Scealai

Available on Amazon.com 

The Open Secret

                                           THE OPEN SECRET                                

                                                   

   The woman never should have been standing in the entrance to the bar. Not Clair, a Sister of the Sacred Blood Religious Order. But as she stood in the entrance to The Lost Weekend, smelling the ripe, rich aroma of spilled drinks and stale beer, she was hooked.  As she walked through that doorway, Clair felt that it looked remotely familiar. How she could possibly be acquainted with such a place, she wondered. She peeked into the darkened bar, sure she did not recognize any of the faces inside. Still hesitant, wearing a dark blue Chanel suit with matching purse and heels, Clair unsnapped her purse and gently placed her hand on the silver Smith and Wesson at the bottom of her handbag.

   Out of her habit and in her street clothes, Clair resembled a modern executive killing time before her next meeting. To a neutral onlooker, her appearance gave every indication of a woman who would soon be off to the suburbs, her kids, and an equally powerful husband.  However, for Clair there was no house, or husband or kids. No, for her there were thirty-two other women who, for reasons known only to themselves and God, had forsaken the pleasures of this life for the promise of a passionate intimacy with Christ in the next.

   Tucking her white blouse, slightly frayed around the collar, inside her skirt, then standing stiff and straight as she gathered the courage to enter, Clair discovered another persona as she moved though The Lost Weekend with the grace and fluidity of a princess. Sister Clair, walking a poised, finishing-school walk with her heels barely touching the well-worn finish on the floor beneath her. Chin slightly elevated and her arm floating out from her body, Clair bore the countenance of royalty—certainly not of a cloistered nun. Like a new student entering late for class looked nervously around and taking tentative steps, quickly located the safest and darkest booth in the place. Only four other patrons sat inside the gloomy Weekend, five if you included Sammy, the burly bartender. Scanning the room to be sure no one was looking at her, she tugged and pulled on her coat, making sure it was not bunched up anyplace. For Clair, looking toward the bar, then down at her bargain-priced Timex and back to the bar again, each tick of the second hand seemed to produce a greater and more intense need.  

   On the Formica tabletop, peeled away in spots exposing the dirt and grime below, Sister Clair's fingernails began to tap faster and faster. Placing her index finger on her jugular, she felt her heart beginning to race. Taking in a deep breath and holding it, then letting it out slowly, she did her best to calm herself. One more deep breath again until, like a deep-sea diver under far too long, lungs ready to burst, Clair was in need of that first gulp of something pure and clean, but it wasn't air. No, Sister Clair Ignatius Harrington, a servant of Christ for almost thirty-seven years, needed a drink! Her hands were trembling when she finally rose and walked over and faced the barman.  

  “Please,” she said in a low, trebling voice, her eyes never meeting Sammy’s, “may I have a triple Yukon Jack, no ice?” The sentence came out in one, continuous, verbal exhale, speeding to the end without pause. 

Sammy immediately froze, a half-dried tumbler in his hand. He flipped the white towel over his shoulder and leaned into the diminutive nun.

“Are you sure?” Sammy asked. He wore a frozen expression of disbelief.  “Mind me asking something?” Sammy didn't wait for a reply, but leaned forward, concerned. “Are you OK? I ain’t much in the brain department, ya know, but are you sure you really want a triple? You’re a little drink of water, and all that booze might affect ya, make ya sorta silly, ya know? You want to take a minute?” 

Clair stared at Sammy, then down at the bar and then directly back into Sammy’s chubby baby face. Brazen and disrespectful, she thought.

“Yes, young man, I do not want to take a minute.  I am quite sure!” Clair answered in a curt, clipped voice. She then counted out and placed five one dollar bills on the counter.

   Turning, she looked back and shot Sammy an icy look of teacher’s disapproval. Head held high, she strode across the room to the security of a nearby booth. Sliding along the worn and ripped Naugahyde of the stained cushion, The nun studied Sammy as he readied her drink. Once she was certain he was not looking in her direction, she squeezed her pocketbook tightly, just to be sure the object on the bottom was still there. Claire was still gazing in the direction of the bar when one of the other patrons opened the front door to leave, creating a wind-flow as he slammed the door shut. The airstream sent the hanging wine goblets above the bar swaying, tinkling as they clashed, sending shimmers of white light across the bar. 

   She had seen it, that sparkle, many times before, coming from the priest’s chalice held high at Mass. The dazzling beam drew her back to times when she and the other Sisters would rise at 4:00 am, drop to their knees on the cold tile floor, their breath steaming in the cold air as they recited an Act of Contrition, asking Him to forgive their many shortcomings. In those days, her denial of self, along with the sheer intensity of life inside the walls of St. Monica’s, oddly enough left Clair feeling triumphant, an exultant notion of herself that was born from alcohol before but not reality.

    From her first day behind the walls as a Novice, dressed in the virginal white habit, she recognized the resonance of a clear and precise direction to her life; one she had never been aware of before. Her uniform, really her white, floor-length habit with a black headdress and veil, Clair’s very own scapular and cincture, told the outside world that she was consecrated to God. Clair had discovered the meaning of her being alive, namely, service to Him. Now, leaning back against the cushions at The Lost Weekend, still lost in thought, she barely noticed Sammy delivering the drink and placing a single dollar in front of the nun. It was only when Sammy picked up and then placed the tumbler onto the Formica a second time that Clair noticed the large barman standing next to her.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t hear you coming,” muttered Clair, now apologetic and sheepish as she picked up the dollar bill. “What’s this?” she asked, in a tone that indicated her alarm and weakness at that moment.

“Same as always. You paid too much,” the barman kindly reminded Clair.  

   Sister Clair’s forehead furrowed into a look of genuine puzzlement as she glared, stunned by Sammy’s words.  That phrase he used, “Same as always,” distressed and unnerved her.  The tremors in her hands returned, more intense than before. Grabbing hold of her right hand with her left, she felt the shaking travel down her arms and into her legs, too. To make matters worse, the three remaining customers, one going to the bathroom, one buying cigarettes, and one retrieving some dropped coins, found a reason to inch closer to Sister Clair.  For life inside The Lost Weekend was, sadly, nothing more than a parade of the usual suspects throughout the day, week, and month. Very little changed at the Weekend from day to day, so the regulars were excited to witness some drama that was not their making or fault. The late morning regulars, Vinnie the Vet, who was drunk on beer by 11 am; Bambi, a rotund Asian woman who rarely changed her clothes and always sat, hid really, at the very end of the bar in the semi-darkness; and the Prophet, a balding middle aged man, room temperature IQ, who was obsessed with making predictions about anything and everything. Each tried not to be conspicuous while they leered over at Clair, who was doing her best to string words into a sentence. But no words came. She tried again, and on the second try, the words finally arrived.

“That’s fine. Thank you. How honest. You don’t find many of our kind these days now, do you? And to save you the walk, I’ll have another as soon as you’re ready.”

   Sammy hesitated and glanced back over his shoulder before ambling back to the bar followed by the eyes of all the other patrons. The moment Sammy turned away and Claire believed she was safe, she tossed back the drink in one smooth motion. Instantly, she felt the liquid heat coating her stomach and giving her the momentary relief she’d so anticipated. Stretching her long legs out under the table, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Exhaling and feeling even more relaxed now, Sister Clair retraced the events of her morning. First, there was the bank deposit made for the monastery at the Bank of America. That was always a simple task. Mother Superior always had the deposit counted out and the bank deposit slip filled in full. Next, the outstanding balance at Gleason’s Grocery & Pharmacy. This required some attention and focus on Clair’s part, as the pharmacy bill was always a mutable, fluctuating number, and Mother Superior did not like owing anyone money, especially someone who was as good to the monastery as Mr. Gleason had been over the years. 

“Kind Mr. Gleason is not a social agency,” Mother Superior was often heard saying, as Sister Clair gathered her lists and purse for the monthly drive into town. “No, we do not have much, but we pay on time for what we use. Remember that, Sisters,” Mother Superior always reminded the other nuns during Lent.  

Feeling the effect and full impact of that first drink, a flash of redness to her face and a warm sensatioin throughout her body, Claire felt even more relaxed now. Folding her hands across the top of her head and slouching farther away from the back of the booth, she allowed a smile to spread across her face.

Yep, that’s me. Money in and money out, Claire mused to herself.  Then, Deposit to the Bank of America and the balance paid at Gleason’s Grocery & Pharmacy. Oh God, I may just rest here for a while. Suddenly, as if someone had poured ice water all over her, Claire sat up vertically in in her booth. 

“Oh Jesus,” Claire called out so loudly that all heads turned in her direction. “I forgot the appointment with Dr. McLaughlin!”

Sister Clair dreaded the appointment at Dr. McLaughlin each month. Visiting the nice doctor had her in a panic for days before. No matter how calm and placid Clair tried to appear on the outside, she knew it was impossible to camouflage the results of the blood panels. At her last visit, the doctor read to her the data from her latest blood panel: an elevated enzyme level, the likes Dr. McLaughlin had not seen since medical school.

   Unfortunately, the doctor told her during Claire’s last visit, “…and that reading was from the liver of a cadaver, Sister.” Clair now displayed the indisputable markers of advanced alcoholism and liver disease.

   Like a ghost, Sammy appeared from nowhere with the second tumbler of Yukon Jack. Startled by his appearance, Clair instantly reached for her purse. Holding it away from Sammy’s line of sight, she fumbled though a jumble of keys, numerous slips of paper, a small package of Kleenex, an old hair brush, a tampon, and a rosary until, at last she located a wad of rolled-up dollar bills.  Holding the purse even farther to the side, she looked down at the concealed gun, still neatly wrapped in a finely embroidered handkerchief. Removing the clump, she counted out four single bills and placed them on the table.

