As God Intended

Dinner and Demonology

For a while he looked around the basement, as if trying to find anything else that might help him in his current situation. When he came up empty the man finally nodded, sighing deeply and shoving his hands into the pockets of his black jacket. That priest's collar still sat tightly against his throat, keeping his head up and confident in order to keep the sharp edge from poking too much.
"Yes, I suppose I will take them." he agreed. "It would be a shame to see them go to waste."
"Well they're upstairs. And there's what, five of them? It'll take all of us." John admitted. Together the three headed back up the steps, with Father Holmes coming in last so that he could turn off the lights and securely fasten the door. John made a mental note to explore the basement more thoroughly, though for now he was more focused on getting the more pressing religious memorabilia out of his new house. It was awkward enough when Jesus was staring down, it would be a relief then to get all five of his followers out and their attention focused some place else. The small party passed into the main church, to which the priest gave some disapproving glances to the mix of modern furniture and church pews sat in the middle of the floor.
"Have you got chairs around my altar?" Father Holmes exclaimed, rushing a bit faster than would have been expected from a man of his age. He looked about ready to tear the chairs away before he finally minded his manners, easing his grip from one of the metal arms and calming himself out of his initial rage.
"What else were we supposed to do with it? Really it makes an excellent table." John admitted.
"It's a place for worship!" the priest defended in a failing voice, as if he was perfectly astounded with the boldness of the church's new owners.
"Think about it as us worshipping our food." Mary suggested hopefully. The man sneered in return, not seeming to find her attempt at jokes very humorous.
"You people are barbarians." The man determined at last. John chuckled, though this time he couldn't offer any words of protest. In the end it did seem as if they were going a bit too far, though it was exactly that mindset which would hold them back. If they became tied up in the sentimentality of this building they would be cursed and immobilized for their entire stay! Certainly they couldn't allow this man to peer pressure them into minding the authenticity of the building, for he would have them reverting it back into a church before they could stop to remember their original intentions!
"The Saints are back in the kitchen, I think." Mary mumbled, leading them all to where the heads of the Saints were sitting expectantly on a folding table. Father Holmes grabbed up Peter, cradling the head within his arms as if trying to give the man his deserved respect. The old priest looked crestfallen, as if he was being reunited with old friends only after they had died.
"Father do you think you could manage two?" John wondered, lifting up another one of the unrecognizable Saints and offering it to the old man. They weren't terribly heavy, though he wasn't sure how much the priest was able to handle at one time. Nevertheless Father Holmes took up the second, holding them both within his arms as one might with two precious children. John took two as well, and that then left Mary with a free hand to open any necessary doors. Carefully they trekked back through the church, with the priest craning his neck to take in all of the architecture and details that he so missed. Perhaps he thought this would be his last time within the building, as if he would never be invited inside again. John, who was following him, was able to watch to watch the man throughout most of his observations. He was able to catch glimpses of the priest's expressions, sometimes mournful, sometimes pleased, as if he was walking through an array of memories that had not yet processed. His eyes would sparkle and then sink, his lips would curl and then sneer, and before long he sunk his head into his chest and stared down at the floor for the duration of the walk, as if all of this reminiscing was not good for his poor old heart. The evening had settled in with a thick darkness; with clouds settling in front of the moon and keeping the parking lot almost completely pitch black. John was able to follow the form of Father Holmes, who seemed to know this route like the back of his hand, and even without proper visual aid (considering John's eyesight was still young, and sharper than most) the priest was still able to make it back to his front door unscathed. Mary did her job to open the door for the two, who had a saint under each arm, and together the three of them made their way for the first time into Father Holmes's living quarters. Not much could be seen until the man turned on one of the lamps on an end table, illuminating the room in a soft orange light and allowing the Watsons to examine a bit more deeply into the strange priest's life. It was a small home, probably single story despite there being two floors to the entire building. There was a long, very mazelike atmosphere to the place, with narrow hallways connecting the rooms and windows hidden behind thick curtains. Undoubtedly the priest valued his privacy, or perhaps merely liked the closed in feeling that the house provided. He had some old and worn furniture, couches with cushions that had been sunken in, coffee tables sporting multiple rings and scratches, pictures which were covered in years of accumulated dust. It didn't appear as if the priest took much interest in cleaning, for the welcome mat they all perched on was caked with old mud, as if decades of footprints had never been wiped off.
"You can set them down on the couch, I'll get to them eventually." The priest instructed, waving his hand towards the floral print sofa as he moved through one of the narrow hallways. The whole house smelled strangely greasy, though this was explained when the sound of an oven door was preceded with a slur of God approved profanities.
"Oh darn it." came the priest's voice. "I got so distracted I forgot about my pork roast."
