles crooned.
“That, my dear Sister, is biology.”
I always wondered what Sister Bedford heard next. Whether, for instance, the rending of flesh and snapping of bone and cartilage, melded with the sickeningly frantic slurps and bellicose sucking noises, came to her as something other than what it was. I’m quite certain, however, that she heard her own screaming.
The baby dropped from her arms as Sister Bedford backed away, a smear of gristly red coating its small chin. Somewhere along its descent I realized, it was no longer crying. A stream of blood flowed from Sister Bedford’s finger like the curved spray of a drinking fountain. Hysterical and dazed, she tumbled against the back pew, falling onto her considerably padded behind with a loud harrumph.
I braced myself for the thud of the child connecting with the marbled floor but watched with fascination as it adroitly righted itself in the air, landing delicately on outstretched fingers and toes. With the blankets torn off, you could see the rippled muscles in its tiny arms and legs as it held itself in a pushup position. Shoulder blades extended, triceps and deltoids flexed – it was like watching some freak carnival showing off a grown man the size of a baby.
Until I saw its tail.
It slithered out the top of the cloth wrapped around its waist, the appendage ending not in a point but a four tendon knob. The digits gripped the cloth diaper at its posterior and tore it free, twirling it once before casting it aside. Then the tail dropped to the ground, its four tendons spread out like talons, the fleshy knob raised slightly above.
The tail started vibrating. Then the creature was launched into the air.
Sister Bedford, who at this moment was mid-scream, grappled for anything nearby with which to ward off her attacker. Unfortunately we were in a church, not a junkyard or garage or office where miscellaneous items could be quickly requisitioned and repurposed. The hymnals, while scattered on the ground, were several rows up, and all of the wall hangings and architectural ornamentation had been anchored to walls and pillars long ago.
The creature landed between the crux of Sister Bedford’s outstretched legs, the skirt of her dress bowing inward and drawing up with its weight. Beyond the tethered muscles which rippled beneath its pale flesh, and of course, the tail, it was difficult not to see a helpless infant propped awkwardly between the nun’s quite hairy legs.
“MotherofMercysendthisdemonbacktoitsprisonandblessuswithyourholylight.” The words came out in a single gasp and must have struck the infant beast like a psychic blow. It began wailing a piercing and heartrending cry.
“BytheFatherandtheSonandtheHolyGhostIcommandtheetoleavethisholyplaceatonce!”
The creature let out a burp. A chunk of what must have been flesh or maybe a nail dislodged from its mouth, skipping with a wet slap along the floor. The crying immediately stopped. It hadn’t been Sister Bedford’s words that had caused its panic; just an upset stomach.
The beast’s tail shot forward, puncturing a slit in Sister Bedford’s dress through which it promptly disappeared. A moment passed in which only our breathing was heard, then Sister’s Bedford’s eyes tripled in size and she cried out with renewed vigor.
“Get it … out of me!” Her legs kicked wildly and she doubled over, a strained consternation coming over her face. “Get it out!”
Whatever paralysis had held Nettles and I bound was lifted, incredulity replaced with a need to act, to save. Though we were accustomed to believing in that which could not be seen, we had little experience with doubting that which was directly before our eyes.
I slid to the floor on my knees, reaching through the slit in the fallen nun’s gown, the fabric tearing further beneath my weight. The baby was not on the ground between the Sister’s legs as I had hoped. No, the atrocity before me was so unimaginable, so damning to both spirit and body, that I quaked at the sight. As a virgin, this was the first time I had ever seen the workings of a woman. But what should have been a curious fascination was vilified by the sight of two extended feet slithering upward into the cavity of Sister Bedford’s vagina, the pronged tail sticking out, pressed deep into the flesh of her inner thigh, leveraging its ascent.
This was not the rebirth I had read of in the Holy Bible.
Sister Bedford’s screams by now filled the entire chapel and let me tell you, no choir had ever sung so loud within our humble halls.
Nettles fell against me, frantically clawing at Sister Bedford’s dress. “Where is it?”
“It went… up,” I said, “where a baby comes out.”
Elocution had failed me.
