Damien surveyed the church around him, his back aching against the pew, while a monstrous cross loomed over him. Damien poured over his “mental checklist”, trying desperately to think of something he missed. Doors were locked, collection sorted, and all the lights were on a timer, just as they had been the last six times. Nothing seemed more deplorable than going home to a cold and empty home, just so he could stare at the TV (or the wall, if nothing good was on) until sleep took him. Damien sat silently for several minutes listening to the patter of rain striking the church. A loud banging emanated from the thick, wooden, double doors at the front of the church. Damien leapt in his seat, feeling a flash of anger at whomever disturbed his peace. He stood up, wincing at the needles in his legs, and waddled to the doors. He reached for the bolt, arthritis biting at his joints.
“Cold front moving through” he mumbled as he unlocked the door. Damien’s hand lingered on the handle. For a moment he just felt he shouldn’t open the door. He shook it off, feeling slightly foolish at making this poor stranger wait in the rain. He arduously opened the door, while his joints screamed at him to stop. He found himself face to face with the stranger that had disturbed him. He was tall, had dark brown hair, and wore an odd, blank look.
“Father Brooks?” he asked, with no sign of emotion.
“Yes” Damien answered a bit tentatively. The stranger reached into his coat and whipped out a letter. Damien stepped back and waved the stranger inside, taking the letter as the stranger passed. He reached up and probed his head for his glasses, and finding only a receding hairline he struggled to think of where he left them.
“Sir,” Damien hesitated feeling slightly foolish.
“On the lectern”
Damien looked at him, confused, and then looked toward the lectern. Finding it to be nothing but a blur in the distance he turned back to the stranger.
“Sir” Damien stopped, not quite sure what had just happened. The stranger was gone. Damien was alone with the patter of the rain. He looked back and forth, perplexed. He walked to the lectern, gaining speed as he walked. He began to clutch the letter tighter and tighter, assuring it would not disappear too. He reached the lectern just as his joints began to beg him to slow down. His glasses rested upon it, as if calling him a fool. He picked them up and smiled.
“You’d find this odd too.” Damien almost expected them to respond. He chuckled at this and slid them on. He ripped the envelope open, still smiling. It contained a single, blank piece of paper. Damien turned it over. Finding only more white, he dropped it on the lectern. He stood there silently for a moment, struggling to figure out what was going on. Damien looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
“This is you telling me to go home, right?” At hearing himself say this Damien burst into laughter. This laughter continued to escalate until he leaned against the lectern, gasping for breath, while tears streamed from his eyes. Damien finally got control over himself, just as a blade glided across his throat. The old man fell on his back. Damien made a weak, slurping noise, and his hands clenched at his throat. The stranger stood over him, looking at him with a dull, pitiless expression. He disposed of the priest with a flick of his blade.
The stranger reached up through Damien’s pant leg and liberated a small metal case from a pocket sewn next to his knee. He popped open the case, exposing several small syringes containing a viscous, black fluid. Two were empty. The stranger pocketed the case and moved on to Damien’s wallet. He looked at the driver’s license for a moment.
“Damien,” he mumbled, smiling ever so slightly. “I like that.” He had gone quite a while without a name. It unnerved him, almost frightened him, to lack identity. He slid his hand across the priest’s throat and brought his finger to his lips. The taste of copper washed over the strangers senses. It set him on edge; his hands began to shake. He strode to the doors, quivering in anticipation. Upon opening the door, a torrent of rain greeted him. His car was parked haphazardly in front of the church. A mid-seventies sedan, it had more rust than paint. He opened the trunk that was never really closed and withdrew a gas can and a blowtorch. He strode back through the church and to the priest. Smiling, he lit the blowtorch.
“Get used to this.”
???
Damien observed the lurid glow in his mirror, a manic grin on his face. The church burned behind him, the nameless priest resting within.