   “Keep the change,” she said. “And since I have such a full afternoon still, let’s make this another triple, shall we? And I'd like full measures this time, if you don’t mind. Yes, a 'Hat Trick of Jack' should help end this week on a high note, shall we say?” With the alcohol level now reaching its saturation peak swirling through Sister Clair’s blood, changed her tone again and now spoke to Sammy in an, innocent, little girlish voice. Her smiling face and bright, open eyes was a far cry from the Sister Claire from moments before. Clair’s sudden switch from a businesswoman persona and into a Betty Davis “Baby Jane” caricature, was something Sammy had only seen at the movies, never in person. The transformation into sudden kindness was too miraculous for Sammy’s liking. Her change was just enough to motivate him to act. Collecting the singles from the table, he thanked Clair for her generosity. After the encounter, Sammy knew precisely what he needed to try and do.

   Shoulders folded in and slouching, completely relaxed now, Clair played with the cubes in her glass, moving them as if caught in a centrifuge. The pain of the last years seemed to follow her everywhere. She recalled with great acuity her very first day inside the walls of St. Monica’s. There was the tonsuring—the ceremonial cutting of the hair—and the “inspection” of all personal items brought into St. Monica’s. When located in a novice’s compact or just a small mirror brought inside by mistake, mirrors were “held” in Mother Superior’s office. The mirrors were taken away so no novice would ever be tempted by their own vanity. The monastery, well hidden in the foothills of Santa Barbra, was a spiritual oasis she’d dreamed of for months before entering.  With each new Entrance Class the traditional rituals were followed: tonsuring, mirrors, and the final symbolic gesture of rebirth, the confession of a Novice’s deepest held secrets. 

  Inside the airy chapel, amid walls crafted from beautiful Italian marble and stained glass, Claire rose from her pew and stepped into the darkness of the confessional box. In front of her, almost invisible in the darkened confessional, from memory Clair knows that a gloomy piece of cloth hiding a wooden sliding door was inches from her face. Clair blessed herself as the wooden divider was pulled back. Through the purple cheese cloth, she could barely make out the silhouette of the priest—an older man wearing what she knew must be a purple stole draped around his neck, a sign of the Seal of Confession. For a novice, times like this, a test in God’s house to see just how honest and worthy they are, were stressful. It was almost impossible to know what to say, and Clair wished that, just this one time, she had prepared her first few sentences. 

“Take your time,” Father Pomis, began.  

Clair took a deep breath, and then, with the palms of her hands sweaty, -she closed her eyes and wanted to blurt out what she was thinking, but couldn’t. Giving it a second try, all that came from her lips was a high-pitched chirp, a squeal really. On her third attempt, and Clair thought that if this one failed, so too had she in her vocation, she finally blurted out what she felt was her most shameful sin. “Almost four months ago, Father, a boy in my high school class, Steve, a football player, kissed me.”

“My child, God intended for us to understand the wonders of the body. Is it not, after all, the same body that He created in His own image? You shouldn’t be ashamed for kissing the young man. No, unless, of course, there is more you are not telling me?”

Lowering her face and blushing scarlet, she continued. “As he was kissing me my body went all loose and limp...And he touched my breast.”

“Sometimes, my child, the truth is delivered in small doses. It is only when we weigh those small portions in their entirety that the fullness of honesty becomes clear to self and others. Now, I am sure the boy touched you quite by accident,” the Priest, wearing a half-smile, answered from the other side.

There was an uneasy silence in the moments that followed, as Clair decided that the genuineness of her vocation, no, her entire life, depended on her ability to be honest at this crucial moment. Feeling exposed by her latest revelation, Claire unconsciously shifted her weight from one knee to the other. “No Father, I moved his hand and allowed him to place it under my sweater.”

“I see. And did it stop there?”

“I didn’t want it to. Each time he moved his hand away, I put it back. I am a whore, aren’t I, Father?  That’s me, isn’t it? A prostitute, a whore, a slut. Yes, I admit it, I enjoyed the feeling of his hand on my breast, caressing it and playing with my hardened nip…I am ashamed, but Father there is more.”

“I understand your distress…”

“His face came closer to my exposed breast. I was excited, gulping air, panting. Then Father, he partly took off my bra; lips began to suckle my bosom, like a newborn. I was euphoric! I did not stop him! His hand then began to caress my other breast. I was delirious. Oh, God forgive me! I felt something, in my...below my...below my skirt, that place between my...my... oh God, my legs. I wanted him to touch there, too.  He tried and I stood up. I pulled my bra and sweater back down. Here is the most sinful part father: I couldn’t stop thinking about him for days afterward. When I was alone, I touched myself. Inappropriately, I mean. And I so enjoyed that, too!”

   With that Clair burst into a fit of crying, the likes of which she expected good Father Pomis had never before heard. Clair’s moan, more of a shriek really, bounced off the marble walls throughout the cavernous church and seemingly to God Himself. The elderly priest quickly blessed himself and exited his side of the confessional. Opening the two half doors that hid Claire on the other side, he found her quivering on the floor, her head resting on the kneeler.  Heaving more with each new lament, her entire body kept perfect tempo, moving to the next intense cry from the young novice.

“Oh, my dear child, Our Lord never asked for pain such as this from you. Let me help you. Now up you, up you go.”  As she stood, with the help of Fr. Pomis guiding Claire by the arm, they faced one another, the forgiver and the forgiven. His gentle eyes coaxed the slightest smile from her, and she wiped the tears from her cheeks. The priest placed his hands onto Claire’s shoulders in an effort to stress his words. Then, with his purple stole still around his neck, Father Pomis raised his right hand as he spoke the words Claire so passionately desired to hear.

“Remittitur tibi peccata tua” or, your sins are forgiven.

Still with his left arm across Claire’s shoulder, Fr Pomis wore a wonderfully disarming expression.

 “You, my dear, cannot serve Our Lord, Our Lord that brought you to this noviciate, from the floor, now can you?”

   Yet, no matter what the understanding Father Pomis offered in the way of counsel, Clair continued to be obsessed with her memory of Steve, and at the same time feel tainted for enjoying the touch of a man and wanting more of that pleasure. On the very last page of her Bible, Claire kept a picture of the football player she had cut from her yearbook. Feeling obsessed with the having to know the picture was still in her Bible, it was the first thing Clair checked upon rising in the morning. In her mind, she was a slut, a whore, and completely unworthy of the love of Jesus. However, in the days, then weeks and ultimately months following the encounter with the football player, Clair found herself drinking, first just a glass of wine in the evening first, then a tot of brandy before bed. With each additional drink came a fresh wave of sensual feelings of the boy-man.

    Closing her eyes, Clair was transported back to that encounter with Steve, her breathing irregular and in brief gasps, her nipples hard, and her position unsteady. By July 25th, one month before entrance day for Clair’s novice class, she celebrated her twenty-first birthday. Drinking only at night and in the privacy of her bedroom, the petite woman was consuming a tall bottle of Baileys Irish Cream before it was lights out. Neither mother nor father suspected the Greek tragedy played out each night under their roof. The day her mother and father drove her to the front gate of Mt. Monica’s Monastery Clair was a full-blown and seemingly unstoppable alcoholic.

    Those first few weeks inside St. Monica’s had been problematic for Clair. Detoxifying her body and soul would have easily broken any other young woman; however, for the determined Clair, it was the love of Jesus Christ htat took her through some hellish nights in absolute silence. Taking away something that her body and mind had partnered secretly and intensely—a highly elevated blood-alcohol content—made rising at 4:00 AM for prayer even more brutal. Determined and controlled in her focus, she was able to purify herself without arousing the suspicion of the other women. This was accomplished over several days of constant, sweating, then vomiting, followed by more sickness and more perspiring. Resting whenever she could, and always keeping a cold, wet compress as close to her as possible, the first seventy-two hours were the worst.   

   Sleep was elusive, at best, for Claire in those first days. In the middle of the night, it seemed, Clair could count on some total and absolute urge to quit, go home, and have a drink. Mother Superior, who had noticed Clair’s unsteadiness, was eventually convinced it was nothing more than a bad case of the flu. Fearful that if seen by a doctor she would be found out and sent home, Clair, not wanting to lie, allowed Mother to guess flu. Clair just didn’t correct her. Cleverly, she hid in plain sight, blending in from the background with all the normal excitement associated with entering a religious life. While everyone else was giddy to learn the new routines, as well as learning the faces and names of those with whom the other novices was sharing this important moment in time, Clair was focused on the nearest bathroom and that damp cloth.

   Remembering an article she once read in Woman’s Day magazine, telling the story of a suburbanite who, rather than be sent off to a hospital, successfully detoxified herself without detection from her skeptical husband, Claire, waking several minutes before the rest of the novices, her undergarments soaked with perspiration, made her way to the bathroom. Once there, safely locked behind the door, she quickly drank a full quart of water tainted with several drops of dishwashing detergent. Immediately nauseous, the hoped-to-be nun vomited violently, over and over until she felt her system was cleansed—for the moment, at least. Finally, once the nausea subsided, she drank sugar water that was supposed to help with tremors and shaking during the day. It was, by any standard, a brutal way to begin the day. However, Claire understood that if she was to be a cloistered sister, taking her vows with the other women in her entrance class, she simply could not sustain the level of drinking she’d grown accustomed to.  It was a sacrifice, her penance for the many vices for which she felt responsible. After five days of this early morning ritual, the old Clair began to emerge and she quickly regained the self-reliance she had once known. Her life was simple again and she loved it that way.

   The regular routine of the monastery was a welcome change for Claire. Returning to a consistent period cycle once again, and eating well for the first time in months, Clair quickly added some needed weight producing a glow and even the occasional smile. Rising each morning before the first light, Novice Clair dressed and prayed, then met the other Sisters in the chapel for Mass. After a light breakfast, orphans from around the city were escorted inside the monastery and to a specially designed series of classrooms. These little scholars were disfigured and discarded, the offspring no one else wanted.  It was the one thing Clair loved most in the word these days, namely, helping those that the world clearly seemed to despise and hate.

