Personally, Jake didn’t much care for that sort of thing. With his own generation caught between both Gen-X and millennial, he favored neither and both, to an extent. In fact, his opinion, if he were honest, leaned more toward tradition than new. There was a stoic voice deep in his head that sung often of its fondness for some ancient practice, something old. In the closet of his heart he secretly wished he was Catholic rather than Presbyterian. It’d make things a lot easier being a Catholic priest. Catholic priests seem more like soldiers than clergy. With the Presbyterians, there’s too much in house politics. Councils, board member meetings, committees, elders, deacons. So many to answer to and no one willing to make the call. When is there any time for worship or prayer or silence or contemplation? From the few Catholic services I’ve actually attended, things just look so much simpler on the other side. But there’s a saying about that, isn’t there? Something about green grass.
Though, if I do jump ship, it’ll certainly be the nail in the coffin with my relationship with mom and dad, especially dad. I’m lucky they didn’t croak when I left Seminary for the Army. But I came back, didn’t I? Finished school. Became what they’d always wanted me to be, just like them…What they always wanted…
Jake’s gaze went back to the wooden statue of Christ. His thoughts swirled in a soup of regret and fear and worry. Fear for not just his parent’s judgement of his departure from St. Hubert’s, but also of last night’s dream, and his worry for Maggie and her haggard appearance. She is not dealing with Ricky’s death well at all, he thought, studying the cherry-red lips of Jesus, half-expecting for them to move, to say what was said in his dream. “I prefer mercy over sacrifice,” he whispered, gazing at the wooden Savior. Come on, talk to me! Say something. Whisper it in my ear. I’m lost. What can I do? What should I do?
Nothing. The wooden statue did not move nor did it say anything. The Christ figure hanged there, gazing upon the tabernacle.
Jake followed Christ’s fixed gaze once again. He looked at the table where the chalice and bread would be, where the priest offered the Eucharist to the parishioners of Jotham. On the table he found something else. The dark oak was covered with both large and small slithering shining bodies. Jake flinched. The hell? Bulbous compound eyes pooled together in a broth of red and yellow black. Milky wings fluttered in wild ecstasy. Chirping echoed. Clicking vibrated against the walls and rattled across the sanctuary. Buzzing filled his heart with horror. He retched, but somehow held back the bile, burning his throat.
What the hell is this!
Jake pushed back in the pew. His thoughts caught in the snare of fear and disbelief. He nearly stood. What…what…is this…? He looked back up at the wooden Christ and found the statue dripping with larva. Yellowish-white puss congealing on the chest and feet and arms and nail scared hands and the thorn-carved-crown.
Jake looked. Confused. Feeling dizzy. The Christ statue was gazing at him now. Its head and mouthed moved, but the statue remained on the cross. He could not hear the words spoken. He leaned forward, dazed in the trepidation of what he was seeing. A final uttered whisper drifted on a breeze that smelled something like vanilla.
“Mercy over sacrifice…” the statue croaked, glaring at Jake with those same eyes from his dream (nightmare). Wooden sockets that held the entire energy of the cosmos, glittering with every star known and unknown. Of moons and planets and suns and interstellar dust clouds and comets and asteroids and quasars and nebulas and gamma-rays and supernovas and galaxies beyond the furthest reaches of comprehension all tucked and sparkling within those wooden hollow eyes pulling Jake with some great and terrible force; kneading his mind like unleavened bread and boiling his blood like fermented wine.
Jake forced his face into his hands. Rocking back and forth in his pew he prayed for it all to end. Please…please…he begged.
He pulled at his hair. He wanted to scream. He held his breath. Bit his tongue.
Footsteps echoed from behind.
“Good afternoon,” called a warm elderly voice.
Startled, Jake whipped around. A short gentleman stood in the aisle with black trousers and a black jacket and a black button up shirt and a white clerical collar. His hair was cropped close on the sides and a tad longer on top, greying and slicked and parted like a flat pompadour. On the bridge of his nose hung a pair of black horn rimmed glasses, which he pushed father onto his face, watching Jake with amused interest, like a child running into the living room on Christmas morning to find the tree stocked with presents.
“Father—” The word had escaped Jake’s lips before he had time to think. He turned back to the wooden statue of Christ and the tabernacle that had been swarming with wet globs of black and brown and olive little arthropods to find everything normal. There were no insects fluttering about, or at least not within the walls of St. Francis Xavier Catholic Church.
“Sorry, I’ve interrupted you,” said the old priest.
“Huh?” Jake said dumbfounded.
“You were praying.”
“I was?”
“Yes.” The old priest smiled as if amused by Jake’s absent-mindlessness.
“No. No its okay. I was—” Jake stuttered. Unsure of what he was saying.
“You’re okay, son. I get the same way. Do you mind?” The priest gestured to the pew in front of Jake. “This is where I like to come and pray around this time of day.” He smiled warmly.
Jake blinked. “Sure.”
The old priest sat. His gaze went to the wooden statue of Christ and with a withered hand he gestured the Sign of the Cross. He mumbled a few words that sounded perhaps like incantations. Finished, he turned sideways in the pew to face Jake. “I’m Father Becket,” he said offering his hand across the pew.
