It Begins

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “Byron?”

  The church was still sadly, hauntingly beautiful. In the muted stained-glass light, Lucy could see saints gazing down at her from niches along the walls, their painted faces filled with loving concern. Wooden pews stood empty, sifted with dust, and high in the rafters of the arched ceiling, doves fluttered gently as she passed beneath them. Lucy walked slowly up the center aisle. She could see the main altar ahead of her, draped with a dingy white cloth, decorated with arrangements of long-dead flowers.

  Despite the eerieness of the place, Lucy felt strangely fascinated. She stopped before the altar, trailing her fingers over the musty cloth, over faded droplets of candle wax, over brittle chrysanthemum petals. Even her heart seemed to echo in here; she could hear the faint beat of her pulse.

  God, it’s so cold …

  Blowing on her hands, Lucy turned in a slow circle and glanced uneasily at her surroundings. Was it her imagination, or had the temperature dropped about ten degrees just since she’d walked through the door? You are imagining things. Yet as she blew once more on her hands, she could see her breath forming, a soft vapory cloud right in front of her face.

  “Byron?”

  Her own voice whispered back to her from the shadows.

  The doves stirred restlessly with a muffled beating of wings.

  “Come on, Byron, if you have something to say, you’d better say it—now!”

  This is stupid. He’s not here, and he’s obviously not going to show up, and all you’re doing is creeping yourself out.

  With growing anxiety, Lucy gnawed on a fingernail. Not again … not again! What did you expect, anyway? Haven’t you learned your lesson by now?

  But she’d wanted this time to be different—she’d wanted so much to believe that Byron could help her. She’d wanted to prove to herself once and for all that it wasn’t just her, that there were reasons and answers and explanations for the things that were happening, that she wasn’t just making up dreams in her mind—

  Something’s here.

  Lucy gasped as a sliver of dread snaked its way up her back and lodged at the base of her neck.

  Something’s here!

  Instantly her eyes swept over the walls and ceiling, the massive wooden cross above the altar, the partially shattered glass of the crucifixion behind it, the confessionals in the darkened aisles along the side …

  The confessionals …

  A soft sound slithered through the church. A sound like … what? A sigh of wind? A flurry of feathers? Or …

  Breathing.

  Lucy’s body stiffened, every nerve electrified. No, it can’t be … there’s no one here … no one … no one …

  Yet she could feel herself moving across the cold stone floor, moving steadily toward the confessionals, almost as though something were drawing her forward, some force against her will. She tried to stop, but she couldn’t. Tried to resist, but the pull seemed only to grow stronger.

  She stopped outside one of the doors.

  Byron?

  She tried to whisper, but the words stuck soundlessly in her throat. She could see the door cracked open, barely an inch, but she couldn’t see what was inside. And yes—yes!—there was the sound again … like the faintest breath, the most feeble attempt at a sigh.

  Steeling herself, Lucy jerked open the door.

  The space was cramped and narrow, murky with shadows, and as she stepped tentatively across the threshold, she could see the small priest’s window to the left, the bit of screen and gauzy curtain concealing it from the other side, the kneeler beneath it on the floor.

  The compartment stank of mildew; it was covered thickly in dust.

  No sins had been confessed here for a long, long time.

  See? Nothing. Just your imagination.

  Almost weak with relief, Lucy turned to walk out.

  And saw the door slowly creak shut.

  Startled, she stared at it a moment, then gave it a push. The door didn’t move. She pushed harder, then leaned into it with her shoulder. It wouldn’t so much as budge.

  That’s strange … She couldn’t remember seeing a latch on the outside of the door, and it hadn’t stuck when she’d yanked it open. Trying not to panic, Lucy tried it again, harder this time, then harder still, but the door refused to give. Dust swirled into the air, choking her, irritating her eyes. She yelled and pounded on the walls. The space seemed to be growing smaller, the dust thicker, the high walls closing in—Oh God—let me out of here!

  The thought briefly shot through her mind that no one would find her, maybe not for days and days, maybe not ever—she’d simply die here in the dark, in this tiny dark space, trapped in an upright coffin.

  “Byron!” Lucy screamed. There was a car parked outside, for God’s sake, somebody must be around! “Please! Please, somebody, I’m stuck in here—let me out!”

  “Have you come to seek God’s forgiveness, my child?” the voice murmured.

  Lucy went cold. Her fists froze upon the door, her mouth gaped in a silent scream.

  Her eyes turned fearfully to the wall …

  She could see the priest’s window, only now it was open. The curtain had been pulled back, and beyond the small screen was the dim outline of a face.

  A face … yet somehow … and even more terrifyingly … not a face.

  “Who are you?” Lucy choked out. Her back was against the door now, her knees so shaky she could hardly stand. It took every ounce of willpower to focus on that window and the featureless profile beyond. “Who are you?”

  “Your salvation.”

  And she knew the voice, and he seemed to be all around her now, in the air, in the dust, in the echo of her heartbeat, in the thoughts inside her head, in the ice flowing through her veins …

  “You were at the Festival,” she realized. “Behind the tent, you were the one—”

  “Meant to save you,” he whispered. “No more sorrow … no more pain. Reprieve from the lifetime of loneliness that awaits you. Redemption from yourself.”

