by Tillie Cole
James had lifted his head, pupils dilated. James had always been tortured. Since their mother had passed and they had been brought to Holy Innocents, James didn’t sleep, barely spoke. His face was always tight. Joseph knew it was from whatever dark force tortured his mind, whatever evil had begun a battle for his soul.
But in that moment, with blood staining his brother’s teeth and dribbling in scarlet drops down his chin, Joseph saw something on James’s face he had never witnessed before—peace. Contentment . . . satiation.
“James,” Joseph whispered, edging toward the bath. He stopped when he caught sight of a vial, the kind the priests used for holy water. Only it wasn’t filled with holy water, but with blood. James’s blood. Dropping his arm, James clutched the vial and rose from the bath. Joseph was a statue, as motionless as the saints that stood proudly in Holy Innocents Church, as he watched James walk back to their room. Joseph followed, trying to understand what his brother would do next. He was as terrified as he was mesmerized. But James didn’t do anything to instill fear in Joseph. It was quite the opposite. Clutching the vial to his chest, his wound leaking onto his sheets, James closed his eyes and, in minutes, fell asleep.
Joseph’s heart raced as he watched his brother relaxed in slumber, his face at peace. Beautiful. He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but Joseph finally retrieved a towel and took care of James’s wound. His little brother didn’t wake. Even when James’s wound was cleaned, Joseph stayed beside him on the bed, watching over him like the angels in the Bible.
A simple letting of blood had given James’s tortured mind some respite. And the vial against his chest had allowed him to sleep.
Joseph had had no idea what to do with these facts.
Joseph blinked and pulled himself from the memory. This room . . . it wasn’t like that night in the bathtub. It was worse. So much worse. Joseph recalled James’s face as he licked the knife. The ecstasy he saw on his brother’s face. His obsession with blood was getting worse. The older James got, the more he withdrew into himself. He grew his nails long and filed them into points. It was never long before a priest saw the nails and forced James to cut them. He was changing day by day. And it wasn’t for the better. He was spiraling into a darkness to which Joseph couldn’t follow. The only moments he felt as though he saw his brother’s remaining purity was when he was asleep with a vial of blood he had collected.
But there would be no more vials. Now he had been taken away, for Lord knew how long. Joseph’s heart shattered, knowing James would never sleep without them. His agitation would rise, and he would withdraw even further into himself. Joseph feared that by the time he returned he would have lost his brother forever.
Not giving himself time to regret his actions, Joseph took a small vial of holy water from the drawer in his bedside table. He emptied the blessed liquid onto the ground. Lowering to the floor, careful not to get blood on him again, he gathered a few drops of Luke’s blood into the vial. He capped the vial, then slipped it into his pocket.
The blood was still warm.
Joseph closed his eyes and whispered a prayer to God. For forgiveness for putting James’s sinful ways above what was right. James was Joseph’s weakness. His only weakness. In every other way, Joseph was the perfect priest-to-be. But not when it came to his brother. Blood of his blood. The vial of Luke’s blood was a veritable fire in his pocket, singeing his flesh with wrongness. Yet Joseph would accept whatever penance would be his punishment. If he ever saw James again, he knew what tranquility the gift would give his brother . . . and Joseph would endure the judgment.
Joseph followed Father Quinn’s instructions and went to a spare room. But even tucked up in a freshly made bed in an unfamiliar room, even staring at the identical crucifix hanging on the wall, sleep didn’t find him. Instead Joseph replayed the look in James’s eyes as his brother held him down, wondering if the evil smothering James’s soul had finally conquered any remaining good. Wondering if the brother he loved more than anyone in the world was lost to him forever.
Holding the blanket to his chin to stave off the chill that had nothing to do with the cold of the room, and the wintery bluster beyond the high window, he stared at the bronze crucifix and whispered, “Please, Jesus, please save him. Redeem him, forgive his sins. Forgive me mine. I just need him to be okay. He is all I have left.”
