The hour was late, and the air in the cramped confessional was stale. Clearing his throat, Father Carmino kissed his rosary beads and placed the coveted strand over his head.
The man on the opposite side of the curtain had an interesting dichotomy of accents. Definitely Scandinavian, but with Spanish undertones. Cuban. Yes, the Canarreos Archipelago. And there was just a pinch of Cajun flavoring. Northern Louisiana. Monroe maybe, though he’d also lived in New Hampshire, Connecticut, Tennessee, and possibly Georgia for a short time. “How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”
Beyond the curtain, the man sighed heavily. “I don’t know, Father. A long time.”
Father Carmino shifted his weight on the stool. It would have to be repaired soon. One leg was beginning to wobble. And the seat cushion needed a little extra padding. He’d worn it out over the years. “Not to worry, my son. Confess all of your sins and the Lord will absolve them.”
“Do you think he will, Father?” The voice was weary, sad almost. “Do you think he’s listening?”
Father Carmino closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. The man was a pipe smoker, a blend of toasted Cavendish, Golden Virginia and aged Burley. Maybe a hint of Perique—rich, dark, woodsy, and with oriental undercurrents; sweet cherry, vanilla, prune. Such sweet memories. “Yes,” he replied wistfully. “He is watching over us always.”
The man on the other side chuckled. “Is he? And what of the thirty thousand who starved to death today, Father? Was he watching over them?”
Father Carmino took hold of the pendant hanging from his rosary, a gold cross. It was cold to the touch. “It is not my place to judge his will.”
“Over thirty thousand, Father. Another thirty thousand will starve to death tomorrow, and every day that follows, slow, agonizing deaths, and most of them children…babies. Do you know how many succumb to disease every day…excruciating, painful deaths? Fifteen thousand! Fifteen thousand, all praying for salvation, all begging for his mercy, and still you believe he’s watching?”
Father Carmino tightened his grasp on the cross and cleared a throat that was suddenly dry. “Yes. He is our creator. The Lord gave, and he hath taken—”
“A thousand more will be murdered today while he watches!” he sneered. “So I suppose he will watch as I murder a man today.”
Father Carmino pushed the air from his lungs in an audible rush. “My son,” he spoke in a breathless whisper, “you must reconsider. To take a life is a mortal sin!”
“But he has committed a sin even more heinous, Father. He has wasted a life.”
Father Carmino ran his tongue over dry lips. His grip on the cross was desperate, his fingers numb. “Whose life has he wasted?”
There was movement beyond the curtain. “His own, Father. He has spent his entire miserable life worshiping a God that doesn’t exist. It’s pathetic!”
An undignified squeal escaped Father Carmino when the curtain was snatched open, and he nearly toppled from the unsteady stool.
The pipe smoker was tall, his long hair so dark it was almost blue, and his skin so pale it was nearly translucent. He appeared distinguished dressed as he was in a silky white shirt and a flowing black cape draped upon his shoulders.
“Behold a real God!” he proclaimed, his dark eyes flashing. “Kneel before a true king. Kneel and confess. Confess that you have wasted your pathetic life,” he sneered, “and then maybe, maybe, I will absolve you!”
Father Camino gasped as the rosary snapped in his tight grip, the beads scattering loudly along the wooden floor.
The tall, distinguished man frowned. “Not to worry, my son,” he mocked. “I’m going to make you a better necklace, one more…personal.”
He grinned then, and Father Carmino caught sight of his teeth, the cuspids that were much too long, tapering to fine deadly points. Fangs.
Realizing that he still clutched the cross in his sweaty palm, Father Camino thrust it toward the towering figure with a trembling hand.
The pale-faced man rolled his dark eyes. “Have you not heard a word I’ve spoken, you pathetic imbecile? There is no one here to protect you,” he said, sweeping the room with his arms, bringing to mind a large bat as the cape spread wide. “I am going to rip your entrails free, am going to wrap them about your neck and use them to strangle the wretched life from you, and no one, no one is going to stop me.”
Pulling his shoulders back, he ran dark eyes disdainfully down the Father’s length. “Will you implore to your God for mercy, Father? Yes!” he answered, the word hissing through his teeth. “Your last words on this Earth will be screams to a God who owns no ears. Your prayers will go unheard, just like the prayers of a hundred thousand others every single day. Just like my Carmen’s,” he snarled, his lips curling back in a seething scowl.
His chest expanded as he pulled in breath, he seeming to grow taller still, his eyes seeming to grow darker. “Kneel before me, peon,” he commanded in a resonant timbre. “I have ears, as you can well see. I am mightier than any God you could conjure. I have been since the beginning of time and I will continue to be when time ends. Plead to me! Plead to me for mercy!”
Father Carmino’s chin dropped to his chest, even as his arms did to his sides, sending the small cross to the floor with a tiny, tinny clink. His round face contorted into a wrinkled mass, and a sob burst forth, loud, uninhibited, one wrenched from someplace deep. He stood, and the seat which had supported him for countless years toppled, the loose leg coming free at last to clatter on hard wooden planks.
