THE CHURCH OF BLOOD

Chapter One - Discovery and Confusion

Father Handersen materialized back to his physical being in the sanctuary at precisely midnight, facing the altar. He carefully chanted the latter halves of Pentacles 5 and 6, having closed his eyes while in his invisible state before returning to the physical plane. The yellow wax drawing he scribbled in the clipboard remained tucked under his arm, the skin of the toad he slaughtered to conduct the ritual stuffed in his pocket in the attempt to hide the evidence of the forbidden ceremony. Upon opening his eyes, he quickly scanned his surroundings to be sure he was alone, then hurried to the back of the pulpit area where his office was located. He stepped inside, closed the door, and sat down in his leather chair in a huff. Suddenly desiring a drink, he made his way across the plush carpet to the cabinet where he kept his liquor and poured himself a scotch, returning to the chair and taking a swallow. It quickly calmed his nerves.
The ritual worked. He was surprised yet relieved. The ritual worked. He achieved invisibility.
Father Handersen knew the risks. If he were to be found out, it would cost him his role in the priesthood and he would never be allowed to serve to any capacity in the Catholic diocese. He couldn't afford that but he also couldn't afford to lose the power he had invested in behind closed doors. He had been dabbling in occultic practices for a number of months and was amazed at the knowledge he obtained by his studies, such power and understanding that not even having served for a number of years in the priesthood satisfied such a hunger for the otherworldly. This capacity was far more dynamic, far more tangible, far more governable. It was an overwhelming yet domesticated efficacy, a virtue that fashioned itself through the individual, circulated in and around the mortal's vigor, concatenating the the beneficiary's lucidity. Father Handersen found this convention rewarding and benevolent, congenial, adaptable. Even now, relaxed in his chair in the confines of his chamber, he felt energized, his senses tingling, he felt antsy, eager, ambitious. His reward for invoking inconspicuousness was overwhelming his emotions. He desired to attempt the feat once more but fought against it. He needed to be cautious. Too much too soon was costly. He was merely a novice and not yet fully schooled in the occultic arts. He must traverse this newly-found endowment with discretion.
Reaching into his vestment pocket, he removed the toad skin and discarded it in the bottom of the wastebasket beside his desk. He opened the left bottom drawer and placed the clipboard inside, gently pushing it closed. He then leaned forward and propped his elbows up onto the desk, placing his face in his hands. A tremendous headache was coming on.

****

"How is he?" Father Clark sat beside the young adult asleep in the hospital bed and placed a hand on the teenager's forehead.
"He's very warm."
The boy's mother, Anita, sniffed. She had been crying nonstop and praying fervently to Saint Mary, maddeningly fingering her rosary. "I've been praying for him ever since they brought him in last night. I hope she's listening."
The elderly priest smiled at her. "She always listens to those burdened of heart," he assured her.
"Thank you, Father."
Father Clark positioned his chair closer to where she sat in the corner of the room. "Now, tell me, Anita," he said, leaning back. "What happened?"
Anita attempted to gather herself before answering. "Well, he had come from school," she managed, fidgeting with her handkerchief. "He helped set the table after finishing his math homework. We all had dinner. My husband and I didn't notice anything strange with Antony. He just went back up to his room. Usually, he joins us in the living room to watch television if he has nothing else going on for the evening. He stayed in his room for quite a while, which we thought was strange. His father knocked on the door and there was no answer, and we just assumed Antony had done to bed." A fresh waterfall of tears cascaded down her face. "Oh...we should've checked in on him right then and there."
"Now, Mrs. Jettison, don't blame yourself," Father Clark replied, patting her on the hand. "You feel comfortable telling more?"
Anita sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. She nodded. "Yes, Father." She cleared her throat. "Um, well-- Eldridge and I went to bed later ourselves. Eldridge knocked on Antony's door one more time and there was still no answer."
"What time do you and you're husband usually retire?" Father Clark inquired.
"Eleven o'clock."
"And Antony had been in his room since when that evening?"
"We usually have dinner around five o'clock. So, by the time Antony left the table, it was around five-twenty or five-thirty, I think."
"So, about six hours?"
Anita closed her eyes against a fresh onslaught of tears and nodded.
Father Clark leaned forward. "So the second time your husband checked on your son, you began to believe there was something seriously wrong?"
"Yes." Her lips quivered. "Eldridge opened the door..." She waved her hand and shook her head.
"Okay. Okay." Father Clark allowed the distraught woman to grieve. He studied the youth who was soundly asleep, concentrating on his face. The young man appeared peaceful, his chest laboring steadily and healthily.
"Father, my husband found this." Anita shakily reached into her purse and produced a folded piece of paper which she handed to him. He took and opened it, his brow furrowing. "Do you know what it is, Father?"
"I've never seen anything like this," he admitted.
Indeed, what was crudely drawn on the piece of notebook paper was strange. In the center of the sheet was a circle etched within a circle, with crude markings scribbled inside the border. Lines like that of the spokes in a bicycle wheel, four in number, crisscrossed each other in the center with cryptic figures attached to the end of each line. The writings were either of Hebrew or Aramaic script.
"It was lying beside him on the floor," Anita continued. "He was lying there shaking like he was having a convulsion...foaming at the mouth..." She sobbed again.
"What did the doctors say, dear?" Father Clark asked after a patient wait.
Anita collected herself. "They thought maybe it was a reaction to a very high fever. But he wasn't sick when he came home."
Father Clark nodded, studying the puzzling drawing. He definitely had to get to the bottom of this.

©2017 Robert Sticek