by John Everson
Nic recounted his experiences from the night before, adding that he intended to watch the entire ceremony, if possible, tonight.
"Don't go near St. Matt's, man!" Russ nearly yelled. "If what you've said is true, you've got something demonic running around there." Russ calmed himself and tried another tack. "Ya know, you should never go after a devil without another devil on your side!" he drawled unconvincingly. "At least wait for me to come back and help you. I can get out of here tomorrow."
"I'll handle it okay, Russ. Talk to ya soon, all right?"
Nic went upstairs to pack. It was going to be a long night.
* * *
There was a hot fetid breeze coughing across the town as Nic swung his bike out of the driveway. Before he was even out of the tiny subdivision, his shirt was drenched. Sweat dripped with liberal speed down his forehead and into his eyes. No sooner did he wipe it away than a new stream began. He tasted salt on his lips. The cool, comfortable weather of the past couple weeks had evaporated overnight, replaced by the blazing 95 degree August sun. He could feel the furnace-hot wind licking the water from his eyes, but as he stared at the rows of trees along the parkways, he saw no movement in the gathering dusk. No birds were calling, no locusts humming on this scorching night. Everywhere was quiet. The neighborhood houses might have been boarded up - but each one seemed to have candlelight flickering somewhere within. The bell tower of St. Matt's stood like a lighthouse, its spire the beacon to everyone in town. Nic answered the call.
Regardless of the heat, he shivered and made a silent prayer to God, if there was a God:
If you are there, I know you don't care much about the everyday stuff that goes on here. But if you are there, if you did create us, surely you can't overlook this abomination in your church. This is... unnatural... supernatural? What is this thing that calls an entire town to church every night? A bitter angel? A devil released? Help us, God. If you can. Please.
His eyes were wet and he felt stupid. There was a monster, or, more likely, a madman roaming his church, and he was begging God. Well, if church was God's house, he wouldn't let in beings that weren't welcome there, would he? Therefore, either God was a voyeur of violence, or he didn't give a shit, or he wasn't there. But something was most certainly here, supernatural or not, and it had to be stopped. Obviously, religion and pious words had nothing of harm in them for this creature. Like any man, it twisted the beliefs and the words to mean what it wanted. It turned good intentions to evil acts.
There was singing coming from the church when he arrived in the parking lot. The blacktopped side yard of St. Matt's was completely obscured by cars. He left his bike behind the rectory, grabbed his backpack, and headed through the corridor into the sacristy. Again, nobody was there waiting, but Father Raphael's parting words last night didn't allow him relief at that. Somehow, the priest had known what he'd witnessed through the sacristy peephole. And there he was staring through it again. The townspeople were walking down the center aisle, where Raphael was apparently handing out communion. He heard the priest softly murmuring after each recipient took his offering, "Body and Blood." Something about the hosts was wrong - they seemed thicker and darker in color. And Raphael was allowing everyone to drink from the chalice - something he only did on special occasions. Nic saw his mom licking a deep red mustache from her lips as she handed back the cup of wine.
When the line of communion goers was finished, Father Raphael set down the host chalice and walked over to the saint. Two men rose from the pews on either side of the aisle and raised the glass lid.
What was he doing?
Raphael murmured something and put the wine chalice to the lips of the dead man. Slowly, he raised the cup, emptying the contents into the ancient mouth. When he was finished, Raphael raised his hands and bowed his head.
"Soon we will have the blessing of the saint himself," he called.
As if on cue, Theophrastus sat up.
Nic's heart stopped. He was frozen to the wall as he watched this ghost-white man reach out to the two men near his coffin, who assisted him in stepping to the floor.
With stiff, mechanical steps, the figure moved unaided to the lectern. He picked up the black book lying there and smiled out at the people gathered.
An icy steel voice creaked out from this undead saint. "Tonight," it began. "Tonight we will take the next step towards full understanding. With the help of God, we will move closer to heaven. Part of that move must be in the final cleansing of this body." He spread his hands in an all-inclusive gesture. "We have set ourselves free. Now we must free others. Bring forward our newest convert."
