And, I shouldn’t have. I’m on my last year of studying Theology. My giant ego thought this would be a great paper to dwell on.
I don’t know who to talk about this with. I’m very much on my own most of the time. I’m dropping this off here since I’m fond of keeping a digital journal in my laptop. (I know. Lame.)
Here’s how it went. I still feel nauseous. I feel like someone is looking over at my shoulder all the time. I see creeping shadows in the dark. I might go insane. Hear me out, please. At least I’ll go out with half of my ego pleased.
March 1, 2023
“Sit. Thank you for seeing me,” an old man sat leisurely on a rocking chair in front of the fire, never taking his eyes off the book he’s reading while I came in and set my things down.
The room held such a comforting, peaceful aura. If I were to get old, I’d choose to retire here, too. It feels like the embodiment of a warm hug. A big, soft bed, colorful knitted blankets, rocking chairs, a fuck ton of books, wooden floors, the smell of old wallpaper with the sun entering curtained windows - it smells and feels like home, like a grandmother’s memoir.
I’m setting up to interview one of the priests staying at the Home for the Aged. It’s a church funded place for retired priests to stay. Right now, I’m on my last year of study in Theology at a local university. I’m writing up a paper about these priests’ experiences dealing with the most frightening thing they’ve ever encountered. Will it be an excellent paper? Who knows? I’ll give it my best shot. All I know is, I’m interested.
“It’s such a pleasure to allow me to do this interview with you, father. I’m beyond ecstatic. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Oh, no,” he closed his book and looked up at me. “It’s just silent reading time. I find that taking the time to find some quiet and read a few hours a day does someone good, especially at my age.”
“I’m amazed. You’re very able at the age of 88.”
He chuckled. “It’s all because of God’s glory,” he praised.
I started setting up my recorder on the foot stool by the rocking chair. That way I can do my transcripts more efficiently. “I’ll be recording our time together. Will that be alright?”
“I don’t mind. That’s not a camera, is it? I haven’t prepared myself looks-wise,” he laughed. His presence was light and soothing. I guess priests just give a comforting aura like that.
“Oh, no,” I gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s just a recorder.”
I sat on the rocking chair across from him, making sure to take notes on what I needed to along the interview.
“Father, are you ready to start?”
“Oh, yes. I’m ready,” he gave me a gentle smile as I pressed record. My recorder blinked red, signifying that it has started to record.
“Father, please tell us about your experience if you’re comfortable. You may leave out details if they’re too private to share. Also, please do state your name. What was the encounter where you felt the most afraid?” I instructed him, and I stayed silent for him to speak.
Here’s the transcript I obtained from the meeting.
People always ask us priests, if there was a time where we were ever afraid. In my years as a priest, I could only cite one. Unlike many experiences, my experience was with the living.
My name is Robert Alcott. Though, I am commonly referred to as Father Rob. I am here to share about the murders of the innocent that shook the hearts of many. Despite the 88 years given to me by our Almighty God, I could remember those days as if all of it happened yesterday. It was the day that the church and state united to defeat the devil incarnate. Up to this day, chills shoot up my spine and the hair behind my neck rise just remembering that evil man and what he had done.
It was 1965, and I have been serving as a priest in a lesser known, remote town for a little over 5 years. With steep slopes, cobblestones and greenery covering every road and corner, the gentle breeze always made its way through the town’s quaint cottages and housings.
It was a town I deeply adored. I cherish the experience of serving in a God-loving town that I was blessed with, even after several decades later where I find myself old, wrinkled, and hunched over nearing the day I will meet Our Father.
Everyone knew each other and loved one another. It was a town that embodied God’s commandment, “Love Your Neighbor As Yourself”. Nobody hesitated to lend a helping hand, even if a deep slumber were to be disturbed in the middle of the dark night.
The Church Courtyard were filled with children, young ladies and gentlemen all eager to serve and learn about God. It was delightful to see the youth so enlightened. My fellow priests and nuns were deeply touched by this and decided to host bible studies during Sunday afternoons in between masses to serve their hunger for knowledge and understanding the Lord’s word.
But alarmingly enough, less and less young faces started to show up in our little courtyard.
“Huh. I wonder why a lot of the little ones are not around,” I say, dumbfounded. The courtyard is usually full of laughter, with little children running around and the older ones sitting by the shade.
“Haven’t you heard, father?” said a young man named John. He gave me a quizzical look. He seemed to find it strange that I’m not aware of something. “The town has been plagued with bad stuff. Young ones have been missing, including Sam.”
Sam is a young man that frequents bible studies. He always came with John and his little brothers.
