Deadly Nightlusts

by John Everson

  Nic walked into the alcove that held most of the historical volumes and encyclopedias. The gloom of the old building (which had once served as a Lutheran church) was broken by smoky blue beams of light trailing through a stained glass window. The window design detailed a crucifixion scene. Nic noted this portrait didn't have half the blood the statue currently haunting his living room boasted.

  He started with a couple European history overviews, where he found references to Pope Clement VIII, who had apparently been a pretty handy politician, but nothing on Theophrastus. Then he pulled out a Saints of the Roman Catholic Church volume. The book listed the names of all the approved saints of the Church, with brief descriptions of their lives.

  There's no listing for St. Theophrastus.

  Something icy sliced at his stomach as the realization hit. He checked the copyright date on the title page. 1984. Damn. Even if this guy had been overlooked for a while, if Pope John Paul had sent him out on the road, wouldn't he have been mentioned in a saint's history book put out five years afterwards? Nic found another volume and looked up Clement VIII. It also failed to mention the Pope's less famous sainted cousin. This was getting weird.

  Well, if this guy in the church wasn't a saint, what was he? How had he gotten here? There had been no fanfare, no announcement that the town was to be honored with a great Church relic. The knowledge of the saint had just filtered down to people, he realized. One week, Mom was a normal working, divorced mother; the next she was a dead saint groupie. As the days went on, it seemed that everyone in town had become devout Catholics. Nobody questioned it. After all, a saint was in town.

  Time for a little more research, Nic thought, desperately trying to avoid thinking about what could be holding his town hostage - if it wasn't a holy thing.

  Main Street again seemed hostile as he rode down its bustling business section. He stopped at the train tracks, where a new banner hung just before the crossing gates:

  Parkville Saint Week: Aug. 2-9. Service at 7

  Time to call Russ. He pulled into his driveway, dropped the bike on the ground and ran inside to do just that.

  Russ Meyers and Nic had been friends since 6th grade. Now he was a sophomore at the University of Illinois. He'd stayed for summer session this year, much to Nic's chagrin.

  Now Nic was glad. He hoped that monstrous Big Ten library Russ boasted about would come in handy.

  Nic dialed the number and hoped Russ was sleeping in per usual.

  "Yeah, what?" a fuzzy voice answered after six rings.

  Nic outlined the situation to Russ, whose blurry voice gradually came into focus before finally asking, "What are you, on dope, dude?"

  A half hour later, Nic had the promise that Russ would dig up anything he could about Clement VIII and, if there was one, St. Theophrastus. In the meantime, Nic vowed to do some firsthand investigating of his own.

  * * *

  It was 8 p.m. when Nic crept through the back rectory door. As an altar boy, he used to come in this way to put on his "gown" before going out to light the candles before mass. The door was always open. Some things in Parkville never change, he thought. April hadn't liked the idea of his creeping around the church while services were being held.

  "Father Raphael will drag you out before the whole congregation!" she'd said. "Don't be stupid. Stop acting like this is an episode of The Night Stalker."

  Then she put her arms around him. Her hips swayed against his...

  "Don't you think it would be more fun to hang out with me tonight?"

  He almost gave in. Certainly, he wanted to give in. But he'd kept his focus this time. April admitted that her parents were pressuring her to go with them to services, and she couldn't keep refusing. So he might as well find out what was so earth-shattering about this saint. He kissed her (and she made it even more difficult to leave), turned down an offer of dinner from Mrs. Tandy, and headed to the other side of town. He wanted to be there before people started arriving, hidden until everything got underway.

  He left the shelter of the church's back lot and moved down a dark corridor to a small room behind the altar. He pressed his ear to the door. There was no sound on the other side. He grasped the knob and turned it, as slow as he could, the lock still clinking as he did. He creaked it open and looked inside.

  Empty. So far, his luck was holding.

  Nic slipped inside the dimly lit yellow sacristy. A sink and cabinets took up one wall, the altar boys' vestment closet another. Ahead of him was the door to the altar, with a small peephole next to it. When he was an altar boy, he used to wait back there and watch through the hole until it was time to go out. He could hear Father Raphael now, talking about peace and brotherhood.