Nic's breath caught as he saw the convert.
It was April, escorted by her parents to the altar.
The girl was trembling with fear, struggling to escape the grip her parents had on her arms.
"She will now accept the body and blood she has heretofore refused."
Father Raphael went to reclaim his chalices, and moved toward the girl.
Nic wanted to run out of his hiding spot, grab her, and get them both out of this place. But the congregation was crowding the altar; a circle of eager spectators now surrounded her - he wouldn't have a chance of getting her free of them. Resigned to wait, he watched, fury building as Raphael held her nose and forced her mouth open while the saint stuffed a host into her mouth. "Body," he intoned and then raised the chalice to her lips. "And blood." She spit the mixture out when Raphael released her chin, a red spray spotting the white garments of the saint and spattering the floor. The priest promptly repeated the process.
April choked. Raphael clamped her chin closed. All at once, the struggle ceased, the panic lines on her face vanished. April smiled. The cold lips of the saint descended to touch hers.
Theophrastus looked out at the congregation and spoke once more.
"She is ours. And now she will become mine."
April's parents suddenly began unbuttoning their daughter's blouse. April smiled dumbly. Her skirt dropped to the floor, revealing the pink silk and lace panties Nic had bought her as a Valentine's gift. The blouse joined the skirt, freeing the matching bra. Her parents gently removed the undergarments until she stood naked before the priest and the saint, her smooth back facing the congregation. The parents stepped away. Now was the only chance he was going to get.
Nic was about to bolt into the church when the saint stared directly at the peephole.
"You will continue to watch," the voice grated.
And Nic couldn't move. Mentally, he struggled to force his head away from the wall, to make his legs unbend, to push with his arms. Not only could he not move, his chest couldn't expand or contract - he couldn't breathe!
April was lying prone on the altar; the saint had removed his outer robes and was climbing up to join her.
Pinpricks of angry light flashed before Nic's eyes... The saint grasped April's goose bump covered breasts... The church swam, blurred... The saint moved her thighs apart... Black lightning... crimson flowers... exploding... The saint lay between April's legs and stared straight at the peephole as he began to move with a steady rhythm...
* * *
Nic woke stiff and cold in the dark. He was in the church basement, he knew from the tile. The only light was overflowing from the stairway. Nic sat up slowly. His chest still hurt.
God, what is happening? His eyes grew wet as he thought of the last thing he remembered. His girlfriend raped before his eyes by something 400 years in the grave. And all he could do was watch.
What were they going to do with him? His arms and legs weren't bound, but then, the only way out of this dungeon was to go through the church. Not a very viable solution. Nic wiped the sweat from his face and staggered to his feet. The darkness tasted rank. The air hung thick, heavy, and choking.
He made his way to the back of the stairs where he knew the light switches were. Found them. Flipped them. And almost puked.
On one of the potluck tables lay the naked, dismembered body of Lana Fe
llier. He might never have recognized her if the last picture he had of her hadn't been of that whale-like body rippling across the altar. It looked much the same here, though missing certain appendages. The enormous breasts had been excised, leaving great gaping red holes in the otherwise bone white torso. For all the missing pieces, there wasn't a great deal of blood in evidence. But as he crept forward, his guts in protest, he found the reason. Buckets were neatly positioned under her neck and arm sockets. They were near full. He turned away from the abomination and went into the kitchen to get some water, maybe to throw up.
But he didn't get near the sink. The room smelled of burnt meat. On the stainless steel counter next to the basin laid a meat cleaver, a cookie pan, and a circular cookie cutter. Those quick observations didn't slow him. It was the garbage can by the door. Blonde hair trailed over the side; a bone stuck out of the top.
Nic ran back to the hall. He realized the whole place smelled like the garbage on Sunday night, after a Saturday steak barbecue. Then he noticed the wealth of hefty bags along the back brick wall.
Forcing himself past the door of the kitchen, he grabbed the cleaver and started up the stairs.
There was a room at the top of the flight; a door opened to the church. The area was sometimes used as a waiting area for bridal parties, or as a spare confessional. Nic's fury turned to fear when he saw what waited for him on the black vinyl row of chairs along the far wall.
