No … no … please …
The handle turns with a groan that echoes through the basement.
Silence.
I slowly reach down to pull the door open. The instant before my fingers touch the handle, the door explodes outwards. I’m blown backwards and sent careening across the grimy floor. Shrapnel from the steel door flies past me.
My body slides to a stop. My ears are ringing as the dust settles around me. I can’t move. Every bone in my body is broken, but I somehow manage to pull myself to my feet. I cough and splutter, attempting to catch my breath.
There’s a wet, ragged whisper behind me.
“Jacob …”
I bolt upright in bed.
Sunday. Halloween morning.
I don’t remember coming upstairs to my room last night. Murphy’s here, too, taking up two-thirds of the bed.
I throw off the sheets, head to the bathroom, and take a shower. I reach for the shampoo bottle and miss, knocking it off the side of the tub. I quickly reach to catch it, and the pain in my side flares. I look down at the matching scars—two small, round patches that look like someone plastered and painted over to match my skin. Standing there under the stinging water, I lose track of time. I think about what happened, what’s happening, about Laura, and I feel so helpless that I’m hit with an impulse—it’s Sunday, and I’m going to go to church.
I can’t remember the last time I went to church. It was something my parents were never really big on. I asked my father about it one time. I must have been ten or eleven years old.
“Dad, is God real?”
“Some people think he is. Some people think he isn’t,” he replied without looking up from the computer at his desk in his office.
“Do you think God is real?”
Dad shrugged.
That was the extent of my theological studies. At ten or eleven, there were more pressing issues, like Little League Baseball or Nintendo, but this morning, I feel compelled to go.
I finish up in the shower, shave, and put on what I guess I would call my “Sunday Best”. Fastening the last button on my shirt, I stare in the mirror at my reflection. The clothes are sharp, but they can’t hide the fact that I look like a wreck. I’ve aged five years in a few days. I massage the heavy bags under my eyes in the hopes of getting the blood going, but if it has an effect, I can’t tell.
Murphy watches from the bathroom doorway, confused by this new procedure.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I’m not sure I get it either, Murphy.”
*
Standing in front of the open doors to the Old Stone Church, the only thought in my head is that this is a huge mistake. It’s a beautiful autumn morning, people are pouring in around me, and I’m hit with that same feeling I had at my parents’ funeral—I’m a fraud—but I start walking, as if I’m being pulled by a tractor beam through those doors.
Once inside, I can’t turn and leave without having to go against the flow of people, like a fish fighting upstream. I move off to the side and watch the people file in and find their seats in the pews. Their polite conversations echo in the rafters overhead.
It’s the standard church layout. There are two columns of pews, divided by the aisle leading to the altar, which is bathed in light from the stained-glass windows surrounding the apse. A large crucifix with Jesus on the cross hangs above the altar. The original church had been built in the 1600s, but it burnt down shortly after the witches’ trial. Only the tombstones and the Hanging Tree out front were spared. This new church had been completed in 1810, over the site of the original structure. While other parts of the church had been updated through the years with modern touches like drywall, the chapel hasn’t changed since 1810. It looks even older. Standing in the room, you might have thought you were in a medieval village church somewhere in the English countryside.
More people pour in, and the pews are starting to fill. I wonder if there will be a bigger congregation than normal because it’s Halloween. I accidentally lock eyes with a few people as they enter. They are Groundworks regulars who are mildly surprised at my presence. I say a quick hello to a handful of them, but move further away from the doors, keeping to the wall at the back of the chapel.
It doesn’t help. People still continue to recognize me. I’m sticking out like a sore thumb, especially since I’m standing up. I go and sit down in the furthest spot from the doors in the last pew.
There’s almost no angle of recline. I have to sit perfectly straight. I try to find some way to have a little slouch in my posture, but the pew in front of me is too close. It’s like I’m sitting in an airplane and not first class. I can’t believe God would want us to be this uncomfortable while singing his praises.
More people file in. There are handshakes and “good mornings”. Every now and then, a laugh rises above the conversation. I catch occasional snippets of people talking about tonight’s celebration. Thankfully, my pew is empty and no one comes to speak to me. I keep my head down and pretend to be looking at my phone to deter any contact.
This is ridiculous.
What was I hoping to get out of this? Why did I think this would help?
The congregation grows quiet.
I should go. I’m going. I’m going to get up and—
Too late.
Reverend Williams emerges from a side door in the apse and steps to the podium. He’s tall and thin, with a shock of white hair and glasses that give him a scholarly look. I know him enough to say “hello”, but not much else.
“Good morning,” he says.
There is a collective cheerful murmur of “good morning” in response.
“Happy Halloween,” he adds.
It gets a few warm laughs.
“We have just a few things to go over about tonight’s festivities before we begin. First of all, I hope to see you all there. You have put so much of your time and effort into tonight, and I think that’s really what makes The Hollows so special. Our social director, Mrs Ronson—” he nods to someone in the front pew “—will be running a face-painting booth on the green, and Mr Dempsey has graciously offered to manage the Dunk Tank. So, don’t miss a chance to throw a softball, and possibly dunk him in some water. I know I’m looking forward to that, and have been practicing all week.”
Mr Dempsey rises from his seat, turns, and waves to everyone.
“There are also some raffle tickets still available,” Reverend Williams continues. “We have some great prizes from our local businesses, and all proceeds go to the high school marching band, which will also perform tonight. Speaking of which, as a reminder, there is no parking on or around Main Street. If you’re attending, you’ll be directed to park at the high school and walk to the celebration.” He consults the papers on the podium in front of him and smiles. “Well, that’s it for the formalities, and now, on to business. Please take your hymnbooks and we’ll begin with …”
I mumble my way through the songs, feeling more foolish than ever. I’m being disrespectful to everyone here. I’m an imposter.
The hymns end, and everyone has a seat.
Reverend Williams takes to the podium, again, with a short stack of papers in his hands. He gathers his thoughts, and begins to speak.
“You know, the other day, it occurred to me what this day must have meant to the generations before us. As most of you know, November first was ‘All Hallow’s Day’ or ‘All Saints Day’, and the night before was ‘All Hallows Eve’, which became ‘Halloween’. That was a night when spirits, and ghouls, and goblins would roam the Earth. The popular perception today is that everyone was terrified on All Hallows Eve, but that’s simply not true. They viewed Halloween the same way we do. It was a night to cut loose a little bit. On Halloween, they weren’t really scared of werewolves or witches or vampires. They got to be them. For one night, they got to be the monsters. It was the one night when you weren’t scared, because by pretending to be the monster, you take away what is scary about them, which is the unknown. And let’s face it—it’s fun. Becoming our fears, pretending to be these monsters, and in a way, mocking them, takes away their power over us. It takes away our own fears. It helps us understand why we fear them, and that’s a good thing. Anyone who says that we shouldn’t celebrate Halloween because it’s a pagan holiday, well, they’ve just told you what they’re dressing up as—a stick in the mud.”
