M. E. Proctor

Confessional

 

 

The half-moon peeking through the clouds gave off barely enough light to see the path that snaked between the pine trees. Ryder’s boots slipped in the mud and he lost his balance, landing on his knees on the squishy ground. He cursed the night, the soaked terrain and the Preacher. The fog that hadn’t lifted all day was now turning into rain and Ryder pulled his hat low over his eyes. He hated the wetness on his face. It felt slimy. Like the bag he clutched in his left hand, its contents shifted with every step with a slithering heaviness that made him want to puke.

 

He climbed over the trunk of a fallen tree and the squat shape of the church was in front of him. It looked more like a barn than a house of worship. Not that anybody worshipped there anymore. The old faith had died long ago and the countryside was littered with its remains. You couldn’t travel a mile without running into dilapidated chapels, moss-covered oratories and the broken crosses that stood guard at every fork in the road. Ryder hated these ancient structures. They were dark, primitive and hulking; places where cruel men used to bow in front of cruel gods. The kind of gods that passed judgment with fire and blood on peasants who were miserable enough without the help of any divine intervention. The old gods were a scam. The new ones too.

 

The church door opened after a hefty push. The Preacher had lit candles and they glowed in the back, on what was left of the altar. The flickering light danced over the debris scattered on the floor. Ryder zigzagged through the jumble of rotten chairs and benches, broken statues, and the remains of a collapsed balcony. An unpleasant smell of old nests and bird shit hung in the air.

 

“Preacher?” Ryder said. The darkness seemed more opaque now that he stood closer to the light.

 

“Over here,” the Preacher said.

 

Ryder noticed a blacker shape along the wall, near the toppled statue of some nameless idol. He knew the thing was a confessional even if he had never set foot in one.

 

The Preacher came out of the box, from the side where the penitents used to kneel. He was dressed entirely in black and from his tightly closed collar to his worn boots he was a picture of severe discipline.

He was at home in this church, as stiff as the stone columns, as cold as the drafts coming from invisible cracks in the structure, and as impenetrable as the shadows. He belonged here.

 

“I’ve been waiting for hours. It feels long in a place like this.”

 

“You chose the place,” Ryder said.

 

“I couldn’t think of anywhere more suitable. It’s in here.” The Preacher pointed at the confessional.

 

A dripping candle put fleeting accents on the carvings of the ornate box. A rusty metal cross was wedged in the door, blocking it. Ryder came closer. The Preacher removed the cross and opened the door a crack.

Ryder peered in and stifled a scream. 

 

The Preacher blew the candle and closed the door again. “Do you like it?”

 

“Like it? It’s…”

 

“A monster,” the Preacher said. “Give me the food. How much is there?”

 

Ryder had forgotten he was holding the bag. He wiped his sweaty brow with his coat sleeve. He handed over the bag.

 

“It won’t be nearly enough.”

 

“Twenty pounds of meat. What you asked for,” Ryder said. “Do you know how hard it is to find meat in this benighted land of turnip eaters?” He was angry, and grateful for the anger; it helped keep the fear at bay. “You live in a world of books. What do you eat? Rats and roots? Feed that to your protégé.” His voice boomed in the nave.

 

“Keep your voice down,” the Preacher said. “Rats and roots, ah! You saw how much it’s grown. How big was it when we found it? It’s got legs now; it can go places. It has hands; it can grab you.”

 

Ryder wished he was miles away. “It should never have seen the light of day.”

 

“Take it back then,” the Preacher said. “Bury it, please do, bury it deep.” He walked away from the confessional. He wasn’t standing so straight anymore. It was as if the wooden box and its inconvenient lodger pushed his shoulders down.

 

“You tried to get rid of it?” Ryder said.

 

“What do you think? I tried last night and it got away from me. We’re lucky it came back.”

 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have started feeding it,” Ryder said.

 

“Did I start feeding it? Anyway, it’s too late now. It went on a rampage last night. Dogs and cats. It can’t hunt anything bigger yet, and it can’t go far. The box won’t hold it much longer.”

 

“I wish we’d never opened that coffin,” Ryder muttered.

