instead of bulbs. The monastery was silent. All of the hallways were deserted. The rectory felt more like a dungeon prison than a place of worship.
As he dowsed the last oil lamp along the stairwell, night enveloped him, encroaching upon everything but his candle. Ian shivered and pulled his cassock tighter around his frame. It didn’t help. The cold came from within.
There was no sleeping after his meeting with Javan. A switch had turned on in his mind, an obsession was triggered. He felt ashamed that he couldn’t control it. The images and sensations shown to him of fire and starvation became a constant barrage against his thoughts. The experience consumed him. It was all he could think about. Most of what was said had been reduced to a jumble of senseless words, but these phrases kept him up all night.
Come…
Ian raised his light higher in the air. Something was odd and out of place. A whisper had formed near the back of his mind, but the voice did not belong to him.
Deformed by the candlelight, sculptures of saints lining the walls appeared demonic. They had nebulous, blank expressions, flattened two-dimensional eyes vacant of pupils, teeth like fangs and pointy chins that dripped with shadow.
Ian stopped. He stood very still.
Had he heard something? It wasn’t his imagination.
His heart beat loudly in his ears. He clenched his jaw.
After everything he’d seen the night before… His mind was capable of conjuring anything. His subconscious couldn’t be trusted.
Ian started forward.
The shadows on the statues seemed to be nd toward the corner of the stairwell ahead.
“Who’s there?” he called out . He wasn’t alone. He could sense it.
Goosebumps raised across his flesh.
Something flitted across the stairwell behind him. Certainly a bird or rat, some living creature trapped inside the building.
But he heard it again, the unmistakable sound of bare feet shuffling across the stone floor. He stretched his light out toward the darkness and gripped the candle snuff like a weapon.
“Father Tracy?” Ian wiped sweat from his forehead.
He felt a breeze from the window an arm’s length away. The stairwell windows didn’t open. He moved the flame beside the glass. The stained glass was smashed inward. The artwork that had featured Jesus Christ’s condescension was a mangled monstrosity of iron frame and shards of broken, beveled glass. Disfigured panes melted inward, the pieces at the center altogether gone. The Lord’s form was missing. The edges of His exuding light were stretched into spider web wisps of prickly glass. God had been extracted, melted into oblivion.
The chill was so ta ngible it spread outward from Ian’s body. He ran up the stairs.
A snarl rever berated off the walls. It was the congested rattle of infected lungs.
Ian ’s candle flickered out. He tripped on one of the steps and caught himself along the wall. All he could hear was his pounding heart.
He searched through his cassock.
Somewhere there was a match. He pulled a stick from his pocket and struck it against the wall. He lowered the flame over the wick.
I nches from his candle glowed two luminescent eyes.
The captive had escaped. The hideous being was crouched on the floor in front of Ian as if ready to pounce.
“ Sheh-ole’ paw-gash .”
Ian could see the old man’s tongue curl behind rotted teeth. The captive repeated, “ Sheh-ole’ paw-gash .”
The match dropped to the floor.
The only light was the old man’s eyes. Fluorescent jade, like two devilish orbs of swirling chaos, his eyes smothered warmth. Fire burst up from the floor, crackling around Ian. The vision replayed in Ian’s mind—his body black, shriveled and desiccated, the longing and hunger. The old man’s breath was cold on Ian’s face. The stench of rotted flesh was overwhelming.
Pain exploded through Ian’s palm as the old man grabbed his hand. Agony zigzagged across his arm and then up and down his spine. Sparks burst over his eyes,
As he dowsed the last oil lamp along the stairwell, night enveloped him, encroaching upon everything but his candle. Ian shivered and pulled his cassock tighter around his frame. It didn’t help. The cold came from within.
There was no sleeping after his meeting with Javan. A switch had turned on in his mind, an obsession was triggered. He felt ashamed that he couldn’t control it. The images and sensations shown to him of fire and starvation became a constant barrage against his thoughts. The experience consumed him. It was all he could think about. Most of what was said had been reduced to a jumble of senseless words, but these phrases kept him up all night.
Come…
Ian raised his light higher in the air. Something was odd and out of place. A whisper had formed near the back of his mind, but the voice did not belong to him.
Deformed by the candlelight, sculptures of saints lining the walls appeared demonic. They had nebulous, blank expressions, flattened two-dimensional eyes vacant of pupils, teeth like fangs and pointy chins that dripped with shadow.
Ian stopped. He stood very still.
Had he heard something? It wasn’t his imagination.
His heart beat loudly in his ears. He clenched his jaw.
After everything he’d seen the night before… His mind was capable of conjuring anything. His subconscious couldn’t be trusted.
Ian started forward.
The shadows on the statues seemed to be nd toward the corner of the stairwell ahead.
“Who’s there?” he called out . He wasn’t alone. He could sense it.
Goosebumps raised across his flesh.
Something flitted across the stairwell behind him. Certainly a bird or rat, some living creature trapped inside the building.
But he heard it again, the unmistakable sound of bare feet shuffling across the stone floor. He stretched his light out toward the darkness and gripped the candle snuff like a weapon.
“Father Tracy?” Ian wiped sweat from his forehead.
He felt a breeze from the window an arm’s length away. The stairwell windows didn’t open. He moved the flame beside the glass. The stained glass was smashed inward. The artwork that had featured Jesus Christ’s condescension was a mangled monstrosity of iron frame and shards of broken, beveled glass. Disfigured panes melted inward, the pieces at the center altogether gone. The Lord’s form was missing. The edges of His exuding light were stretched into spider web wisps of prickly glass. God had been extracted, melted into oblivion.
The chill was so ta ngible it spread outward from Ian’s body. He ran up the stairs.
A snarl rever berated off the walls. It was the congested rattle of infected lungs.
Ian ’s candle flickered out. He tripped on one of the steps and caught himself along the wall. All he could hear was his pounding heart.
He searched through his cassock.
Somewhere there was a match. He pulled a stick from his pocket and struck it against the wall. He lowered the flame over the wick.
I nches from his candle glowed two luminescent eyes.
The captive had escaped. The hideous being was crouched on the floor in front of Ian as if ready to pounce.
“ Sheh-ole’ paw-gash .”
Ian could see the old man’s tongue curl behind rotted teeth. The captive repeated, “ Sheh-ole’ paw-gash .”
The match dropped to the floor.
The only light was the old man’s eyes. Fluorescent jade, like two devilish orbs of swirling chaos, his eyes smothered warmth. Fire burst up from the floor, crackling around Ian. The vision replayed in Ian’s mind—his body black, shriveled and desiccated, the longing and hunger. The old man’s breath was cold on Ian’s face. The stench of rotted flesh was overwhelming.
Pain exploded through Ian’s palm as the old man grabbed his hand. Agony zigzagged across his arm and then up and down his spine. Sparks burst over his eyes,
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