   After a full day of teaching letters and sounds, she was, on most days, able to find some time, fifteen to twenty minutes, alone for herself. From her second-floor room, outfitted with only a bed, sink, and a small dresser, Clair gazed down upon rows of beautiful roses in the courtyard and, feeling her entire body begin to relax, a sense of wellbeing spread through her muscles. From her safe perch, Clair felt drawn to her diary, and back to old memories.  She would daydream sometimes, about her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and also, Steve, the football player now long gone, except for the picture in her Bible.

  The garden below, she believed, was the true barometer of how she felt about the world, Christ, her vocation, the Sisters in the monastery, and her weakness for the occasional drink, or three. Every encounter had a season, her vocation with its ups and downs, her like or the perceived passive-aggressive behavior from another nun, and even when the urge to drink or not, as the temptation would ebb and flow through her. This respite in her room, the mental imagery brought on by the absolute beauty below, offered Clair a momentary escape from the walls of St. Monica’s that seemed to hold her more tightly in place these days. Retrieving the leather-bound notebook in which she noted her deepest feelings and thoughts, Claire rummaged through the pages stopping at times to reread what she had written.

January 29, Thursday: “In the dead of winter the sunlight is all too brief. These days are difficult for me in so many ways. Nothing, it seems, brings any happiness to me, even the thought of Our Lord and Savior Jesus. I feel the bottomless loneliness and isolation of my vocation.

 April 17, Friday: It is the fullness of spring now. I feel my step is lighter and my heart filled with hope as I go about performing my chores and duties inside St. Monica’s. Thank God for the change. I am not sure I can tolerate one more winter here. 

June 24, Sunday: As the summer, with all its many delights, has now arrived and the days have grown longer and warmer, I can feel the growth in myself of a holy life lived. This pure posture is necessary, I believe with all my heart, to be a worthy spouse to the Lord. Sleep is difficult in these long days. I spend more and more time alone in garden. Mother Superior has reminded me once again that I should not dwell on my time alone, but should consider myself one of many within these walls.

September 16, Wednesday: Fall has arrived. The leaves have begun to turn, but still, no matter how hard I try to purge the thoughts from my mind, it is the reality of Death that haunts me. I understand now better than ever that, the desolation and emptiness of my yesterdays far overwhelms the enthusiasm and hope of my tomorrows. With the clink of the bell calling everyone to evening prayers, Claire slowly closed the book and held it close to her heart.    

   The jingle and noise of Sammy opening the cash register returned Clair to the darkened bar.   Fixing her stare on Sammy, Clair focused on the bartender’s every move and turn. Her eyes went up as Sammy replaced clean pint glasses to the top shelf, then down as he moved fresh kegs of beer below the bar. He looked up and locked eyes with her. For the first time in Sammy’s experience with the drunken Nun, there was something in her eyes that frightened the burly barman. Never taking his eyes off of her, Sammy walked down to the end of the bar and bent low, pretending to move something around. Removing the phone from its cradle, Sammy thumbed through a small, red address book and, finding the number he needed, began to dial. Hearing the voice on the other end, soft and concerned, gave him a feeling of immediate support. Across the room, Clair, opening her purse, removed the cotton layers covering the gun and shimmied out of the cubical. With her finger wrapped tightly around the trigger, she approached the bar with an eerie look of calm and composure. Standing, his back to Clair, the barman continued on with his call.

“Thanks for taking the call, Mother Superior,” Sammy whispered into the receiver. “I’m sorry I have to bother you, but I thought you’d like to know that Sister Clair has shown up here again.  I ain’t no doctor, Mother, but I’ll bet season tickets that Sister Clair did not come in sober, if you know what I mean. The good news is that she doesn’t seem to remember a thing from the last time and the brouhaha with them two women. I’m guessin’ here, but I’d call it one of them blackouts—a stupor. Soft as a grape she is right now.”

   “Thank you for calling, Samuel,” the delicate voice of Mother Superior answered back. 

“Please Samuel, do me a favor. Keep her there until we arrive. And remember, Samuel, Sister Clair is a very sick woman.” 

Looking up Sammy suddenly found himself eye-to-eye from Clair, only inches away. Maintaining his composure, Sammy continued his conversation.

   “Sure thing. Don’t worry about nothing on this end. The place is slow now, but we’ll certainly keep our end of the bargain.” Unhurriedly, Sammy placed the old black phone receiver back into its cradle.

   “Can I help you with something, Clair?” Sammy asked, with a slight clumsiness in his voice.

“How is it you know my name, Sir?” Claire asked, enunciating each word of her question.

“I, um, I—I don’t really know,” he answered. “I can’t seem to remember where I heard it. I hope I haven’t offended you.”  

   Still eye to eye with Claire, Sammy looked into a face, grotesquely frozen by in place by rage, as drool seeped from her mouth and down her chin.  Her gaze burning with anger and disgust brought to mind the eyes of some demon.  Clair slowly raised the gun and pointed it directly at Sammy. Stunned by the sudden turn of events, the barman could neither breathe nor move. 

  “I am very sorry to be the one to call Perdition down upon this Den of Inequity, but you are an evil man. It is men like you, sin vendors, drink and poison sellers, who peddle your demonic wares to innocent people like me,” Claire pronounced slowly and clearly.

    “You bring forth daily, hourly, and by the minute those heinous liquids behind you. You are Beelzebub himself, the Wicked One. You tempt children and women with your intoxicating substances! You know that already, don’t you, Mr. Barman? But you continue to sin, don’t you? The scum of this Earth—and you must be stopped, now!”

   The front of Sammy’s shirt was now soaked with perspiration, and rivulets of sweat rolled down from his hairline in a steady stream of moisture. Never, in his long history with the bar had a gun been pulled Sammy. Now, hands and legs, in perfect unison, quivered as he closed his eyes and silently prayed the Our Father.

   Behind the barman, reflecting off the bottles and, a single beam of sunlight made its way through the frosted window from across the room. Claire took notice of the light and glanced in the direction of its source. Outside it was nearing dusk, casting an irregular light on the maple trees lining the street. Only a few of the trees retained its summer colors. It was that time of year that Clair hated the most, the fall.

“I cannot judge your soul, and only our Lord Jesus has the capacity to know your heart. Nonetheless, you are a repulsive creature,” Clair continued moving closer to Sammy, as his uncontrolled trembling and shaking became more and more pronounced with each step Clair took.

“The world will be a better place without you,” Sister Clair pronounced as she moved the gun barrel closer and closer to his head.

 Sweat, tears, some fecal incontinence and urine all demanded attention from Sammy before leaving its mark on his clothing and the floor. Samuel Alfredo DeScloreto, “Sammy D” to his friends, in the bar business from the age of nineteen, owner of The Lost Weekend from the age of thirty-three, and a loving and faithful husband to Gina, and now a father of four girls, shuddered as if ready to convulse.

“Yes, you’re immoral and evil, but—but I am sicker and worse than you! I am The Slut of Heaven, the Whore of Hell. May God have absolute mercy on our souls!” 

   With those words, Clair moved the barrel of the gun away from Sammy and placed the opening just below her chin.

“Clicks, one after another,” the tallest of the three remaining patrons reported.

“Goodbye” is what the three other patrons in The Lost Weekend heard.

   Others entering the bar a short time afterward saw only the lifeless body of a woman on the floor. At that very moment time froze inside The Lost Weekend. Not a sound could be heard from anywhere, neither in the bar or outside, the ticking clock ceased its clamor, and even the birds outside, so busy and noisy before, seemed to wait quietly for the resolution of the drama being played out.

   Sister Clair never made it so see Dr.  McLaughlin that afternoon. Had she seen the doctor, he would have explained that Sister Clair suffered from a condition called vasovagal syncope, a heart disorder that causes fainting under stress. 

   However, it seems that Sister Xavier Clair Harrington, that Faithful Servant of Christ, could clearly recall the names and amount of alcohol in each and every drink she ordered and consumed that day—but not the bullets for the gun! Clair's gun, like the life of this poor nun, was empty.

                                                     THE END

That House on Foster Street

                       That House on  Foster Street    

    A late fall day, 1692. The leaves have finished their fall show, and the pumpkins are ready to harvest. A mere 48 miles southwest of Salem, Massachusetts, another unnamed woman is tried by the Puritan code of behavior, and found guilty of witchcraft. Before the hooded henchman pulls the lever, the woman, jet-black hair and raven eyes caresses her pregnant belly. Standing on a levered trap door on an outdoor stage, she smells the tinder dry piles of branches and cut logs, all soaked in oil below her. The burly hangman pulls the noose snugly around the woman’s neck, then grabs her arms roughly, and even more forcefully, binds her hands behind her. Squirming at first, the woman looks down upon the gathered crowd in front of her. The hateful scowls on every face, from an elder’s dark, ruddy look to a young woman with flushed cheeks, left no doubt about the verdict: the woman is undisputedly Satan’s progeny. These good folks, then, have the sacred obligation, yea, a divine charge, to collect vengeance and retribution for the Lord.

   Spitting three times to the south, east and west, nodding her head up and down, the shabbily dressed woman with the dirty face is still bursting with evil enchantment. Snorting like a pig she quickly stops and again looks over the country folk gathered. Silence, long and still, begins to unnerve the awkwardly squirming crowd. The throng gathered in front of the gallows moves uneasily, waiting for the next menacing sound. Those who wanted a good look at Death up close began to inch back. The henchman, still with his hand on the lever, stands ready. From her delicate perch above the trap door, in a raw, raspy voice, the woman speaks:

“I do curse this ground this day that sent me away

Lo, I promise yee this before I burn,

This woman before yee, oh yea! Me and the wee child in me,

I promise someday, curse to yee who see me burn—I shall return!”