  He crossed the room and put his eye to the opening.

  The church was packed! It looked like everyone in town was there. Incense was burning again somewhere. The body of the saint lay at the head of the center aisle. Its face looked different somehow. Almost as if that snow white skin was blushing . . .

  Finally, his attention focused on Father Raphael, who was at the lectern, reading from a small book.:

  ". . . most important is that you admit to yourself and God your deepest desires. You must endeavor to fulfill them. For what other purpose did God have in creating us? Holy God, our father instilled us with wants and needs, commands to acknowledge and pursue. Only in satisfying the body can we begin to satisfy the mind. For only when the flesh is appeased can the mind concentrate on higher pursuits. The Almighty Father has given us the tools for creation, but throughout history, man has hidden and suppressed those tools. Allow the body its due, and the mind and soul will then come into their own...."

  Nic didn't remember Father Raphael ever advising anyone to give in to lusts. What the hell was he reading?

  "No, brothers and sisters, you may commence the ritual of release. Speak, act, become God's children - as He meant you to be. "

  Father Raphael shut the book and looked up.

  "Who will release themselves before the congregation?"

  Hands went up around the church. The priest pointed at a man in the third row.

  "Ray, come on up here."

  The man, dressed in a Phillips 66 mechanic's jumpsuit, joined Father Raphael at the altar.

  "What's in your heart, Ray? Speak honestly."

  "Well, Father, I've always dreamed of smokin' some dope, fueling up Chuck Ryder's 'vette, and driving as fast as kin be down Route 7 for a couple hours. I'd like to take Marge Baits with me, and eventually, out there in corn country, I'd pull over, spread out some blankets and lay Marge 'n me down for the night, if you know what I mean."

  Father Raphael looked out at the congregation. "Mr. Baits?"

  A tall, grizzled-looking man in jeans and a dirty white T-shirt, stood up near the back of the church.

  "Would you let Marge go with Ray for the night?"

  Baits frowned.

  "This is what God wants us to do, Father?"

  "If you can make Ray's desire come true, yes, Mr. Baits."

  Baits scowled a moment. Then the creases abruptly disappeared. He looked blank for a moment, then smiled. "Okay. But it's up to Marge."

  The priest looked at the petite blonde sitting next to Baits.

  "Marge, will you go?"

  She hesitated, flushing a deep red. "Yes," she said softly. "I'll go. For Ray."

  Chuck Ryder was already walking toward the altar, holding out a set of keys.

  "Here's the rig, man. Take care of it. I'll see ya tomorrow, huh?"

  Marge kissed her husband and whispered something in his ear. She met Ray in the aisle and the two walked out of church together.

  Nic sat back in complete disbelief. Had the whole town swallowed LSD? Since when was wife-swapping a religious event? Now he knew something was desperately wrong.

  He looked back at the crowd, seeing his mother there, in the fourth row. April's parents were not far behind. There was the druggist, up front, and his friend Larry, with his parents.
He knew most of these people. He knew he didn't want to know their innermost secrets.

  And one of them was approaching the altar now! Mrs. Fellier, the librarian, stood next to Fr. Raphael. Fortyish, with mousy black hair, glasses and a figure like a sack of potatoes, Nic hoped her deepest desires didn't have anything to do with sex.

  "What do you desire, Lana?" he asked her.

  She shook noticeably as she turned to Father Raphael and said, "I want you to make love to me, right here, on the altar." She smiled hungrily. "Now."

  Oh shit!

  The priest didn't even flinch. He simply leaned forward and began to unbutton her floral-patterned blouse, exposing rolls of white fat and a huge black silk brassiere. She dropped her skirt and with shocked amazement, Nic saw that she hadn't been wearing anything under it. Now Father Raphael had popped those enormous, sagging breasts from their confinement and was leading her to the altar as he dropped his own robes. This was unbelievable! Even Nic's non-devout senses screamed, "Sacrilege!"