Jake took it, surprised by its frailty. Jesus, it’s like touching brittle wood or something. “Hi, Jake Williams,” he said with pretend friendliness.
“Nice to meet you, Jake.”
“Likewise.”
“So, are you touring the Painted Churches? What stop are you on?” asked Father Becket.
Jake’s mouth hung ajar. “How did you…?”
“I don’t recognize you, and I know just about every soul in Jotham. So, I have to assume you must be touring the area and since you’ve stopped in here instead of one of the fried-Twinkie stands outside, you must be checking out the Churches.”
Jake shook his head. “No, just this church. I’m in town visiting a friend, a few friends actually.” His mind flashed to Maggie and her hollow eyes gazing at him from across the kitchen table during breakfast this morning. She seems so…gone.
“Really? Is your friend a local?” prodded the priest.
“Sort of.”
“Do you mind if I ask her name?”
“Maggie Smith. She just moved here last year, before the holidays, I believe.”
Father Becket’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes. Mrs Smith. I’ve heard about her, though I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting her in person. She bought that house out on Oak Lee, correct?”
Jake frowned. There was something in the way Father Becket said that house he didn’t care for much. “Yes. Why?”
The Father smiled. “Oh, nothing. It’s just an old wives tale. An urban myth is all.”
“Really?”
“Been around before I was even a speck in my mother’s eye.”
“Can you share it?”
“Well, it’s just some old local legend. Tall tale the old timers like to tell to get the teenagers spooked.”
“Please.”
“Oh, sure. The house up that way has had some…well…back history, it would seem. Not many have moved into it. And those that have…well…they up and disappear like dust caught in a gale. There’s an old story, how the house was owned by a Confederate soldier back in the late 1800s. A hermit who’d rode in and saved Jotham from falling under.”
“Under what?”
“From what I’ve gathered, Jotham was drying up with the railroad only runnin
g through Giddings. Augustus Westfield, that was the Confederate’s name, he rode in and poured all kinds of revenue into the town, like manna from heaven, rain drops on a dusty field. Shops and business alike sprang with renewed life. It didn’t take much, of course, but Jotham flourished nevertheless. Westfield became an overnight hero. Adored by all…well, mostly all.”
“So, why the legend with the house? Did something happen?” prodded Jake.
The priest nodded solemnly. “As the story goes, Westfield threw a big New Year’s party. Not everyone in town was invited, only a select few. But of those that did attend, none of them were seen or heard from again. Not even Westfield. There was rumor of debauchery, of course. Lewd behavior. Drunkenness. Sexual immorality. That sort of thing. But when the Sheriff and some of the men from town went up to that house, they didn’t find a single trace of anyone. Not even of Westfield. It was as if he never existed. As if none of them existed, except for the memory and homes left empty.”
“And the urban legend…”
“Some of the town folk started spinning yarns about the house being cursed. Really, I think it was just a way to keep kids from going near the place. However, the house has an odd history of swallowing up its owners. Anyone who’s ever tried to sell the house has met with…an untimely end, and for those who’ve moved in, they’re never seen from again. Or, so the story goes.” Father Becket stopped and wiped his glasses with a rag he took from his pocket. Planting them back on his face, he looked back at Jake. “They say not to even drive out there. As the legend goes, the old Confederate still lives there, and if he sees you he’ll follow you home. And at night when your eyes begin to droop, he’ll come and eat you whole.” His eyes shone in cold sternness. His smile faded. Silence echoed in the empty church.
Jake fidgeted in his pew.
Father Becket glared.
Jake held his breath.
Then the priest erupted in a bellowing cheerful laughter. His face glowed red as he slapped the pew back.
Jake exhaled loudly.
“Told you. Just some silly local legend, is all.” The priest kept laughing, tears running down his wrinkled cheeks.
“Funny.”
“Well, you know how people are. Strange things happen and the easiest explanation or the one most will accept is usually the most fantastic.” The priest wiped tears from his face, still giggling.
“So, how did you heard about Maggie moving in? Is she a member here?”
“Small town, son. Small town.”
“Who sold her the house?”
A look of grief fell over Father Becket’s face, like a curtain falling onto a stage. “Now that is some tragic news.”
“What happened?” Jake prodded with renewed interest.
“It was terrible, really. The local realtor, Jotham’s only real estate office, Butters & Sons, took on the house, never really believing they’d sell the place, I think. Well…your friend calls up Duke, practically demanding to move into the place on Oak Lee right away. I remember Glenn, Duke’s youngest, telling me he felt wrong about the whole thing. Very sudden and strange…” Father Becket trailed off, his thoughts seemingly pondering some untold memory.
“Father?”
The priest looked back at Jake, perhaps surprised to have wandered off. “Look at me!” he said. “See, this is how Tall Tales get started.”
“You were saying, though?”
“Oh yes. Very tragic. Duke and his boys dying the way they did.”
“And how was that?”
“Suicide.”
“Suicide?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“All three?”
“Duke, Glenn, and Mark.”
“My—”
“—God rest their souls.” The old priest gestured the Sign of the Cross and then kissed his hand, uttering a silent prayer.