Hearing this, I did not know what to say. The state and authorities in this town always refused to unite with the church, despite how small of a town we are. Most of the time, state affairs were kept out of the church.
“Who else went missing?” I felt numb all over. It was the first time I heard of something like this happening.
“Mostly people my age,” John said nonchalantly. “Younger kids are being kept at home right now by their mothers. It’s a ghost town. Maybe Sam just went off to play some baseball.”
“I have to talk to the other priests about this,” I said. “Unfortunately, I have to send you all home today. I want you all to be safe. Bible study will resume the following Sunday.”
“Awwww,” John sighed. “Alrighty,” he said, as he gathered all his siblings and informed the other older kids that it was time to leave.
I entered the office we set up and set the teaching materials I brought with me onto my desk. The other priests were gathered in a conversational circle.
“Father Rob. Come over here. It’s good you sent the kids home.”
“Two children have been murdered. An older one named Hugh around the age of 12 is missing. Sam’s missing, too,” Father John explained to me.
“Where have you heard all of this?” I asked, exasperated and shocked.
“The other nuns went to the market today for bread. They were informed by the baker,” Sister Miriam said. There was a deep worry in her eyes.
My heart started to pound. I have a bad feeling in all of this.
“See,” Father Michael added. “This is why the church should not be separate from the state! We can’t protect each other if there’s a separation!” he exclaimed.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, now,” I urged everyone to stay calm. “Let us finish serving all the remaining masses today. We’ll close the church doors early to ensure everyone will be at home early.”
“Right. How about we pay a visit to the sheriff’s office? How dare they keep this crucial information from us with so many children staying within our courtyard!” Father Michael suggested. He was very passionate when it comes to this.
“That’s a bad idea. The sheriff doesn’t like it when anyone, especially any of us, to get in his way.”
“Listen, Rob. It’s time that we should try,” Father Paul put a hand on my shoulder, reminding me of his silent presence.
I turned to him and nodded. “Alright. We will. For now, let’s finish serving.”
All the remaining masses were served, with only a few people in attendance. The mood was solemn. Sorrowful silence was replaced by the lively greetings of peace.
It was as if a wave of depression washed over the town.
All of us had finished supper after the masses were served and church doors were closed. A storm welcomed the early hours of the night. It rained so heavily that it made it so hard to see the outside of the church. We were all gathered in the office when three, loud, pounds on the wooden office door were heard.
“What kind of disrespect is this. This office is still part of the church!” Sister Miriam headed on to the door, where she opened to reveal a handful of men in a sheriffs uniforms.
“Alcott. Correct?” One of them glared.
“Yes. That would be me,” I replied calmly.
“Follow me. How are any of you unaware of what’s going on? Courtyard’s been compromised,” he said.
“What? We have closed for the night. The only accessible door is the door you rudely pounded on,” said Father Michael.
I followed the sheriffs. The rain slowed a bit, and we proceeded to the courtyard with umbrellas. The sheriff and I shared one, as he wanted to speak to me.
“Alcott. One of the kids ya’ll been teaching on Sundays,” said the sheriff quietly.
“What… What happened?”
The trickling rain drops onto the top of our umbrella suddenly drummed a little louder, with the woosh of wind feeling a little colder. I couldn’t seem to register anything, at that moment. What surrounded us made more sense compared to what I was seeing. In the distance, just a bit beyond the courtyard’s gate, I caught a glimpse of medical personnel running about. Two of them were rushing about with a stretcher.
“Sam, the boy. He was only fifteen,” he said. “How he ended up here, we assume he was trying to ask for help from any of you. We saw the church doors close from afar… started patrols every evening since it started.”
“One of my men saw him. Boy was running through the streets,” he added. I was shaking. Whoever did this can do this to other innocent children.
“He said the courtyard’s gate had a small gap where he managed to squeeze through. He had called out to him, saw he was bruised, badly beat. Ran to call the rest of us for help. Can’t squeeze into the courtyard, with that beer belly poking out of ‘em. Tried to call them nurses and doctors.”
“When we returned, the courtyard’s gate,” he motioned to it.
“Chain’s been broken. Likely by a hunting axe. We found the boy by the woods,” he grimly said.
“How are we sure your men didn’t do it?” I said bluntly. It made no sense that they came so close to saving his life and yet they still managed to fail at it. How did he end up by the woods when he allegedly squeezed through the courtyard? “It just makes no sense.”
“Bold of you to assume that, father. You’re a priest. I’m a sheriff. I’m the one in uniform. You’re the one in robes. Stick your nose to where it belongs. Stick your head to where it knows best,” he said, giving me an icy cold glare.
