Written by Remy Charles | Copyright 2020 All Rights Reserved
Genre: Horror | Content warnings listed below
Legends serve a valuable purpose. To be certain, entertainment is powerful and important but more than that legends seek to inform and to proselytize for potential impending doom within our world. They are there to warn us, told through word of mouth for centuries and then finally realized in print when it became accessible. Tales of every sort are told without fail in each culture around the world, some overlap and some form religion, some are meant to keep children in line lest they be stolen in the night by a large and horned goat man; in short, legends exist to save and better our lives. And every single one of them has one quality in common, they all start in truth.
Discerning a lie within the truth is a skill, and one that I had not done much to develop. To confess a lie as well as a few other sins I had ventured into St. Christopher’s while on my way to the party. We were to celebrate the turning of the Century in a fabulous affair, and I intended to leave my transgressions in the 19th century,entering into the Twentieth free of burden and light as air. Father Stoker had taken ill over the holiday, and there was no man holier than he, therefore no man could cleanse me as he could. I entered the illustrious church briskly and far too overdressed, if such a thing is possible in the eyes of the All Mighty, Amen. My gown was crimson and made of velvet and silk, the corset applying appropriate shape to my full figure and the bustle flawlessly supporting the flowing train of ruffles and lace. I was an absolute vision and not shy about it in the least. The gown would have been insufferable in the unseasonable Georgia heat if not for exposing my shoulders and bust, allowing for ample breathing room. Though to be honest I did glisten just a bit and my dark black curls stuck slightly on my snow white shoulders causing me to be ever mindful of them. I lost all sense of myself upon entering the church to give my confession.
The building was magnificent, tall spired ceiling with ornately carved arches supporting the steepled roof, lining the stained glass windows that stretched almost from floor to ceiling portraying various images from the good book in vivid splashed color. There were enough pews to allow the entire town inside built with strong and able oak and stained a full dark amber. Having sat in them for countless services, I am here to tell you that the church spared no expense for comfort. The front of the room housed the grand organ played before and after each service, and often during the funerals given here. They say that when the chorus raises their voice above the organ, God is near. What a pretty legend? It was empty inside which meant that my time spent here should be minimal, into the booth, confess myself a sinner and be on my way to the party of the century. I opened the outrageously ornate walnut door to the confession chamber and seated myself comfortably just before the slat in the wall snapped open. Father Stoker’s deep voice passed through the wall like a roll of thunder and his Irish heritage announced itself as if it’s presence had been requested.
“Speak your confession my child.” he said firmly.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been ten days since my last confession.” One expects in this part of the world, during this part of the year to be down right cold. We’d had a sudden swell in heat over the last several days and today there was no break in sight. I should have been more alarmed by the icy chill that went down my spine as I spoke to my beloved father, and yet as I had so many other things I ignored the warning that my body had given me. Bringing my confession to a close, I stole a moment to wish Father Stoker well and express my relief and gratitude that he had returned to the church to hear my sins.
“Thank you for saying so, my dearest Cordelia” he said, with that smooth and plush cloud like voice, “Thank you, and know that while my illness was most grave” he pauses on that last word and I swear I can hear him smiling, “I would have been remiss to not return. Thank God.”
“Thank God Amen” I say reflexively.
“Nine Hail Mary’s and be sure to tithe this Sunday and all will be forgiven child. Bless you in the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit Amen.” The bell within the tower began to toll with terrible cacophony at the change of the hour. The ringing permeated my bones and caused my teeth to rattle, a most unpleasant sensation. While waiting for the soul churning sound to come to a merciful end, Father Stoker exited his side of the confessional. He joined my standing still to observe the explosion of reasonable sound. As it came to it’s merciful conclusion I smiled at him,
“That marks 8 o’clock, and I am late for this party!” I mustered some excitement but kept it in check. We were in a house of god, Amen. The edges of his lips curled into a slight and timid smile and he looked upon me benevolently. As he stared momentarily I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, another freezing chill climbing down my spine like a frantic wild animal attempting to escape a predator that it cannot see but is certain is hunting it.
“Remember tonight as you celebrate 2 Corinthians Chapter 7 Verse 6: Nevertheless God, that comforteth those that are cast down, comforted us by the coming of Titus. As a comfort, no matter what happens, forgiveness is but through these doors.” He sounded so wise, so measured and calm and I accepted his wisdom greedily. I am a new and changed woman, free of sin and ready to go into the twentieth century gaily!
“Thank you Father” I said, and patiently waited to be dismissed as propriety demands. After waiting for perhaps five minutes but it feeling as though four years had passed, I smiled and asked to be released.
