Father Matthew sat through two hours of confessions, including everything from the occasional inappropriate thought to the adulterous actions of the less controlled. With care and compassion, he dispensed his counsel and penance upon his sheep. Taking a small break, he leaned back in the chair inside the confessional. The robes of his office were making the small confessional uncomfortably hot. He looked at his watch, knowing he had at least another hour at his station. He didn’t mind hearing confessions—it was part of the job—but with the aging of the congregation, many were growing old and dying off. It seemed there just wasn’t the need to schedule three hours of confession on a Saturday. He thought about skipping out early. No, he couldn’t do that; he would feel guilty. He was a priest after all; he just couldn’t bring himself to do that.
He tried to get as comfortable as he could and lay his head back, closing his eyes. Having always had the talent for being able to sleep anywhere, he soon dozed off. The closing of the confessional door next to his cubicle awakened him. He rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up and slid the screen open that separated him from the supplicant.
“When was your last confession?” he asked as the ritual began.
“This is the first time…priest,” the voice responded. It was a voice that seemed to have an odd quality to it. Father Matthew’s parishioners were not inclined to calling him priest.
“Go on with your confession then, friend,” the priest urged, not wanting to let ritual get in the way of confession.
“I have roamed the earth my entire existence,” the stranger said. “I have seen empires fall. I have killed countless men, and driven even more mad.”
Father Matthew sat stunned at the strange ramblings. He noticed that the temperature in his cubicle was dropping and suddenly he felt cold. He was also noticing a smell coming through the screen; it was of death and sulfur.
“What do you mean?” the young priest asked. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“A joke? Ah no, it’s not what you humans call a joke; it’s true. I’ve been assigned to do things and destroy many people throughout your history and now I’ve been assigned to you.”
“What? Assigned to me? Whatever do you mean?” Father Matthew demanded, wondering what kind of nut job had happened into his confessional. He started to get up to confront the mysterious person but a hand crashed through the screen and grabbed him by the throat.
The hand held him with a strength that seemed superhuman. He struggled, but it was useless. Finding himself helpless as a babe, he began to fade from consciousness as the lack of oxygen took its toll.
“You want my confession priest?” the stranger said with a mocking laugh. “Here let me confess to you and you can absolve me,”
With that, the stranger started to invade the priest’s mind. He took him back to the days of Cain and Able where he incited murder, to the days of Christ where he instigated the crowd, to the dark ages where he destroyed tens of thousands with the plague and the madness that ensued. The images kept coming into the young priest’s mind; they were images of death, destruction, and of hell. The images were so vile, and the stranger spoke such nasty and vile things into his mind, that even while teetering on the edge of consciousness the priest could feel his sanity slipping away.
When the stranger was done, he released the priest and left. The temperature in the cubicle rose again and the stench of death and sulfur receded. Father Matthew, barely alive, left the confessional. Slowly, he stumbled toward the alter, stripping off his vestments and his shirt. Reaching for the steel crucifix on the wall near him, he reached the steps of the alter and fell to his knees.
“Why God, why would you let those things happen? Why would you allow demons to commit these acts on us? Why would you allow one to come to me? I have served you faithfully!”
He broke down weeping, clutching the cross so hard it cut into his hand. He stared at the blood, mesmerized.
“Without blood, there can be no forgiveness!” he shouted, and pointed the crucifix toward his stomach. He plunged the cross into himself over and over, screaming, “No forgiveness, no forgiveness.”
Blood and bowel pooled on the rich carpeting below the beautiful statues of The Christ and The Virgin Mary. Silently, they watched as the tortured priest tried to purge his body and soul with the emblem of sacrifice.
Dying from blood loss and trauma, Father Matthew held the cross up to view the bloody Jesus.
“I’m sorry Lord,” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”
Falling forward, he impaled himself on the cross, piercing his brain ending his agony.
Sister Rosella came to check on the young priest and came upon the scene of desperate horror. She ran from the sanctuary as fast as her old legs could carry her, her chest pounding furiously. As she reached the office, an intense pain exploded in her chest. She fell to the floor. Her head hit the desk where the phone sat mocking her. She lay there on the floor with her neck twisted at an impossible angle.
DADDY
Billy listened to his father scream at his mother from his little room in the government housing project they called home. To say that his father, Parker Stephens, was a waste of human flesh would be the understatement of the year. Born in abject poverty, they now eked out an existence on government assistance and the various illegal activities his father involved the family in, which included prostituting his wife, Billy’s mother Brenda.
Billy loved his mother; it broke his heart and tortured his mind to know that his father was the one who drug other men to their home and sold his mother’s soul for twenty dollars a trick.
“What do you mean you don’t feel like working tonight!” his father was yelling at the top of his lungs. The old TV set that had been stolen from a dead man’s apartment did its best to drown out the noise, but fell short of its noble attempt.
“I don’t feel good Parker. I’m sorry, you kept me up most of the night working and little Mary was sick and cried all day. I’m tired, I just can’t!” she yelled back finally losing her own temper at the callousness of her husband.
