MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu

by Chris Mikesell

  Behind him, only a few people remained kneeling in the pews; their heads pressed into their folded hands. An elderly woman in a black coat and checked scarf murmured into her rosary, pinching each bead between her gnarled fingers. Two young children bowed their heads beside her, but showed no discernible interest in their prayers. The pom-poms bounced on top of their woolen hats as they nudged one another with their elbows and tried to suppress their giggling. The old woman appeared oblivious to their behavior; her eyes were pinched so tightly shut they disappeared into the mass of wrinkles on her brow.

  A few rows behind her a young man kneeled awkwardly in his pew. He wore a threadbare jacket too light for the day’s weather and a deep green cap; the brim obscured his face as he bowed his head and tried to feign reverence, his hands jouncing up and down as though he were rattling a ring of keys. He must be new to the faith, Father Cutler thought as he turned away from the Madonna and headed toward his office at the rear of the church.

  The brim of the green cap lifted slightly and a pair of pale grey eyes watched Father Cutler cross the aisle and pass by the confessional on his way to the church office. The old woman finally finished her rosary and pressed her toothless mouth against the crucifix as she opened her rheumy eyes and rose from the pew. The two children followed her as she hobbled toward the front doors, their stifled laughter echoing throughout the high vaulted ceiling. A wave of cold winter air swooped across his back when the old woman open the door and stepped out, the two children at her heels.

  He was finally alone. He waited another ten minutes, just to be sure no one would return. He had no watch so he marked the passage of time by observing the rosy glow from the stained glass windows brighten and slowly fade with the evening sun. His skittish eyes skimmed across the pews as he waited, assessing the contents of the church. Other than the Madonna and her artifacts, there was little of value. A few silver candelabrums might be worth a few dollars; the tithe had already been taken by that pimple faced altar boy and the old priest. Perhaps, he thought, there was a lost and found box in the church basement with something of value in it. He dismissed the idea almost as soon as it had entered his mind. He would have no use for lost watches and key chains once he got his hands on that solid gold chalice. Just that one piece would be worth enough to make the whole operation worthwhile.

  When he was certain enough time had elapsed he gingerly crept from the pew, sliding his knees across the footrest so as not to make too much noise. He was uncertain if he should kneel again once he approached the altar, as he had seen the other parishioners do during the course of the mass. He had sat near the rear of church, hoping no one would notice him sitting alone among the congregation.

  The Madonna’s painted stone eyes gazed down at him as he approached, almost as though beckoning him forward. Before her, the artifacts gleamed like stars in the dim evening light. He reached for the chalice, averting his eyes from the Madonna as though ashamed of stealing her treasures from right before her.

  His fingertips were inches away from the stem of the chalice when he felt the hand grasp him tightly about the wrist and squeeze. Gasping, he looked up at the statue and screamed.

  FATHER CUTLER WAS STARTLED from his sleep by an odd noise emanating from the chapel. He sat in his heavy leather chair behind his desk, his chin dropped down to his chest as he dozed. Ella the church secretary had served him his tea and biscuits and left to run an errand, promising to return shortly to help him count and register the tithe. Father Cutler couldn’t be certain but he thought he had heard a muffled scream from behind the office door. Yawning, he rose from his desk and headed toward the chapel, wondering what could possibly warrant someone screaming in a house of God.

  He opened the door and gasped.

  The young man in the green cap crouched at the altar, desperately tugging at his arm that was held fast in the Madonna’s grasp. He held a small slightly curved knife in his free hand and desperately chipped away at her arm. Though the blade appeared sharp, it left no mark on the smooth painted stone. The young man heard Father Cutler’s approaching footfalls and turned toward him, his face pale and his lips trembling.

  “Help me!” he implored when he saw Father Cutler emerge from the shadows. “This . . . this statue’s got a hold of me. It won’t let go.”

  “I can see that,” Father Cutler replied, trying to keep his voice calm.