I stood, unable to watch as Nettles plunged her arm in after the creature. I don’t remember consciously going back to the open door; perhaps I had wanted to leave, to escape the insanity that had stumbled onto the doorstep of our lives, but instead I shoved that heavy door closed, gripping the metal pin in my hand. The feeling that came over me next was what some might consider, revelatory. I felt like a vampire slayer, divinely called to rid the world of evil, armed with only righteousness and a holy wooden cross – or in this case, an eighteen inch bar of ribbed steel.
“No, no, no, no, no!”
Nettles’ arm and neck were slathered in blood. She now knelt atop Sister Bedford, pressing both arms against the older woman’s torso where a pronounced mound beneath the skin continued climbing northward. The off key screaming had subsided, a milky substance bubbling from Sister Bedford’s mouth. I moved back toward the two women, the pin gripped like a miniature baseball bat. A firm calm and determination had settled over me; I knew what had to be done.
Before I crossed the threshold, Sister Bedford’s neck bulged, her jaw dislocating with two distinct mercurial pops. And then, from within her gaping lips and saggy cheeks, the top of a head began to crown. Like a bubble blown from chewing gum, the pink head expanded until, with a sickening suction sound, the creature’s full head popped free of Sister Bedford’s mouth. The rest of its tiny and slime covered body wriggled out, slipping down her face to the marbled floor.
The creature leapt off the ground just as I swung the metal pin toward it, my calculated strike instead slashing open the side of Sister Bedford’s face from lip to jaw. Another misplaced swing sent fleshy pulp splattering upward, disfiguring the poor motherly Sister even further, though by this point she was quite dead. When the infant scrambled over Sister Bedford’s body toward Nettles I acted only as any gallant knight might, but the creature avoided each assault with an uncanny dexterity. Its tail suddenly plunged down against a thick bony knee, vibrating ferociously, then it launched itself at the thin nun weeping over Sister Bedford’s body.
Footsteps echoed from the hall, Father Maggiolini’s raspy voice lost behind the blood thrumming in my ears. The creature was in Nettles’ arms, tangling itself in the tassels of her white smock, trying to scale her. I brought the pin back, leaping forward with my thrust. The chiseled tip of the pin sunk through the creatures flesh as if I had been wielding a sword. It shrieked a piercing cry cut short as the metal rod slid through its small body, puncturing both organs and life.
I exhaled a deep breath, an inner peace coming over me. I had exterminated this foul monster, this infernal beast that had risen from the seventh circle of hell. Then I heard the clatter of a small box of tools dropping to the ground behind me.
“My God, what have you done?”
Father Maggiolini stood at the end of the arched hallway, his eyes giant saucers within murky ponds of wrinkles. His jaw hung open, a puppet no longer in use.
I turned back to Nettles, pulling the pin free from the vile creature in her arms. It slid out with much more difficulty than it had going in, ruptured organs and stringy tissue clinging to the inanimate object. I looked for confirmation on Nettles’ face, the corroboration of my innocence, of the true culprit of the massacre we had just witnessed.
Without a word, the child slipped from her hands. It smacked the marbled floor with the heart-wrenching thud I had anticipated earlier, when it had caught itself on fingers and toes. While I could still see the hint of wiry muscles beneath, its taloned appendage had withdrawn, tail somehow retracting into smooth, if wrinkly, skin. The blood leaked from its two gaping wounds in its torso like an overturned jar of ink.
And where the baby once had been, Nettles held a pool of crimson blood cupped within her hands. Dangling from the hole in her gown was the creature’s tail. It had speared right through her stomach, ripping into her intestinal track. Liquid feces, mixed with blood, spilled from the puncture wound.
Her legs gave out just as I turned back to Father Maggiolini.
“Look – its tail!”
I never heard him coming. He struck me with the end of a candelabra and I followed my Nettles down.
