I lived in a small town in the middle of nowhere, until a few months ago. I’m homeless now. Literally.
The town was called Paxington, and really, it was nothing to write home about. A couple of houses, some mom-and-pop diners, a church – obviously – a library, and the gas station where I worked as a cashier. I rarely saw outsiders while on the job, mostly it was just locals refilling their vans and trucks as they went out to carry out their jobs. It wasn’t that exciting, but I was content there.
I inherited the family house, from my mother, so there was no worrying about a place to sleep, and I made enough at the gas station, to feed myself, get a six-pack every now and then, pay Netflix, and even manage to save up for an Xbox with a nice TV and good set of home theater speakers.
“Charlie, I’ll head home and turn in for the night with the missus. Just close up at six as we always do, you don’t need to call after. I might be occupied,” Mr. Corton winked at me, as he said this, and he left the gas station.
I was alone for the rest of the day, and the traffic was sparse, so I settled in with my phone behind the counter and started watching YouTube videos. After an hour or so – it was already half past five at this point – I heard a car pull up outside. I cursed under my breath and stood up to help the customer. It was a black car, but it seemed rather long to be a passenger vehicle.
I went outside, and finally, I realized it was a hearse after I saw the drapes over the back windows. I was a bit surprised, but it was nothing compared to how I felt when I saw the driver get out of the car. He was tall, easily over 6 feet, and his attire was something else. He looked like a priest, wearing a midnight black cassock and a Roman collar. His face glowed pale white in the shade of the oversized rim of his hat, and he wore the largest crucifix I ever saw in my life. It was awfully detailed as well, you could see the face of Jesus contorted into a bizarre grim, as he was balancing between a life of immeasurable torment and the sweet release of death. Even the blood seeping from his wounds was detailed if you looked closely enough. It must have weighed a ton, but he bore it like it was nothing more than a small trinket. It was also adorned with different gemstones, his eyes were maybe diamond and his wounds were realized by using small rubies. On his long fingers rings shined in the colors of silver, gold, red, blue, and green.
I stopped in my tracks when I first saw him. I didn’t mean to be rude, or anything like that, it was my instincts, they were telling me: “run”. I resisted the urge and walked over to him. He was looking at me, his eyes dark, I could barely see the whites of them. I was walking slowly but he waved at me to hurry up. I couldn’t resist and increased my pace. I was terrified of this guy but also, somehow entranced.
“How can I help, father?” I asked him. I was a bit surprised I called him father, I didn’t mean to, I’m not a man of faith. Again, I felt the urge to run away, when he opened his mouth to speak and I saw his teeth. There were too many of them and they were too sharp. I couldn’t do it though. I wanted to hear him speak, I wanted to hear every word uttered through his terrifying teeth.
“Fill it up, son,” he commanded. His voice was deep and calm, layered like a good red wine. One could taste it, dark with notes of rigor and authority and in the background, the acidic ting of judgment. I realized I would need a drink after this.
“Yessir,” I replied, but it was hard to suppress the urge to call him father again. The word became stuck in my throat and firmed into a ball of anxiety. I unscrewed the cap and started filling up the hearse. His eyes were fixated on me, I felt like I was a Bible that he was trying to read.
“What’s your name, son?” he asked.
“Charlie,” I replied without time for hesitation.
“Surname,” he said, which I understood to be a command immediately. I didn’t want to tell the creepy priest guy, what my name was, obviously, but I just couldn’t resist him.
“Santoro.”
“That is a good name,” he grinned.
“Yes, my mother was Italian; she came here to live with my father, but he died before they could get married and I was born,” I blurted out, without wanting to. I was wondering why I was telling him so much; he was just a stranger.
“Good, good… You know, I’m here to compare the parish register with the local records, so this is useful to know. I’ll see you around Charles Santoro,” he said just before the gas stopped flowing. The tank was full.
I put the hose back on the pump and turned towards him. I had something to say, but I couldn’t remember for the life of me. “God bless,” he said, climbed back into the car, and drove off in the direction of the town center.
I went back inside, reached deep into my backpack, and pulled out my flask. I took a big gulp. I noticed the number on the register. “Father Fuckhead didn’t pay for his gas. Shit!”
That evening I decided to call up Monica. She was my best friend; I wanted to tell her what happened, hoping that sharing would ease the anxiety.
“Hey Mo, you wanna come over? I have some good weed and it’s been some time since we last smoked together,” I asked, trying to sound cheerful.
“Sure, but are you okay? You don’t sound too good.”
I suppressed a curse; I didn’t want her to worry about me.
“Sure, just some creep came in today, he kinda freaked me out. But I’ll see you in fifteen and tell you all about it.”
“I’ll be there in a bit,” she said and hung up.
Mo started laughing as I finished my story. It hurt my feelings a bit, but if I wanted to be honest with myself it was really hilarious. I was scared shitless and put in my place, by some iced-out priest in a hearse.
“I wanna see this guy, take a peek at his priestly attire,” Monica swept the tears of laughter from her eyes. “He is here to update some records or shit, right? I’ll try bumping into him.”