"Good, you're awake," the saint said thinly. "I thought we should have a talk. You've been quite resourceful in your rebellion. Sit down. Over there." He pointed to the other side of the room. "I wouldn't want that knife to slip. It's sharp. It even goes through bone."
Nic sat where he was directed. He stared at the man in the spotted white vestments. The hair was short, perfectly groomed; the eyes almost silver in their sharpness. When he smiled, he looked like he would bite. Nic hated him with all of his being. But it wasn't enough. He could feel the weight of his will lift from him again. The knife slipped from his paralyzed hand. This time he could still breathe - and speak. How could this thing control him like this?
"What are you?" he asked quietly.
"I am the instrument of the Lord," the man answered. "I am Saint Theophrastus of Modiscar. Until recently I slept the sleep of martyrdom. The evil of the world called me back. Back to preach again the word of God, and to bring the world back to him."
"You call murder, cannibalism, and rape the work of God?"
"No, my son, I do not. You have labeled goodly acts by false names. I have done what is needed. We have answered the call of the flesh, the call that is in our deepest natures. The call that God himself left within us to be our guide. And if you do not heed that call within yourself, we will be forced to take your rebellious life from you, and use your foul carcass to strengthen the body of the flock."
"You're a devil!"
"So all good men of God are called. I've found that it is, in fact, a way to judge if you are on God's path - for his is not an easy, popular way. To be spurned by the unconverted is to know you have the truth."
"How can you be alive? Are you a devil?"
"Could I then wear priestly garments and handle the body of Christ if I were? Could I touch holy water?" He dipped his hand in the holy water receptacle by the door. "Could I preach the Gospel of our Lord were I a minion of Satan?"
One of the parishioners came through the door. Nic saw it was Ray.
"Father Raphael says the girl is prepared." Ray knelt and kissed the saint's hand.
"Good." Theophrastus looked at Nic. "Will you eat the body and drink the blood?"
Nic shook his head.
"Then your mistress will suffer the consequences. Bring him," he commanded the kneeling man. Theophrastus strode back into the church.
Ray pushed Nic inside. April was there, still naked, her wrists and feet bound. Her arms were tied to the feet of the giant Christ on the cross statue behind the altar. Nic's mom stood behind her, holding a man's belt, which dangled near the floor.
Theophrastus was at the lectern, quoting the passages from the black book that Nic had read the night before.
"Now that she has experienced heavenly ecstasy, she must understand the pains of hell," Theophrastus said to the congregation. Chants of "Amen" answered him. "She has caressed the roses of the garden of man; now let her feel the thorns."
"Amen."
"And in her suffering, perhaps her tempter, the man she enjoyed unenlightened carnal bliss with..." Theophrastus paused and pointed at Nic. "Perhaps he will learn the power of God. Begin."
Nic's mom hefted the belt and swung. The buckle struck with a muffled thud on April's back, leaving behind a red welt.
"No!" Nic screamed, lunging toward the women. His captor grabbed him from behind.
Again the belt went down, this time leaving a bloody scratch across her back. Nic was crying. The congregation cheered. "Again. Again."
April screamed as her back began to drip blood from a dozen gashes, her ribs bruising with each downfall of the belt.
And then a shot rang through the church.
Nic whipped around with the parish, staring at the gunman in the vestibule. He took advantage of the surprise and wrested himself out of the guard's grasp. He pointed at Theophrastus.
"The guy in white - get the guy in white up here!" Nic yelled at Russ, who brandished his father's rifle with a look of confusion. Then Nic dove into the bridal room to grab his cleaver while waiting for the all-important shot. It didn't come.
Nic stepped back into the church. Everyone still in the pews was standing, staring at him. The rest gathered near Theophrastus's coffin, a line of silent faces. Russ was at their feet. April hung limply from her bindings on the altar, shaking, crying. He glimpsed Theophrastus in the midst of the mob, and determined not to look at him. Maybe if he didn't look into those eyes - could his power be simple hypnotism?
