The Church

The snow crunched beneath the vicar’s feet; the air deadly cold, the wind like a layer of ice on his face. He walked with pace, looking only forward – never back, he thought. Never back. His nerves tingled inside him – there was a knot in his stomach; yet he was sure it was the right thing. He couldn’t smile, not yet.

The vicar walked on towards his destination, dressed only in black, blending in with the night; and there it was. The sharp darkness of the cold winter night seemed to embrace the large, intimidating silhouette of the church before him. The vicar rubbed the sheet of ice and snow off the sign outside the church. ‘The Catholic Church, St. Mary’s – Priest: John Rowe.’ The vicar gritted his teeth and walked briskly around the back of the church, when he thought he saw something, something strange – an eye. Following him.

Everywhere he looked he seemed to see a dark, red eye in the corner of his vision; he tried to ignore it at first but it wouldn’t leave him. It stayed. Staring. Compelling him to turn, to have curiosity. To find it.

A burst of anger burned from within him, he had to do it. He had to ignore the eye. He had made his decision; he pushed the door open into the back of the church and quickly slammed it shut again to escape the eye, despite telling himself it was only a projection of the subconscious mind – his nerves playing on him. Sure enough; it had gone, disappeared. The anger faded, yet there were still thousands of emotions that seemed to be locked inside his head.

The job resumed, he had one intention. He quietly breezed through the curtains, and there he was, John Rowe. The vicar knelt behind a wooden bench behind him and silently reached into his bag. ‘It’s time,’ he thought. The vicar was trembling as he closed his eyes.

The muffled sound of the silenced weapon echoed inside the incredible acoustics of the church. John Rowe fell.

‘What have I done?’, ‘What now?’ he asked himself. The eyes came back, with more of them. More hate. More vengeance. The eyes started circling him. Staring. Teasing.  He couldn’t take it any more. It was too much. The muffled sound repeated. Silence fell.

Fred Peel Yates
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