Chapter Two
As soon as the drops of incense hit the crucible coals, sweet-smelling smoke arose from the thurible. The familiar weight of the thurible’s chains was steady in Joseph’s hands, the quiet clanking of metal filling his heart with purpose. Beyond the wooden doors, the congregation waited for Mass to begin. Muted whispers from the people attending the Sunday service drifted from under the doors.
Joseph glanced at Paul and Matthew to his right and left. The three of them were Father Quinn’s favorite altar boys and those primed for priesthood. Paul smiled when Father Quinn came up behind them. “Ready, boys?” Father Quinn asked.
The altar boys nodded, and the wooden doors opened—Mass was commencing. As thurifer and Father Quinn’s most trusted altar server, Joseph’s job was to swing the thurible from side to side, the sweet incense fleeing the porous metal casing and leaping into Holy Innocents’ nave. The high ceilings of the church, painted so perfectly with saints held in the protective arms of the archangels, looked down upon the fallible humans striving to live honest lives.
The purple-and-white robes the altar boys wore filled them with joy. Gave them a place in the world. Something orphaned children often lacked. Joseph had never felt displaced in the church. It was his home. His solace. The only home he’d ever truly known.
Joseph’s footsteps echoed off the walls as he led the way to the altar. He moved aside as Father Quinn addressed the congregation and began Mass. Joseph attended Father Quinn, holding the consecrated bread for the communion. As Paul passed the red wine to Father Quinn, Joseph’s stomach dropped. In communion the wine was Christ’s blood. But all Joseph saw when he stared at the full carafe was James.
It had been three months. James had been in isolation for three months. Joseph had been without his brother for three months. He hadn’t slept since James had been taken. When Joseph had moved back into their room, he spent each night seeing James stabbing Luke and consuming his blood, ecstasy on his face as he licked the coated blade. Joseph was plagued by thoughts of how James would be coping without him. If he was hurting himself. Father Quinn told him nothing, and after being harshly reprimanded three weeks earlier for finally questioning James’s whereabouts, he had never dared ask again.
A subtle cough broke through Joseph’s heavy thoughts. He shook his head, pulling himself from his worry. Father Quinn was glaring at him in reprimand. The priest indicated the bread in Joseph’s hands. Joseph quickly walked to the altar and held out the plate. Joseph had made a number of mistakes in James’s absence. This was just one of many.
The remainder of Mass passed in a blur of hymns, parables, and prayers. When the congregation had dispersed, Joseph followed Paul and Matthew into the changing room at the back of the church. Paul was a similar age to Joseph, but was even quieter in nature. Matthew was two years older and would soon begin his training for the priesthood under Father Quinn. Joseph didn’t see them much in Holy Innocents School, but he had grown close to them through their duties in church.
Paul left the changing room, leaving Matthew and Joseph alone. Joseph was hanging his robe in his closet when Matthew asked, “Is this about your brother?”
Joseph froze, his shoulders tensing. Matthew moved to the bench beside him. Joseph turned to face him. “Is what about my brother?” Matthew gave him a knowing look. Joseph sighed and checked the door for any sign of Father Quinn.
“He’s dealing with a parishioner. He won’t be coming in here any time soon.”
Joseph’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “I don’t know where he is. I know he’s in isolation, but I don’t know where.” Joseph ran his hands through his curly bl
ond hair. “He’s been gone for too long, and Father Quinn is staying silent. They’re not telling me a single thing. Not even if James is okay.” All of the hope and fight in Joseph seemed to seep out of his body and spill onto the worn, heel-marked wooden floor. The changing rooms of the church were a stark contrast to the opulence that decorated the nave and altar. The room was dusty and the furniture old. A portrait of Mary, Mother of Jesus, stared at him from her place on the wall. It always brought him comfort. It reminded him of the mother he’d barely known.
Right now, the picture reminded him of how badly he was failing as a son . . . as a brother. He’d promised his mother he would care for James, protect him, love him for them both. She would be so disappointed in him now. He had let the priests take James away. They wouldn’t understand him. They wouldn’t understand his behavior. James had only ever let Joseph in, and even then it wasn’t much.
