And falling to the ground he now stood on, was the reminder of that cinder he had felt before in his dreams. The thumping by his foot, equaled only to the beating of his own heart, moving closer into coalescence. The thistle and shrubbery around him swaying as if mother earth herself bowed to it at passing.
The Reverent Father stood still, as fear so strong that it seemed to have taken control over his body. A numbness that coursed in his blood, now through his limbs. It was this very same feeling that had caught him by surprise that night at the manor. He fully understood now what it meant then.
And, it spoke—with a voice so familiar, almost as if it had once learned to mimic the cadence of both man and woman. "Do not be afraid, Father, for when I give food to the poor, they call me a saint," it whispered in his ear, drowning out the wind.
Feeling the warmth on his cheek overtake him, as subtle as a fever takes a man into the night. He felt himself slowly numbing away from reality. The wind had seized its constant howling and all he could do now is listen to the silence. "But when I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist."
His mind raced desperately trying to piece together the actions that had brought him here. Had he made a mistake coming to Rosenberg? Or had it been a cruel trick he had simply fallen into.
The entity he could not bring himself to look on, was now in full view under the limelight of the moon.
To this, he collapsed as the the ringing sunk his heart to the point of taking his breath away.
YOU ARE READING
Where There Is Nothing
ParanormalIn the middle of the night a stranger calls upon an orphanage for the expertise of Father Arthur Dolling, as he soon discovers that the lines between reality have begun to blur, and the only way to uncover the truth is to delve deeper into the dark...