He’s good. I even chuckle at that one.
“But I thought we’d have some fun. We’re going to look at these classic Halloween monsters, because I think they have something to teach us. So today, I’m going to present to you my stab at a doctoral thesis. Mike?”
He motions off to the side, and a young man wheels in a digital projector on a cart. He then brings in a projector screen, and sets it up behind the podium.
“Mike is my grad assistant for the morning,” Reverend Williams says as Mike sets up.
Mike pulls down the screen and positions the projector. He also brings out a laptop, and sets it on the podium. Mike hits a button on the projector and the screen fills with the image of the home screen from the laptop. It’s a strange juxtaposition to see these modern items in a stone chapel that is stuck in the past.
“Thank you, Mike,” Reverend Williams says, and pats him on the back. Mike nods and walks off to the side in the apse. “Round of applause for Mike, everyone.” There is good-natured clapping, and Mike waves. “He helped me put all this together, so you can blame him.”
Standing behind the podium, Reverend Williams’ hands go to the laptop. On the screen, the pointer glides over to the PowerPoint icon and clicks. The home screen disappears and is replaced by a title card with a photoshopped image of the Reverend wearing a large graduation cap. The text under the image reads, “Reverend Alexander P Williams, PHD, Esq., LLC., TBD, ASAP presents …”
“Now, as many of you may have guessed, this is not an entirely serious dissertation, but it’s kinda fun, and I believe we can learn something from our favorite monsters.” He takes a thoughtful breath. “You have to ask yourselves—what are those classic Halloween monsters? Monsters like Dracula, witches, mummies, werewolves, Frankenstein’s monster? More importantly, what were they? The answer is people. They were, and sometimes still are, people. They are humans who have been corrupted. The truly scary part about these monsters is that we can become them. All of them are cursed people, people who have given in to the worst sins, and that got me thinking—what if these monsters are the personification of sin?”
He pauses for dramatic effect. Then, he comically mimes his head exploding, drawing laughter from the pews, and I’ll admit it, I am totally hooked. “And so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I give you my doctoral thesis.” He taps a few keys on the keyboard and the screen advances to the next slide.
Seven Deadly Sins & Seven Halloween Monsters: A Comparative Study
Underneath the title are photos of the various classic monsters—a vampire, a witch, a werewolf, Frankenstein’s monster, a mummy, a ghost, and a zombie.
“The Seven Deadly Sins are pride, sloth, lust, greed, wrath, envy, and gluttony. What I’m going to try to show you is that each of these monsters represents one of those sins, and again, I must reiterate, this thesis will be published absolutely nowhere, but if you would like to offer me a grant, I’m okay with that. So, let’s start with the one our own town has a little history with.” He taps the button and the slide show advances to a picture of a stereotypical witch with green skin, warty nose, and a pointy hat.
“Now, which sin do you think a witch represents?”
“Lust!” someone calls out.
Reverend Williams turns to the picture, studies it, and turns back to the person who said it, who I can’t see.
“Really, Bob? You look at that, and think ‘lust’?”
That one gets a laugh. From behind, I see someone shrug their shoulders.
“I know, I know,” Reverend Williams laughs. “There are more modern-day representations of witches that might make you think that, but I’m going with the old school. I drew a different connection. I think that a witch represents envy. A witch is someone who has made a pact with the devil because she wants something. She is so envious of something that she’s willing to sell her soul to Satan to obtain it. Then, what does she do? She feeds off other people’s envy. People bargain with the witch to get things they want because they are envious. They want to be beautiful, or they want riches. They only want these things because they are envious of those around them, and they will give up their soul to get them. And when we think of envy, what color do we think of?”
“Green,” the congregation murmurs, making the connection to the witch’s skin in the photo.
“So, you kind of see how this works. Next up, we have Dracula.” Reverend Williams taps a key, and the screen fills with the image of Dracula. Like the witch, it’s the classic version, with the cape, slicked hair, and pointed fangs. “Anyone want to take a guess?” He tilts his head towards the pews. “Bob?”
“Lust?” Bob answers, tentatively.
“Lust! There you go, and I know this one for a fact. Our modern image of Dracula is straight out of the Victorian views of morality. Here is a monster that corrupts with an intimate physical act. It is almost literally a kiss that goes too far. It’s a metaphor for …” He looks around like he’s unsure if he should say it, and then dramatically whispers, “intercourse.” Everyone chuckles at his feigned embarrassment. “Dracula is seductive. He’s mysterious. He is the perfect personification of temptation that will lead you to ruin.” He pauses and looks at the congregation. “Ain’t gonna lie, this one was the easiest argument to make. Some of these other ones might be a bit of a stretch.”
He taps the key, and the slide show advances to a picture of a werewolf. It has pointed ears, red burning eyes, a snarling snout, and a muscular chest barely contained in a tattered shirt. His sinewy arms end in black claws. His whole body is covered with gray hair. His head is thrown back in a howl.
“The werewolf,” Reverend Williams says. “Any guesses?”
“Wrath!” a woman chimes.
The Reverend puts one finger on his nose and points at her. “Bingo! Kelly Woodward, right out of the gate! Well done.”
There are grumblings of “of course” from the pews.
“Want to do the rest of the sermon?” Reverend Williams asks.
“Nope,” she replies.
Reverend Williams laughs and goes back to the slide. “Yes. The werewolf is wrath. The werewolf is special because out of all the monsters, it is the one most like a human, because it is a human. It only becomes a werewolf during the full moon. When it is the werewolf, it is blind with power. It’s savage. It preys on the weak. As a werewolf, it will destroy the ones it loves as a human. It brings destruction to itself and all those around it. He may not be aware of what he is doing, but the werewolf is wrath. It is in his nature.”
The Reverend’s analogy hits me like a ton of bricks. My eyes fall to the back of the pew in front of me. I squirm in my seat. I’m thinking about my costume for tonight. For weeks, it’s been sitting in a closet. The words tumble through my mind. It brings destruction to itself and all those around it. It is in his nature.
“Moving on,” the Reverend says.
I’m barely listening.
The distance to the front of the chapel has suddenly expanded into miles.
“Frankenstein,” Reverend Williams says. “This one is different because we’re not going to talk about the monster. We’re going to talk about his creator, Doctor Victor Frankenstein.”
It brings destruction to itself and all those around it.
