The Path of the Broken Brush

The Summons

Monsignor Jean-Paul Abreu stepped out of the private chapel annex after his morning prayers and into the dark courtyard. His eyes hadn't adjusted from the candlelight from within, meager though it was, and the soft glow of Rome's city lights far beyond the courtyard wall cast the architecture around him, which included large statues of angels standing on the walls, in dark black relief.

He yawned again and didn't bother to hide it as he might if the interns were rousing, but if they couldn't sleep last night either, it would be a while before they emerged from their rooms. Jean-Paul even considered going back to bed. Who could sleep through such a storm, he wondered. He turned back to the chapel door as he noticed it had stuck on the lintel. The moisture had swelled the door during the brutal storm and he was continually getting on to the interns to remember to shut it, so he opened the door again and putting his weight into it, pushed it hard until it latched into place.  A deep 'thud' echoed throughout the courtyard and he hoped that the noise wouldn't wake the interns in their dormitory, but it was another sound that he heard now that shot him wide awake. It was a much louder sound than the door, and it was a grating sound, like two flat stones grinding against one another. He couldn't see in the dark but then the sound stopped. 

Jean-Paul put his hand above his eyes to screen the ambient light from the city and jerked his head around looking for the unusual sound. It was something, but what? He removed his hand and then fell back against the chapel door and blinked to see if his eyes were playing tricks on him. They weren't. The statue of an angel holding a sword, which until a moment ago pointed outward from the courtyard wall on which it stood, had rotated on its base and was pointing into the courtyard and its outstretched sword pointed to the mausoleum that was in the courtyard and to Jean-Paul's right. He slowly turned to face in the direction of the mausoleum and the faintest blue light could be seen within the tomb. 

Later, John-Paul would look back on this moment with great regret. If he would have just walked back to his room everything would be different now. But no, he went toward the Mausoleum of the Shepherds and to that strange blue light. 

As he stepped through the darkness and through the wet grass, he stayed as close to the chapel as he could, for as long as could then took a deep breath before crossing the lawn to stand before the open mausoleum door. It shouldn't be open, he thought, the door is never open. So he paused to listen for any sound. Did he hear something? He thought he heard something, but now his mind was playing tricks on him. His mind must be playing tricks on him. He considered the cold calm and thought about this mausoleum. 

He had often looked at this tomb with fondness, at least in broad daylight. Like everyone else he supposed, one admired the Mausoleum of the Shepherds for a time, but then life was busy, and so eventually almost everyone came to ignore this peaceful and meditative place in their routine comings and goings. But when Jean-Paul did take a moment to admire this architectural gem of a building, to him it served as a peaceful reminder of the finality of life. 

That is not what he felt now. There was no peace now as he stepped up to the mausoleum and crossing himself as he entered the cold tomb. That's when he felt the presence. His hair on his neck and arms raised and buzz of a crippling and overbearing wrongness shot through his mind. He had not felt a presence like this for many years, not since his days as a parish priest and. He had those days were behind him. 

He crossed himself again rapidly and turned to run out of the tomb when he heard a muffled voice from somewhere below him cry out, "Aiutatemi! Aiutatemi!" 

"Help me! Help me!"