"Pork roast?" John muttered, giving his wife a little smile so as to express his humor without directly offending the poor priest. It was sort of funny to imagine this man cooking for himself, as he didn't seem quite put together enough to manage it. This meal was proof of the theory, considering a steady stream of black smoke was billowing from the hallway that must be leading to the kitchen.
"What used to be one, yes." Father Holmes complained. Mary and John crept towards the kitchen, not sure if they were invited to this roast's funeral but assuming it would be something to laugh about later. As expected, they were met with Father Holmes wearing two mismatched oven mitts, dragging a blackened lump in a casserole pan out of the oven and setting it quickly down upon the stove. The priest looked very disappointed in himself, and as he closed the oven he settled one of his oven mitts upon the back of his head, riddled with regret about his lost dinner.
"Looks like Mary's cooking." John suggested, to which Mary slapped him painfully upon the arm in protest. The priest scoffed, turning back towards his guests with a little frown.
"Usually I'm not too bad." He admitted with a sigh. "All this running around gets my mind so tired, it would seem." From his coat pocket he produced the book he had been searching for, throwing it down upon the kitchen counter as he moved back towards his pork roast. Perhaps he was still trying to salvage it, for now he had taken up a knife and began to saw away at the charred exterior, hoping perhaps to find something edible underneath. This gave John some time to move in and examine the black book, the small little volume that must be of some dire importance. Its retrieval had required the priest to at least be decent with his new neighbors, a feat that may not have been achieved had he not needed a favor.
"Demonology?" John clarified, reading the words which were stamped upon the leather cover with some curiosity.
"Hm?" the priest muttered, recovering from his trance with the pork roast, having already stuck at least two knives through the thick charred hide without any luck. "Oh, yes. Little...side hobby."
"I thought you said it was of extreme importance?" Mary pointed out in defense.
"Are hobbies not important?" Father Holmes defended, poking once more at the pork before leaving his utensils stuck inside. Obviously he deemed it useless to try to fight against the thing, it was lost.
"I suppose they are, but this is a strange one. You're not conjuring anything, are you?" John chuckled.
"Nothing of the sort. I'm just looking into the culture of demons, and how to get rid of them." the priest explained a bit apprehensively, folding his arms across his chest and leaning up against the kitchen counter. His eyes were squinted and nervous, as if he was afraid of the Watsons doing anymore digging into the subject. Perhaps there was something more to this hobby, something that was leaking into his real life.
"So you believe demons are real?" Mary presumed.
"Oh yes, though rare. Just as angels are real, so too are their counterparts." Father Holmes assured. John nodded, though he didn't believe the word of this priest. After all, he spent his life dressing up in long robes and worshiping the clouds.
"Have you ever seen one?" John asked, picking up the book to examine it more closely. Flipping through the pages he saw some illustrations, mostly of humans contorted into strange and unnatural poses, along with some symbols and other strange lines. Most of it was text, printed in that standard font of old, boring and blurred together upon the browning pages.
"I'm not sure." The priest admitted.
"Oh no." Mary muttered. "Certainly not around here?"
"Nothing to be afraid of, Mrs. Watson." The priest assured, though he was quite vague in his comforts. Where they safe based off of distance or time? For a moment the room was stifled with that comment, with the thoughts of demons on everyone's minds. John took them as more of a joke, figuring that they fell in line with some of the other strange cryptids of the age, such as moth man perhaps. Ghosts were a much more believable presence, though John had his doubts even about them. If he had never seen something with his own eyes it was hard for him to validate their presence, despite what any ordained priest had to say about it.
"Father, if your dinner is ruined you're welcome to join us. We're going to be ordering Korean barbeque." Mary offered with a smile.
"I thought it was pizza." John defended, remembering this little argument from where they left off.
"I really shouldn't impose either way. I've got...well I think I've got some cans of green beans around. And perhaps bread." The priest assured, taking a quick glance towards his cabinets. From what John could see there was a nearly empty bag of white bread sitting upon the counter, scattered about with some blackened bananas and a single orange. Oh as much as he hated the man, John had to admit that his upcoming dinner would be depressing without the necessary interference. How could the Watsons leave the poor priest to eat the crusts of white bread for dinner, while they feasted on their take out?
"No, sorry. That's not a question, you're joining." John decided at last, settling his hands on his hips to make sure that the priest knew this was a final decision. Father Holmes's cheeks grew rather red, and for a moment he stammered for a word.
"Are you being agressivley nice to me?" the priest clarified at last. John sighed, looking towards his wife as if to reiterate the question through her.
"Perhaps. But it's much easier than just being nice." John agreed finally. Father Holmes looked confused, though he didn't open his mouth to protest. In fact he seemed appreciative about John's determination, thankful that another opportunity for a reasonable dinner had been made available to him.