“And look at us, standing under the same umbrella to shield away from the rain. We’re not trying to be the enemy here, sir. We need to find whoever did this. If not, more children will be hurt,” I stood my ground. This is no time for the law and the church to fight. Someone murdered a young boy.
“Fine, Alcott. I understand ya’ll are up and alarmed, especially that Michael of yours. We’ll need to go through the whole area and we need your…”
The sheriff was interrupted.
“Father Rob. Someone wants to see you for confession. It seems urgent. The man is in… hysterics,” one of the nuns called out to me.
“How people believe in this is beyond me. Right. Go on to whatever you need to do. My men and I will be here,” the sheriff headed on to where his men are patrolling.
“I’ll be right back!” I shouted after him through the rainy night, shielding the top of my head using my arms from the rainy evening.
I hurriedly came into the confessional. Whoever is in there felt the need to do this urgently. I opened the small wooden window that separated us and those who seeked penance. Through the confessional’s screen, my view was still obscured to the penitent’s face. It ensures the penitent’s anonymity.
It was dark, and the only source of light was the moon that was hidden behind the rain clouds. The lighting was dim, and I couldn’t help but feel that something in the air felt sinister.
“You may begin,” I urged the penitent.
“Bless me, father,” a voice that sent chills up to my spine replied, “for I have sinned.”
This encounter reminded me of one I had when I was a young seminarian. I studied under a priest who specialized in exorcism, and this feeling was all too familiar. A feeling that twisted your gut… an intense feeling of fear.
“I have done such terrible, terrible things. Will the Almighty God forgive me?” the penitent asked, emotionless.
The faint smell of sulfur mixed with iron hit my nose as I spent more time inside the confessional. It was a strange, peculiar time to be smelling such a specific scent.
“You must remember that our God is a merciful God.”
The penitent howled and cried suddenly. I jumped at the sudden sound of it. It was gutteral and animalistic. He took in air and let it out of his lungs rapidly, as if it was his attempt at laughter. His face twisted grotesquely through the screen and shadows of the night. It was then I grew to feel more uncomfortable.
Every word he spoke was abrupt. As if it were in morse code. His voice came from deep inside his gut, as if he deeply resented the words that came from his own mouth.
He managed to choke out the rest of his confession, and I gave him penance. Blessed be anyone that seeks for His forgiveness, but there is just something that strikes a nerve in me with this penitent. There is something strange happening here. Something wrong.
The creek of wood signified that the penitent left the confessional, and I heard footsteps shuffle towards the church’s aisle. I exited the confessional. I must find the light switch for the penitent. It was a dark, stormy night after all.
As I was about to flick the light on, the penitent stopped to an abrupt halt in the middle of the aisle, and he turned to face me. He was a large man, although he hunched, walked in a limp while having both of his arms close to his chest as if to protect a wound. The shadows obscured his face.
“No light!” he exclaimed raspily, with a voice so deep and sinister. His voice echoed through the corners of God’s house. For some reason, it was a sickening thing to hear. You could hear a pin drop after the echoes have subsided.
I jumped, and I hurriedly exited to where the sheriff and his men were working.
“What’s wrong, Alcott? You look like you’ve seen the devil!” the sheriff shouted after me as I made my way to him.
“Father? You look very pale,” Father Michael pointed out. “The sheriff and his men are looking around our area to investigate.”
The sheriff eyed me closely. “What happened?”
“Just a strange encounter,” I managed to reply.
The rest of the night was a blur. Throughout the early hours of the night, I kept waking up. Sam and three other young ones are gone. And, a murderer is on the loose.
The following morning, I posted a note on the church’s announcement board. Bible study for the youth will be suspended until further notice. We need to protect them and keep them at home.
“Tell me about the strange guy that came to you last night,” said a voice behind me.
“Sheriff. Good morning,” I said. “It isn’t my place to tell. All I can say is that he was hysterical.”
“Huh. What if that man was the one laying his grubby, disgusting hands on those kids?”
“Father Rob. The man who came last night wants to see you, again,” Sister Miriam approached me this time. She had a serious look on her face. I know she feels strangely about that penitent as much as I do.
“Speak of the devil,” the sheriff said. He came close to me before I could take another step. “Take this,” he shoved his gun into my pocket.
“What? Sheriff, I am in no business to hold such a…”
“No if’s and but’s. I know you all feel the presence of evil, and so do I. I’ll be in the other booth to stand guard.”
Sister Miriam lead us to the confessional. The penitent was already inside. I took my place and the sheriff took his on the opposite booth, where he knelt down.
“Bless me, father. For I have sinned,” the penitent said in haste. His voice was raspy. His voice reminded me of sharp nails on chalkboards.
“Does God adore the innocent?”