  “Please—”

  “I know how lost you’ve been without your mother.”

  Tears filled Lucy’s eyes … trickled slowly down her cheeks. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  “It’s no longer a matter of why. It’s a matter of when. Of how.”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t know you … I haven’t done anything to you. Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

  “But you have done something to me. We have a connection, you and I.” The voice sounded mildly amused. “So let me ask you again … have you come to seek God’s forgiveness?”

  “Forgiveness for what?” she cried desperately.

  “For the places your heart will take you … where your soul cannot go.”

  Without warning the door came open.

  As Lucy stumbled out into the aisle, she grabbed the door of the priest’s compartment and flung it open.

  But the darkness inside was empty.

  And the dust not even disturbed.

  18

  Lucy stood there, unable to move.

  Like a distant observer, she watched herself staring into the confessional, felt her slow-motion shock and disbelief—yet at the same time, felt oddly detached from reality. As she wheeled around to run, a tall figure suddenly materialized from the shadows behind her, sending her back with a scream.

  “Hey, sorry!” he laughed. “Didn’t mean to scare you! Guess I should’ve yelled or something, right?”

  Before she could even react, the young man stepped closer, right into a narrow beam of light angling down from an overhead window. He had a friendly, boyish, dirt-streaked face and an equally friendly smile. Mid-twenties, probably—broad, solid shoulders … slender build … thighs and arms leanly muscled beneath skintight jeans and the pushed-up sleeves of a grimy sweatshirt. His eyes were deep blue, fringed with long dark lashes. His thick brown hair, though dusted with cobwebs, still showed a few golden streaks of fading summer sun. He was slightly out of
breath and carrying a large cardboard box, which he immediately wrestled down to the floor.

  Lucy gazed at him with open—and hostile—suspicion.

  The young man merely grinned. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Lucy’s gaze hardened. The stranger seemed oblivious.

  “Matt,” he said, reaching toward her. “Oh, wait. Sorry.” He swiped his hand across the back of his jeans, then offered it again. “Matt. Well … Father Matt, actually. Well … Father Matthew, really. But you can call me Matt.”

  Lucy was dumbfounded. “You’re … a priest?”

  “Hmmm …” He glanced around in mock concern. “Should I apologize?” And then, as she continued to stare at him, he added, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m out of uniform. And you are—?”

  Lucy said nothing. Matt gave a solemn nod.

  “Speechless,” he said.

  “Lucy,” she finally whispered.

  “Nice to meet you, Lucy. But I hope you weren’t planning on confessing anything today, because as you can see, we’re slightly out of service at the moment. Have been, actually, for years.”

  Lucy’s eyes narrowed. Was this guy for real? Was he telling the truth? She tried to concentrate on his voice … what would that voice sound like, low and deep and whispering?

  “Listen, are you okay?” Matt’s smile seemed genuinely concerned. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Where were you just now?” Lucy murmured.

  She saw his smile falter, but only for a second. “Sorry?”

  “Just now. Where were you?” Her voice was trembling from aftershock; she fought to keep it steady. She watched his glance flicker toward the confessionals … the altar … the empty pews behind him.

  “Just now?” This time he gestured vaguely with one arm. “Going through some closets in back. Sorry, I didn’t know you were here—otherwise I’d have been a lot more hospitable.”

  “You didn’t hear me yelling?”

  “Yelling?” Matt frowned. Then, as though a thought had just occurred to him, he pulled some headphones from the box and dangled them in front of her. “I’ve been lost in Mozart. Just pulled these off when I saw you standing here. What were you yelling about?”

  “I was …” Lucy’s mind raced. “I was yelling … to see … if anyone was here.”

  Mart’s smile widened. “Well, now you know.”

  He must be telling the truth … he wouldn’t have had time to run from the confessional and grab that big box from somewhere and come back without me seeing him or hearing him or—

  “Is it my face?” Matt asked, deadpan. “Or are you having a religious experience?”

  Lucy snapped back to attention. “What?”

  “You’re staring at me like I have horns growing out of my head or something.”

  Flustered, Lucy looked away. “Are you alone here?”

  “Alone?”

  “Is there someone else here with you?”

  Matt’s eyes made a quick survey of the church. “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Nothing … I … I just thought I heard something, that’s all.”

  “Now you’re making me nervous,” he teased, though once more his eyes swept the room. “It was probably just me rummaging around back there. There’s a major echo in this old place, and—”

  “No. No, it … it wasn’t like that. It was a voice.”

  “A voice? Well, what did it sound like?”

  Lucy shook her head. He seemed sincere, but how could she know for sure? And if he really was who he said he was, then how could she explain something so totally unbelievable? For an instant she dug deep into her memory, trying to recall the exact sound, the exact tone of that voice in the confessional … that voice at the fair. It could be Matt’s voice disguised … just like it could be anybody’s voice disguised.

  Or maybe it wasn’t disguised at all …

  Lucy wrapped her arms about herself, suppressing a shudder. “I must have imagined it. I thought I heard someone.”