  He gazed up at the Madonna in wonder. She had changed her position; now she was leaning slightly forward, her right hand clasped around the young man’s wrist, her blue robes shifted around her; even the expression on her face had been altered to a look of defiance and amusement. He was certain a genuine miracle had occurred.

  “Make it let go!” the young man begged and hacked away at the

  Madonna’s arm with the tip of his knife.

  “Give that to me,” Father Cutler extended his outstretched palm. The young man stopped chopping at the statue and stared up at him with eyes glazed with panic. “This statue is very old and very expensive. You probably can’t damage it, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

  Reluctantly, the young man dropped the blade into his hand. Father Cutler curled his fingers protectively around the shaft and set it down on the floor by the pulpit, out of the young man’s reach.

  “What are you going to do?” the young man’s voice trembled as he spoke.

  “I don’t know,” Father Cutler said and sat on the step that led up the altar toward the pulpit. “I need time to gather my thoughts. We have been witness to a miracle.”

  “A miracle?” the man chuckled sarcastically. “You call this a miracle? Your statue came to life and grabbed me.”

  “Did you see it happen?” asked Father Cutler.

  “Well, no . . .” the young man hesitated. “I mean, not really.” “What do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t exactly looking at it when it grabbed me,” the young man cast his eyes toward the floor as he spoke.

  “And where were you looking?” Father Cutler asked. “At the dishes and things on the table.”

  “They are beautiful,” Father Cutler agreed. “But most faithful followers would rather look at the statue.”

  The young man went mute and turned away in a posture of the guilty. His ears flared red at the tips and he shuddered.

  “Are you going to help me or not?” he demanded without looking back at Father Cutler.

  “I’m not sure what I can do,” Father Cutler rose and examined the Madonna’s arm, tracing his finger down its length until he touched the young man’s hand. “She seems to have a firm hold of you.”

  “Do something!” the young man pleaded. “It’s breaking my arm. Every time I try to pull away it squeezes tighter and won’t leggo.”

  “It must be very painful . . . I’m sorry. You didn’t tell me your name,” Father Cutler said.

  “It’s Phillip,” came the reply. “I’m Father Cutler,” he said.

  “I know,” Phillip replied. “I saw your name on the board out front.”

  “So you’re new to the parish?” Father Cutler asked as he drew a finger across the Madonna in wonder.

  “No, not really,” Phillip said. “I’ve never been here before. To be honest, I’m not really catholic, or any kind of religion.”

  “I know,” Father Cutler smiled at Phillip. “I knew that by the way you were fidgeting during mass and kneeling in the pews.”

  “You saw that?”

  “I see everyone in my church,” Father Cutler said. “Not a face goes unremembered.”

  Phillip felt a flutter in his chest, blooming into panic. His worst fears had come true.

  “Can you still help me?” Phillip’s voice shuddered as he spoke.

  “I’ll try.” Father Cutler examined the smooth marble white fingers clasped around Phillip’s wrist. “I don’t think I can pry the fingers open. It looks like they’ve been fused together, like they have been sculpted into position.”

  “Break it off!” Phillip shouted
and heaved against the restraint of the hold. He spasmed in pain. Father Cutler heard a sharp snap, like the crack of a twig.

  “It’s breaking my arm!” Phillip wailed. “It’s squeezing tighter and breaking my arm!”

  “Don’t panic,” Father Cutler saw Phillip’s hand twitch and turn an unhealthy shade of dull purple. “Relax your arm and try not to pull against it. You’ll only make it worse.”

  “It hurts!”

  “I know. Just relax,” Father Cutler placed a hand on Phillip’s shoulder, but the gesture did little to placate him. He trembled under Father Cutler’s touch.

  A gasp from behind made them both turn their heads. Ella stood in the threshold of the office; her eyes wide with shock behind her round glasses, her jaw dangling low.

  “What’s happened?” she gasped.

  “Phillip here seems to have gotten caught in the grasp of the Madonna,” Father Cutler replied.