I can’t get those words out of my head.
“Now, I mentioned Dr Frankenstein’s monster before, but I want to focus on Dr Frankenstein, himself. Dr Frankenstein created his monster by giving it life, and we know that there is only one being who bestows life, and that is the Lord. So, who can tell me what sin Dr Frankenstein personifies?”
“Pride?”
“Yes! Pride. Well done, Mr Hampton.”
It brings destruction to itself, and all those around it.
“Mary Shelley’s original title for Frankenstein was Modern Prometheus and Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it to humans. Dr Frankenstein is pride, and if he had been real, God wouldn’t have sent a lightning bolt to reanimate that dead body. God would have said—”
—We need to talk.
I leaned back in the chair on the back porch of my apartment, read the text message again, and shook my head. I hadn’t seen Laura since our argument on the quad, and that was over a month ago. Since then, I hadn’t tried to talk to her, either. I had way too much on my mind, and just assumed our relationship was over.
I was trying to figure out how exactly I was going to get out of the whole business with Reggie. He had agreed to my conditions and I stuck to fraternity house pickups and other public places where I could be relatively sure that no one would pull a gun on me, but I was done with the whole thing. I still owed a lot on my debt, but I didn’t care. Maybe after it was over, I would try to salvage the relationship with Laura, if we even had one. I assumed that she wanted to talk about it. I wasn’t going to answer it. I couldn’t answer it, that night. I was waiting on another message.
I got up and went back inside. As I was reaching to lock the back door, another message came through, this time on my “business phone”.
552 FYXPIV V 3 4B
This was the message I was waiting for.
I had gotten word to Reggie that I wanted to talk, and he had just given me the time and meeting place. I had decided that this was going to be the night I told Reggie I was out.
I went to the kitchen and got out a scratch pad from the junk drawer. I wrote the original message, and then scribbled underneath.
It was a simple shift code. When I first started working for Reggie, he had no problem texting me the addresses of places he wanted me to go, or the names of people he wanted me to do business with. I told him it might be wise to try hiding that information just a teeny bit, in case the cops ever wanted to match us to people and places. Reggie thought I was being overly cautious, but I told him that there was no such thing as overly cautious when it came to stuff like this. He laughed and finally agreed.
Shift codes are easy. You take each letter or number and shift it a certain number of places to decode it. The key is to make it a different number of places for each message. For instance, in the text I had just received, the last number was the “key”. The 4B meant I needed to move each character back four places. The 5s became 1s. The 2 was an 8, because you included 0 as a digit. F became B, Y became U, and so on. I decoded the message on the scratch pad. It read “118 Butler R.” I had the address—118 Butler Road. The 3 became a 9, which meant nine o’clock. Our meeting was set. I checked the directions online. It was a bit of a drive, and I would need to leave in the next ten minutes if I wanted to make it. My regular phone rang. It was Laura. I silenced it, set the phone on the kitchen table, and went about my preparations to leave.
Since the whole affair at Lyndon, I had started taking way more precautions in case the cops ever came to question me and I had to try to prove I was home, instead of somewhere I shouldn’t have been. It wasn’t foolproof, but it would provide enough doubt to whomever was asking. The first thing I did was leave my personal phone at my apartment. I had heard that the police could use cell phone towers to track the location of your phone by finding out which towers had been used to relay messages to your phone. Next, I turned on my television and cable box. I clicked through the pay-per-view options, and found a movie that had just been released that I had already seen. I selected the ‘rent’ option, and a window popped up on the screen. “Would you like to start this movie now?” I hit ‘yes’, and the opening credits began to play. I went to the fridge, took out six bottles from a twelve pack I hadn’t touched for just such an occasion, popped the tops, and poured them down the sink. All of this may sound like overkill, but as I explained to Reggie, there’s no such thing as overkill when you’re covering your ass.
I did a last look, headed out to the car, and drove off into the night.
I cranked up the stereo to heighten my adrenaline and resolve. “This is it,” I kept repeating in an attempt to psych myself up. I didn’t know what Reggie would say. What could he say? I just kept repeating “this is it” over and over.
I was feeling good until I noticed that I was closing in on the address, but I was still in the middle of the woods. I flicked on my high beams, which only revealed more trees and empty road. I worried that I had passed my destination in the dark, but I finally spotted a light up ahead, through the trees. I turned off the road and into a gravel parking lot. The light was a single lamp centered in the parking lot of a massive, rusted warehouse. The walls were littered with graffiti. There wasn’t a single window intact that I could see, but I could only see the bottom floor. The rest of the building reached up into the darkened sky. On the right side of the building was a large set of bay doors that had been wrenched open a couple of feet.
I got out and scanned the parking lot. Reggie’s Challenger was parked by the side of the building, nearly hidden in the shadows. There were three other lampposts around the parking lot, but the bulbs of two had been busted out, and the light on the third had been ripped off. It stood there like a decapitated body.
I walked over to Reggie’s car, hoping he would be waiting there, and I wouldn’t have to go inside, but it was empty. I made my way over to the bay doors, the gravel crunching under my feet, and stood at the opening.
“Reggie?” I called out.
My voice echoed from inside, but there was no response.
I cautiously stepped through the opening. In a moment of absurdity, I worried about the tetanus I might get if I scratched myself on the door. Once inside, I stopped to allow my eyes to adjust. The light from the parking lot filtered through the opening, and the broken windows overhead.
After a few seconds, the warehouse came into focus.
In front of me was a vast, open space, with piles of rotting wood pallets stacked up to eye level, littering the floor. There was other debris about the floor—newspapers, discarded food containers, garbage, and a few shopping carts—I had no idea how they came to be there. To the left was a darkened hallway. There was also half of a stairway leading to an office that overlooked the entire floor. The top half of the stairs had collapsed and twisted into a replica of a broken spine.
I took a few more steps inside. “Reggie?”
My echo ricocheted around the warehouse, but there was still no answer.
My blood ran cold. I had built up my own resolve so much that I had been blind to the danger I had so casually just walked into. I pivoted to leave, my heels grinding into the grit on the floor.
A silhouette was standing in the opening of the bay doors, blocking my exit.
“’Sup, Jake?”
“Goddammit, Reggie!” I gasped, pulling in gulps of air. “What the hell are you trying to do, give me a heart attack? Why didn’t you answer when I was calling for you?”
He ignored the question, and glanced over his shoulder towards the opening.
“I wish you would have parked your car next to mine,” he said in that lazy drawl that carried so much menace.
“You want me to move my car? I can move my car.”
“Nah. This won’t take long.” His hand emerged from his coat pocket. The faint light glinted off the barrel of the massive gun in his hand as he pointed it at me. He flicked the barrel towards the darkened hallway. “Start walking.”
