There had never been any love lost between Emil and Radek’s father, so warnings like this were always on the table. But while they had usually been about something vague, Zofia’s death and the fact that this time Nowak wasn’t the only one pointing a finger at Emil, made the threats serious. Even if Emil couldn’t see the police believing that he somehow turned the wild crows into his personal kill squad to target the elderly.
Emil joined Nowak in the staring contest. “You know they won’t be here for at least another hour. If they want to talk to me, I’ll be at home.”
“Don’t you think they won’t come. They will. I heard you’d planned to travel today. Don’t you dare pull my son into your shady business.”
“There is no ‘shady business’.” Emil bared his teeth. Oh, how he wished to tell Nowak he’d been fucking his son for two years now. But he couldn’t out Radek for the sake of petty vengeance, so he just simmered in his fury. “Unless you mean my side business of devil worship. I was actually going to Cracow to show Radek the ropes in that. Just that my crows got a little out of hand.”
Nowak exhaled like a raging bull, and the red flush peeking through the thinning hair at the top of his head suggested his brain was about to cook. “Watch it,” he said but didn’t protest when Emil walked around his car and hurried toward his fortress of solitude.
Emil was glad to be out of everyone’s sight, but the burden of Zofia’s death weighed heavily on his heart, and he could barely cope with the onslaught of anguish he felt when he approached his house and saw the black swarm on the trees surrounding the homestead. It was as if they’d only left to unleash mayhem on the one kind soul in this godforsaken village.
Their bead-like eyes stared at him, but as he wondered whether they hadn’t chosen him for their next victim, one cawed in greeting, and others followed. He picked up a rock and tossed it at one of the trees in helpless fury, but when the projectile passed between the birds and dropped back to the ground, they didn’t as much as flinch. As if they were ready to accept death if it came at their master’s hand.
Emil dashed into the house that smelled of old wood and herbs, like his childhood, like his life, and the tension in his muscles eased somewhat once he filled his lungs with this familiar air.
He’d only ever seen a dead person once before. He hadn’t been allowed a glimpse of his parents’ charred corpses, and his grandmother’s body had never been found. But Grandfather had passed in his bed. He’d fallen asleep and never woke up, leaving the suffering of arthritis behind.
There was nothing peaceful about Zofia’s death. She’d been brutally pecked, and claw marks had covered her arms as if she’d been fighting for her life to the very end.
He dropped into his grandfather’s old armchair, and as he sank into its well-worn upholstery, the living room struck him with its hostility. Its warm tones and worn charm had always brought him peace, but as he sat in the corner, all he could see were sharp angles, about to tear into him the moment he looked away.
He took several inhales, staring at the bundles of dried herbs hanging from the beams. With the light off, the ceiling drowned in shadow made darker by the contrast with a narrow trim of bright wooden panels encircling the room. Grandma had painted the planks herself, and the images of wild flowers, even if faded, still reminded Emil of her.
Peace slowly sank into his bones as he took in the wooden walls decorated the old-fashioned way—with Christening and First Communion certificates that featured pastel drawings, with photos of a happy family that didn’t yet know it was about to be torn apart. He was the last Słowik left, and he would be the last of his line.
Maybe that was why he couldn’t bear to change anything. The house he lived in was over a hundred years old, and since he wouldn’t have children of his own, he didn’t feel like he had the right to claim it. It was still the house of his grandparents, where furs and hand-woven blankets were stored in wooden chests, where heat came solely from a tiled stove, and where a gas oven was a modern luxury only installed after Grandma had gone missing.
Emil exhaled and looked to the other side of the room, where a wooden mask stared back at him with empty eyes. The black and white lines painted over poppy-colored skin exaggerated the bony shape of the devil’s face. Most depictions of this kind presented Satan in a silly way, to make light of his powers. But the handmade mask, which had been in Emil’s family for decades, had canines of the kind that could rip people open, and an unnerving pattern of dots around the eyes. Its horns weren’t those of a goat or bull either—spiraling toward the sky and ribbed.