  This time Matt turned and took a good hard look toward the entrance. “Well, I didn’t lock the door behind me this morning. So I guess it’s possible someone could’ve sneaked in. Kind of like you did.”

  This seemed to amuse him, especially when a slow flush crept over Lucy’s cheeks. Quickly she stammered out an explanation.

  “I was … supposed to be meeting someone.”

  “Ah. A clandestine rendezvous. How intriguing.”

  Flushing hotter, she mumbled, “It’s not what you think.”

  “No? And how do you know what I think?” Matt’s eyes sparkled with humor, and he ran one hand back through his hair. “Maybe it was this friend of yours you heard. Maybe he really did show up, but he thought you weren’t here.”

  And maybe I was a total fool for believing what Byron said and for coming here to meet him. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, maybe it was burglars,” Matt said practically. “And when they realized there wasn’t anything to steal, they got disappointed and left.”

  Lucy was ready to change the subject. “What happened to this place, anyway?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I’m not from here. I just came a few weeks ago, to live with my aunt.”

  “I see.” Matt leaned back against the wall, crossing his long legs, folding his arms casually across his chest. For a second Lucy thought he was going to ask her some personal questions, but instead he said, “All I know is that a bigger, fancier church was built in the center of town, and that’s when this place became … shall we say… a sort of ecclesiastical warehouse.”

  “So you must remember when this place was really beautiful.”

  Matt shook his head. “Actually, no—I’m not from Pine Ridge either. And in theory, I’m only supposed to be here temporarily.”

  “In theory?”

  “Well, that’s what Monsignor’s telling Father Paul at the moment. That I’m only here till he gets back on his feet.”

  “Who’s Father Paul?”

  “The priest at the real church,” Matt explained. “He’s old—no, let me rephrase that—he’s ancient. And very set in his ways. He’s been refusing to take on an assistant for years, but I guess you could say he finally got a dose of Divine Intervention.”

  “How’s that?”

  Matt chuckled. “He fell down a flight of stairs.” Then, at Lucy’s look of alarm, “No, no, he’s fine—but now that he’s got a broken leg, it’s forced him to slow down and listen to reason.”

  “And how does he feel about you being here?”

  Again Matt laughed. “Let’s put it this way. Since he’s been here for about a hundred years and has a very particular way of doing things, I obviously am a complete and total moron. And just trying to wade through his particular way of doing things is probably going to take me the rest of my natural life.”

  Pausing, he gave Lucy a helpless look

  “if he doesn’t kill me before then. Like right now, I’m supposed to be looking for some statues he swears are stored down here in one of the cellars. But I can’t seem to find the right doors—or the right keys.”

  He looked so distressed that Lucy couldn’t help smiling. But as she caught a sudden movement from the corner of her eye, she gasped and spun toward it.

  “Hey, easy,” Matt soothed her, “it’s just one of the cats.”

  “Cats?”

  “Yeah, there’re a bunch of them in here—the cleaning lady’s always bringing them in. Just call it environment-friendly rodent control.”

  As Lucy nodded uncertainly, he frowned and lifted a hand to her forehead.

  “You know, Lucy, maybe it’s just this bad light, but you sure don’t look like you feel very well. Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll get you some water.”

  His touch was firm, but gentle. His fingertips skimmed lightly over her skin and carefully brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. With no warning, Lucy felt a strange, slow warmth pulse softly at her temples �
� flow like liquid to the back of her brain …

  Flowing … flowing … blood flowing … a dark red pool of blood on … on … a floor and something—something—sharp!—cutting!—pain and blood and anger—

  “You hurt yourself,” Lucy said. She stepped back and saw a look of dismay on Matt’s face. “You hurt yourself, and it was very painful, and you bled for a long time.”

  The throbbing in her head was gone now, but her body felt shaky and drained. She watched as Matt frowned at her, as he lowered his hand. As he stared at the long, narrow cut on his palm and cautiously flexed his fingers.

  “Well, yeah, but it’s okay now,” he assured her. “I mean, it happened a few days ago … it’s not infected or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Lucy took another step back, her emotions whirling. He thinks I saw it, she realized, only I didn’t see it, not the way he thinks—not with my eyes, but somewhere inside my head—and not exactly what happened—just those flashes again—flashes and feelings and colors and—

  “—broken glass,” Matt was saying, as she tried to quiet her mind, focus in, act normally. “From one of those windows … it sliced right through me. It hurt like hell.”

  “I’m … I’m sorry.” Flustered, Lucy pointed to the front of the church. “I’m feeling better now. I need to go.”

  But she could tell Matt wasn’t convinced, even as she began walking away from him.

  “What about your friend?” he asked her. “Is he supposed to pick you up?”

  Lucy shook her head.

  “Well, how are you getting home?”

  “I have a car.”

  Look,” Matt said kindly, “I’d be more than happy to drive you. Someone can come back later for your car.”

  “No. I’m fine, really. But thanks.”

  She was almost outside when he stopped her. She heard him call her name, and she turned to see him running after her, waving something in his hand.

  “Lucy,” he said again, catching up with her at the door. “I think you must’ve dropped this.”

  Lucy stared down at the thing he was holding.

  And felt her eyes widen in alarm.