   The thick leather gloves that hold the henchman’s hands move the leaver forward, the floor box falls. The woman’s dirty feet dance and dance, then become still. With a flame, the henchman ignites the readied timber below. In the time it takes a shoe to drop, the entire structure is so instantly consumed by flames and smoke that the witch’s body has all but disappeared from sight. 

                              ** *******************************************

About 50 miles Southwest of Salem sits a house at the very end of Foster Street in the town of Pepperell, Massachusetts. Now, Pepperell isn’t a perfect place, but then God never intended perfection to be a part of this life. But like many of the other houses in the neighborhood, the majority built after WWII for returning soldiers, the area has seen several cycles of better days. Gone is the era of cracked paint and caved-in roofs, dusty dirt lawns and pot holes large enough to nearly consume a small car. A sign of the times perhaps, Pepperell draws its largest crowds for the Veterans Day and Fourth of July parades. Everyone, it seemed, had their special spot to watch the parade on the fourth. Sometimes, days before the event, folding chairs would mysteriously appear, a sure indication someone had already staked their claim. And woe be to the person, or policeman, who would dare move someone’s folding marker.

    Susan McCarthy and her friends from the Senior Center of Pepperell always staked out their favorite spots by the police station. Paul Palmer, over from the next town, always stood in front of the old bank to see what surprises the parade might produce for his hometown, Groton, next year. John and Cathy McNabb, standing stoically, out front of John’s old pharmacy, breathed in each whiff of cotton candy and caramelized apples, as if it were their last parade together.

  Now Pepperell, with its modernized ranch houses, a gazebo in the town recreation field for summer concerts, without a single traffic light, is as close to perfection as any town today. On a summer’s eve a visitor quickly takes in the sweet smell of freshly cut grass from the town field, wafting its memorable aroma everywhere; or hears the jingle of an ice cream truck somewhere in the distance, alerting young boys and girls of the delicacy about to arrive. Cub scouts, uniforms starched and pressed, pledge their allegiance to the giant American flag hanging in front of the town hall; the young Dressel doctors, Jennifer and Brian, stroll hand in hand down Main Street. Amid all this is one particular house, a two-bedroom, single-story house with ugly, weathered vinyl siding, missing strips here and there, that is simply impossible to rent. No matter what the price, even free for a caretaker, no one wants any part it. The reasons for not wanting the house vary. But what a young woman told a realtor says it best:

“There is just something creepy about being in there. Even in the middle of the day!” 

“Tell me about it,” replied the realtor. “I always wait outside now and just let people see for themselves. I can say it now, but you’re right. It is creepy. I thought at the very least some folks from the circus would use it for the week. But that little manager—I can never tell the difference between a midget and a dwarf—can you? Well, I was sure he’d use it for something. He was with this very strange woman, kinda weird if you ask me. She was standing in front of the house and, like, spaced out. Almost looked like she was praying, or somethin’. Weird name, too. Miss Suboleo. Sounds hoity-toity you know, European, or like one of those Harvard family names.”

  Now, Pepperell, Massachusetts is pastoral, rural and slow. Sheep are a more common sight than buses in this sleepy hollow. It is not the sort of town anyone would ever associate with expressions such as “odd events,” or “really strange,” and certainly never the use of “evil happenings.” But like a plague with its ability to morph and change, and for reasons understood only to those in the netherworld, the town is already alive with Evil, merciless and immortal.  In “The Aeneid” Virgil himself said, “Facilis decensus averni.” “The descent into Hell is easy.” The good people of Pepperell, Massachusetts, never conceived that it is already too late to stop their downward spiral. 

   The first sign of anything out of the ordinary, Evil’s foot in the front door of Pepperell, begins with Brian Dressel, M.D. Brian, handsome with scruffy hair always a fashion disaster, is a primary care doctor trained in public health. Noticing a pattern with his own patients, then, by means of anecdotal asides with other physicians practicing in town, Brian finds his suspicions ultimately confirmed. There had been no viable pregnancy within the town limits of Pepperell for the last fourteen months.

    Brittany Testa, one of the four Testa girls and the overnight person at Cumberland Farms, was the first; she lost her baby in the back room during her break. Then, sitting in her car in the parking lot at Donalyn’s supermarket, Theresa Sole, already a mother of five, lost hers at six-plus months. No woman made it past that seven-month period and few women saw their pregnancy go beyond three months. Sheila Harrington, a local attorney and State Representative for the area, did her best to see that these “…unusual but unsubstantiated” events remained within the town limits of Pepperell until officials could learn more. Small towns in upper Massachusetts are thick skinned, but the last thing anyone wanted to see was the area being turned into a circus filled with camera-toting tourists.

  In turn, news of this “statistical irregularity” never saw the light of day in either the Globe or especially the Examiner newspapers. The old folks down at the drugstore could regularly be heard whispering their distrust of foreigners.  An invisible, impenetrable wall was in place and, as long as is necessary, the strong-willed residents of Pepperell would see it remained impenetrable. One afternoon, the belief that smarter city folk could put one over on the blue-collar residents was put to the test.

   A reporter from the Washington Post made the mistake of calling on residents to confirm a rumor regarding Pepperell. A nice young man, a cub reporter from the Post, and no older than his late 20s, rang the bell at the McNabb residence. Cathy McNabb, short grey hair and still very fashionable well into her 70s, answered the door that day. Cathy surveyed the young man on her porch and placed the golden rosary she was praying back in its container.

“Yes, may I help you?” asked Cathy in a weak, muted voice.

“Yes, my name is Gerald Egan. I am a reporter for the Washington Post.”

“Yes, answered Cathy, “I am very familiar with it. We do read around here.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Yes” was all Cathy stated.

“Your name, if I could have it, please?” came back the reporter. “I am just trying to get to the bottom of a rumor about Pepperell. Do you think you could help me?”

“I can sure try,” replied Cathy.

“There are reports that something “odd” is going on here with respect to pregnancies. Or I suppose the rumor is that women can’t deliver a baby full term. No pregnancies seem to survive past the sixth month. You know anything about that rumor?” 

Cathy McNabb, seemingly in the middle of a petit mal seizure, looked out in the direction of the trees across the street. Huge oaks were displaying their fall colors, bright oranges and muted reds. But Cathy said nothing.

“You OK, lady?”  inquired the young reporter.

As quickly as she drifted away from the reporter’s questions, Cathy McNabb settled down and looked directly into the eyes of the reporter.

“Where did you attend college, Gerald?” The reporter was put off by the question but decided to play along with the elderly woman.

“York College, in...” and before Gerald could answer Cathy continued.

“Graduate school is to what I was referring to, Gerald.”  Gerald’s shoulders slumped forward tilting his head downward. Deflated by Cathy’s statement, the reporter wanted to go and hide.

“I started for a while. No degree though.” Cathy thought about pulling back on the reporter, but decided that protecting Pepperell was more important than the ego of a city boy.

“So, on my doorstep stands a reporter from a much-respected newspaper. This same person had slightly above average scores on the SAT as well as the GRE, too. Stop me if I am wrong, Gerald. You’re not as young as your boyish looks suggest. And you are still looking for that one big story that will make your editors take notice of you. You’re hunting the Millennial Watergate, aren’t you? But you have not learned the art of the graceful retreat.”

“The what?”

“You realize you’re a potential ‘goat choker’ to them. You’ve come to Pepperell and you have, perhaps, heard of the False Light Law here in the Commonwealth. Let me clue you in, Gerald. The law states that if you write something that is not technically false, but that’s misleading to your readers—tort concerning privacy, Gerald. Have this conversation with your editors Mr. Egan, or in a Massachusetts court room. Now, good day, Mr. Egan.”    

  Resident chitchat regarding the intricacies of why or how was always whispered in soft, hushed tones. The War Room-like discussions are convened only at Charlotte’s Diner, or in front of the Keno screen at the 7-11, the in chairs at Exotic Nails, the mats at Zumba exercise, the booths at Breens’ Diner, or over a glass of white wine at Mariano’s restaurant.

   Emotions surrounding something as personal as a miscarriage left bottled up inside must find expression somewhere. In Pepperell, that frustration transmutes into resentment among the townspeople; it begins with couples who’ve never had children beginning to whisper rumors about those who do.  Nearly overnight, in almost every household, an atmosphere of blame and shame develops around the topic of infertility. Mothers-in-law look askance at daughters-in-laws, unwilling to believe their sons are at fault somehow. Wives and partners begin to suspect some “outside attraction” draining or contaminating their men. Despondent, many women began cocooning inside their homes, buried three quilts deep on their beds with boxes of tissues at the bedside. Still others spend hours at the cemetery, crying well into the night over the graves for the unrealized dreams that died too soon over those fourteen long months.

  With each passing day, houses where everyone had been welcome, friends and newcomers alike, could be heard slamming shut their front doors. One by one, shut tightly, the deadlocks bolted in place, defending those on the inside from the world outside. Day by day, couples ceased even trying for a child. There was no need, the fetus’s future already a fait accompli. Accordingly, an underlying stress on all of Pepperell, slowly but surely, began to take its toll on faithful, intimate relations and long-lasting friendships.

  Not too many exciting things happen in Pepperell. Local housewives time the harvesting of apples by the turning of the leaves, rather than by the pages of their calendars. Disruptions happen in other places, other towns, other countries. Late newspaper deliveries, even ten minutes late, are considered to be a high-water mark for most discord in town. Nonetheless, this perfect bucolic town was about to undergo sudden transformation, from the impeccably manicured to deteriorating overnight. Things began falling apart the evening of the 30^th of October. 