“I don’t understand though, we only have a protestant church,” I realized. “What kind of records is he looking for here?”
“I don’t know, these religious people have their own ways, maybe they share a register with Reverend Jones or something.” I was not convinced by her answer.
Sharing and gaining another perspective helped a lot and a few days later, it was just a memory. At least until Reverend Jones’s car rolled up at our gas station.
“I met your colleague a few days ago, Reverend,” I said to him jokingly. To my surprise, he looked confused.
“I’m not sure what you are talking about, Charlie,” he said, slightly annoyed. He always took his faith seriously, and he might have thought, I was making fun of it.
“He never told me his name. It was a catholic priest based on his clothing. He said he had to do something with the parish register. I thought he was coming to meet you and work it out. He was driving a… hearse?” As I spoke, Reverend Jones seemed more and more annoyed and confused.
“Are you joking? I have nothing to do with catholic parish registers, why would he come to see me? There wasn’t a single catholic living here, since your mother died, anyway.”
I felt really embarrassed, and I felt myself blushing. He was right of course, there was not a single catholic in Paxington, and even the few who lived here, sometime in the past, never had a church built for them.
“Forgive me, Reverend, I didn’t mean to offend you. You know, sometimes I speak without thinking,” I said, looking at my shoes.
“Don’t worry Charlie. But speaking of such things, why don’t you come to one of my sermons? It’d be good to see you there when you have some time. Now, let’s go inside, so I can pay.”
Mr. Corton, let me off early that day, so I was home by around half past four. My phone rang, it was Monica. I thought she might want to hang.
“Hey, what’s up, girl?” I picked up the phone.
“I saw him! I fucking saw the fucker… he went to the church.”
I felt a cold hand gripping my heart. “You mean you saw the catholic priest?” I asked, hoping she would say no, and tell me about someone else.
“Yes, Charlie. Why didn’t you tell me he was this terrifying? I almost peed myself, when he got out of his car, or hearse or whatever,” I could hear she was panicking.
“I tried telling you…” It hit me suddenly. “Wait! What’s going on? I just spoke to Reverend Jones, he said he knows nothing about the guy; there were no Catholics living here since Mum died. And what the hell was he doing until now?”
Monica was silent for a few seconds on the other end of the line. “This whole thing seems fishy to me. But on the other hand, I’m kinda intrigued. Are you still at work, or do you want to see what they are up to?”
“Count me in, meet me on the corner where the store is. We’ll go together from there,” I said. I was excited, at least something was happening in sleepy Paxington, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
And soon it turned out, that my guts were right all along. As we were heading over to the church, we heard the bells ringing. It wasn’t time for it yet, but I felt they were calling out to me. I felt like there was going to be a service soon, and I needed to attend. I think Monica felt the same thing, but at this point, we didn’t speak, just took bigger and bigger steps to reach the church faster.
I saw that many people did the same, they left their homes, young, and old, even children and mothers carried their babies. Some people didn’t even care about closing their doors, they just walked toward the church in a haze.
I was there before, it was a simple, puritan church, but big enough to fit the whole town. Only 321 souls lived in Paxington, so that was not a particularly big feat. However, when I entered I saw that everything changed inside. The pure, white walls were painted over with the most blood-curdling frescos I have ever seen. I guess they depicted the seven circles of hell and the tortures that awaited sinners. There were demons, holding a feast, eating human flesh, and drinking blood from skulls, that still had eyes, which showed consciousness and full understanding of what was being done to them. The other wall depicted a human, whose arm was surgically removed, fiber by fiber, bone by bone, until only the dead tree of nerves remained. One would only need to take a glance at his face, to understand the agony he had to go through.
At the far end of the church stood a newly raised altar, adorned with gold and icons of saints. In front of it stood the priest, whom Charlie saw at the gas station. He was almost motionless, looked like he was waiting for everyone to arrive, and this time around he had a cane in his right hand and a book, presumably the Bible in his left. No one spoke, everybody just stood there and reluctantly advanced closer and closer to the altar as more people arrived, filling up the church.
I was going mad by this point from the constant ringing. It soon faded away and we heard the door of the church shut close behind us. As if a spell was broken people suddenly stared at each other in panic, and far worse than the bell, a maddening cacophony filled the air, as people tried to work out what was happening.
“QUIET! You are in the house of God, and you will show respect,” his voice was exactly like I remembered, but he spoke much louder now, and the acoustics of the building made it sound ominous. It felt like he enchanted the audience, just like the bell did, and everyone was listening to him. But as the echoes of his words died, some people broke down crying.
I noticed a few men whispering between each other. I didn’t really know them, I think one of them was called Parker. They moved swiftly, and the crowd gave way to them, so they could approach the priest. They looked angry, I was sure they decided to take action. And they did, but the priest didn’t pay them any mind, he just kept mustering the crowd, like he was a judge contemplating our sentence. They were soon upon him, and Parker reached out to grab him by the collar.
The cane fell swiftly and we heard a wet crunch as Parker’s hand folded like it was made of rubber. Another one of the three tried to help him, but his cheekbone was soon shattered by the book the priest was holding on his left. The third assailant, who now became a victim just stood there in shock. The priest placed both items on the altar and he walked over to him.