"Well then, I'll offer my home to you in the meantime. I couldn't manage eating barbeque upon my altar anyway." The priest decided finally, taking up the pork roast in its pan and thrusting it into the trashcan with all of his force. Surprisingly the hunk of meat slithered into the open can, hitting the floor with a hard and very solid thunk, making it ever more obvious that the thing was not meant for human consumption. It took quite some time to get the menu, for the priest insisted that he had the take out menus for each of the restaurants stored away within his filing cabinets. Inside of a small office he retrieved a gigantic folder, shoved full of papers and flyers that must have been dating back the full thirty years he had lived here. John was pretty sure he found clippings from Blockbuster coupon books within the mix, as if the priest had at one time entertained himself with rentable DVDs in the silence of his depressing home. Even though the menu was online, the priest didn't have a very strong internet connection from his home and their smartphones were not producing a signal to load the whole thing. It was a frustrating process, relying on this paper collage to get them the proper menu, though at long last (after about ten minutes of the old man searching through his scrapbook) they finally were able to call the restaurant for delivery on the landline. This left the trio sitting rather awkwardly upon the couch, having arranged the Saint's heads upon the coffee table in a very thoughtless organization. The wooden eyes of each man were staring back at the three, with a strangely human expression even without defined pupils or painted irises. John felt as if each one of the Saints was judging him, and because of this he tried to avoid any more eye contact with the wooden sculptures. This only further validated his removal of the creepy busts, figuring they were better off staring at a truly holy man throughout the duration of their unnerving lifetime. For a while no one could think of anything to say, considering they were arranged all within the same couch and had no good conversational angles. John was pretty sure the old man had already fallen asleep, as his head was dangling rather precariously upon his neck. John tried to sit as close as he could to Mary, nearly sitting upon her lap in an attempt to avoid the sharp elbows which were prying out through the priest's black jacket. As the minutes passed he was beginning to wonder just how good of an idea this was, forcing the priest to stay for dinner with them. It was a rather sudden step towards friendship, one taken without ever preparing themselves for the journey. John still held a deep distrust of the priest, and undoubtedly Father Holmes still held onto distain for the new home owners. Their pasts were very short, though undoubtedly rocky enough to make conversation almost impossible for the duration of their wait.
"So, Father, do you have any family?" Mary asked at last, leaning over so as to attempt eye contact with the priest around her disgruntled husband.
"No, I'm a priest." He said obviously.
"Not immediate family, but relatives. You know, brothers or sisters?" Mary corrected at last. The priest nodded his head, as if he finally understood, though ended with a quick shake.
"No, my only brother died." He said rather abruptly.
"Oh, sorry to hear that." Mary muttered, sitting back down into the couch in mournful regret.
"It's alright. He was a jerk." The priest assured, to which John hid his smile rather forcefully behind his hand. It seemed cruel to laugh at such a statement, though the blunt and almost juvenile profanities that the priest used were reason enough to giggle.
"Any friends then?" Mary asked carefully, trying to gauge the scale of this old priest's loneliness as respectfully as she could manage. The man shrugged, his eyes still glossed over as if he wasn't entirely enthusiastic about this conversation.
"Not really." He admitted at last. Mary nodded her head, looking towards John and blinking a bit mournfully.