“I’m sorry,” said Jake.
“Every town has its tragedy.”
“I’m assuming they were…”
“What?”
“Not given a funeral.”
“Good heavens, why would you think that?”
“Doesn’t the Catholic church have a policy against about people who take their own lives?”
The old priest rubbed his chin. “Yes, suicide is objectively an unforgiveable sin, a violation of the ‘Thou shalt not kill’ commandment. However, given certain circumstances, prayers could be made for the forgiveness of said person or persons.”
“Circumstances?”
“Psychological disturbances, for one. Fear of torture…sacrifice. Things of that nature.”
“Oh. So…who sold Maggie the house, then?”
“Excuse me?”
“If Duke and his sons were the only real estate office in town, who sold the house?”
“Oh, sorry. Duke had other folks working there. Let’s see…there’s Betty Palmer, she works the front desk. Nice young gal. And then there’s…Eugene, Eugene Parsons. He’s Duke’s other real estate go-to guy. Probably the one who sold the house to your friend?”
Jake shrugged. “Maggie never said.”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not.” Jake glanced out the stain glass window. In the soup of his woes, now the strange mystery of the house was added. For whatever reason, the place gave him a terrible feeling, and though it didn’t make much sense, he felt as if he needed to get Maggie out of there. But why?
“Penny for your thoughts, son,” chimed Father Becket with a patient grin.
Jake looked at the aged priest. “Sorry, Father. I was just thinking about my friend.” Is the house killing her? Come on, Jake! That’s an old urban legend. Houses don’t kill people. There are no such things as ghosts.
—What about Renfield? You seemed pretty convinced he was standing in your church not that long ago. Was he real?
I was in a bad place…mentally.
—Maybe…or maybe there’s something else going on here. Something you’re too terrified and stubborn to admit…
Concern grew on the old man’s wrinkled brow. “Is everything okay? Nothing bad as happened, has it?”
Jake sighed. “No. No, nothing like your local legend, I’m sure. Just…my friend, Maggie, she seems…different, I suppose. Not like how she used to be, when we were younger.”
Father Becket chuckled. “Who is? Everyone changes, son. Time has a funny way of doing that. There are no absolutes in this world, that’s for certain.”
Jake cocked an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you say God is an absolute, Father?”
The priest folded his arms, looking at his pew back. “Perhaps, in a way, but not really, at least not for us anyhow.”
“How so?”
“Well, consider how often cultures and civilizations change. The way we communicate, as well. People evolve. So does the Church, though much more slowly, I’m embarrassed to say. So, in that aspect, our understanding of God, what God is, is not absolute. In fact, our opinion of God and religion, of the Catholic Church, has changed rather steadily, if we were to count our pace since Christ ascended.”
Jake chuckled. “Been around that long, have you?”
The priest winked. “Longer than you could imagine.”
Jake laughed.
So did the priest. He stopped and continued. “You don’t see mobs running to burn suspected witches anymore, do you?” he asked, chuckling at his own question.
“No. The mob runs to burn a different kind of witch nowadays.” Jake’s thoughts went to Bobby and their visit to The Egg & I. “Basically the same, the undesirables of society.”
Father Becket stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So…are you saying there are absolutes? That the savagery of man is an absolute?”
Jake shrugged. “Just making an observation.”
“Very pessimistic one at that!”
“Sorry…didn’t mean to—”
“—No. No. It’s good to be honest,” the priest said arching his eyebrows. “I’m just afraid you may have a point. Though, I
must say, I’m glad we’ve progressed enough to have ceased burning people at the stake just for being different.”
“Amen,” Jake said with gusto.
Father Becket nodded in affirmation. “So with your friend,” he continued, “be patient. Whatever it is, she’ll come around in her own time.”
“I know, Father. It’s just that…” Jake looked at his palms.
“What it is?”
“She seems more than different, like she’s a whole other person now. Cold. Distant. Very distant. She wrote me a letter asking for me to come and in the letter she seemed still somewhat herself. Depressed, maybe, but warm and…and, well, very much the Maggie I knew and grew up with.”
“And now?”
“Different.”
“Has anything happened recently that could be the reason for this shift in her personality?” asked the priest.
“Yes, now that you mention it. Her husband passed away a little over a year ago,” Jake said, looking back at the priest, glancing at the cross in the background. “But it’s been a year…”
“I’m sorry to hear,” the Father said tenderly. “Losing a friend, a close friend, can be more difficult, I think, than losing a relative.”
Jake nodded. “We were all friends growing up. Still are, though we’ve become somewhat distant. Ricky, that’s…was Maggie’s husband. He was killed in action in Iraq. Baghdad, I think. RPG attack. I was just finishing seminary when I heard the news.” Jake leaned back against the pew, allowing the memories to flow naturally. He’d received the call on a warm sunny spring afternoon. Maggie had called him. She had gotten the school’s number from his parents, or so he guessed. Even then, she was very stoic…Shock…she was in shock. We were all in shock, in our own way.
“Seminary? Are you…?” Father Becket gestured with his head toward the pulpit beside the Tabernacle where the bread and wine were offered.
Emerging (Subdue Book 2) Page 16