My ordination to the priesthood was the happiest I’d felt in a long time. Years of discerning my call, a seminary program I never thought I’d graduate from with my ADD, and it had all led up to this. As the bishop laid her hands on my head and prayed over me, I felt a warm tingle. This was what I was meant to do. After everything was said and done, my relatives from Cali took me out for Thai food (my aunt’s pick). “Do I have to call you Father from now on?” my uncle joked. I smiled, told them how happy I was they’d flown out all the way for this, the usual stiff formalities. I still didn’t know quite how to behave with them all these years later - and on the inside the “high” from the ordination service was starting to wear off, replaced with a knot of self-doubt, a lot sooner than I thought. I’d have to talk to my doc about upping my dose of anxiety meds. But my folks (…if I could call them that…) were almost touching in their unexpected supportiveness. They didn’t share my faith but they were happy things were… finally working out. If I’d known then what the coming year would bring, I’d have taken the time to cherish that last visit so much more.
That was five months ago. I’d been warned that clergy positions were in short supply in this day and age, but part of me always assumed things would fall into place. My bishop had promised me after the service that she’d send me a list of parishes looking for a rector. Most of them turned out to be tiny places that couldn’t really afford to pay a living wage. One place in the city seemed promising, but I got nervous and flubbed a bunch of questions during my interview with the leaders of the congregation. Later I found out the other priest applying for the position was an established activist who’d singlehandedly spearheaded a campaign to get the state government to increase LGBT protections. A guy like me didn’t stand a chance against a lady like that.
The bishop had been sending periodic emails to check in on me (but I was delaying longer and longer in my replies). Now that I was in the city she suggested we do lunch and talk about my situation further. She was sympathetic; told me she was going to reach out to some contacts the next state over for me. “But Dave…” she told me seriously. “I think it’s time you considered a call in another part of the country. It’s not unusual for new ordinands to have to move around. I know you had your heart set on staying in New England, and I know with your… past you’d rather not have to relocate again, but…”
I felt dismal, more than I thought I would. And here I was, a grown man, making a fuss over something so trivial. In a way I guess I’d never really grown up, not after-
“Dave,” the bishop’s voice was softer now. Crap, was I that easy to read? She must regret ever allowing an emotional basketcase like me into a position like this. How had I even passed my psych eval? Was I that good at lying to people, even a trained psychiatrist? Wait, no, now I was contradicting myself. Crap, crap, cra-
“David.” She fixed me with her blue eyes, and looked almost - motherly for a fraction of a second. “It’ll be all right. God called you to this work for a reason. Just give it time. You never know when a door will open. And I promise I’ll look into those contacts of mine for you.”
She paid the check for the both of us and gave my shoulder a supportive squeeze, saying she was late for a charity thing. I hung around in the diner after and ordered a slice of apple pie - a la mode. It wasn’t like I had anywhere else to be.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as a sudden and inexplicable sense of dread washed over me.
“Excuse me.” The voice came from right next to my left ear. I jumped and dropped a forkful of gooey apple filling onto my clergy shirt. I cursed and looked for a napkin dispenser, only to realize the tables didn’t have individual napkin holders. I looked up, feeling my face burning.
A tall, lean man stood before me, dressed in a crisp suit. His skin was unusually pale for summer, and his eyes were a very bright green. He looked out of place in a downtown diner. Something about him made me uneasy.
“Are you a priest?” he asked, looking over my dessert-stained shirt and clerical collar.
“Not a Catholic one,” I mumbled. “I mean, that is to say, if you need anything I’d be happy to pray with-“
“But you are a clergyman, yes? What denomination, may I ask, my good fellow?”
“Episcopal,” I replied.
His bright eyes lit up. “Is that so? Why, what unexpected luck! One could almost say it was fate.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I happen to be in town on… business, and- Well, no, no. I’m sure a fine young man like yourself already has a secure parish position.”
“Um, well, actually…” What was this guy’s angle? Maybe it was the anxiety talking, but there was something… unnerving about the situation. No, not just the situation. Danger, a little voice in the back of my mind seemed to whisper. There was no specific reason why I should feel that way - there was nothing overtly wrong about this man’s appearance or demeanor. No, don’t screw this up, Dave. You’re just being paranoid.
“Forgive me - I haven’t introduced myself,” he said with a smile that looked disarmingly genuine, almost fatherly. “Lester Flynch. I’m from a little town an hour’s drive away. I happen to serve on the vestry of my church there, and as it happens, our last rector has just - moved on, on very short notice.”
Was he saying what I thought he was saying?
“We had hoped to put out advertisements in the usual channels, ask the diocese to keep their eyes out - The usual rot. But here I find myself face to face with a newly ordained priest! Why, it really is exceptional luck.”
I introduced myself. Didn’t have a business card to give him. I hadn’t had occasion to have any made.
“Well, you simply must come see us for an interview. St. Bartholomew’s, up in Castle Rock. Assuming, of course, you don’t have any other positions lined up.”
I gave him a weak smile. I was about to tell him the truth about my situation - but no, I didn’t want to come across as unemployable.
“Not at the moment,” I said instead. “I’ll definitely consider it. Thank you, Mr. Flynch.”
He chuckled. “Please. Call me Lester. After all, we may well be working together very soon.”
I nodded. Maybe things were looking up. Maybe I’d gotten all bent out of shape over nothing.
He gave me directions and a contact number, we shook hands, and he… took his leave. Strangely, thinking back on it now, I can’t place at what point he left. I remember that handshake, though. His grip was tight, his hand warm. Too warm. And as I sat alone with the remains of my pie, I realized my palm was strangely blistered. When did that happen? I frowned and studied the wound. A chill went up my spine as I did so.
The blisters were in the shape of clawed fingers.