"Alright then." She murmured. Father Holmes scuffed his feet about on the carpet, as if he wasn't too bothered by his own state of complete isolation. John suddenly reconsidered his complaints about the eight o'clock mass in the parking lot, considering that might be the priest's only form of social interaction. It was no mystery why the priest didn't have any friends, beginning of course with his rather standoffish personality. Secondly he wasn't a conversationalist, in fact he had a way of making the speaker second guess themselves, to the point where anyone began to reconsider if he even cared to speak at all. Father Holmes was definitely more of a listener, or perhaps a man inside of his head, or perhaps a turtle inside of a shell. For the rest of their wait the man had fallen silent, staring into space and thinking deeply about whatever it was which was on his mind. Perhaps he was thinking about demons again, or about the church and his priestly struggles. Either way, John and Mary were able to engage in their own little conversation about the paintings they might be hanging inside of their house, keeping their voices quiet so as not to interrupt the priest who was now very deep within his mind. When the delivery man finally arrived it was Father Holmes who went to the door, allowing the delivery man to step inside while John and Mary counted out their dollars and cents. They didn't allow the priest to pay for his food, considering he was probably bringing in zero income, though he felt very uncomfortable about this and ended up paying for the tip. As their heckling continued and the dollars began to fly, the poor delivery man had no choice but to notice the assortment of wooden heads on the coffee table, positioned in a very strange, confrontational way to the guests on the couch. He seemed a little bit creeped out by the entire affair, though he was happy to have pocketed a whole ten dollar bill from Father Holmes, who couldn't seem to find change within the depths of his very light wallet. In the end the three of them assembled around the dining room table, happy to be within a better conversational angle to at least look each other in the eyes. Father Holmes seemed a bit surprised to find their food arranged in platters, not sandwiches, though he was seemed to be much happier with his dinner than what would have resulted if the Watsons weren't so insistent. He ate quietly; all the while John and Mary swapped their food and tried each little side salad that was arranged on each other's plates. The priest watched curiously, as if he had never seen such behavior from his past dinner guests. In fact, these were probably his only dinner guests in the whole thirty years he had lived in this place. The silence was beginning to get deafening, as John's ears were filled with the sound of his own chewing instead of any of the questions he was thinking to ask. They were positioned in front of an interesting man, well at least interesting in his own niche of lifestyle, though for the life of him John couldn't think of any easy to way to fit his questions into the conversation. All he could do was comment on the food, to which everyone gave their nods of approval, and then silence reigned again. Finally the priest treated everyone to a glass of wine from a half drunk bottle, wine being perhaps the only commodity in this house that was plentiful, and indulged in a fairly sizable cup for himself. John allowed himself a little smile, figuring this would be a good chance to convince the priest to open up, considering he wasn't going easy on the alcohol.
"So Father, how long have you been in the Catholic faith?" John wondered, finding it a rather awkward conversational starter but a necessary one all the same. Any conversation was better than staring at each other over the rims of the wine glasses, waiting for the other to make a remark and wondering if the room was better set in silence.
"I was raised in it." the priest admitted. "I attended Catholic school, went immediately to the seminary, got ordained, and entered the priesthood from there. I was at a church down south for about five years before they settled me here, and ever since I've been here."
"Really was all your life then." John muttered with some surprise.
"Do you like being a priest?" Mary wondered, leaning forward in her chair and tapping her wine cup across the smooth wooden table. The man gave a sigh; as if that was a complicated question he was not prepared to answer.
"Yes of course I enjoy it. Though I'm not much of a priest anymore, I'm afraid. More of a religious hermit, stuck in his cave." The man grumbled, taking another large sip of his wine and wincing as it went down.
"That's an interesting way to phrase it." Mary murmured. "But you don't regret it, I mean? Would you do it all again if you had the chance?"
"What an invasive question, Mrs. Watson." Father Holmes complained, shaking his head in disappointment and silencing Mary quite efficiently. The woman pursed her lips nervously, looking towards John as if seeking his emotional support.
"Just a question, you don't have to answer it if you don't want to." John assured quickly, to which the priest nodded.
"I don't intend to." He agreed, stiffening in his chair and staring into his wine glass a bit accusingly, as if he figured it was the alcohol that made his answer so gray. There was an answer he was required to give, of course, an answer that God would appreciate. Then again, if he wasn't so easily spitting out his allegiance to the priesthood there had to be some doubt in his mind, enough to still his tongue and make the whole room uncomfortable. Was there regrets stirring within the old man's mind, making him hesitant to give a solid answer? The rest of the conversation, though it flowed a bit easily, was only setting up for the final goodbye. Neither party seemed too interested in the other, and now that they had struck a nerve within the poor priest both Watsons felt terribly uncomfortable within his presence. The man's demeanor changed, in a way that made his words quick and unfriendly, leading the poor couple to search for any reasonable excuse to escape. Thankfully the stroke of eight upon the priest's grandfather clock allowed them the reasonable excuse, knocking them out of a rough conversation about gardening and back into the real, rushed world. Very quickly the Watsons excused themselves, issuing farewells, thanks, and invitations to reunite again. The priest accepted of course, thanking them for the dinner and for the company, though seemed plenty excited to see them go. Perhaps he was a hermit for a reason, simply because he didn't like people one bit. It was not until John finally shut his eyes on his arranged mattress that he stopped thinking of poor Father Holmes, pitying the man who talked only to his shadow. It was a lonely lifestyle to lead, and now without a church to serve at he was undoubtedly feeling all sorts of negative emotions. Helplessness, uselessness, and loneliness were probably bearing down upon him at all hours of the day, molding him into the miserable man he was today. John pitied him, honestly, though he appreciated that the Father had some grasp of reality. His hesitation with Mary's question, when asked whether he would chose the priesthood again, was enough proof that he was unhappy with his life and aware enough to realize it. There was another world out there for Father Holmes, though the poor man had backed himself into a corner and allowed the diocese to chain his ankles and wrists. He was stuck, whether he liked it or not.