Emil didn’t think of it much, since the mask was only in use for a short time in winter, for caroling around Christmas and New Year, but as the crows croaked in alarm outside, a cool shiver trailed down Emil’s spine, causing a paranoid sense that the mask was the devil’s head, and his entire form might emerge from the wall, ready to strike Emil down as, he had Zofia.
His heart beat faster, but when he glanced at the phone on the side table next to him, reality grabbed his ankles and kept him in the seat. There were very real issues he needed to deal with.
He rubbed his forehead, focusing on the ancient rotary dial phone before finally gathering the courage to choose Radek’s number. The signal kept going for the longest time, and Emil was about to put the receiver down when Radek picked up, his cheerful voice clashing with the dull pain in Emil’s heart.
“When do I pick you up?”
“I’m not coming,” Emil said, leaning forward to contemplate the worn hardwood planks of the floor. “There’s been a—I know what you’re thinking, but… it’s Zofia. She was supposed to look after my animals. She’s dead.”
Radek went silent for a couple of seconds, and Emil cringed when he heard him swallow. “Poor woman. She always wore her heart on her sleeve. But, you know, there’s three hundred people in the village. It shouldn’t be too hard to get someone to take care of the animals for such a short time. You could still come over next week.”
“I’ll see about but, Radek… She’s been so terribly pecked on by crows. It was horrific. People think it’s my fault. I… I’m having a really hard time.” He was glad Radek wasn’t here, because pain and fear weren’t easy to admit to in person.
Radek’s breath creaked. “Why would they think it was your fault?”
“You know those damn birds always follow me. They must have… just gotten to her dead body, but everyone’s jumping to conclusions.”
“Emil… you can’t stay there. I don’t think they actually believe you’re at fault, that’s crazy, but you can’t be their scapegoat. You know neither of us fits in Dybukowo, and it’ll only get more toxic for you.”
Emil nodded despite knowing Radek couldn’t see him. “I might have told your dad I worship the devil and was going to teach you. Sorry. He attacked me, and I lost my cool.”
Radek laughed out loud. “He doesn’t really believe in this crap. Just keep me posted, okay?”
Emil sighed and met the mask’s empty gaze. “I will.”
Chapter 6 - Emil
Emil awoke to his fence broken down and most of his chickens gone, so he spent his morning chasing them, but when two were still missing at midday, he decided to give up on the search. The knowledge that someone had snuck into his yard, opened the henhouse, and damaged the fence just to spite him was a burning wound deep in his gut.
He had first understood that he was different when he’d accidentally touched another boy when skinny-dipping in the summer. It had been their secret, even though none of them had yet understood why physical affection between men was something forbidden. But that guy had moved to greener pastures and left Emil alone with his longing.
At that point, Emil knew not to be too open about his interest in other boys, but he’d started listening to the wrong kind of music, grew out his hair, and when a group of skinheads had turned him into a bloody pulp after a party in a nearby town, he truly understood the price of being seen as different. He’d gr
own harder skin and made himself believe he didn’t care, but now acid seeped in through the cracks in his exterior.
Radek was right. Emil didn’t fit in with the population of Dybukowo, and everyone could sense it. They didn’t want him here, and with his one friend so far away, the familiar ground crumbled under his feet. It no longer brought comfort but was a weight tied to his ankles and dragged him to the bottom of the river. He didn’t know how to shed it, and there was no one to ask for help.
Nature provided some solace at least, and once he was done with his chores, his feet took him down a path through the forest, then over the fields and meadows, wandering without a purpose. The wind was the only one he could share his secrets with anyway.
To think that Bieszczady were a goal destination for so many city people—the dream retirement spot for those who’d fallen in love with the mountains during their two-week vacation. They couldn’t understand that the open space might not offer the freedom they sought and become a trap. But maybe this land treated outsiders differently than it did its own?