“Reggie, what th—?”
“Walk.”
“Listen, Reggie, I don’t—”
He extended the gun in my direction. “Last time … walk.”
I put my hands up. “Okay. Okay.”
I started walking towards the hallway.
“You don’t gotta hold your hands up. I know you don’t carry, but right about now, don’t you wish you did?” He chuckled.
I stayed quiet.
As we navigated through the warehouse to the hallway, my mind raced. I could try to run, but where? Also, I had my back to him. I couldn’t tell when would be the best chance to make a break for it. I was so mentally paralyzed that I continued walking into the hall. My eyes had already grown accustomed to the low light, and I could see that there were three offices on each side. All of them were missing doors.
“To your right,” Reggie said as we approached the second door.
I turned, and entered.
It was a medium-sized office with a handful of decrepit desks. In one corner was a scattering of syringes and a spent condom.
“Stop,” he said, once I had reached the center of the room.
I obliged.
“Turn around, slowly.”
I did.
His figure filled the doorway. The gun was still trained on me.
“Have a seat,” he said, nodding to a decimated office chair.
“I’d rather stand.”
“I’m not asking you.”
“Look at that thing. It’s not going to hold me.”
Even in the darkness, I could see the anger flash in his eyes. He advanced closer.
“Sit the fuck down.”
“If you’re going to shoot me, what the fuck do you care?” I snapped.
It was a calculated risk. I had regained some of my wits, and survival mode was kicking in. If he was going to shoot me, he would have done it already. That meant that he wanted something from me, which meant I still had time. If I was going to try anything, I had to stay on my feet.
Reggie extended the gun towards my face. The end of the barrel was so close, I couldn’t focus on it. I thought about making a grab for it, but Reggie was tense. One move from me, all he had to do was flex his finger, and it would be over.
We had a brief standoff, and the anger in his eyes waned.
“Yeah, whatever. You’re right. Stand if you want.”
“Thanks.”
We both took a breath.
He grinned, and relaxed the gun back to his side, but kept it pointed at me.
“You hear about Lyndon?” he asked.
“Yeah. I saw it on the news.”
“That shit went sideways, man. When we left, I thought we had them all wiped out.”
“You did. The news said that everyone was dead.”
He shook his head. “Nah, man. Turns out one was still breathing. Cops got him. He died later at the hospital. It was your boy, Mattie.”
Right away, I knew what he was thinking, but I had to keep him talking.
“So, what? He’s dead. Problem solved.”
“Ain’t that simple, man. See, it went sideways because they were ready for us. Like someone told them we was coming. And now, I’m worried that before he died, your boy might have talked. He could tell the cops about you, and that could lead to me. You see my problem here?”
“Reggie, he didn’t know shit and now, he’s dead. He was probably in a coma when the cops found him. He couldn’t say a thing.”
“Maybe. Maybe … but put yourself in my position. I can’t really afford to take that chance, can I? I mean, you said it—no such thing as being too careful when you’re covering your ass.”
“What? You’re going to kill me, just to be sure? You’re only going to make it worse for yourself. Someone will come along and find my body out here, and that will definitely lead the cops back to you.”
“No one’s gonna find you. I’ve been stashing out here for years. No one knows about this place until I tell them to meet me here. And they never leave.”
‘Stashing’ was slang for the hiding of dead bodies. I was screwed and knew it, but he still needed something from me, and I was holding out for any chance to act.
“So, why haven’t you killed me?” I asked.
“I need to know—did you tell anyone about what happened in Lyndon? Tell me the truth, and I’ll make this painless. If I think you’re lying …” He shrugged.
“Of course, I did,” I said, seizing on the opportunity to buy more time.
He cocked his head, and steadied the gun.
“You don’t think I covered my own ass? I’ve got it all ready to go,” I said. “I set it up the day after I found out about Lyndon. I have a contact, and if I don’t check in every forty-eight hours, they go to the police. And guess what? Tomorrow morning is forty-eight hours.”
He stared at me with his mouth open. I caught a glimpse of the gold tooth in his upper incisor. For a second, I thought I had him. Then, he laughed.
“Nah, man. Nah. You smart, but you ain’t that smart.” He shook his head in admiration. “You seriously just come up with that shit on the spot?”
I tried to exude confidence, like I was daring him to call my bluff, but I couldn’t hold it. I was terrified and he could sense it.
“I’m impressed,” he said, but then extended the gun, aiming it right at my face, and cocked the hammer, “but too bad.”
“Jacob?” a woman’s voice called out from somewhere back in the warehouse.
Reggie blinked, and instinctively glanced back towards the door.
Now.
I was just as confused as Reggie, but for the past few minutes, I had been a coiled spring, waiting to burst.
In a flash of movement, I wound up, and threw my whole body into a punch that was leveled at Reggie’s jaw. My fist slammed into the side of his chin. I could feel a bone in my hand give way.
The force of the impact caused Reggie to spin and stagger sideways. My follow-through momentum carried me towards the door. I briefly tangled with Reggie’s legs, and tumbled into the hallway. I scrambled to my feet as the gun roared behind me. The drywall next to my head chipped in a small burst of dust as the bullet buried itself in the wall. I found my footing and broke left, back towards the warehouse.
“Get back here, muthafucker!” Reggie screamed.
I reached the end of the hall just as Reggie emerged from the office. I was about to go right, towards the bay doors, when Reggie fired. The bullet tore into the stack of pallets in my path. I changed direction and went to the left as Reggie’s boots began to thunder down the hall towards me.
I wove through the stacks of pallets, trying to circle back towards the bay doors, while using the stacks for cover.
I could hear Reggie giving chase.
I turned a corner, and was about to make a mad dash for the doors when I froze.
Laura.
She was there, staring at me with a breathless expression of shock and surprise.
There was a sound behind me.
I turned.
Reggie emerged from behind the stack of pallets I had just rounded. He raised the gun.
I began to dive to my left, in between a stack of pallets and a rusty garbage drum.
The gun kicked in Reggie’s hand. The muzzle flash illuminated his livid face. The sound ripped through the warehouse.
There was an incredible pain in my side, just above my hip. I slammed into the concrete floor, and rolled onto my back. I bumped into the debris that was sitting next to the garbage drum. Some pieces of brittle wood, short metal pipes, and rotting garbage fell around my head. My hands instantly flew to the pain in my side. I looked down and could see trickles of blood running through my fingers. I was so stunned, I didn’t make a sound.
The echo of the gunshot faded into silence.
Then, there was a soft choking sound.