  At 2:00 PM sharp, the leaves on the trees, grass on lawns, pastures not yet taken in—even indoor houseplants all over town—simultaneously wither, shrivel and die. Immediately the Town Manager, Mark Andrews, is alerted by scores of frightened residents lining up outside Town Hall. Within minutes Mark jumped into his car and made the short drive to the town line. Getting out of his car, Mark can only shake his head in total disbelief.  As far as the eye can see, singed remnants of plant life, flourishing moments before, were now blowing away. The landscape of Pepperell is now bare earth, scorched earth, white. 

   Still, in the final triptych of this three-paneled tale of deterioration and ruin, fourteen hours after the vegetation all blackens and dies, as the townspeople stand in groups, asking each other questions that still have no answer. The first animal, a beautiful golden lab owned by a young lawyer and selectman, Melissa Tzanoudakis, lies down, rolls over, and dies at Melissa’s feet. The Harvard trained lawyer, with her son by her side, drops to one knee, blesses herself and the two recite a Hail Mary.

   Within hours, every animal in the town, including all family pets underwent the same fate. From the family chinchilla, the snake in its aquarium, to the cows on the farm, all cease breathing and die with little suffering. The Williams’ golden lab whimpered for a moment then gently curled up at the feet of the youngest daughter, Rosie. The Aldrich’s family rabbit, Einstein, that sometimes had the run of the first floor of their house, rolled onto its side, gave three quick kicks and then went lifeless. That night in Pepperell the children howl, their beloved pets suddenly lifeless. A farmer fallen to his knees, suddenly penniless, sobs like a little boy over a lifeless bull. The howling and wailing reverberates over and over and over through a cloudless sky. The air is filled with the aching din of screams and shrieks. There is even talk of abandoning the town, burning it to the ground and salting the Earth. 

    The traveling circus had long left Pepperell for small towns and cities along the eastern seaboard. Gone were the eerily painted little people of the clowns squeezing into miniature cars; the ten-foot Uncle Sam on stilts, waving the American flag; and the circus Master, with his black polished boots, red, half coat with tails, and top hat.

   Nevertheless, one person failed to accompany them: Miss Suboleo, a woman in her early thirties, a classical beauty with high cheekbones who turned the heads of the town’s men and older boys. Short jet-black hair, gelled, and combed straight back, sets Miss Suboleo apart from all other women. The frequency of her visits increased as the days wore on, and she became so familiar, townspeople assumed she lived in Ayer, or Shirley, or another nearby town. Soon, because her beauty posed no real threat, even if men strained their necks to look at her, Miss Suboleo became just that “odd” woman seen around town from time to time. Hot gusts blew dry, rootless vestiges of dead florae around Miss Suboleo’s feet as she walked determinedly to someplace she seemed late to arrive at.

   She stopped in front of Our Lady of Grace Catholic Church, the only Catholic church for miles. Because the flu had swept through the entire community the previous year, a particular strain that was exceptionally merciless for anyone unlucky enough to contract it, First Communion had to be delayed until October rather than take place during its usual time during the Easter season. In Pepperell, the youngsters prepared to receive the body and blood of Jesus Christ for the first time with the obligatory, requisite seriousness that this glorious event requires. First, however, the soul needs cleaning so the temple is ready for Our Lord’s eventual arrival. This meant today, Saturday morning, was time for all would-be communicants to make their First Confession. Students had prepared for months, memorizing the formula recited at the beginning of each confession: “Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been ____Weeks/days/months since my last confession:

“Proceed my child,” the priest then stated, encouraging the sinner to make a full and honest confession.

“I lied three times. I skipped Mass last Sunday. I stole $.83 from the pocket of my father’s pants,” the penitent revealed.

“How, my child, were you able to remove the $.83 from your father’s pocket?” 

After some thought the adolescent whispered, “He was asleep.”

“How many times have you done this, my child?”

“Since the start of the school year, well, maybe 15 or 20 times.”

 When the youngster making the confession had finished ticking off all transgressions, the priest asked him to make an Act of Contrition. As the penitent recited the Act, the priest said:

 "God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace. And I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

   Sins were forgiven and the soul, the soon-to-be Temple of the Lord, was now ready. With the final class conducted, Fist Confessions completed, all was set for First Communion Sunday the following day, October 31^st. Nonetheless, one student in particular is fretting: Butterfly Jones, whose textured curly hair is cut into a bob, her eyebrows knitted, she is noticeably worried that she’s not ready to receive Our Lord the following day. Miss Elliot, Butterfly’s CCD teacher, noticed that one of her students looked distressed, repeatedly sighing, then tugging and twisting a couple of the unruly curls on her forehead.

  The parish was lucky to find someone with her credentials so late. The scheduled teacher, Mrs. Sullivan, who’d been teaching at Our Lady of Grace for twenty-two years, had been involved in a car terrible one-car accident. She was still day to day at Nashoba Stewart Hospital. Taking Butterfly aside so as not to embarrass her, Miss Elliot addressed her with words brimming with strength and confidence.

“You must allow the Holy Spirit to come into you, Butterfly, because the Spirit never lies. And always remember, Butterfly: The power of Good is mightier than the tricks of the Devil. It is because you don’t feel worthy, Butterfly. We call that ‘humility. Trust me, Our Lord Jesus Christ is counting the minutes until your First Communion.” 

  Miss Elliot’s message made Butterfly shiver and break out in goose pimples. Always dressed in brilliant white cotton outfits buttoned up all the way to the neck, and constantly peering over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses, there was a true purity, a glow of virtuousness, about this CCD teacher. Next, reaching into a large drawer, Miss Elliot removed a FedEx package and placed it on her desk.

   “What is inside this package is my gift to you, class. I am so very proud of every one of you,” she told the class. “Now, this FedEx box contains the 14 smaller boxes,” Miss Elliot explained to her excited students. Her straight dark brown hair was short with rounded edges, a sort of a neo classic style that made the demure religion teacher appear beatific, almost saintly. Butterfly Jones could almost picture a halo around her teacher’s head, like the painting of Saint Theresa that hung in the parish hall.

   “One by one, starting with you Ignatius, you will come up, remove a box, and quietly return to your seat. Once you all have a box, we will open them together. Clear? OK, Ignatius you may proceed.”  The class could hardly contain themselves as they began to ask and answer questions about the content of each box. Miss Elliot counted down, “…5-4-3-2-1 open!”

Everyone opened their boxes. A moment later, every face wore a puzzled, stupefied look. The silence was deafening as if a single atom could be heard falling to the floor.  

    “Well now, I did not anticipate this response, I have to admit,” said Miss Elliot, feigning shock. “Nonetheless, what you have before you is a scapula. In Latin, it means, literally, shoulder blade. Yours is a special type called a Devotional Scapula. It is meant to remind you, the wearer, of your commitment to live a Christian life. More important, some say that wearing a scapula protects you from the Devil himself. You and only you should touch your scapula, as it is your private and personal link to God.”

   For the second time, it was this last little bit regarding protection from Satan that caught everyone’s attention, especially Butterfly’s.  With both First Communion and Halloween the following day, the students were naturally puzzled about how two unique events, one holy and one not, could possibly fall on the same day.  Miss Elliot demonstrated how the two matchbox-size pieces of cloth, held by two strings over the right and left shoulders, allowed the wearer to have part in front and part in the back.

“Each one is different, so don’t compare yours with your neighbor’s. Identify with your neighborhood’s holiness,” she related to her class.

Butterfly was delighted to discover a picture of Our Blessed Mother, her favorite image besides the image of Jesus, of course, on her Scapula.  

   “Oh thank you, Miss Elliot!” she shouted. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! I’ll never take it off. Ever. Thank you again, Miss Elliot.”

   “You are very welcome, Butterfly. Now, class, you will notice that they all arrived in this FedEx package and, I know you can’t see the postmark, but it was sent from Rome, the Vatican, in fact, where the Pope lives. It was sent two days ago, Just in time for your big day tomorrow.”

 The curious children rushed to get closer but Miss Elliot was clear in her message. “You will sit and sit now!” Just as quickly they all scampered back to their chairs. “I’d better not see these sorts of goings on tomorrow! I can tell you that!” Frozen in place, the students barely breathed.

  “Now, I certainly hope you know how much I have enjoyed teaching this particular class,” she said, pausing to smile at each child. “So, before I dismiss you, I have one more surprise. One of the Cardinals in the Vatican has blessed each scapular you hold and now wear. Blessed, one by one for you. And the most important part—are you ready? One of you, someone very lucky and special, has a scapular blessed, specially, by Pope Francis himself!  Not even I know which one. The only way you will know, or any of us will, for that matter, is when Pope Francis sends a brief note to the lucky person. The Vatican has each of your addresses and, please God, one of you will have a special letter on Monday.”

 Out the window Miss Elliot noticed the silhouette of a person looking attentively at the entrance to Our Lady of Grace Catholic Church. For a briefest moment, she believed the shadowy figure looked oddly familiar. Lowering the shades, she looked out one more time, but the person had moved on, and Mill Elliot turned her attention back to the class. She clapped her hands to focus the children’s’ attention, and heads swiveled to the front. 

“Pay attention now and all eyes to the front.  We meet at exactly 8:30 on the side of the church. Get a good night’s sleep and, 5-4-3-2-1 dismissed!”

   Beginning with the first student nearest the door, they filed slowly out of the classroom walking calmly, as they’d been trained to do. One arm’s length apart, always beginning with the right foot first, the students resembled toy soldiers as they paraded out.  On the horizon, dark clouds were churning, building higher and higher with flashes of lightening, and the smell of rain was thick in the air. Their footsteps following a daily route so ingrained in them that it seems worn into the street itself Butterfly and Tommy Ellison walked home together. Standing outside the school, Tommy looked up at the approaching storm.

“Geez, Butterfly. Maybe we should call to be picked up. Look at those clouds. I’ve never seen something as wild looking at what’s coming.”

“Oh nonsense Tommy, don’t be silly. We’ll probably be home by the time the first drop falls. Besides, this way we can talk about making our First Communion. I’m not really sure I’m ready, Tommy. Then again, I don’t really know what ready feels like. How about you?”