  “This is a miracle!” Ella reluctantly approached the altar as though she would burst into flame for daring to look directly at the statue.

  “Yes, it is,” Father Cutler agreed. “Unfortunately, for Phillip here, we must release him before she breaks his arm in two.”

  “How did this happen?” Ella asked, touching the smooth cool arm of the

  Madonna.

  “Phillip here was reaching for the chalice when she grabbed him,” Father Cutler replied. “Apparently, she doesn’t like strangers touching her treasures.”

  “We have to call someone,” Ella said. “We must call the dioceses and inform them about this miracle.”

  “The what?” Phillip’s eyes darted from Father Cutler to Ella like the eyes of an animal trapped.

  “I think we should help Phillip first,” Father Cutler said. “He seems to be in a lot of pain. Call an ambulance, Ella. Tell them we have a man trapped.” “And the police?” Ella asked and Phillip bit his lower lip in trepidation.

  “No,” Father Cutler smiled at Phillip. “Not yet. Just call an ambulance before this poor fellow’s arm gets broken off.”

  Ella cast a bemused glance in Phillip’s direction before turning and rushing across the aisle to the office door.

  “You’re not calling the police?” Phillip asked when she was out of earshot.

  “No, not yet anyway,” Father Cutler replied and sat back down on the step. The rustle of his cassock echoed like dry paper off the walls of the church.

  “Thank you,” Phillip cast his eyes down in shame.

  “While we wait, perhaps you should reconsider a few things about your life,” Father Cutler said. “Like what circumstances have brought you to this situation.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” Phillip replied.

  “You don’t seem to be going anywhere,” Father Cutler smiled. “I said I don’t want to talk about it,”

  “Have you always been a thief?” asked Father Cutler.

  “No,” Phillip refused to look Father Cutler in the eye as he spoke. “I used to have a job. A good one, too, but I got laid off and couldn’t find another.”

  “So you became a thief instead?”

  “I didn’t want to,” Phillip replied. “I didn’t wake up one day and decide

  I wanted to be a crook. I just sort of fell into it.”

  “So the art of thievery found you?” Father Cutler pressed.

  “Not really,” Phillip shook his head. “Besides, I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Then perhaps you should reconsider what really brought you here,” Father Cutler rose to the sound of Ella’s footfalls as she passed through the office door.

  “They’re on their way,” she said. “I had trouble explaining what had happened. They wouldn’t believe me at first. I’m sorry, Father, but I had to lie and tell them there was a man trapped under a statue that had fallen over.”

  “They’ll find out soon enough,” Father Cutler said.

  Ella stared down at Phillip and recognition poured into her face.

  “I know you,” she smiled. “I’ve seen you at the shelter where I volunteer. You usually have another man in a wheelchair with you.”

  “That’s my brother,” Phillip replied. “He’s not well. His old wheelchair broke and we don’t have the money to get another.”

  “Is that why you tried to pilfer the artifacts from the church?” Father

  Cutler asked.

  Phillip refused to reply. He turned away so he wouldn’t look Father

  Cutler directly in the eye. Phillip bit his lower lip to keep it from trembling.

  “Just get me out of this,” he said. “I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again. I promise. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “We’re doing all we can for now,” Father Cutler replied. “Perhaps the paramedics will be able to release you.”

  “How?” Ella asked. “His arm is caught tight. Look. He’s bleeding.”

  Phillip’s hand was bloated and an unhealthy shade of purple-blue. The fingers were curled slightly, like the talons of an injured bird; scarlet blood beaded around the fingernails, the drops falling and vanishing within the plush maroon rug.

  “I think the only way to release him would be to sever the arm,” Father

  Cutler said. “A few more tugs and she will snap it off anyway.”

  “No!” renewed panic surged through Phillip. He yanked at his arm and moaned as the Madonna strengthened her grasp, audibly shattering the bones within.

  “There must be something we can do for him,” Ella put a hand on

  Phillip’s shoulder to try to calm him.