“God loves everyone, including sinners,” I replied.
“Are you sure?”
I could see the silhouette of his body shiver like a leaf in a breeze. He constantly clasped and unclasped his hands. His breathing was shaky, and he rapidly took air into his lungs.
“Our God is all merciful.”
He inhaled and exhaled loudly, as if he was laughing. He squeezed the sides of his head, as if to shield himself.
“How about to those who torment the innocent for fun?” he said behind a wide grin.
At this point, I did not know what to say. I had to remain calm.
“Answer, me, father.”
I stayed silent.
“Answer me!” he pushed onto the confessional’s screen, as if to grab onto me and force me to answer. He howled, screamed and cried out. The same gutteral and animalistic sounds that I’ve heard from the night before.
I was genuinely afraid. I shakily reached for the gun in my pocket, and I knocked onto the sheriff’s compartment to signal him. The sheriff exited the booth and guarded himself outside the penitent’s booth, where two of his men already stood.
“You put your hands on those children and hurt them, didn’t you?” I raised my voice at him, loading the gun in my shaky hands.
From what I can make out of the shadows of his face, he looked giddy and deranged. His body was shaking, as if he couldn’t contain his excitement. He opened his mouth and let out a raspy sound, his lips stayed into the shape of an eerie grin. He excitedly nodded in response to my question.
“That’s enough, you freak. You’re going to pay for the things you did in prison,” the sheriff said, swiftly entering the confessional and cuffing the penitent’s hands.
The penitent dropped his grin, almost immediately. It was as if a switch had flipped. His mouth formed an exaggerated frown.
“I didn’t do it. Forgive me, father. Bless me father for I have sinned!” he exclaimed, over and over again.
His raspy, animalistic and gutteral voice still echo in my mind, up to this day. I have never held a gun or had one near me, ever again.
The town never forgave that man for what he did to those children. He was later transferred to a larger city, where he was imprisoned for the rest of his life. He died in the hands of his fellow prisoners, who tormented him after finding out that he murdered innocent children.
We held masses in commemoration for those children. Bible study was never the same without Sam. Every time the children gathered with us every Sunday afternoon, we always took time to be silent and pray for the children that died in the hands of that evil man. Our town made it a tradition to offer and enshroud flowers on those children’s graves every Holy Innocents Day. That tradition is still being practiced, even after I have left it to retire here.
That town stays in a special place in my heart, but I will never forget those children. And, I will never forget the day I had a close encounter with the devil.
“Thank you for sharing your story, Father Rob. It’s such a great opportunity to meet you! I’m ecstatic to cite your experience in my writing.”
I couldn’t wait to get to my dorm and transcribe all of this. This was such a story. And, I was going to write about it. Note: was
“No problem. I’m glad to be of help.”
I stopped the recording, and started to shove my things into my backpack. I didn’t want to intrude further nor spend more time than I already did.
“Why are you in such a haste, young man? Don’t worry about it. Take your time,” the priest urged as my back was turned towards him.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to disturb you any longer. I want you to spend the rest of your peaceful afternoon burried in that book. I’m sure it’s very interes…”
He breathed in and out rapidly. It sounded like a strange attempt at laughter.
“It’s interesting, alright,” he said. His voice was gutteral this time. Not like the gentle way he spoke to me a moment ago.
“Are you alright, father?” I’m getting genuinely concerned. “Do you need the nurse or some water?”
Again, he attempted to laugh with that horrible rapid breathing. I’m getting deeply disturbed. I was starting to smell something. Sulfur? Is that iron that I smell?
Then it hit me. This isn’t Father Robert Alcott. This was the madman in the confessional.
I grabbed my things as fast as I can. I am not turning towards whoever is in that rocking chair.
“Come. Look me in the eye, boy,” he taunted. I refused.
“Look at me!” he bellowed.
“Thank you for having me!” I replied abruptly, and turned the door knob to see myself out.
I heard those horrible attempts of laughter again, except it was louder. It felt like it was in the inside of my head. I squeezed my ears shut in an attempt to get it all out, and the stupid door knob wouldn’t open the door.
“Fuck!” I exclaimed.
In a desperate attempt, I flung myself at the door, which finally opened. A concerned nurse was about to come in.
“Kid, are you okay?” she asked in bewilderment.
I just ran out of that door. I kept on running to God knows where. I ran until I was far, far, away from that place. I didn’t know what time I ended up in my dorm, typing this with all the lights on. I refuse to have them off. At least for now. The feeling of being watched and seeing shadows out of the corners of my eyes might just be episodes of paranoia. If not, well I guess you’ll be seeing me on here more often, begging for help.
I’m never coming back. Screw that paper.