“What the fuck?” Reggie whispered. I couldn’t see him because I was wedged between the pallets and the garbage can.
I could hear the shuffling of Reggie’s feet. A moment later, he slowly walked past the opening, seemingly forgetting about me.
The soft choking sounds continued.
I looked around and saw a short section of pipe lying on the ground next to my head. As quietly as I could, I pulled my hand away from my hip, and gripped the end of one of the pipes. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
“… shit …” Reggie whispered.
I heard him turn, and there was the sound of his approaching boots. I put my head back down, and held my breath.
I kept my eyes open a fraction of an inch, and watched as Reggie returned to the opening. He looked down at me, and stepped closer. The gun was still in his hand. He crouched, and reached with his other hand to explore my wound.
I opened my eyes.
The top of his head offered a perfect target.
With everything I had, I lifted the short pipe from the ground and swung.
It connected with Reggie’s skull with a sickening, hollow crack. Reggie never made a sound. He was dead before his body collapsed on top of me. I pushed him off, and grabbed the gun from his hand. I wasn’t going to take any chances.
I sat up, groaning at the sharp ache in my side. I lifted my shirt. There was a clean entrance and exit wound, just barely inside my hip, above my pelvis. Any further out, it would have simply torn away the flesh. Any further in, and I would have been in a lot of trouble. I was bleeding, but I was okay. That’s when the realization finally hit me.
Laura.
I crawled out of the opening.
She was lying on her side with her back to me. She was the source of the soft choking sounds, and I could see her body lightly rise and fall with each labored breath.
“Laura?”
I crawled to her, and gently turned her onto her back. Her eyes were open, but I couldn’t tell if she could see. Her hands clutched at her upper abdomen, and were covered in blood. Her breath was slow and shallow.
Panic seized me.
“Oh God … Oh God … Laura …? Laura, can you hear me?”
She made no sign that she could.
I dropped the gun to the floor and put my hands on the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. I frantically searched for anything I could use. The only thing available was some old filthy newspapers. Instead, I put my finger into the hole in my shirt left by the bullet and pulled. The bottom of my shirt came away in a crude strip. I was barely aware of the pain in my side as I wadded it up and tried to stuff it over the wound. Instantly, it began to soak up the blood seeping from her abdomen.
“Laura?!”
Her eyes were open but still unfocused. She made no sign that she could hear me.
The strip of shirt was already soaked in her blood. I wasn’t going to be able to save her. She needed medical attention, now.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my burner phone. I was about to dial 9-1-1, but saw the gun on the ground, which made me stop. I stared at the gun, then the phone, then Laura. I turned around. Reggie’s feet were sticking out of the opening behind me. Laura was bleeding out in front of me, and I had the gun that shot her. My prints were all over it. It had also probably been used at the shooting in Lyndon. What would the police think? They would only have my word, unless Laura lived. I unlocked the phone with my thumb, but stopped when the dial screen appeared. I’d have to tell them everything. I could be tied to the killings at Lyndon. I’d go to jail, and there was the possibility I’d never get out. I’d known Reggie was going to do something. I was pretty sure what it was going to be, and I didn’t go to the authorities after it happened … but, dammit, Laura was dying right in front of me!
I pressed my hands to my head and screamed. I paced back and forth, racked with indecision.
I had to think. I had to come up with something, goddammit. I quickly formulated options, but immediately found flaws in each one. Maybe I could call the police and leave before they got there, but even if I did, they would ask Laura who—
I realized that the choking sounds had stopped, and looked over.
Laura’s chest still rose ever so slightly, but it was almost imperceptible.
That was when I knew.
It was too late.
If I had called right away, she may have had a chance, but I’d panicked, and waited too long. She was beyond hope.
I went and knelt beside her.
“Laura?”
Her eyes were open but still. Her face was serene.
I sat on the floor in shock, unable to process that I had watched someone die, right in front of me. I didn’t know how she found me, but I was the reason she was there, and I had taken too long to save her. She may not have made it, but my indecision had cost her that chance.
I couldn’t move, but I couldn’t look away as Laura took her last breaths. I placed my hands on the side of her face. I didn’t know how to comfort her, if I could comfort her. Tears began streaming from my eyes. I was scared, and in pain.
I don’t know how long I sat there. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but I was snapped out of it by a lonely car passing the warehouse, outside. I got up, and looked out. The car was long gone, but Laura’s car was sitting next to mine. It was still running with the driver’s side door wide open.
Something snapped inside me and a reflex took over. It was some animal instinct of self-preservation, the instinct to save yourself at all costs. It seemed to speak in a cold voice from somewhere in my brain; a voice unfettered by morals, only interested in survival. Laura was dead and there was nothing I could do about it. If I was caught here, with two dead bodies, I was just as good as dead, too. I was going into shock and the instinct took over; the instinct that kept me from going to the police after the shooting at Lyndon and the instinct that crafted the plan of covering my tracks whenever I went to meet with Reggie.
I only vaguely remember going over to Reggie’s body and taking the car keys from his pocket. I ran out into the parking lot, to the side of the building, started his car, and drove it around to the back of the warehouse. I parked it there and ran back to the lot. I got in Laura’s car, and drove it around back, as well. I parked them side by side. I made one more trip to the lot and pulled my car into the shadows, hiding any evidence that someone was at the warehouse. I went to their cars and did my best to cover them in leaves and dead branches. I wasn’t going to be able to completely camouflage them, but I wanted them hidden from the casual observer. There was nothing but woods behind the warehouse and Reggie had assured me that no one ever came there, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
I went back inside the warehouse, and started what I knew would be a gruesome search.
I found a stairwell in the corner of the building that went down to the basement. Using the light from my burner phone as a flashlight, I descended the stairs. The darkness was nearly total, and the phone’s light only gave me about three feet of visibility. I reached the bottom of the stairwell, and stepped out into a corridor. The sides were lined with more storage rooms. I slowly moved down the hall. The walls were grimy, and there was the constant sound of dripping water from somewhere in the darkness. There were two other sets of hallways that branched off, but I continued on my path. I knew I was heading in the right direction from the stench that was steadily building in my nostrils.
The hallway finally ended in a heavy steel door with a padlock.
On a hunch, I pulled out Reggie’s keys, which were still in my pocket. I tried two or three keys before one slid home. I twisted it and the lock sprang open. I took a large inhalation of breath, held it, and pulled open the door. The smell was unbelievable. The attempt to hold my breath didn’t work. I turned to the side, leaned against the wall, and vomited. I waited for the wave of nausea to pass and for my senses to adjust to the smell, but after a few minutes, I couldn’t wait any longer. I pushed my sleeve over my hand, and held it to my mouth. I took a step through the door. Once inside, I held up the phone to illuminate the room, saw what was in it, and promptly vomited, again.