  As always, they passed the red house on Foster Street. Butterfly and Tommy didn’t know it, but the neighbors had reported hearing the sounds of talking and laughter coming from inside that vacant house, always beginning at midnight. The events were becoming more regular, and this truly began to unnerve the citizens. The Evensens’, mister and misses, both newly retired cooks in the prison system, were so distressed by the sounds emanating from that house that they took turns being on watch in front of their plate glass window that faced that house. Using binoculars, they kept a journal of what they thought they heard and the time they heard it. Employing a mini-weather station in their back yard, they included everything from wind speed to amount of rainfall on any given night, as well. The couple left nothing to chance, in the event the prankster should be found out, arrested and tried. Experience told them that it didn’t matter what a person knew, it mattered only what they could prove.

   Other neighbors began calling the police instead. But none of the visits of patrol officers, sergeants, a lieutenant, or even the Chief, whether day or night, made any difference. The outcome was always the same: their presence on site caused whatever noises others heard to stop.  They checked the doors and windows and, between weathered and bowed pieces of thick plywood covering the windows, saw the same broken pieces of wooden furniture sitting exactly where they’d been the day before. Even so, the neighbors persisted in their belief that someone, or something, was in the house and what was happening was not good. In turn, volunteers began to spell mister and misses Evenson at their lookout, convinced that vigilance was the only solution to catch the culprits. In addition, other townspeople reported hearing screeches, whether a man’s or woman’s, they weren’t sure. But they heard one voice, definitely a male voice, speaking a in some foreign language. Old soldiers swore they could hear the high-pitched voices of young children, spewing obscenities they hadn’t heard since their days in the army.

   Now, in a small town like Pepperell it isn’t unusual for children to walk home in pairs after nearby events. However, on this night, both sets of parents were alert to the quickly changing weather, and the rising winds growing in strength, shaking and rattling street signs, and nearly blinding those unfortunate enough to be caught in the gusts. Butterfly held tightly to Tommy Ellison’s hand as the two, heading into the wind, bent low and began walking.  As they passed the red house, Butterfly stopped abruptly.

“Gee Butterfly, I think I’m ready. But after talking to you I’m not so sure,” Tommy reported.

“You see that Tommy?” yelled Butterfly, shouting over the whirl of the wind gusts. 

“See what, Butterfly?” asked her companion, holding his papers close to his chest for safety. 

“I thought I saw light coming from inside that house. There it is again. Did you see it this time, Tommy?” screamed Butterfly inches from Tommy’s ear.

   Poor Tommy, head and eyes down, was trying hard to keep the center line in the concrete path below in focus, and could barely make out Butterfly’s words.

“A light? From the creepy house? I think you’re seeing things. Butterfly, I’m starting to get scared.”

Tommy truly did not see any flashing lights because he was working so hard to keep from blowing away. His knitted cap had blown off the block before, and he was afraid of some projectile, part of a tree or a sign, hitting him. Going low with his body so as to be closer to the ground, Tommy Elliot stomped one foot and then the other. After he missed the flashing light a second time, Butterfly looked over and saw just how much distress Tommy was in; she locked arms with her friend as the two trudged home. To Butterfly it just didn’t make sense that, after all this time, someone was actually inside that vacant house.

  Peals of lightening flashed, producing an ear-splitting boom. Huge drops of rain began to fall, pelting the skin driven by frighteningly fast winds. There was no escape from this sudden squall. Another flash and, not more than 50 feet in front of the two, a bolt struck an old oak tree. The tree was split in two, with the heavier part of the trunk falling directly toward Tommy and Butterfly. At the last possible moment, the children found themselves being scooped up in the delicate but strong arms of Miss Elliot. The tree crashed with a deafening explosive bang onto two cars, crushing the roofs and shattering their windshields.

“Come on,” yelled Miss Elliot. “We need to find some shelter—and fast!”

   Through the pelting rain Miss Elliot could see the open door of the red house. The wind and rain lashed directly into the faces of Miss Elliot, Tommy, and Butterfly, blinding them so they were unable to tell what direction they were facing, or what progress they were making. For all intents and purposes, they were this close to becoming part of the storm itself. Locking arms, they gained some foothold against the near hurricane gusts. Their faces wore welts, red, round, and swollen from the never-ending watery assault that was growing in velocity with each step they took. Exhausted and almost ready to quit, Miss Elliot was first through the door, pulling Tommy in quickly behind her. Butterfly was just about to cross the threshold when a burst, a gigantic blast of air blew the wee girl off her feet and away from the doorway. Landing head over heels on what was left of the lawn, Butterfly heard the storm, with all its intensity suddenly ceasing, stopping completely, nearly as quickly as it had begun. Shaken, filthy and crying, she ran home with the speed of an Olympic sprinter.  The 31^st of October, Halloween, should be some kind of First Communion day.

         **************************************************************************

   It is extremely unusual to see anyone, much less a woman, standing beneath an unnatural, eerily diffused street light at 4:00 am in Pepperell. Miss Suboleo, retaining an air of single-minded determination, her face taut like a seaman’s knot, stepped out into the fullness of the light. The night air was still, with only the howl of a lone coyote somewhere in the distance. Miss Suboleo, always in a black Chanel business suit, eyes fixed three feet head and down, began to stroll down Main St. Anyone would think she was mad, and definitely cross the street to avoid her. Not coincidentally, Cathy McNabb herself reported that she had seen this same woman peering from across the street at the boarded-up front door of the house on Foster Street. The peculiar thing was, as far as anyone knew, the house was still just as vacant and mysterious, with all its windows and doors nailed and glued tight, as it had ever been.

    Yet, in an age when an I-Phone camera and audio abilities, so sophisticated and 21^st century, should be a tremendous help in documenting everything from apples to algorithms, sometimes the archaic is best. While children replayed iPhone recordings of the voices, and policemen scrutinized high-definition security footage, searching in vain for proof of the apparitions, it was an old-fashioned Dictaphone that captured the first piece of solid evidence. The Robinson twins, Richie and Reggie, produced the first tangible piece of evidence that more than broken chairs and dishes existed inside the house on Foster Street. The two identical idiots, one wearing a red toupee and the other blonde, covered themselves in garlic, spread holy water on their faces like cologne, and finally crammed their pockets with old holy cards, and scores of sacred medallions encased in waterproof plastic.

   The brothers wore silver crucifixes around their necks, so heavy that Jesus Himself might struggle moving it. One minute after midnight they securely tied off the Dictaphone, checked to make sure the bubble wrap encasing the device was secure, and Reggie (the redhead) reared back and cast the recorder within two feet of a boarded-up window on the side of the house.

  Whatever was inside that house was finally exposed by the town’s laughingstock, the bumbling twin brothers and their fishing gear. Waiting a full ten minutes after the hour just to be safe, the brothers reeled in their catch. Richie stored the gear, battered and scratched, as Reggie turned the recorder on.  The men looked at each other and scratched their heads in disbelief.

“How come all we hear is tires screeching from a high octane vehicle? You tell me that car and roars is all we goanna get?” Shaking his empty head from side to side, Reggie continued, “Well, that’s just not right. No sir, just not right.”

“I’ll bet you that old thing was broken before we tied it off at the end. That was a fine bit of casting, too, brother.”

“Thank you for the fine compliment. I just thought, well, why wouldn’t it work? I still think we’ve gotta take it to Fr. Bob.”

“Roger that,” Reggie confirmed.       

  A few minutes later the twins were pounding on the rectory door of Our Lady of Grace. Early Sunday, the day of First Communion, the wind and rain, and the cries coming from the house had all subsided; all of Pepperell, amid motionless weathervanes and bare-armed trees as stiff as stone, only the whirling of a distant flock of crows disturbed the stillness.

  The twins woke Fr. Robert Portrais, Pastor and Administrator of Our Lady of Grace church. Standing in the parish office foyer, anyone would be impressed by the framed testimonies to the intelligence and integrity of Fr. Bob, as he was known to all. Not only was Fr. Bob a member of Mensa, but as the row of framed newspaper articles reported, a Chess Master, too.

 Fr. Bob not only spoke the language of his Portuguese parents, but Spanish and Italian, too. For good measure, and a necessity for anyone doing serious biblical scholarship, Fr. Bob was more than proficient in biblical Greek and Latin, The twins sat with Fr. Bob and played the recording they made that night. When the tape finally concluded, all the good priest could do was grin and politely chuckle.

“Tell me again when you recorded this?” he asked, now serious again.

 “We heard the laughing one night and decided we’d do what the rest of Pepperell seems ascared to do. So, Richie gets hold of this good but old Dictaphone and I grab my rod and reel. Quiet as anything, we were. We takes off our shoes so as just to be sure, and then my brother Reggie lets off with the perfect cast. The thing lands this far from the dang window, Father.”

“Well, I would have to listen to it again, but I think someone has played a pretty good practical joke on you two,” replied the priest.

“Why you say that, Father?” Richie shot back.

“That’s impossible,” said Reggie, defending his brother. “We know what we heard, where we were and what we did. T’aint no joke, Father.”

“OK, like I say, I’d have to go back and listen to it a few more times, but, what I heard was, ah, someone yelling insults at you in several languages.”

“Na, you heard it same as us, Father. Those were tire screeches and maybe kids’ voices.”

“I‘d like to borrow it for a few days and play it for the Cardinal. Would that be OK with the two of you?”

“Why heck yes. Cardinal Sean O’Malley gonna listen to our tape, Father? Keep it as long as you ‘all need. Cardinal O’Malley, no shit! Oh, sorry there Father.”

“I will call you if I learn anything new. But for the moment let’s just keep this between ourselves boys, shall we? I wouldn’t want to get people more riled up. Agreed?”

Father Bob swiveled his chair, stood and walked the twins to the door. “Remember now, just between us. OK?”