“You were foolish, my son, to raise your hand on an anointed priest of Jesus Christ and his church. This is a severe crime and a heavy cross to bear on your conscience,” he said. He didn’t sound angry, just disappointed.
What happened next surprised everyone. The priest grabbed the heavy golden chain with the crucifix, which was hanging from his neck, and raised it over his head. “Bow,” he commanded and the man complied without a word. He literally gave him a heavy cross to bear. In fact, it weighed too much even for its size. As soon as he let go, the crucifix fell to the floor as the man was not strong enough to support its enormous weight. He still lived for the next few minutes but the chain crushed his neck after a few minutes. All the while he was squirming on the floor. Parker and the man with the crushed cheek passed out from the pain and the physical trauma. The priest lifted the book from the altar again.
We were unable to do anything, we couldn’t move, or we didn’t dare, I’m not sure anymore. We just witnessed as he crushed three grown men like they were mere flies.
“Now, let’s start the thing I came here to do. I was tasked to compare the parish register with the local population. I will cross-reference it thoroughly and correct any errors that might be present.”
A sense of relief and confusion both came over us. This sounded like such a banal and easy task, and we hoped that after he would be out of our hair. I looked at Monica, but still, I was unable to open my mouth. She looked back at me, and I could feel she was pondering the same question. Why go to such lengths to perform such an easy thing? It just didn’t make any sense.
“You first,” the priest pointed at Mr. Corton, who’s been standing at the leftmost side of the first row. He stepped up to the priest. “What’s your name son?” he asked.
“Andrew Corton, father,” he replied, looking at his shoes. I’d never seen him like this before, usually, he wouldn’t take any shit from anyone, but the presence of this strange priest broke all of us. We just wanted to comply and get over with it, we would have time to wonder what happened here after all of it. Or so we thought.
“Date of birth?”
“The 3rd of October 1976.”
“I think we might have an issue…” the priest said darkly, dissatisfaction underscoring his words.
“Wha… what’s the issue, father?” Mr. Corton asked.
The priest’s eyes softened and the next time he spoke there was a hint of compassion in his voice. “You don’t exist, son.”
Mr. Corton broke down in tears, he fell on his knees and all we could hear was his weeping. The priest grabbed him under his arms and lifted him up, he even leaned down, so he could look him in the eyes.
“You need to go.” His voice was soft now, almost a whisper, but it still filled the whole church and I think even the people in the last row heard it clearly. He pointed towards a door in the back of the church, which we didn’t notice up until that point. The broken man nodded and walked over to the door. Even though he opened it wide and the lighting in the church was pretty good, we couldn’t see what was on the other side. It was as if Mr. Corton walked into the abyss. The door shut close behind him with a thud.
People looked at each other with eyes as big as saucers. We realized what awaited us, but there was no way of escaping this fate. We were still under this terrible man’s spell. He kept pointing at people, waving them over, asked for their names and date of birth. The verdict was always the same: “You don’t exist.” Old and young even Reverend Jones met the same fate. People marched over to the door and, mothers stepped into the darkness with their toddlers crying in their arms. At some point, I just gave up. I think it was at the moment when Monica disappeared, and I just stayed standing there. Afterward, I wasn’t paying attention, my mind just switched off.
“You,” he said, while pointing a finger at me. I had no other choice, but to walk over to him, and follow my fellow townsmen into the abyss. I just had a terrible realization: I was the only resident of Paxington left.
“I know you, Charles Santoro,” he said. I had no idea how to reply to that. “I just need your date of birth then.”
“My date of birth is… the 26th of January 1996,” I reluctantly said.
“Well, Charles Santoro, you do exist. In fact, you are the only person in this God-forsaken town, who exists.”
I looked around. I was alone with the priest. Relief washed over me, as I realized: I survived. Then I felt terribly alone in this microcosm of the church. I knew at my core that the people of my town were gone for good like they never existed. You don’t exist, I heard him in my mind. And the priest just stood there with a serious expression. He saw my confusion and my inaction, and he finally said something.
“Leave, you are free to go.”
I took the long walk through the empty nave of the church in complete silence. I opened the large door and stepped out, while still blinded by the sunlight. I thought I had come out somewhere else, as the town was nowhere to be seen, I was standing in a clearing in a forest. Then I saw the peaks of the three hills that people thought of as the local tourist attraction. I realized it wasn’t just the people who never existed, but the whole town of Paxington.
Everything I knew just disappeared without a trace and I found myself tossed out into the world, without friends, or a place to call home. I drifted without aim for a couple of weeks, with no aim. When I ran into people I asked if they knew anything about Paxington, but all I got was blank stares and headshakes. There is nothing on the internet about the place either.
It took me some time to understand why was I spared. At first, I thought it was because he already knew me from the gas station, but then I realized it was about something else. I was the only Catholic in town. He had that thick book with him, which he called the parish register, I understand now, that it was almost completely empty, my name was the sole record on the white pages. When I think about this, it fills me with a sense of loneliness, even greater than the disappearance of my town. My name, penned in black ink amidst a hundred empty pages.