  As the priest mounted her atop the altar, Nic ran from the sacristy. His head was swimming in nausea as he stumbled through the dark hallway and out into the sticky August night. Somewhere in the town, an engine revved. From within the church came groans of ecstasy.

  He couldn't get free of the image of a hairy, naked Father Raphael climbing aboard that disgusting woman and pumping her, right there in church - like it was a sacrament!

  Something had a hold of Parkville. Something connected with the saint, Nic thought as he fled. The book seemed to be the key. He had to get the book!

  * * *

  His clock radio glowed 12:34 a.m. Footfalls on the stairs; the bathroom door closed.

  Nic waited until after 1:00 and then slipped out of bed. Surely Mom was asleep by now. He crept down the stairs and stopped just before reaching the bottom. The living room was aglow with red and orange shadows. Hadn't she gone to bed? He peered around the corner. Candles. She'd left the stupid candles still burning around that damn statue! His heart was now beating in his ears like a jackhammer, but he tiptoed through the kitchen and eased open the back door. The sound of crickets greeted him as he walked backwards into the yard, looking at his mom's window. No lights clicked on. He was clear.

  Ten minutes later and his heart was doing the same routine as he stole back down the pitch black corridor behind the sacristy. He pulled out the flashlight he'd taken from his bike pack and found the door. This time he wasn't careful - if someone had been here, he figured there'd be a light on. But what if Father Raphael came up behind him, demanding to know why he was breaking in to the church? Was it really breaking in when the door wasn't locked? Wasn't God's house open to all? Was it still God's house? He stared through the peephole. The church was dark; tree shadows amplified by the streetlamps outside moved across some of the pews, and he could make out the dark box of the Saint's... What would you call it? he wondered. Coffin? It wasn't really that. Display case? Kind of crass for a body, huh?

  He crossed to the lectern on the other side of the church, praying that the Father hadn't taken the book with him. Raphael always left the Bible there.

  He played the light on it. There was The Bible in its usual spot, but there was no other volume there.

  Damn.

  He looked on the altar itself and winced, remembering its cargo earlier in the night. It was empty. Even the cloth covering had been removed. Probably to be washed, he thought, struggling to keep from laughing out loud. He rummaged through the missalettes and songbooks on the shelves beneath the podium surface. And found it. There on the second shelf, a small, worn, black leather-bound tome, complete with colored place finder ribbons.

  He sat down. The cover was blank. He opened it carefully - a musty smell filled the air, the smell of age. The pages were onionskin, covered with faded, ornate calligraphy. A steady, patient hand had designed the cover page, which simply read:

  The Gospel of Bishop Theophrastus.

  For God. For the People.

  Nic flipped to the first page. And looked up with a jerk.

  Something was moving in the church.

  He'd heard footsteps. And a thump. He forced his head to unfreeze and slowly scanned the pews. Everything was still. He could see dust floating in the soft light from the street. The pages in front of him began to ripple forward, but he could feel no breeze. He slapped his hand down on the book and stared out at the church, paranoia setting in. He turned his attention back to the book. It began with some sort of treatise on the meaning of Genesis. He scanned some of it, having problems with the archaic sentence structure. It struck him that the book was written in old English, though, not Latin. A rarity for the clergy of ancient times, he knew. "For the People..." The people didn't know Latin well, even then, he thought. He flipped to the last marker in the book. And found the passages he'd overheard Father read earlier. He skipped ahead a bit and turned pale.

  What of the base, violent instincts? Is it not the will of God that we control the chaos of the soul? I tell you no. For what other reason did God put such thoughts in us but to use them? If the blood of another man is the only solace for your soul, you must take it. Take it in full view and with the consent of your brothers and sisters. And share with them the body and blood, that all might benefit from your deed. Beware, though, the retribution that may follow. For the murder of a well respected man may bring avengers...

  He couldn't believe this text. The man was telling people it was alright to kill someone, so long as you shared his flesh with your fellow cannibals! And warned that it was better to knock off people who were unpopular so you didn't get axed yourself! He skipped ahead and found a more chilling passage:

  For to fully comprehend the glory of the ritual of release, the ritual of pain must be performed as well. Now, my brothers and sisters, you hath had your desires released. You art now ready to feel the stiletto, the cudgeon, the rack - so that the pleasures you hath had and will wish for can be fully appreciated. Brothers and sisters, there is no heaven without hell...