She was a whore when she met him, a beautiful girl who had been abused and used. Parker had promised to take her away, but little did she know that she would spend the next nineteen years being abused and pimped out by the very man who promised to be her savior. Hopelessness and shame kept her from making a break for it, but truthfully, she didn’t have anywhere to go if she had tried to run.
“Bitch you’re going to shut your mouth and do what you’re told!” he screamed back.
Billy sat on his cot listening to the exchange, wishing that he was a bird and could fly away. Unfortunately, his wings were clipped by poverty and age. He was always a good student, and even though his mother was a whore, she stressed education and reading to him. His brother Tommy was shot and killed at age two by gang members who his father had scammed on a deal. They came at night, guns blazing. They hit Parker, nearly killing him, but when the smoke cleared the baby was dead. Sirens and screams of agony shattered the mind of Brenda even further. From then on, she pushed Billy even harder to succeed and get away from the projects. Even though her own dreams had died, she insisted on Billy getting out.
Getting out was what he had in mind. He would miss his mother and little Mary, but he wanted out and graduation was just months away.
The smack of his father’s hand against his mother’s face sent a mass of emotions through his heart. He wanted to bury his head in his pillow so he didn’t have to listen anymore. He wanted to run away, but there was something else that lurked in his mind. He wanted his father dead so that he, his mother, and his sister could be free from the drug and alcohol fueled rages and abuse.
He stared down at the worn sneakers given to him from the folks at the Salvation Army. Most of their clothes and belongings were received from there, as well as other charities or from his father’s thefts.
He heard another crack as his father’s heavy hands found their mark on Brenda’s face.
�
��Stop it you bastard!” she screamed at Parker, who only became even more enraged.
“I don’t have to stop whore, you’re mine to do with what I want.”
The screaming and cursing continued onward. Billy sat absently staring out the window, wishing for an escape, with visions of killing the bastard who treated them all so badly. The setting sun cast a depressing pall over the city that matched the small apartment’s own depressing atmosphere.
In an alcohol and drug fueled rage, Parker knocked Brenda to the kitchen floor. As he stood over her screaming obscenities, he pulled the belt from his waist.
In the tiny bedroom, hardly the size of a prison cell, the whistling of the belt and the resulting crack on flesh jerked Billy out of his daydream.
His mother’s screams, the sound of her body hitting the floor, and the table being slammed aside woke up little Mary; the toddler screaming in fright from the sudden commotion. The steady crack of the belt ripped apart Billy’s mind.
The young man who had been the recipient of Parker’s rages ran for the kitchen and slammed into him, sending the man flying across the kitchen.
Parker, in his rage, never saw his son coming. He was standing over his wife swinging the belt wildly. The next thing he knew, he took an enormous hit to the body in mid swing and felt his body launch into the air. The next sensation was a horrible pain in his head accompanied by a blinding white light as his head slammed into the oven and then everything went black.
Parker Stephens was dead by the time he hit the floor.
Billy and his mother both stared at the body silently. Both felt a release of emotion knowing that their tormenter was dead, but fear quickly set in as they realized that they now had to figure out what to do. No one would miss Parker; especially with his reputation. They could just say that he ran off and no one would think anything of it. Eventually, the questions would stop. Because in their world, people disappeared all the time.
“Oh, my God,” Brenda whispered as little Mary continued to scream in the background. “I can’t believe you killed him!”
Billy stood looking down on his father. He had killed him, and he was pleased with himself. He had often dreamed of killing his father many times, and now, it was done.
The part of Billy that had ripped in the bedroom had ripped completely; he had slipped over the edge of sanity.
“Bitch, get off the floor,” he snapped.
Brenda looked at him; she was stunned because her loving son had never spoken to her that way.
“Don’t you speak to me that way Billy Stephens,” she snapped back.
Fire sprang into his eyes, which frightened her, but still she wasn’t going to be treated this way by her son. She refused and stayed on the floor.
With a demonic sneer, Billy stomped over to her. “Get up!” he yelled and jerked her by the hair.
“Oww Billy, that hurts!” she screamed as she scrambled to her feet.
Billy held her roughly by her hair. “You do as I say, do you understand me?”
Brenda was street wise from a young age; she could tell by the rage in his eyes that her son would hurt her. She had seen the look hundreds of times over in her years with Parker.
As if a switch flipped Billy calmly stroked his mother’s cheek softly, almost sensually.
“It’s going to be okay. I’ll take care of you, don’t worry Brenda.”
The double meaning of taking care of her hung in the air.
Billy’s mother wanted to flinch from his touch but she was too scared to do anything but agree. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed her loving son had snapped and become his father.
“Now you go get cleaned up for work tonight, no arguments. While you’re doing that, I’ll take care of the body. I’ll put him in the garbage chute; he doesn’t deserve anything else. Tomorrow, the garbage truck should come and that will be the end of it.”
He said it in a way that left no room for argument.
“What about the blood?” She asked, oddly relieved that Parker was dead.
“You don’t worry about it. Daddy will take care of everything.”