Still sobbing, he collapsed to his knees.
“That’s it,” the caped man spoke, his eyes growing wide and his grin wider. “You’re doing well, Father. Calm yourself. You can do this.”
The Father’s shoulders hitched in one final sob, before he composed himself enough to peer up to the face of the self-proclaimed God. He seemed to tower so terribly tall, his shoulders thrown back in proud defiance as dark, demented eyes glowed in earnest anticipation.
With one last shuddering sniffle, Father Carmino steepled his fingers beneath his nose, watching as the man held his breath till his face turned flush.
Turning away from the eager eyes, Father Camino cast his glance toward the heavens. “Dear God,” he breathed, “forgive this sinner.”
The man’s eyes popped wide. His lips pulled back in a garish grimace and a guttural growl rumbled forth as he lunged with hands fashioned into deadly claws.
And then the claws were flailing at air, the cape flapping as he tried to catch himself. The rosary beads—slick as marbles beneath his leather soles—took his feet out from under him, and he hit the floor with a startled grunt, hit so hard on the flat of his back that the Father felt the impact beneath his own soles.
Father Carmino needed no further sign. Moving as if he’d lost thirty pounds and thirty years, he sprang to his feet and snatched up the broken stool leg. A virile growl spewed forth as he drove it into the creature’s chest with the strength of a thousand men, through flesh and muscle and bone until it bottomed out on the floor beneath him. “HE IS WATCHING, YOU FUCKER!” he screamed. “HE HAS TO BE! HAS TO BE! WHO ELSE CAN SAVE ME!”
Stumbling backward, he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth as he watched the man writhe. He was hissing…as if a serpent vomited up from the depths of Hell. And his legs were thrashing, as if he meant to run from a death he never saw coming. Cramped fingers clutched the wooden stool leg as if he meant to wrench it free.
Despite the horrific scene, Father Carmino stepped closer. “He is listening!” he insisted staunchly. “There is still time. Ask for forgiveness! Repent! The Lord Almighty is merciful! Quickly! There is no penance in the bottomless pit that is Hell!”
The pathetic creature ceased its thrashing, though hands like talons still gripped the wooden stake. Glaring eyes slithered around the room, landing lastly upon the Father.
“Bite me!” he hissed, and then spoke no more. His head fell limp, though his hands held firm, would hold thus until Father Carmino so chose to pry them free.
Father Carmino struggled with the want to throw back his head and erupt into laughter at the man’s choice of words. But he dared not laugh in the wake of the evil which had just unfurled its foul wings in the house of the Lord. A soul had surrendered itself to darkness. There was no tragedy greater. A soul was a precious thing. So very precious.
He released a jagged sigh, feeling a deep sense of longing for something he had lost so long ago. So very, very long.
He studied the wretched creature. Laid out flat on the floor, he seemed thinner than at first he’d appeared. Frail almost. And the hands clutching the stool leg were horribly scarred. He’d been in a fire. And the cape fanned out about him was not as impressive as it should have been, merely a simple costume cape.
Moving closer, he knelt down to peer into the glazed eyes, then reached a finger into the man’s mouth to pry out the fake fangs. Shaking his head, he cast them aside. Nothing but cheap plastic.
His shirt was just as cheap. Not silk. Some synthetic acrylic blend. The tip of a picture was poking from the pocket. He slipped it halfway out to peek. A family photo. He hardly recognized the man without his cape. There was color in his face, a healthy tan. His hair was cut short and he was wearing a white Polo shirt and a handsome grin. The attractive woman beside him had dark hair and blue eyes. The young girl had dimples and daisies on her dress. The small boy had a big smile and was missing his front teeth. The dog was big and black and shaggy. He’d seen that dog before, had fed it several times out in the parking lot before it moved on.
His hand was trembling as he slid the photo back into the pocket.
He’d given him every chance to save himself. He always did. But some just couldn’t be saved. The good Lord had taught him that long ago. Every day He managed to teach him something new. Today’s lesson had been on irony. He truly did work in mysterious ways. And He always provided. Always.
His eyes were drawn to the soft curve of the man’s neck. The smell of fresh blood was overpowering. It was tantalizing his senses, caressing him like a tender lover, the warm sensual scent whispering sweetly of raptures forthcoming. His lids fluttered as he wet his lips.
Closing his eyes, he bowed his head. “Dear Lord,” he breathed, “thank you for this meal.”
Swooping in, he sank his fangs into the tender flesh.
Now that's a horror story that I like. I don't believe in vampires. But cannibalism does exist, as heinous as it is. The details are very good. You have a interesting knowledge of tobaccos. Although I don't believe that priests sit on stools in the confessional… probably benches. The twist in the end was the clincher. And, you left me wondering about Carmen. Probably the man's wife.
Grab those side-irons, saddle up and join former Civil War sharpshooter Luther Henry for a ride into pure terror, western-style…think ‘Wild Wild West’ meets ‘The X-Files’.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