  Something moved behind him. Something white.

  Nic jumped to his feet, shining the light across the statue of Jesus, the altar, the steps off to the side. He shone the light on Theophrastus's box.

  It was empty.

  Nic Collins dropped the book and ran for his life, throwing himself through the sacristy door and slamming through the exit beyond without slowing. Only when he was outside did he stop and look behind him. Nothing was there. The night was quiet; the chirping of crickets and the whine of a far-away locust were all that disturbed the silence. Until somebody spoke.

  "Nic."

  He whirled around. Father Raphael was standing behind him.

  "Nic, you should really come to mass tomorrow night. What you saw tonight was not what it seemed. You must take the body and blood, as our Lord told us. Then you will understand."

  Nic simply stared at the priest. All he could see were Father Raphael's hands on the blue-veined breasts of Mrs. Fellier.

  "Come back to the church with me, Nic. I'll explain to you what you saw. You must hear the words of the Saint from the beginning."

  The priest, who suddenly didn't look at all like the friendly, playful man who had thrown paper airplanes at him a few years ago in Sunday school, stepped forward and reached for Nic's arm. Nic stared at the hand touching him like an intimate friend. The fingertips looked stained, dusky red in the moonlight. Nic ripped free of the touch and ran to his bike, leaning against the church wall. He climbed on and pushed hard with his feet, the running start sending him into the street in seconds. He looked behind him. Father Raphael hadn't moved. He was smiling.

  "You'll come back," he said, just loud enough for Nic to hear as he pedaled away. "You'll have to."

  A million thoughts whirled through his head as he rode home. Something had led his entire town - on the pretense of religion - into letting out their deepest desires. For many, that was only going to mean weird sexual stuff, but for some... people around here
were going to start dying. If Father Raphael had been reading a little of that book each night in order, he hadn't reached the part about murder and pain. But he would soon. And Nic had the queasy feeling that when he did, instead of sex on the altar, there was going to be blood. Lots of it. Somehow he didn't think non-believers were going to survive that chapter.

  * * *

  Long trails of dirty sheets reached for him as he ran and ran through the catacombs. There were gaping geometric holes on both sides of the corridor. Skeletal heads poked out of some, laughing, laughing, teeth falling out of the dusty skulls as they silently howled. The leprous tendrils touched him; cold - ice cold - and sticky, like the noodles from casserole left in the fridge. A leg bone extended to trip him. He avoided it, only to be felled when a skull came flying through the air, hitting him in the midriff just as the white stuff flowed around his ankles and tightened. A bell went off. He landed on his back, looking up just in time to see the horribly smooth face of the Saint leering down from the white swirl. It was going to kiss him...

  Nic woke to hear the phone ringing. He dove out of bed, his hand shaking as he pushed the receiver to his ear. It was Russ.

  "Hey, Nic, you were kidding about that Saint Theophrastus stuff, right?"

  "No, Russ. I wish I was. Did you find out anything?"

  "You said the Pope sent this saint guy on the road in '79, right?"

  "Yeah, so?"

  "Nic, Pope John Paul I stripped Theophrastus of sainthood in 1979. The pope died the next day. The books I found didn't really explain much about Theophrastus, just that his being made a saint was a little shady to begin with. A book I found from the '40s did list him as a saint - for those with sexual "afflictions" to pray to. But here's the interesting thing: I found an article translated from this Italian religious journal. It came out right after Theophrastus's de-sainting. It said that while nothing was ever proved against Theophrastus, the town where he first preached all this love and freedom stuff that probably got him silenced - this town just self-destructed. The records of what happened are supposedly buried in the Vatican, but this article said at the end there were ritual sacrifices, virgins deflowered on the church altar... a violent return to the dark side of paganism. None of this was ever officially connected to Theophrastus by the Vatican - though the article hinted that it may have been behind John Paul's actions."