  “Wait here,” Father Cutler crossed the aisle and headed toward the door that led to the church basement.

  When he was gone, Ella sank to floor until her eyes were level with

  Phillip’s.

  “Where is your brother now?” she asked, but Phillip refused to answer her. “Is he at the shelter?”

  Phillip shook his head; Ella pressed on.

  “Tell me about your brother. What is his name?” “Anthony,” Phillip nearly choked on the name.

  “And is Anthony older or younger than you?”

  “Older,” Phillip said. “Actually, he’s just my half brother, but we’re still really close.”

  Ella’s eyes momentarily flicked up and glanced past Phillip’s shoulder. “That’s nice. Do you share your mother or your father?”

  A flash of metal whizzed through the air above Phillip’s head. He saw the blade descend from the corner of his eye. The axe fell so swiftly he wouldn’t have had the time to move away, even if he wasn’t trapped. He opened his mouth to scream, but the only sound was the rush of air that followed the descent of the blade. His arm fell away, severed just below the elbow.

  Father Cutler stood panting over Phillip as he moaned and rolled away from the altar, soaking the carpet with blood that spurted from the stump he held in his free hand. Father Cutler hadn’t used an axe in years, not since he was a young man and had volunteered with the scouts before joining the seminary.

  “I’m sorry,” Father Cutler said, the bloody axe dripping from his hand. “But it was the only way to release you. The paramedics would have wanted to damage or destroy the statue, and I couldn’t allow that. Please forgive me.”

  Ella grabbed a scarf from around her neck and wrapped it around Phillip’s bleeding stump to staunch the flow. Phillip began to weep and mutter incomprehensible curses under his breath. He tried to scramble away from her, but was too weak to do more that lift himself to his knees. The wail of a siren rose like a rising tide from somewhere in the distance. Ella cradled his head in her lap and pushed his damp hair from his brow.

  “Try and stay calm before you go into shock,” she said to him. “They’re coming.”

  The heavy oak doors of the church burst open. Two paramedics rushed in, pulling a gurney draped in white between them.

  FATHER CUTLER STEPPED OUT OF CONFESSIONAL and stared at the severed arm. It dangled from the end of a long rope at a weird an
gle over the altar like an autumn leaf. The bones around the wrist had been so shattered it would have been impossible to reattach it to Phillip’s arm. He had given the ambulance attendants instructions to leave the arm behind after staunchly refusing to press charges against Phillip. Phillip had refused to press charges against the church, agreeing to allow Father Cutler to keep the arm; he would have no need of it any longer.

  Father Cutler slid into the front pew and kneeled into the footrest as he prepared to say his penance, his eyes never leaving the statue of the Madonna. She smiled back at him, her face darkened by the shadow of the limb as it swayed from the rafters above , her hands spread wide and welcoming in the old familiar posture.

  ALMOST A HERO

  MIKE DELLOSSO

  Found in the notebook of convicted criminal John Harry Wayne after his death the 21st of September in the Pennsylvania State Prison.

  I don’t consider myself a violent man. Being of slight build and average stature, I learned at a young age the might of words. Hence, I’ve always

  been better with my mouth than with my fists. I’ve talked my way out of more brawls than hairs on my prematurely balding head.

  In my thirty-six years thus far, I’ve been in a total of three fights. The first was with my younger brother, Dennis. I was twelve and skinny as a foot-long hot dog; Dennis was ten and built like a bulldozer. Fortunately for him, he received a sound dose of Dad’s genetics while I was on the unfortunate end (the shallow one where toddlers pee and drool) of Mom’s gene pool. The fight lasted all of thirty seconds. I started it with my stainless steel, double-edged tongue; Dennis finished it with his cast iron, battering-ram fist. One quick jab to my gut, just below the ribs, was all it took. I doubled over like an omelet, vomited my breakfast (which was, in fact, an omelet, western style), and bawled my way down the steps to Mom.