 Allowing the heavy oak door to close lightly behind him, Father Bob sinks wearily into his heavy leather desk chair, watching motes of dust swirl around him in the morning sunlight as he as if he were recreating the scene of an accident in his head.  Pulling his I-phone from its cradle, he reminded himself again that he was sure whose voice was on the tape. It was the “voice” that was so problematic for Father Bob. For that voice, so unmistakably gravelly shrill and deep. so, distinctive as never to be mistaken—even when the owner of that voice was alive. Yes, problematic. 

   Early October 31^th, Sunday, continued to be unseasonably warm. Townsfolk stepped into the warm morning air, then ducked back inside their houses wearing smiles of pleasant surprise to leave their thick sweaters behind.  Inside Cardinal O’Malley’s office, the Cardinal and Father Bob leaned closely over the Dictaphone on Father Bob’s desk, their fingers knotted and brows furrowed in concentration. Over and over, then over again, through a battery change, they listened to the sounds on the tape. Father Bob suddenly leaps up and hurls the Dictaphone across the room, screaming, ‘I can’t take another second of this!’”

 “Not, now Bob. Settle down. Frankly, I find it difficult to believe. But I also heard what sounds like his voice, what he’s saying, and it’s clear to whom he is directing his tirade. Of course, I will report this to our Vatican liaison.”

The silence was deep and prolonged.  The two men glared at each other across the table, above mugs of coffee long gone cold. Father Bob cracked his knuckles nervously, until at last he broke the silence.

“What would you have me do, your Eminence?” Father Bob politely asked, still looking for the validation he so desperately sought. 

“You reported him. I removed him. Rome defrocked him. But the former Father Nicholas Herzberger did, by his choosing, hang himself. What would I have you do? Something like this can be—no—it is quite upsetting. Pray for insight into where God is in all this, Bob. We’ll speak again after your First Communion Mass. Now, do your best. Everyone is relying on your A-Game from here on out.” 

            ************************************************************************

   When Tommy Ellison never made it home, the good people of Pepperell, helped along by the gossipy telephone network, began to panic. There were repeated calls to the small room rented by Miss Elliot, and several burly men knocked, pounded, and beat on her door, all to no avail. Like Tommy Ellison, Miss Elliot was also assumed to be somewhere near where she’d been seen last, namely, the boarded-up house on Foster Street. As the sky began growing light, ushering in October 31^st, Butterfly Jones was already up and dressed in her white faux-lace communion attire, complete with crown and veil, a vision of holy innocence ready to receive the body of Christ for the first time.

   Outside, Tommy Ellison’s mom and dad were frantically calling out their son’s name, eventually making their way to the red house. Several hundred of the townspeople had gathered to join the search for Tommy and Miss Elliot. There was no need for billboards: this AMBER ALERT moved quicker than liquid mercury down a polished slide. News of a young boy missing and last seen in the company of his female teacher does not take long to hit the AP wire service. Soon the set lights of the commercial and cable television channels dotted Main Street. The squeal of multiple sirens, all rushing to the scene simultaneously, created a nearly unbearable cacophony of warnings. As reporters gave live updates, first responders, fire department, state and local police got to work at gaining entrance to the house.

“…and 5-4-3-2-1 you’re clear,” said a man, a television producer, counting the moments down to a woman holding a microphone, the on-air talent.

“That was terrific. But when we go live again, see if you can include anything about a reward being offered” he said to the woman. Then, looking around, the producer shouted, “Anyone know if there is a reward for the kid?”

No reply.

   Using the Jaws of Life, along with axes and whatever other tools they could lay their hands on, the rescuers tried to gain a toehold to the house. Skilled at every type of rescue imaginable, these men and women were frustrated at their inability to make even a small dent in the structure.

“Is this some sort of a joke?” yelled one rescuer to a man using a chain saw. “What is this crap made of, titanium?”

   Standing with her mother, Butterfly watched the action unfold in front of her. Exasperated, the Fire Chief, Toby Tyler, a large man who carries a distended gut from too much eating and too little exercise, located Butterfly and knelt so he was the same size as the small girl. 

“Butterfly,” began the Chief. “That’s a very unusual name, now, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is, thank God,” retorted a very unimpressed Butterfly. “You are not a happy man, are you, Chief? Tyler.”

“No, I’m not, Butterfly. And would you like to know why?”

“No thank you, Chief, because I already know.”

“You do? Can you tell me, then?”

“I believe you know why already, Chief Tyler, but yes, I can tell you. Looks like I’m the only one who saw Tommy go into that house with Miss Elliot.”

“Yes, you are, Butterfly.”

“And so far, no one has seen them come out either, correct?”

“Correct again, Butterfly.”

“But you haven’t found Tommy yet, or seen a strange woman, have you?”

 Chief Tyler was thrown off by his star witness’s answer.  “No, Butterfly, no one has seen Tommy or any woman,” he replied, slowly and deliberately.

Hearing Butterfly’s answer, the Chief of Police, David Scott, pushed his way through the crowd. Chief Scott knelt by Butterfly’s side as well and composed himself before speaking.

“Now, Butterfly, you said before that a Miss Elliot took Tommy into the house, didn’t you?”

“Yes I did, Chief Scott.”

“Now, you have me thinking there are two women,” Chief Scott answered, beginning to question what he’d just heard Butterfly say. The Chief decided to ask his diminutive witness the question again, but this time in a different way. 

“Butterfly, are there two women or one woman? You understand the difference?”

“’Yes Chief. I do, in fact, know how to count, believe it or not. Now, so you understand, Miss Elliot took Tommy and one woman spoke to me.”

“So there are two women?”

“’Yes, Chief Scott, that’s what I said. You are listening to me, aren’t you? Two women. Miss Elliot is a woman too, I believe.”

“One woman is inside with Tommy, and where is the other woman, Butterfly?” asked the Chief, his eyes widening with the realization that he was finally onto something.

“She went back to Heaven, I suppose.”

Once again Butterfly answered in a way that had the Chief frustrated. Slapping his forehead in desperation, the Chief stood and looked around at all the effort and work being directed toward locating the Elliot boy and his religion teacher. He looked down into the eyes of a very unapologetic Butterfly.

“And you expect all these men and women, who brought all these tools and all these trucks, to believe you, Butterfly? You think you saw him enter the house with Miss Elliot and now some other strange woman is also helping you?”

“Of course not, Chief. I don’t expect them all to just believe just me. I expect them to believe because it’s true.”

And the moment Butterfly finished speaking to the Chief she removed the front part of her scapular from under her shirt. She kissed the image, placed it back under her shirt, and set back into the thick of the crowd to look for her mother.  Surrounded by people much taller than she, Butterfly seemed to be completely swallowed up by the multitude of limbs, feet, crutches, and legs all attached to the workers and support people now occupying every square inch of Foster Street. Dodging in and out of the way of the variety of appendages, Butterfly grabbed hold of a pant leg here, a skirt there and, like a little hairless chimp swinging through the vines, navigated through the throng of helpers. For a moment completely disoriented, at long last, Butterfly spotted her mother’s yellow khakis.

   Butterfly’s parents, standing back to back, shoulder to shoulder, frantically search the horizons for her. Adults, some taller than others and all looking exhausted, was all they could see. At seventy-six, Velma Klatca was the Daylight Detective of Pepperell. Velma’s fluorescent pill hat was almost impossible to miss. Lewis Lund, always in his construction clothes, would never be mistaken for anything but a heavy equipment operator. Tracey Enzzio, town pharmacist, practically slept in her white medical coat, some say. The broad shoulders of John McNabb displayed the look of a man who had helped one too many people in Pepperell. Feeling a pull on her pant leg, Butterfly’s mother looked down from the horizon, somewhat annoyed by the interruption, only to find her daughter looking up at her with a two-teeth missing smile.

 “Please Butterfly, promise me you will stay by my side! Your father and I have been worried sick.”

“Did I do something wrong?” asked Butterfly, nervously nibbling a fingernail.

“No, you didn’t,” her mother quickly replied, hugging Butterfly tightly, with warm tears rising in her eyes.

   Arms crossed, scowling, and stomping her foot, annoyed by her inability to see everyone working on entering that house, Butterfly once again left the safety of her mother’s arms and edged closer and closer to the front of the crowd. Drawn by what she believed was simple curiosity, the pint-sized soon-to-be Communicant moved closer to the front door that, mysteriously, seemed to shine with some strange inner light. Pulling her way to the crowd’s innermost ring, Butterfly noticed the slightest sliver of light around the door jam. Fixated on the light, Butterfly Jones, in a daze, walked slowly past the rescue workers and onto the front stoop.

   “Oh, dear God! Someone please stop her!” yelled Butterfly’s mother, in a voice so powerful it muted all other sounds around her. Too far away to stop her daughter, the mother’s panic was picked up by another woman, much closer to Butterfly on the stoop directly in front of the door.

 “Butterfly, if you walk into that house you understand that it’ll break your mother’s heart, don’t you?” the woman began, cautiously approaching the little girl.

“Besides that, now that you know walking into that house will pain your mother and father greatly, that is something that you will have to confess to Father Bob.  Think about it. You will not be honoring your mother, Butterfly. The fourth commandment, remember?”

The woman certainly sounded sincere and convincing. Nevertheless, Butterfly Jones was so determined that had Pope Francis himself walked up to her and asked her to turn around to the safety of her parents would have been unable to convince her to do anything but what was in her heart.

   Placing her hand on the doorknob, Butterfly heard a uniform gasp from the onlookers, then an ear-rending shriek that seemed to crack the sky, sending flocks of birds fluttering from the rooftops in a panic. Shouts, yells, screams, howls, cries, yatters and yaps all blended into a cacophony of pleads, begs and supplication as Butterfly opened the door and took a step. Police, agents, responders, and firefighters all rushed to the open door to grab Butterfly. No sooner was she within the grasp of a responder than suddenly, she was simply not there.