The sun was descending toward the church by the time Emil decided to head there.
Its form was simple, like that of the large wooden homes typical of the region, with the roof sloping steeply from the top. The cone-shaped bell tower at the back was reminiscent of Eastern Orthodox churches. When he was a little boy, Grandfather had taken him there for lunch every day, so there were some fond memories of the place mixed with all those that felt bitter. Not that it mattered anymore.
All Emil wanted was to go where he could be around people, yet not have his peace disturbed. Somewhere he wouldn’t feel so alone. He wasn’t yet ready to face the broken fence, and needed peace if he was to come up with a way to make money and escape the hold Dybukowo had on him.
An elderly neighbor left the church grounds with his grandchildren, but took their hands and sped up as soon as he spotted Emil. As hurtful as that was, it meant Emil might get the peace he wished for. Dinnertime was approaching fast, so the handful of truly devoted worshipers who treated the church as their private gossip club would surely be at home.
But mealtimes didn’t matter to Emil, since he had no one to eat with anyway. He put on a brave face most days, but the truth was, he fondly remembered the days when he still had Grandpa to take care of him. Each day, they would enter the church grounds through the cast iron gate and pass the church on the way to the parsonage. Mrs. Luty had been as grumpy as she was now, but back then she always had sweets for him, and even a kind word from time to time. They would all sit around the large oak table, surrounded by pictures of saints, and chat about their day. Like a family. Too bad Mrs. Luty had cut ties with Emil as soon as Grandpa died.
Emil was relieved to find the church empty.
The perfect silence of the tall walls covered in wooden panels freed up space in Emil’s brain. He swallowed and walked toward the altar where a baroque painting of the crucifixion was embedded in a frame of white stone. Emil found it poetic that an artwork depicting the moment humanity had been cleansed from evil was paired with wooden figures of the very people who, according to the Bible, unleashed sin on the world. Adam and Eve, clad in vine branches, faced Christ in relaxed poses, unaware of the danger lurking above.
A tree, meticulously carved into a twisted shape, emerged from behind the painting. Its branches, lacquered and heavy with fruit, overshadowed both the painting and the two sculptures. And high up, in its impressive crown, the snake awaited its victims.
Emil was an adult man, but he still remembered how this allegorical depiction of Satan used to frighten him in childhood. The wooden sculpture was stylized, but the way it remained hidden in plain sight between the wooden leaves and apples had been what really creeped Emil the fuck out. The devil should not be present during worship, yet this one watched the congregation with its red eyes every single day, as if it was choosing who to follow home.
The church was very old and had likely been funded by some rich dude who whored, killed, and sinned his entire life and thought such an act could buy him God’s favor, but what Emil didn’t like about religion didn’t affect his appreciation of sacral art.
The church was the relic of times long gone, though the modern tabernacle spoiled the beauty of the whole setup. The tiny cupboard was made of metal too new and shiny to fit in with its antique surroundings, which was made even more obvious by the proximity of the old-fashioned eternal flame right next to it. He wasn’t an expert, but the monstrance kept inside the container was not only antique but also made of precious metals, so maybe he shouldn’t wonder why the pastor had decided to replace the old, somewhat flimsy tabernacle with one that offered more security.
Emil startled in his seat when the door behind the altar screeched, but then Adam entered wearing the somber cassock that covered him like a medieval robe. A serene expression didn’t leave his face when he briefly captured Emil’s gaze, invading Emil’s solitary space like a being that existed just to taunt him. Despite Adam being an outsider from Warsaw, he’d already seemed to have made friends, and had woven himself into the fabric of the village as if he’d lived in Dybukowo his whole life.
Emil watched Adam walk toward the carved wooden confessional, unsure whether he wanted company or solitude, and, this endless dichotomy was driving him mad.