“Oh of course of course, come here” he waved me toward him, delivering three swift kisses upon my cheeks and two short and appropriate hugs. His body was stiff and rigid, though I’m not sure what I expected of the aging man. He had been like an actual father to me within the church, and was old enough to be so though still handsome. Had he chosen a different life I’m certain he would have made a woman very happy and blessed her with equally square jawed, dark haired, well built sons with the same piercing blue eyes as their father. Those eyes stared directly into my soul as we stood there that night, his hands touching my shoulders, no gripping my shoulders and causing goose bumps to rise around them for how icy his touch was against my skin.
“One more thing” he said slowly and carefully, that silky buttery voice permeating every pore on my skin. It’s important for me to point out here that red flags had been going off since I walked through the front doors and into this breathtaking house of God. And why on earth should I have been paying attention to the fear signs anyway? I was headed to a party, and that always causes a touch of anxiety, and I am in a house of GOD Amen!
“Yes Father?” I ask looking up at him, my eyes pleading for him to free me from his iron frosted grip. My breath caught in my throat and in the absence of the bell I began to notice that everything was eerily silent for a moment, so quiet that I could hear my own heart throwing itself against my rib cage as if attempting to start a life of its own free of the confines of my body. A look washed over his face that reminded me of how my mother looked at me after I had skinned my knee as a child, pity.
“I’m afraid you won’t be making it to that party, after all” The words had barely left his lips before he was on me. White hot lightning pierced my neck and the flesh all around began to burn with an intensity I’ve never experienced. Waves of cold and hot crashed over my body, the pain beginning to subside as shock, or something far more sinister began to take it’s hold. I was paralyzed and no matter how hard I struggled, his grip would not relent. I began to choke and sob, and I beat my hands against his body to no avail, it was like a fly bouncing against a stone wall. I took in a deep breath and tried to scream, the only sound that escaped me was a gurgling that made me want to vomit. I could hear him slurping against my neck, and total revulsion filled my being as the foul and awful truth came to bear in my mind: he’s drinking my blood! The room began to swim in my vision and darkness crept in from all sides, assaulting me and promising to rescue me from this fresh hell. In the blink of an eye everything changed.
I could hear voices shouting as my consciousness faded, and after several moments I realized I was on the ground and there was shouting. Everything snapped back into focus and all of my senses were overloaded at once as adrenaline pumped angrily through my veins. I was alive, and bleeding freely but alive and Father Stoker was no longer on me. This was my chance to escape! I rolled to my side and pushed myself onto my feet, testing my balance. I saw the Father, my blood smeared all over his face and running down his neck as if he had spilled soup he was attempting to drink from the bowl all down his front. I became angry with him and at the same time utterly bewildered all at once. If he was what he so clearly seemed to be, how could he be in a house of God and attack me without recompense? There were a few men from the town shouting at him to get away from me, and they were standing shoulder to shoulder contemplating what to do next. Instinct took over, screaming at me that I couldn’t afford to wait and so I ran. Straight through the line of men and out into the night I ran as fast as my unbalanced feet would carry me. My heart was beating wildly and causing me to bleed more heavily from the wounds in my neck, but I hardly noticed. I was dead set on putting as much distance between myself and that creature what used to be my spiritual leader as my body would allow. The men who saved me will undoubtedly slow him down, maybe even stop him all together.
The party! It wasn’t far and if I reached it, there would be safety in numbers for certain! I started moving in that direction, my breath heavy and ragged and blood still running all over my gown and into the street. As I approached I saw people on the front lawn, milling about with their drinks and their friends, enjoying themselves while I near them half dead. For a brief moment I realized that I may ruin the night for them, what a terrible party guest am I Amen? I saw one of the party goers point in my direction, an expression of unbridled terror on their face.
After a beat, I realized it wasn’t me they were pointing at in fear it was what followed me. The demonic roars from outside my vision filled in the blanks of the story that the horrified guests had begun. I led not only Father Stoker but his entire clan of creatures to a buffet. Too many to count began to rush past me and attack with a ferocity unwitnessed by me ever before. I found myself wondering if this is what it was like in the war. His footsteps were slow and deliberate, and from my prone position on the cold hard ground I looked up to see his blood stained formerly white collar, a look of amusement on his lips still covered in my life.
“How…” was the only sound I could force beyond my ashen lips. He stopped and looked a little puzzled, and then answered with that horribly smooth and deep voice,
“How? Oh you mean how can this happen to a priest? My dear child, legends are based in truth but not all truth themselves. I was a priest, I am a vampire and you…” He let that last part hang in the air as if to offer me some hope that never existed. Surrounding me were the dying screams of the people I have known my entire life mixed with the awful squelching of blood spilling and the cracking of broken bones as some tried to fight back. Father Stoker was quick to finish what he had started and in the end he was in truth merciful, Amen.