I was convicted of triple homicide. Life, with no chance of parole. Thanks to our corrupt legal system, and untraceable bribes from the Vatican, a plea of insanity landed me, thankfully, in a more hospitable residence than a federal detention facility. They claimed, of course, that the tail was merely mangled flesh, a part of Nettles’ intestines. That I suffered a psychotic relapse, remembering my own abandonment as a child, and was caught up in a schizophrenic hallucination. And the creature – well, dead, it looked as innocent as a newborn. With no biological family to press for an autopsy, it was quietly swept under a very thick Italian rug. What’s one cover-up in the history of a Church that is riddled with them?
But I know the truth because I’m not alone. There are others just like me. A nun in Tampa, Florida, who set an infant child on fire; a priest in Tacoma, Washington, who threw a baby from the top of a bell tower; a groundskeeper in Southern Utah, who buried a trowel through an infant’s skull. They’ve seen what I’ve seen. They know.
And they’re not the only ones.
There’s a reason that Motu Proprio was sent out to every church and domicile under the authority of the Pope. And if you don’t believe me, ask around. You’ll see – they’ll all say they don’t know why or when the practice of bringing abandoned infants into the church was abolished. But if you look closely while they’re giving their answers, you’ll notice a bead of sweat trickle down a forehead. Nostrils flaring, when their sinuses were fine before. They will quickly excuse themselves to other matters while apologizing that they couldn’t give you more of their time. And then you too will know.
Evil walks amongst us. Or crawls. Cries. Screams.
And we are the ones who must stop it.
Sancto Saepes Motu Proprio:
The Second Vatican Council, in adherence to the infallible truths set forth by the Magisterium, has ascertained the need to set forth, in divine promulgation, the ensuing statute, requiring the immediate and universal assent, both in faith and by works, of all magistrates whose ministries extend to any sacred domiciliary station including, but not limited to, cathedrals, churches, convents, oratories, monasteries, rectories, or any other place of worship or sanctioned tutelage:
From this day, the 22nd of May in the year of our Lord 1974, forward, and ever looking backward, for God is the same today, yesterday, and tomorrow, no infant child abandoned on or before the holy grounds of an aforementioned domiciliary station, or any analogous edifice, shall be admitted within said domicile by a member of the clergy. This sanctioned decree upheld without exception.
In the event that such a circumstance should arise it is advisable in the establis
which said domicile should subscribe, namely in relation to the governin contact the local authorities. Such an outreach should be made w wherein the presiding council will
convene to determine th file, in the Church archives, both the discovering p with accordance to the doctrines of the eve and His Holy Word in which all m
Further council should recording names without th apol
The Behrg is the author of dark literary works ranging from screenplays to 'to-do' lists. His debut novel, Housebroken, was a First-Round Kindle Scout Selection, and semi-finalist in the 2015 Kindle Book Awards. His latest novel, The Creation, is the first in a dark supernatural trilogy about a 'god-like' being starting the seven days of the Creation over again. Books two and three are due out in 2016. The Behrg's 'to-do' list should be completed by 2017... (though his wife is hoping for a little sooner).
A former child actor turned wanna-be rockstar, The Behrg lives in Southern California with his four children, pet Shih-Tzu, and the many voices in his head.
Discover why he writes as "The Behrg" at his website: TheBehrg.com
SOFT-WALKER
by Christine Morgan
We are the Corn-People
We are the Blood-People
We are the God-People
Made from Blood and Corn
Tuapecmal imbued his voice with all the confidence he could muster as he led the morning’s chant.
But the listless villagers only mumbled their responses. Most did not even bother to look at him, keeping their gazes downcast rather than lift them to the sun rising behind the altar-stone.
A haze hung already in the sky. Not a breath of breeze stirred. The surrounding jungles fumed a green and sweaty steam. Any relief the cooler shade beneath the trees might promise was made a lie by the steady, droning, teeming hum of biting flies, chinche beetles and mosquito.
The men leaned heavily upon their digging-sticks, as if at the end of a long work-day rather than the beginning. In the milpas where they grew their crops, the earth lay parched and dusty. The women all looked weary, when they had not yet begun their ceaseless treks to and from the deep cenote. Empty buckets carried down rough steps hewn from cavern limestone, full buckets brought back up. Fretful younger children tugged at their sisters or grandmothers.