Mystery/Suspense

346

tells the unnerving story of a supernatural occurrence—an ancient crucifix begins to shed tears.
Due to media hype, the church becomes exceptionally wealthy, but intrigue and murder follow.
The reader is left to discover whether the incident is divine, human, or diabolical in nature.

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06 A Voice from Behind September 15, 2002—Sunday 10:00 P.M. By the following week, the mystery of the tears during Benediction was one of the news media’s favorite topics. Broadcasters on both radio and TV interviewed actual witnesses, ministers, and experts in the paranormal and supernatural, and of course, astrologers. Father Logue’s Sunday Mass sermon included remarks about jumping to conclusions prematurely because he personally felt there was some explanation, yet even he referred to the strange happening as something unnatural since he had no hard evidence to prove otherwise. After the Benediction ceremony that evening, Professor Newell took a quick look at the suspended crucifix. He and Father Logue brought an old wooden ladder they had retrieved from the sacristy stairway that to the basement, carried it into the church and placed it almost directly under the cross. Mr. Morier watched from the rear of the church where he stood rearranging religious pamphlets that were out of order on the display rack. The ladder was twelve-feet high with one step every twelve inches, but Professor Newell could only stand on the eleventh step because he had to lean his shins against the top step in order to maintain his balance. “This crucifix certainly is dusty,” said Newell. “Well, no one ever gets up there to dust it or clean it. But from down here no one really notices.” Morier came up the aisle and asked, “Do you want me to climb up there and clean it now?” “No, I don’t want anyone to touch it until it has been properly examined.” “Father,” said Newell, “I don’t see anything unusual, anything at all except there is some residue under the eyes where the water has dried up. There are no signs to indicate that this cross has been touched for years. There are some cobwebs,” he started to reach out, “that I’ll just wipe—” “No, don’t touch them. Leave everything just the way it is,” said Logue, looking over his bifocals. “That’s what the bishop ordered. He doesn’t want it messed with without his permission.” “Then I’ll borrow some sophisticated scanning equipment from the university and bring it over tomorrow evening. We can examine it without touching it at all.” “Good,” said Logue, “I need a logical explanation, and the sooner, the better.” It took a few minutes for the two men to return the ladder to its storage space along the stairway. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll have a look around six or seven o’clock.” Newell left the church via the side door facing the parking lot. Lately, there were always parked cars in the lot, obviously belonging to the faithful, the media, or just curiosity seekers visiting the church. He climbed into his driver’s seat, buckled his seat belt, and started the engine. After backing out from his space, and then turning toward the street, he stopped to look for oncoming vehicles. Suddenly, from behind his seat, a large hand reached around and covered his nose and mouth, forcing his head firmly back against the seat’s headrest. An unearthly, high-pitched voice distinctively warned, “Don’t—make—a—single—sound. Don’t even attempt to struggle. And whatever you do, don’t try to look back here. Do you understand me?” Newell was absolutely shocked. He couldn’t move his head or mouth to answer. The Voice quipped, “I take your silence to mean you heard me. Toot your horn if you understand.” Instantly, Newell hit the horn. “Good, now I want you to drive over toward the cemetery at Saint Luke’s Monastery. My hand will be on your shoulder. Start driving and don’t dare call out.” Professor Newell was engulfed in a frenzy of shock. He had no idea whether The Voice was armed with a knife or a gun or some other tortuous killing device. To him, it had sounded unearthly, fiendish, hell-like. Since he had always been a superstitious sort and was indeed scared shitless, he drove as he was told, imagining the devil himself was riding in the rear seat. Just before making a right turn onto the road that looped around the monastery buildings, The Voice once more shrieked, “Pull over onto the berm of the road right here.” The diabolical creature was breathing directly on the professor’s neck. Newell pulled over and parked on the grass. The gloved hand again covered his mouth yanking him back in his seat very sharply, even harder than the first time. The air from his breath heated the back of Newell’s neck. “You need to stop messing in my affairs. What goes on at Saint Martin’s is a battle between God and me. Stop—messing—NOW! Honk if you understand.” Immediately Newell honked. “Now, get out—walk straight up into the monastery area, but whatever you do, whatever you do, whatever happens, don’t—turn—around.” Newell reacted like a man in a hypnotic trance. He immediately climbed out, passed in front of the auto and started up the short rise into the monastery property. Then he heard his car door slam shut, followed a few seconds later by what sounded like a muffled gunshot. Instinctively, he dove to the ground and waited, but only for a few seconds. Feeling no pain, he stood up and continued walking without even so much as a slight glimpse behind him. As he continued ahead, a bright red-orange glow could be seen reflected in the glass of nearby building windows. Still he walked, fifty yards, sixty yards, seventy yards, until he was a few feet past a wide oak tree. He dashed behind it, then peeked cautiously back toward his automobile. Lightheaded because he was breathing so shallow, he could hear in the distance the shrill, haunting wail of a siren pierce the night. His automobile was a hellish inferno.