It appeared as if Adam were intent on ignoring Emil’s presence, but as he touched the heavy green curtain obscuring the middle of the wardrobe-sized box, he did look back at him. “Would you like to talk?”
“No.”
Adam licked his lips. “If you change your mind, I will be here. I doubt a line is about to form. Few parishioners come to confession at this time.”
Emil stared daggers into him, angered that the offer of a conversation was really an invitation to a religious rite. Was Adam suggesting Emil had something to confess after Zofia’s death?
“So… I’ll just— talk to you another time,” Adam mumbled and fled behind the curtain.
Emil groaned and rubbed his forehead. Had he been too harsh? The two of them had been playing a game of cat and mouse since the night of the young priest’s arrival, but ‘play’ didn’t mean actually hurting his prey. Adam was uptight, and rode a high horse, but he’d never been unkind to Emil.
Except for that one time when he’d lost his cool at Emil for touching his hand.
Emil would love to see that kind of flush on Adam’s face again.
They didn’t know each other, they barely spoke, but when Adam looked into his eyes, it felt like he saw Emil, not Old Słowikowa’s grandson, not a black sheep, or the resident metalhead Satanist, but the person he was. And in the brief moments they’d shared, Emil didn’t feel so alone.
Or maybe it just was his dick talking.
Either way, once Emil made sure they were alone in the church, he rose and walked loudly so that Adam could hear him coming.
The big box of wood had an intimidating effect on Emil. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t religious, or that he only planned to have a conversation. When he slid behind the curtain at the side, into the dark space that smelled of dust and wood polish, the sight of Adam’s face behind the wooden lattice made him briefly forget about all the pain beyond the confessional. He kneeled.
“How are you feeling?” Adam asked.
Emil took a deep breath. The last time he’d been to confession was at sixteen, right before his confirmation. At that time, he was in the process of leaving religion behind, but Grandpa had insisted it was the thing to do, so Emil went with it to keep him happy.
He hated talking about his feelings. All it had ever brought him was heartache, so he kept that wall high when he answered. “I’m fine. I was bored and decided to see my favorite priest.”
So it was a whole load of horseshit. It didn’t matter what he said as long as Adam was there to listen.
Adam took a deep breath that echoed through the hollow piece of furniture that provided them with an excuse to talk. “Did the police bother
you yesterday? They told me it looked like an accident, but sometimes they don’t want to reveal what they found out.”
At least they weren’t talking about feelings. “They did come over, but it wasn’t like they had much to do other than take my statement, since a kid had seen Zofia attacked by the crows.” He stalled, staring at Adam’s face behind the wooden grate. They were separated yet close enough for it to feel intimate. “As a… man of faith, do you think it’s possible for the devil to interfere with people? Cause them bad luck?”
Adam’s lips stretched into a smile. “Are you asking me for my personal opinion or that of exorcists?”
Was that… flirting?
“You know the opinions of exorcists, Father?” Emil teased and rested his temple against the wood, comforted as if Adam’s gaze was sunshine at the cusp of the summer.
Adam shrugged, seeming more relaxed now that there was a physical barrier between to keep them from jumping each other’s bones. “I’ve met one or two. Don’t tell anyone, but I think some of them are nuts. That is my personal opinion. Satan doesn’t just spoil cow’s milk like demons in old wives’ tales. His actions are more subtle. He courts us with promises of something pleasing, only to push us off the cliff when we least expect it. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
“Is that something you encountered back in Warsaw?”
Adam rested his head against the lattice, and some of his pale hair snuck through it, as if it was reaching out to Emil. “Everyone has to deal with temptation. There are no true saints. Just look at how hard they tried to find witnesses to miracles for some of the recent beatifications. It’s easy enough to believe someone who lived two thousand years ago could have been this perfect human being who spoke to animals or made someone’s leg grow back, but even the best people sin, and the good they do is extraordinary in a mundane way.”
Where the Devil Says Goodnight Page 8