He couldn’t bear the thought of his brother being lonely, being scared. Though when Joseph thought of James, he was reminded that he had never once seen James scared. Joseph wasn’t sure if his baby brother could even feel fear. Feel anything but the hunger pangs for pain and the insatiable inhuman thirst for blood.
Matthew shifted closer. His eyes skittishly toured the room, then landed back on Joseph. “Five years ago, my roommate attacked a priest.”
“Which priest?” Joseph asked quickly.
Matthew leaned his head closer. “Father Brady.” Matthew kept his eyes on the door, then got up and made sure it was shut. He took his place on the bench once more and gestured with his hand for Joseph to sit. Joseph did. Matthew leaned forward and nervously pushed his hand through his hair. “It had started a few months before that. Christopher—that was his name—started acting weird. I thought he was reacting to being in the children’s home and in our school. He’d been pulled out of the foster-care system. It wasn’t a good fit for him, so he was sent here, to Holy Innocents. But he liked to cut himself.” Joseph stopped breathing for a few moments. Like James, he thought. Just like James.
“Christopher was quiet, a loner.” Matthew shook his head. “The priests didn’t like it. He was defiant, would never do as he was asked. Constantly punished with chores for his bad behavior. Then he started getting angry.” Matthew shrugged. “One day, Father Brady came to our room, and, without provocation, Christopher attacked him.”
“What did they do to him?” Joseph whispered, palms sweating.
Matthew sighed. “Fathers Quinn, Brady, and McCarthy came into the room and took him away. To ‘isolation.’” Matthew used air quotes on the word.
Joseph swallowed, his nerves firing like bullets cutting straight through his muscles. “How long was he gone?”
Matthew was silent, then whispered, “He never came back.”
The blood in Joseph’s veins instantly ran ice-cold. He never came back . . . “Five years ago . . .” Joseph mumbled under his breath. His tone was laced with disbelief; his heart dropped when the implication of Matthew’s story hit home.
Matthew loosened the collar of his robes. He checked the door again. “When I was growing up here, I used to hear some of the upperclassmen from school talking about an underground building, north of the property. Apparently it’s still on Holy Innocents’ grounds.”
“Where?” Joseph asked, confused. He thought he had seen most of the school grounds and never recalled seeing a building in that direction. There was nothing, just trees and seemingly endless green fields. Holy Innocents was built on Vatican-owned land on the outskirts of Boston. The home was as isolated as the city could get. Joseph had always believed it to be the perfect setting. Little interference from the outside world, yet everything was readily available to them if they needed it.
Matthew leaned so close Joseph could smell the faint scent of body wash on his neck. “I’ve heard it being referred to as Purgatory.” Joseph’s breathing stuttered. “As for the building, it’s not visible in plain sight.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never looked, and I have no intention to. But rumor has it that there’s a set of sunken stairs that leads to a hidden door. It takes you underground, to another dorm. That’s where you’ll find Purgatory.” Matthew sat straighter, then got to his feet. As if he hadn’t just told Joseph a shocking secret, he began changing out of his robes and back into his school uniform.
Joseph looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Purgatory. He couldn’t get the word from his head. It was one that all good Catholics knew. A place of suffering, filled with the souls of sinners who were paying for their sins before going to heaven.
Place of suffering . . . sinners paying for their sins . . . He could hear Father Quinn’s lectures. His words circled around Joseph’s head—a taunt, or maybe it was a warning, given in plain sight. A covenant between priest and pupil that if any of the Holy Innocents students strayed from the righteous path, there would be a special place for them to repent. And what James had done, the sins he had committed . . . What would be done to him?
Three months. He’d been gone, repenting for his sins, for three months.
