Sin Eater

2.

Martin made it to his house just as the last pseudo-light of day disappeared, leaving nothing but quieting clouds in its wake. His house was silent, all of the lights and electronics killed by the storm. He lit candles around his house, letting the warm his thoughts. The Sin Eater, always the ghost story of the mountains. Martin sat on the couch, sinking into the cushions. A picture of his mother catching and reflecting candlelight from the mantle. She had told him about the Sin Eater too, a story that she whispered to him before she slipped out of the house on midnight walks.

Martin sighed and stood, making his way to the mahogany trunk set in the corner of his closet. He opened the rusting latches and pulled out its treasures, setting them up on the vanity left behind by his mother. He lit incense and took a deep breath before dipping his fingers into a crystal bottle of red dye, made from crushed rowan berries, red wine and a sprinkle of goat's blood. He covered the lower half of his face with the dark red liquid, watching himself in the mirror. Martin draped himself in a tattered black cloak and covered his face with a veil, donning gloves before grabbing the red velvet bag at the bottom of the trunk. Wooden utensils thudded together as he tied the bag to his belt. He took on last look in the mirror, his mother had told him about the Sin Eaters, but her stories were different.

The night was heavy as Martin slipped out his back door, careful to make sure he wasn't seen leaving. He took to the streets, walking slowly. The dramatic effect was necessary for the people looking out. Their fear was his protection, that's what his mother had taught him. He thought of her as he made his way to the weathered house. His memories keeping him steady as he walked. He had been the Sin Eater for so long now that it always surprised him to find that he was still nervous.

He reached the house sooner than he expected. It was customary that they left the door unlocked and he swung it open, entering the house silently. An elderly woman was laid out on the dining table. She was surrounded by candles and flowers and sniffling family. The corpse looked peaceful, tight coils of white hair framing the wrinkled face. They had dressed her in a white, lace gown the fabric draping the frail body in an angelic manner. Martin observed as the family mourned, still unaware of his presence. The woman's spirit circled its body, a wispy echo of its physical self. Wringing her hands as she undoubtedly awaited his arrival. Families usually didn't call him unless it was requested by the recently departed.

The spirit saw him and immediately went to him, Martin held up his gloved hand and the spirit stopped. The woman looked down at her hands and waited. As if taking cues from their beloved dead, the family turned to him. A middle aged woman who Martin assumed the daughter screamed, a terrible shrill sound before sobbing again. He smirked, that was the best part of the job.

"You're the sin eater?" A man asked, he was tall and built, his dirty blonde hair disheveled. He was slouched with grief. Martin didn't speak, instead pulled his velvet bag from his belt. He walked to the corpse, its spirit following his footsteps. Martin reverently laid out a wooden plate, fork, spoon and cup on the dead woman's chest, balancing everything with ease. The woman who screamed hurried to the kitchen, bringing out fried pork chop, mashed potatoes, steamed green beans and wine. They filled his plate while he watched.

"This was mom's favorite meal," the daughter sniffled. Martin remained silent until the family settled around him in anticipation. He began to recite a poem his mother had taught him in a guttural whisper that protected his voice, as he spoke the spirit whispered over the meal. The wispy woman speaking quickly, words jumbled as they fell from her mouth. Martin and the spirit quieted in unison.

Martin picked his plate from the corpse and sat on the floor off in the corner, facing the displayed woman. He began to eat, slowly chewing as the spirit watched him. She stared with watery eyes, her face tight with anxiety. She was afraid, like all spirits where, that it wouldn't work. The Sin Eater was always and forever that last resort. The Sin Eater was the devourer of guilt's, the last chance for forgiveness before disappearing to the Great Beyond. The food was tasteless, the woman's words had pushed the flavor away, replacing it with her stories. Still, Martin ate the entire plate, careful not to leave a morsel of food or drop of bitter wine behind for fear of losing even one word.

He finished his meal and looked at the spirit, nodding gently. His mother had told him to always be gentle with the spirits, that they needed one last kindness before seeing their fate. To misstep was to invite hauntings, the Sin Eater was an easy target for an angry soul. The woman's face relaxed and pearl tears slid down her ethereal face. Martin watched as the spirit dissolved in a soft glow, her stories and guilt pitted in his stomach, flowing through him.

"Her sins are absolved," Martin assured in a husky whisper. He began to pack away his things and head for the door, leaving the family to their mourning.

"Wait!" The daughter ran up to him, her eyes averted from his face. She held up a small collection of old coins, "Mom said that if you came to give you these, a small payment. They are probably worth a ton now."

Martin took the coins and slipped them into a pocket of his cloak. He nodded his thanks and turned away, more than ready to be home.

The house was inviting when he returned, candles still burning softly in the windows. He undressed, washed his dishes and packed away the Sin Eater's tools. On his desk was a vile of the red ink that adorned his face and a large leather journal. Martin sighed. The Sin Eater's penance was not in the meal, but in the writing. The retelling of a hundred sins, petty and worse, that were relived as they were documents through the Sin Eater.

Martin dipped his quill into the red ink, allowing the woman's voice to fill his head before touching the quill to the page. He took a deep breath. The ink bound the stories to the page, sins locked in place through rowan and blood. It was the final step, assuring that the spirit's earthly mistakes could not find their way back to the departed, Instead, Martin had a library of tragedies. A thousand stories he kept secret, knowing the weight of judgement for each.

Martin, there are some sins that we cannot take. What those are, well that's up to us. If I sin is too great a burden then you spit it back to the person's grave and the Father and Man in Black fight for it. His mother's voice echoed through the spirits and Martin smiled. He doubted the old woman had anything worse than he's taken before, so began to write.

The morning light filtered through the window, shining the light of dawn upon the journal pages. Tears stained Martin's face as he closed the journal. Sometimes, he didn't take sins so much as the guilt. The woman was burdened with endless sorrows, not many of her own making. These were the cases Martin like the best, reliving the sorrows of a compassionate soul. It reminded him to enjoy what he had while he could. Better than the sins of angry souls, that could leave him drowning in whiskey for days. Martin crawled in bed just as the sun fully emerged, the Sin Eater closing the curtains to block the light.