"Anyone who comes near me dies!" he yelled, hoping to buy time while he figured a way out of there.
"Russ couldn't shoot his parents, Nic," Father Raphael said at the front of the mob. "Can you knife your mother?"
Catherine Collins stepped towards him. "If you and April would just have come with me earlier..." she began.
"Stop, mom. Don't think I won't do to you what you just did to her."
"Nic. Nicky, I'm your mom! I love you. Now give me the knife."
Now or never. He broke to the left, slashing his way down the side aisle toward the back door. His knife was quickly dripping bright red as arms reached out from every pew. He shuddered as he batted at an old lady in a blue scarf who grabbed him around the waist. He reached the back of the church, still running, and saw Russ's gun lying there. In one fluid motion, he bent down, dropped the knife, snatched the gun, and barreled through the double doors.
On the front lawn, out of breath, he turned to see his pursuers.
There were none.
He waited for a minute and walked to where he'd left his bike. It was still there. There was a switchblade in the knapsack. He pocketed it.
How does one fight a mob of people possessed by a ghoul? How does one fight a ghoul?
Nic circled to the front of the church. His mom was standing there.
"Nic, if you don't put the gun down and come back inside, they will cut April's throat. I may do it myself, you've been so bad."
She strode back inside.
The night was quiet. Sweat drenched Nic's clothes. Tears streamed down his face. He stood silent for a moment, and then followed his mom back inside.
Father Raphael stood in the center aisle. He held April, still bound, in front of him with one hand around her midriff. The other held the meat cleaver to her throat. A thin line of blood ran from the knife down to her shoulder.
Nic raised the gun and pointed it at Theophrastus. He tried to sound bold, tough. "Drop the knife, Father, or I kill the saint." It came out sounding like a bad Western.
A group of parishioners gathered around Theophras
tus, still at the lectern.
Raphael answered him softly. "You can't kill him, Nic. He's immortal. And if you shoot at him, I will kill April. She isn't immortal."
Something hit him from behind. He glimpsed a red brick in the air above him as he fell. Suddenly arms were grabbing him everywhere, punching him, ripping his clothes, lifting him in the air. He arrived on the altar minus shirt and shoes. The saint towered over him. Bone-white hands brushed against his chest. One chance left. Maybe. He refused to look at the face of the thing. Maybe it would work. So far, he was still free.
"Strip him," the saint commanded.
With his pants went his last hope - the switchblade.
A cold hand felt between his legs.
"We know you have already experienced the ecstasy of this," the icy voice proclaimed. But you have not felt the reality of this." Nic jerked up screaming as the hand crushed his balls in its grip. He swung his arm at the head of the grinning abomination that called itself a saint, catching it full force on the ear and spinning it backwards. Still wheezing in pain, spittle leaking from his mouth, he leapt off the altar and grabbed Theophrastus by the neck from behind, squeezing with all his might. Hands ripped at his shoulders, trying to separate him from the cold skin he held fast. A knife slashed across his arm. Screaming, he let go and dropped to the floor, gripping the tear in his arm. The hands grabbed at him again, but he rolled under the altar, leaving a smear of shiny crimson behind him. He felt a ripping in his leg. The knifer had struck again. His good arm reached; his fingers touched the discarded pants and pulled them close.
Pain almost blinded him. Again a sharp hit on his leg. He tried to drag it with him under the altar, but someone had their hands on his feet. They were dragging him out. His hands fumbled in the pocket, retrieving his blade just as his body moved back under the lights. The foot of his uninjured leg caught someone in the face. It was followed by an audible snap and a scream. A quick roll and he was up, all his weight on one foot as his leg oozed blood. Every move was agony. The knife wielder was April's dad, but he didn't care. He punched his blade into the man's stomach and hit the release button. Charles Tandy dropped his own knife with an expression of surprised horror as he pawed at his breached belly. Nic pulled away, and with a flying swing buried the blade in the back of Theophrastus. At the same time, he was kicked violently to the side. He rolled over to the edge of the stairs and threw up. Theophrastus turned and smiled at Nic.