Joseph jumped to his feet. He had to move. Every cell in his body was wired with the need to find James. To find this Purgatory. Matthew looked over his shoulder at Joseph’s sudden movement. “Be careful,” he warned, clearly understanding what Joseph was going to do. “If they see your interest, you may end up on the wrong side of that hidden door.” Matthew met Joseph’s eyes. “You don’t want them to believe you a sinner too.”
Joseph regarded Matthew. Concern and worry were written on the upperclassman’s face. “How?” Joseph rasped. He cleared his throat. “How did you know about this place? If it’s such a big secret.”
“One of the kids came back.” A flicker of hope burst in Joseph’s chest. But when he looked at Matthew, that hope fell at the pinched, faraway look on Matthew’s face.
“He did?”
Matthew seemed to come back into himself and nodded. “He came back. As a priest, of all things. But . . .”
“What?”
“I didn’t know him personally before he was taken. I was too young when he left. But I was under his instruction when he returned as a teacher.” Matthew shook his head. “I didn’t like him. Something dark lurked in his eyes. The older boys, who had once been his friends, said he was different. Acted strange. He was downright creepy. He didn’t last long here, then he disappeared again. Someone said he was transferred to a church in Ireland.”
“You never believed that, did you?” Joseph stated.
“I have no idea.” Matthew shrugged. “For all we know, all this Purgatory crap could be urban legend, created by students who wanted to mess with the heads of those who came after them. And all the kids who misbehave are just taken to a part of the home we haven’t been to. Truly in isolation. It’s probably the truth. We only have access to about a quarter of this place. Who knows what goes on in the places we don’t go?”
But something, some tight squeeze in his gut, told Joseph he had to look for Purgatory anyway. If there was even the slightest chance that this place existed, that James was there, he had no choice.
Joseph waited well past curfew and lights-out before moving from his bed. He dressed in black and covered his head with his jacket’s large hood. His platinum-blond hair was too obvious and easily seen, even in the pitch-dark.
On light feet, Joseph moved to the door and silently turned the knob. His heart felt like it was beating in his throat as the door creaked open and he checked the long hallway of the dorm. Once he could see it was clear, Joseph sneaked down the hallway and down the staircase that led to the back door. Clutching his rosary for comfort, and silently begging forgiveness for his disobedience, he entered the code that let him outside. Father Quinn had trusted him enough to tell him the code. Guilt ran thickly in Joseph’s veins at the fact that he was violating that trust so honestly given.
The second the door was open, a gust of wind clattered against Joseph’s fa
ce. He gasped, the wintery chill stealing his breath as it slapped his cheeks. Joseph tugged the hood higher on his head until he appeared to be nothing but a wraith, melting seamlessly into the night. He wrapped his arms around his waist, trying to stave off the wicked Boston cold. Sticking to the dark treelined path, Joseph followed his feet north. Blue eyes narrowed, he searched every bit of space around him, looking for any sign of the sunken staircase and hidden door. Joseph had crossed four sports fields before his feet ground to a halt at a sudden flash of red. Rushing backward into the cover of trees, Joseph watched through the clustered shield of thin branches as a boy he didn’t know emerged, seemingly from beneath the ground, crawling on all fours. He was dressed all in white—white pants and shirt. The bright moonlight made it possible for Joseph to see him fairly well. The boy’s feet were bare and smattered with dirt. His closely cropped red hair was a beacon in the darkness, a red so vibrant it was stark against the white clothes he wore. On unsteady feet, the boy pushed himself to stand. He almost fell back over, he looked so weak. Joseph’s breath left his body, leaving him starved of oxygen, when the boy’s face lifted to the light of the moon. Cuts and dirt covered his skin. Blood was seeping through the white material of his clothes. Joseph sucked in a sharp inhale, and, on instinct, stepped forward to help him. Then suddenly, from the same sunken entrance the boy had emerged from, a man gave chase. A man, Joseph quickly realized, he knew well—Father Brady. Joseph was sure he would have heard the crack of the whip Father Brady brought down upon the boy’s back even if he were back in the dorm room far across the fields.