I had found where Reggie had been “stashing”.
*
An hour later, it was over.
I stepped out of the storage room and quickly closed the heavy steel door. I had lost count of the number of times I’d vomited. At that point, I was only dry heaving. I reached down, and quickly snapped the padlock closed. I had made sure to leave the keys in the room, behind the locked door. I stood there in the dimness. It was only then that the instinct left me and I felt myself come to my senses. I stared at the padlock on the door, comprehending the full horror of what I had done. I turned and walked as fast as I could through the darkness of the basement.
*
Once I got home, I took off my clothes, and stuffed them into a garbage bag. I bandaged my wounds in the bathroom with the supplies in the cabinet under the sink. It hurt like hell, and I had lost a good deal of blood, but the wounds were superficial. I would live. I went back into the living room and stopped when my eyes rested on the scratchpad where I had deciphered the message from Reggie. I had left it on the counter, but now it was on the kitchen table. Someone had moved it. Someone had been there.
Laura.
That’s how she knew where to find me. It was the only way she could have known, but how did she get in?
I knew the answer the instant the question floated through my mind.
I went to the sliding back door and pulled. It opened without resistance.
I had been distracted by Reggie’s coded text message, and forgot to lock it. Laura had been here, opened the back door, and saw the deciphered message.
I quickly grabbed my phone from the end table by the couch. I checked the screen.
Six new texts. Three missed calls. All from Laura.
I have to talk to you.
Please, it’s really, really important.
Please, answer your phone.
Whatever you are doing, stop it right now and call me!
Jacob, please! Call me. I need to talk to you.
Where are you?! Please! Call me!
Although she called three times, she hadn’t left any messages.
I deleted all the messages, dropped down to the couch with my head in my hands, and waited for the sun to come up.
*
For the next few days, I didn’t leave my apartment. I spent them cleaning my wounds, and torturing myself with all the things I should have done to save Laura. I tried to remain as immobile as possible to help myself heal, but it meant that all I could do was lie there with my guilty thoughts. I should have called for an ambulance, no matter what might happen to me, but I didn’t. Even as I lay there healing, I knew the right thing to do was to call the police, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I told myself that I would wait until my wounds healed completely so I could think straight, and then come up with a way to explain it without incriminating myself.
Part of me wished that someone would miraculously find their cars, which would lead to a search of the area, which I was sure would somehow lead to me, and bring it all to an end, but if Reggie said that no one went out there, then I felt sure they would never be found.
Instead, I had begun the process of compartmentalization. I had done something horrible, and subconsciously, I was walling it up in my mind. Victims of trauma do it, but so do people with a guilty conscience.
*
A week later, I was lying on the couch, watching the news, when a report came on.
“And our top story tonight, county police are asking for the public’s assistance in the search for a Wilton University student who has gone missing.” A picture of Laura appeared over the reporter’s shoulder. I sat up on the couch, wincing from the pain in my side. “Laura Aisling is a senior at Wilton University and was reported missing four days ago. Authorities are also searching for her car.” The reporter checked her notes, and gave a description of Laura’s car and license plate number. “Anyone with any information on her whereabouts is urged to call the number at the bottom of the screen …”
From that moment, the horror inside me turned into a ball of guilt that began to grow …
Over the course of the next week, I only left the couch to buy food, medicine, clean my wounds, and to go to the bathroom. The news stayed on the television twenty-four-seven. I made sure to catch every local broadcast, and flipped between the major cable news networks at regular intervals. It never reached the national networks, but local news stations would have updates from time to time, always pleading for anyone who knew anything to come forward.
Search parties were organized and canvassed the area around the university. I was the only one who knew that Laura was dozens of miles away in a place they would never search for her. Some of Laura’s friends who I had never met were part of the search parties, and gave brief sound clips to the news teams, talking about what a good person Laura was. Their interviews were interspersed with helicopter images of lines of people, combing the woods.
“Officials state that despite the time that has passed,” a local reporter was saying, “hopes are high that Laura Aisling will be found. Her mother, Gretchen Aisling, has issued this statement.”
The image cut to a woman standing in front of a forest. A row of cameramen pointed cameras at her while reporters shoved microphones in her face. She was short, but had a fierce expression that was highlighted by her wry hair, and sharp, beady eyes.
“I ask everyone to pray to our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, for Laura’s safe return. If you’re watching, Laura, know that God is protecting you, and I can’t wait for you to come back to me, my angel. Your room is waiting, and God will bring you home.”
The video cut back to the field reporter, who was wearing his “gravely concerned” face. “And we, too, hope for Laura Aisling’s safe return. Anyone who may have any information is urged to call the anonymous tip line that the police have established. The number is there at the bottom of your screen.”
They cut back to the studio.
“We all hope for her return,” the anchor with an unbelievable amount of foundation on his face said. “When we come back, Channel 7’s own Daniel Chance has a look at the weather. Stay with us. We’ll be right back.”
I turned off the television. I had a decision to make, right then and there.
They were going to find me. They were going to ask me questions. It was unavoidable. All they had to do was check her cell phone records, which I assumed they had already done. If I waited to say anything, they would want to know what took me so long. I could claim I hadn’t heard anything, but with each passing day, that excuse became less and less plausible.
I took out my phone, took a deep breath, and dialed. I was going to tell them. I was going to tell them everything, but as soon as I began dialing, the instinct was back …
*
“Mr Jacob Reese?” the man at the front door asked.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Detective Laurie with the Addison County Police Department,” he said, flashing a badge. “May I come in?”
“Yes, please.”
I opened the door and stepped aside to allow him to pass.
He stopped in the kitchen and looked around.
“Thanks for coming out to talk to me,” I said. “I would have come to the station, but I’m not feeling too hot.”
He smiled. “You don’t look so hot, but thanks for getting in touch with us.”
“I’ve been laid up for a week with a stomach bug, so I’ve been cut off from the world. I saw the news this afternoon, and I couldn’t believe it.”
“We’re talking to everyone, trying to find out what happened. You mind if I ask you some questions?”
“No. Please,” I said, motioning to the kitchen table. “I’d offer to get you something to eat or drink, but all I’ve got at the moment are Sprite, saltines, and some soup.”
“No, thanks. I’m good,” he said, settling into a chair.
I poured myself a glass of water and joined him at the table.
He took out a small, spiral notepad, removed the pen that was tucked into the binding, and flipped the notepad open.
“So, as you heard, Laura Aisling has gone missing. We just want to talk to anyone who can give us an idea of where she might be.”
“Sure.”