 

#

 

They were grave robbers, an unpleasant but lucrative occupation. Their latest expedition had taken them deep into the moors in search of an abandoned cemetery. The sun lengthened their shadows when Ryder spotted the monument. His eyesight was better than the Preacher’s, not weakened by nights of reading under insufficient light. The construction looked like a small dwelling surrounded by bushes and the scrawny trees that were the only vegetation that survived in these parts.

 

“It looks promising,” the Preacher said.

 

The low rays of the sun revealed the tops of headstones. The moors had swallowed most of the graveyard. A stone sarcophagus resting on lion’s feet was half-buried; two paws and the front of the box were still above ground. Other grave markers were nearly submerged.

 

“What a lousy place for a cemetery,” Ryder said. “Didn’t they know this was marshland?”

 

“At the end of times the dead will rise,” the Preacher said. He pointed at scattered bones. “The moors always give back what they borrow. Let’s have a look at the mausoleum.”

 

It looked like a small temple. Four columns in the front, five columns on the sides integrated in the brick walls, a name on the architrave: Anthon.

 

The Preacher inspected the door and the lock. They were intact. “Expensive. These people built to last. Give me the pickaxe.” A well-adjusted blow destroyed the lock.

 

It was cold inside, and musty. Water that had seeped through the floor pooled around the statues and the altars. The puddles reflected the light of the setting sun. A stone coffin took up most of the room. Ryder inserted the flat end of the axe under the lid and pushed the handle down. The heavy lid lifted and slid sideways. They pushed it off all the way.

 

“It’s a goddam kid,” Ryder said.

 

It was surprising to find the small body of a child in such a massive tomb. The headgear was remarkable. A silver helmet covered with elaborate designs held the skull bones together.

 

The Preacher reached inside the stone coffin. He wrapped his fingers around the helmet and pulled. There were no visible screws fastening it to the skull. He pulled out his knife and inserted it under the silver cap.

The skull cracked. “There’s something inside.”

 

“A dried-out brain, bugs and worms, what do you expect?” Ryder said.

 

The Preacher pocketed the helmet and the egg-shaped object he had retrieved from the skull. 

 

Later that night, they looked at what they had brought back. The egg shone under the candlelight.

 

“It’s very hard and polished,” the Preacher said. “I have no idea what it’s made of.”

 

“Let me have a look,” Ryder said.

 

“Careful, there’s a sharp crest on top. I almost cut myself.”

 

The warning came too late. Ryder cursed and held up his hand. The cut wasn’t deep but it bled profusely.

 

#

 

“I’m going,” Ryder said.

 

“I guess you won’t take it with you to bury it,” the Preacher said.

 

“I’ll be back at the end of the month.”

 

The meaning was clear. You deal with it, I’m out of here. You broke the skull of the child and let the monster out. The Preacher turned his back on Ryder. Anger boiled inside him. “Leave if you must,” he said. 

 

He listened to Ryder’s footsteps going down the nave. He removed the metal cross from the door of the confessional and rushed down the aisle. He caught up with Ryder as he reached the door. The tip of the cross entered Ryder’s back with the swiftness of the finest dagger. The shock was so violent that Ryder’s neck snapped back and cracked.

 

#

 

The Preacher stood in front of the open door of the confessional. Ryder’s muddy boots were sticking out. It was a grotesque image, as if a drunken sinner had collapsed on the edge of salvation. 

 

“I didn’t start feeding it, Ryder,” the Preacher muttered. “You did. It liked your blood so much it kept asking for more.” He knelt on the penitent side of the confessional. A candle lit up the inside of the box. The thing was still asleep. It would wake up soon. It was getting close to feeding time.

 

 

M.E. Proctor worked as a communication professional and freelance journalist. After forays into SF, she’s currently working on a series of contemporary detective novels. Her short stories have been published in The Willesden Herald, The Blue Nib, Ripples in Space, The Bookends Review, Fiction on the Web and others in the U.S. and Europe. Born in Brussels, she now lives in Livingston, Texas. amazon.com/author/meproctor