DARK WHISPERS
Jerry sat in his recliner fingering one of the many cigarette burns that dotted the arm of the dingy old chair.
"Where is that bitch?" he muttered, looking at the clock once more.
Miranda was late getting home from work and the market, and he was hungry. It never occurred to him that he could have started supper himself. He was home all day doing nothing but watching TV, drinking beer, and chain-smoking. The small apartment was awash in a blue fog of cigarette smoke; Miranda begged Jerry to quit for years, but like all her pleas they fell on deaf and abusive ears.
Finally, he heard a key searching for the lock. Miranda opened the door lugging three bags of groceries along with her purse and umbrella.
"Where the hell have you been?" Jerry questioned, with accusation in his voice.
"Where do you think, I’ve been, Jerry?" she retorted, frustration and hurt evident in her voice.
"Who the hell knows with you?” he screamed, wincing at the sharp pain in his throat. “My mother told me about you, you no-good whore!"
"Jerry, how can you say that?” she asked, stunned. “I've always been faithful, and I work hard in the factory to support us. What do you do all day long? Nothing! You sit here with your foul cigarette stink, and your matching foul mouth spewing hatred, and you have the nerve to call me no-good!"
Jerry flew from the recliner and slapped Miranda across the face. With her hands full groceries, she could do nothing to protect herself.
Sobbing from pain and emotional hurt, she ran to the kitchen clutching her grocery bags. She wished for all the world that her arms could hold someone who would hold her back and show her any kind of love.
She busily began to prepare dinner. All she wanted was a bath and to go to bed.
No, a voice whispered in her tormented mind. You need to escape from here. Escaping sounded wonderful. She would love to escape the hell that was her prison.
She started to smile as the voice in her head spoke to her with soothing, happy words. It spoke of happy places and sunshine, where she was loved and wanted.
When dinner was ready, she put the food on the table.
"Dinner’s ready, honey!" she called happily from the kitchen.
“About damned time!" Jerry muttered, stabbing out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. He had started wondering aloud when the lazy bitch was going to clean the house, not caring if she could hear him. He made his way to the kitchen and sat down at the old table; it, too, was scarred with old burns from his chain smoking.
"What the hell is this slop? Jesus Christ! Can't I even get a decent meal? You're friggin’ worthless."
Jerry continued spearing a piece of meat angrily with his fork as Miranda just smiled. She bent over and kissed Jerry on his unwashed head.
"I'm going to go take a bath,” she said. “I’m not hungry"
Jerry muttered something under his breath, but Miranda didn't care. The voice was wooing her like she had always wished Jerry would.
~~~
In the small, cramped bathroom Miranda undressed and looked in the mirror. She admired her full breasts and then looked disgustedly at her tummy. Lastly, she looked to see the damage that Jerry had done to her face. The handprint was red and puffy, but already she could see streaks of purple forming. He'd gotten her good; the hand print would likely be visible for at least a week. Thankfully, no one at the factory would think anything of her showing up with another bruise.
The voice in her head was telling her that she was beautiful and perfect just the way she was and that Jerry was a fool. The voice promised to come to her if she shut the lights off.
Miranda lay in the tub, the hot water soothing her aching muscles and heart. The darkness was calming as she enjoyed the warmth.
The voice came again, wooing her. Out of the darkness, a black mist appeared and stood next to the tub. The voice kept spe
aking to her with loving, soothing words. It told her how beautiful she was and how it wanted her.
Miranda was excited. She was desperate for someone, anyone to love her, hold her, and treat her with the respect she deserved and craved.
The mysterious voice continued its seduction as the black mist settled on Miranda, caressing her naked flesh, and placing gentle kisses on her from head to toe simultaneously.
Her breasts heaved with lustful anticipation and she willingly spread her legs for whatever it was that was making her feel so good. She felt something enter her and she lost all control, writhing in passionate love making with an entity she could not see or identify.
Water sloshed as the pace increased, her breathing became ragged, echoing against the tiled walls of the bathroom. Finally, after what seemed to be hours it was over, Miranda lay in the now cold water exhausted. She freshened the water, warming it, and laid back to enjoy its comfort once again.
She awoke later. The water had gone cold again and goose bumps covered her body. Shivering, she quickly toweled off and slipped into the bedroom. The only saving grace to her marriage was that most nights, Jerry slept in the recliner. Intimacy by this point was a far-gone conclusion so he would watch TV late into the night.
~~~
Months passed.
The voice and black mist continued to visit Miranda nightly. The mist would take her repeatedly, whether in the bath or bedroom. Miranda’s health was quickly going downhill as she grew thin from not eating, and from the utter exhaustion that the entity’s nightly visits caused her.
Jerry was diagnosed with throat cancer and his voice box was removed. Miranda felt guilty as she prayed that he would die, but did find a bit of relief at the news that Jerry could no longer speak. He now sat quietly in his chair. Of course, he continued chain-smoking even though the doctors had begged him to stop. He was even more distant than usual, but at least he left her alone and that’s all she cared about.
Primrose and Brimstone Page 9