“First of all, how did you know Laura?”
“Well, like I told the person on the tip line, she was a friend. We met at a frat party a few months ago. We, um, we actually dated for a while.”
He stopped writing and raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yeah. I didn’t know how much detail to go into on the tip line. I figured it would be better to speak to someone in person.”
He considered it, and nodded.
“When did you last see her?”
“It’s been like a month and a half. We sort of drifted apart. We weren’t that serious, at least I didn’t think so, but about a week ago, she texted me a couple of times. She seemed upset.” I squirmed, playing up my unease. “I figured she wanted to talk about our relationship, but like I said, I thought we were done. I didn’t respond. In fact, the last time we saw each other was at her school. We had an argument.”
“An argument? About what?”
“It was nothing really—just stupid relationship stuff. We had been seeing less of each other. It was one of those, you know, ‘what-exactly-are-we?’ conversations.”
“And?”
“We called it off. That was the last time I saw her. Do you think it has anything to do with her disappearance?”
He didn’t look up from his notepad as he wrote. “Don’t know. We’re simply talking to everyone right now. You said that she sent you some text messages a week ago where she sounded upset?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you still have those messages?”
“No, I deleted them.”
“Why?”
“I thought she wanted to talk about us, and to me, we were through. I didn’t want to encourage her. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have deleted them.”
He waved his hand. “It’s okay. We can get them through the phone company.”
“She also called that night, but didn’t leave any messages,” I added.
“Do you know what she wanted to talk about?”
“No.”
That was an honest answer, but whatever it was, it was important enough for her to come find me at the warehouse.
“Why didn’t you respond?”
“Honestly, that night, I rented a movie, got really drunk, and passed out on my couch. I woke up at like, four in the morning, saw the texts, and deleted them.”
“She send you any more messages?”
“No.”
I could feel the weight of his stare as he peeked over his notebook at me. “And you have no idea what she wanted to talk about?”
I helplessly shrugged without overdoing it. “I hadn’t spoken to her in a month and a half.”
“When you two fought?” he asked, a little too pointedly.
“I don’t even know if you could call it a fight. I took it as a breakup, and it wasn’t all that dramatic—like we had both decided that we had had our fun, but it was over.”
He digested what I said.
“Is there anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts the night of these texts?” he asked, lightly waving the phone in his hand.
I shook my head. “No. Just got drunk alone and rented a movie.”
“What movie?”
I told him.
“Any good?”
“Honestly, I don’t remember much about it. I ended up passing out at some point.”
“Where did you rent it from?”
“On pay-per-view.”
He made a note on his pad. I assumed it was to check my cable records.
What am I doing? I thought. This wasn’t me, but I couldn’t stop myself. I worried what might happen if I told him what really happened. Would Reggie’s guys come after me? Would I be held responsible for Laura’s death? I sure as hell was responsible for Reggie’s death. It seemed the panic and guilt in my head was detached from the tone and actions of my mouth, which had no problem lying to this detective.
“Did you have your cell phone on you?” he asked.
“Yeah. Why?” I asked.
“No reason,” he replied.
I knew the reason. They could check cell tower records to see if I was telling the truth, assuming that my phone and I were in the same place. Laura and Reggie’s phones were off, making them untraceable. The instinct had seen to that.
He wrote one more note in his pad and glanced at me. “Is there anything else you can think of?”
“No. Not at the moment.”
He took out his wallet, extracted a card, and handed it to me.
“Well, if you think of anything, give me a call,” he said.
I took it. “Thanks, and if there’s anything else I can do, let me know.”
“Thanks. We’re still looking, but with every day that passes, the odds go down. We’re still trying to establish when exactly she went missing, but it looks like your texts may be the last time anyone heard from her.”
“I … I don’t know what to say. I mean, I’m sorry I didn’t answer those texts. I have no idea what she was worried about.”
He shrugged. “No way to know, now.” He closed his notepad, and leaned back in his chair. “You have any theories about where she could be?”
“Me?”
“Sure. You knew her.”
The question threw me a little. I wasn’t sure if my confusion was a good thing or a bad thing. “I’m still trying to process it. I mean, I only heard about this a few hours ago.”
“If you had to take a guess—anything you know of that would cause her to disappear or maybe run away?”
The second he said “run away”, the instinct clicked.
“The only thing I can think of, and it’s only because you asked, is her mother. She said that her mother was very controlling, and that they did not get along—and, please,” I quickly added, “I’m not saying I think her mother did something to her, but if you think she may have run away, she may have done it to get away from her. I don’t know. She might pop up somewhere far away from here.”
The slight change in his expression told me that the same exact thought had crossed his mind.
A wave of guilt made me sick to my stomach, but I continued.
“Have you met her?” I asked.
“Oh yeah,” was all he would say before standing from his chair. “Well, thank you for contacting us, Mr Reese, and for answering my questions.”
“Of course,” I said, following him to the door.
“If you think of something to add, give me a call.”
“I will,” I said, opening the door.
He stepped onto the porch and turned to me. “Also, let us know if you plan on going anywhere, okay? We may want to ask you some more questions.”
“Sure.”
“Again, thank you for your time.” He extended his hand. I grasped it. “Feel better. Load yourself up on those saltines and Sprite. It’s what my mom did for me when I was sick, and I swear, it would cure cancer.”
I managed a chuckle. “Thanks. I will.”
“Have a good night.”
“Good night, Detective.”
He walked away.
I closed the door. The instinct left and the ball of guilt grew heavier in my stomach. I barely made it to the bathroom before I began vomiting uncontrollably.
That night, I had my first nightmare about the door in the basement of the warehouse.
*
Weeks passed.
My wounds healed, but from time to time, I would feel a sharp pain if I turned too quickly, or sometimes, for no reason at all. I tried to convince myself that it was just a phantom pain, but it would not go away.
The search for Laura continued, but there were no new leads. I constantly watched the news for any updates. Over time, the coverage grew further and further apart. There was no new information to keep the public’s interest. Detective Laurie called a few more times, but only to ask me if I had anything new to add. I told him that I didn’t.
Ironically, the more and more it looked like they weren’t going to find Laura, the worse the guilt consumed me. The instinct wasn’t there to banish it. It was simply a constant crushing guilt.
I felt like a prisoner. I couldn’t move on while the investigation was still open out of fears it would raise a red flag to Detective Laurie, but it was torture. I was waiting for my door to be kicked in at any minute and to be dragged off to jail. The nightmares continued.
I tried to wall up my guilt—to distance myself. I began to treat the whole thing as if it had been some other person who had allowed Laura to die on that floor. In those moments where I did permit myself to recognize what I had done, and what I was doing by covering it up, the guilt was all-consuming. I would throw myself out of bed in the middle of the night with the intention of calling the police to confess. I would begin to dial Detective Laurie’s number but stop. I would sit there staring at the phone until I returned to bed, only to be haunted by nightmares of that door.
My savings dried up. I pleaded with my bank to give me some more time on the remainder of my student loan. They agreed but only after raising my interest rate over a longer period of time.
I had to get a job.
I didn’t have much in the way of a résumé, so I got one of the only jobs I could—a barista at a coffee shop. The work sucked, but I was one of the better employees. I was trying to keep myself squeaky clean and worked as many hours as I could. I became a manager, which was a meager upgrade in pay. I would bristle as I watched the place take in money, hand over fist, and dole out pennies to the employees.
I was miserable and saw nothing but misery in my future. There was nothing I could do until I was rid of this guilt.
Then, one night, after a full year had passed, I was watching the news. They had just wrapped up a story about the Middle East, when the camera went to one of the anchors, and the photo of Laura appeared over his shoulder.
“And a final update on the case of the missing Wilton University student, Laura Aisling.”
I sat up on the couch, wincing at the pain in my side.
“With no new developments for months, Addison County officials have decided to close the case. The tip line will be discontinued, but the police still urge anyone with information to call the sheriff’s office. We reached out to the Addison County Police Department for any further comment, but they declined. We did, however, contact Laura Aisling’s mother, and she had this to say …”
The image cut to the same woman I had seen before, standing in front of the woods. This time, she was standing on the front steps of a home. It was clear that Laura’s disappearance had taken a toll on her. Her wrinkles were deeper. Her hair had thinned, and her eyes had sunken in their sockets.
“I’m not going to give up,” she said, defiantly. “I know the Lord will bring my angel back to me, and I have everything ready for her return. We’ll be a family again.”
It cut back to the anchor.
“Again, if you have any information on the whereabouts of Laura Aisling, you can call the Addison County Sheriff’s Department at the number below. That’ll do it for us tonight here at Channel 7. Thank you for joining us. Stick around for an all-new episode of—”
I turned off the television.
I went to the kitchen and pulled a beer from the fridge. I sat at the table, staring at the chair Detective Laurie had occupied. I should have been relieved. I had made it, but I felt worse than ever. I knew it would never truly be over. It would always be there in the shadows. The nightmares would continue, as would the guilt and the fear … unless I decided to end it.
For the next few days, I walked around in a fog, trying to formulate a plan. I was going to confess. I tried to research what I would be looking at as far as jail went. It caused me to hesitate, but I steeled myself to the fact that it was the only way to move on with my life.
Then, I got a call from my father, telling me about my mother’s failing health. I was so stunned, that I sat there, speechless, with the phone to my ear.
Everything happened so fast with their passing, I put my plans on hold until after the funeral.
Then came the reading of the will.
I sat in their lawyer’s office, as he read the declaration that I was to receive everything.
“To our son, Jacob,” the lawyer read, “we know that things have not always gone smoothly between us, but we could not be prouder of the change you have made in your life. You have proven yourself responsible and know that we love you. We hereby leave the entirety of our estate and all financial holdings to you, Jacob …”
The lawyer’s voice trailed off.
They left me everything.
In an instant, the guilt and the instinct returned but seemed to speak with one voice. This was a chance, the only chance, I’d ever have to make something good of my life. If I confessed, Laura would still be gone, and what would it do to her mother to find her daughter’s decomposing body in a room full of dead addicts and dealers? Wouldn’t she be better with the fantasy that her daughter was somewhere happily living her life? And if I confessed, where would the life savings of my parents go? I could pay off my student loans and start a new life, a life that I could do some good with.
Before, I only thought the guilt would go away by serving my time, but now, I saw a way to pay my penance by taking this opportunity and making myself a better person. That was the only way something good could come of this. Yes, I had done something horrible and I would still live with it every day. Nothing would change that, but I could try to be the person I always should have been.
As I made my decision, I faintly heard the lawyer talking from behind his desk.
“Jacob? Are you okay?” he asked. “Jacob—
—Jacob?”
I look up to see Reverend Williams standing next to the pew, staring at me. I glance around. The church is empty.
“Oh my God,” I say. “I am so sorry. I promise you, I wasn’t asleep.”
He smiles. “No. I know. Your eyes were open, but you were really somewhere else.”
“Yeah … Also, I’m sorry for saying ‘Oh my God’ just then.”
He shrugs. “I’ve heard worse. Mind if I sit?”
“Uh, okay.”
I scoot over and he sits next to me. He fidgets with his knees in the cramped space.
“Ugh. I spend so much time up there, I forget what it’s like out here.” He gives up and slouches. “I guess this is a good reminder to keep the sermons short.”
“It was a good sermon.”
“Thanks. Where did I lose you?”
“Somewhere around werewolves.”
“Ah.”
“No, it really was good. It got me thinking. That’s all.”
“Well, mission accomplished, I guess.”
We stare at the figure of Jesus on the cross, hovering above the altar.
“Everything all right, Jacob?”
“Sure. Fine,” I answer without a hint of conviction.
“I saw that Groundworks is closed.”
“Burst pipe.”
“Mmmm … but that’s not what brought you here today, is it?”
“No. I just felt like it had been a while since I went to church. It was time.”
“A ‘while’?”
“Yeah.”
“Jacob, when was the last time you went to church?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I see …”
We sit silently, for a moment.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind, Jacob?”
“Nothing.”
He sighs. “Jacob, I’ve been at this long enough and I can tell you, there are three types of churchgoers—those who go every week, those who go on the holidays, and those who go when something is tearing them up inside. I’ve never seen you here at Christmas or Easter, so I’m guessing you’re in the last category.”
“I’m just trying to figure some stuff out.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You can try.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start. I—”
I almost start to talk. I want to tell him. I can feel it bubbling up inside me. I want to get it out. I understand confession. I understand the urge, but I tamp it down. I can still get through this. I’m not going to tell him, but a question suddenly seizes me.
“Reverend?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think God punishes us for our sins?”
“That bad, huh?”
“… I don’t know, yet.”
“As someone who has been doing this job for, oh, twenty-five years or so, do you want to know what I think?”
I nod.
“I think more often than not, God lets us punish ourselves for our sins.”
My head drops in contemplation.
“Jacob, you can tell me. No matter what it is, I can try to help you.”
“Thanks, Reverend, but I don’t think you and I are there, yet.”
“You know, in this place, it’s never just you and I,” he says with a tilt of his head to the crucifix over the altar.
“I don’t think God and I are there, yet, either,” I reply.