All anyone could report was that they saw the last shred of Butterfly’s white dress disappear inside the house and the door slam shut behind her.  

   Suddenly surrounded by darkness everywhere, Butterfly strained her ears for the slightest sound, but heard only the soft rushing of blood behind her ears. She stretched out her hands in search of something solid, but felt only cool, soft wind against her skin. Furthermore, she was surprised at just how dark it was. She could’ve sworn, just moments before, from the outside, that the house’s windows were missing too many slats for it to be dark on the inside. Nonetheless, the dark was no ordinary darkness, but a blackness dripping with gloom. She couldn’t say how she knew, but she sensed a cold hatred, darker than the darkness itself, emanating from just inches in front of her.  The feeling was unsettling and, wrapping her hands around her bare arms, Butterfly felt the flesh breaking out in goose bumps.

   Even the room itself now carried with it an alien silence, blackness beyond blackness that blotted out even that pinwheel of colors that always dance behind closed eyes. The room was absent of any light at all. Yet, somehow, Butterfly Jones was absolutely certain that the Evil, threatening energy had moved. To the slightly built girl, it felt as though the ominous entity was directly to the right of the front door—the same door she’d willingly entered moments before. Oddly, Butterfly believed she could hear a serene melody played on a harp, and was enchanted, not afraid, but suddenly charmed by the Darkness.  Something overwhelming stirred inside Butterfly, tempting her to get closer to the Wickedness hiding in the corner.  

  She was drawn to something sadistic and fierce that created a desire inside her to taste, if even for a moment, the sweetness of some Dark, fiendish fruit. The smell of ripe strawberries, so sweet she could taste it, filled the black air everywhere. Then the rich, distinct taste of chocolate chip cookies suddenly awakened her taste buds. Spellbound, she inched toward the Darkness in the corner.

“Please, don’t move from me whoever you are. Stay there,” whispered Butterfly. “I am coming to you.”

   Moving closer and closer toward the Darkness Butterfly Jones abandoned her reason for being in the room—to help Tommy Ellison. All she wanted was more of the buttery-sweet taste.  Small beads of sweat begin to appear on her forehead. Quickly those beads become rivulets of moisture running freely downward. Soaked up by the t-shirt she wore under her lace dress, it was only when a drip landed in a place most unexpected that coincidence became destiny.

   Finding its way past a variety of clothing obstacles, Butterfly’s sweat trickled down onto her scapular. Divine intervention played its part. Whatever the reason, the now wet cloth produced a burning sensation so painful that Butterfly was suddenly forced to reach for the red-hot scapular. Butterfly quickly pulled it from under her dress, and as she did so, she felt the lure of the Darkness by the door begin to subtly diminish. The smells, so clear and enticing just moments before vanished without a trace.

   Once in her hand, the holy cloth that only moments before seared her skin was now cool and soothing to the touch. Unable to see the sacred fabric, Butterfly gently caressed the scapular, rolling it back and forth between her thumb and index finger. As she does, the mint toothpaste she used hours before slowly replaces the scrumptious chocolate chip cookie flavor she pursued. The odor of rotting timbers and urine fills Butterfly’s nostrils, replacing the fragrance of sweet strawberry preserves she’d drawn in with enthusiasm. As if awaking from sleep, Butterfly, again sensing the Darkness, gently but deliberately moved away until she could no longer feel its enticing pull. Energized by the thought of finding Tommy, Butterfly turned her back on the darkness and called out to Tommy with a clear voice.

“Tommy, are you in here?  Please, answer me. Please. It’s me, Butterfly. Are you OK? Can you hear me?”

   Straining her ears for any sound besides the thumping of her own heart, Butterfly can feel Wickedness moving from its lair in the corner and headed where she knows not. Nonetheless, by way of following the appalling odor she senses that whatever or whoever it is has chosen to move. Exasperated at first then unexpectedly infuriated, grunting in frustration, she felt her fists clench as anger rose in her chest, Butterfly had had her fill of all the moving, morphing, and theatrics of this lurking Darkness. Angry, she acted before thinking, using language till now foreign to her.

“Now, at this instant, as part of the flow of what God has set in motion, I call upon you, I challenge you, I command you Darkness, in the name of God, His Son, Jesus the Christ, and the Spirit that guides and lights the way for us, to show yourself in all your fullness now. Do you hear me? —now!”

In reply, she heard only the pounding of her own heart.

   Sensing something revolting no more than the thickness of a toothpick away from her face, she felt its breath roll down her neck. The breath is warm—nearly hot—and with a thick, sharp smell, like rotting fruit on a muggy summer’s day; like the time her family’s septic tank burst and flooded the backyard. For the second time, Butterfly doubted her daring and boldness in coming into that house alone. Then a second wave of stench washed over her, a putrid amalgam of decaying flesh, vomit, and human excrement, growing stronger or weaker depending where Miss Butterfly sensed the threat was in that moment. 

“Tommy?” Butterfly called out tentatively in a faint voice. “Please, answer me. Are you there?”

   Stretching her hands out in front of her, Butterfly began awkwardly groping her way through the dark rooms.  Hands flailing, she felt her foot meet something solid, but what was it? She gasped, eyes widening in fear. Forcing herself to kneel and reach out a hand, she grasped first a tennis shoe, then a pant leg and, finally, felt a nose, hair, and ears. Butterfly screamed at what she believed was Tommy Ellison

“Oh God! Tommy! What did they do to you?”

Resting on an old, iron-framed bed left over from tenants long gone, on a paper-thin mattress supported by rusted coils, Tommy peered out at Butterfly from beneath a well-worn blanket pulled up to his nose. Chains, with several feet of slack, held Tommy’s ankles to the corners at the foot of the bed. His reddened, startled eyes darted to the right. From that corner by the door Miss Elliot, the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth First Communion Teacher, walked out under a beam of light finally entering through the ceiling.

“Surprise!” crowed Miss Elliot. “Butterfly, you little piece of shit.”

“Miss Elliot?”

“I’ve waited quite a while for this moment, Miss holier-than-thou. Forgive my bad manners. Let me introduce someone else to you. He’s been taking care of Tommy while we waited for you. He’s dying to meet you.”

   Nicholas Herzberger, the former priest, the long dead pedophile priest, emerged from the shadows wearing his formal clerical dress, complete with French cuffs. Herzberger was well over six feet tall, razor thin, and his long, drawn face was whitish, highlighting his pasty complexion. Lighting a filterless cigarette, he looked to Tommy before dramatically blowing out the match.  There was more light now, much of it coming from the tireless efforts of the first responders to cut through the exterior walls. Despite nearly a full company of responders using acid, hydraulic Jaws of Life, and sharpened axes to break through the walls, they had little to show for their effort.  It was as if some invisible, impenetrable dome formed around the house was protecting all its inhabitants.

     Nicholas Herzberger, flicks the cigarette onto Tommy’s bed; it smolders as Tommy’s eyes dart between Miss Elliot and Herzberger. Then Herzberger nods toward Tommy. Immediately, and still horizontal, Tommy begins to ascend, rising from the bed, tethered to it only by the chains around his ankles.  The young boy comes to a stop, hovering nearly three feet above the now glowing blanket below.

“We’ve never met either little girl,” Herzberger creeps slowly, catlike, across the half-rotten floorboards toward Butterfly until his face hovers inches from hers. His putrid breath makes Butterfly gag. She turns her head to the side and takes in purer air.   

 “Now, I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about, no? Well, let me break it down so a simple little pig like you can understand. You have something that I very much need. Something you’ll happily hand over to me in a moment, of your own volition. That something is your scapular. But it is the why, the why—always the why is what people demand to know.”

Butterfly stands firm and locks eyes with Herzberger. A thumb’s length separates the two frozen expressions of Butterfly and the ghostly Herzberger.

“Many, many years ago, on this very spot, you little animal, a woman of great significance from where I originate, your Miss Elliot, was identified as demonic, hung and burned. It was such an ugly scene really, with the smell of burning flesh, a baby, not yet born, burning, the smell wafting out to the onlookers and inhaled by your disgusting ancestors. That’s the why!”

“I don’t understand why you have to hurt Tommy though, if it’s just my scapular you want. Now, if you promise Tommy will be OK, Miss Elliot can just have this stupid ole scapular. Deal?”

“"Puer Satanae amisso Deo denuo renatus fuerit. Sed inter spiritus beatae arma Romani Pontificis.’ Do you know what that means, piglet?’”

“No, I don’t.”

“‘A child of Satan, lost to God, will be reborn again. But only between the breath of a Pope and Blessed Mother’s arms.’  You possess that key, in cloth, around your neck. That child, spawned by me, will again find life, as it almost did all those years ago. Now, do exactly what I say. Place the scapular around the neck of my bride, Miss Elliot.”

“OK. But it won’t mean anything, because you didn’t spit and swear on it.”

 “What-did-you-say-to-me? ‘Spit and swear?’” demanded Herzberger, now furious. “Now, the scapular and Miss Elliot! The longer you wait, the more Thomas will suffer for your delay.”

   Wearing only his underwear, Tommy remained floating above the small flames that had begun rising from the embers from Herzberger’s cigarette. At Tommy’s ankles, just above where the chains are fixed, the skin began to roll up, exposing bloody, raw tissue. Tommy screamed and cried in a high-pitched squeal, turning and twisting in the air as the smoke from the flames scorched and blackened the raw flesh. Her poor friend’s anguish was too much for Butterfly. She tried to cover her ears but her arms were as stiff and unbending as pencils.

Tommy gazed down at his failed helper, and, removing her scapular, Butterfly cupped the holy cloth in the middle of her hands.

“Stop it please! Please stop hurting him!” she screamed, tears pouring down her cheeks.    

******************************************************************************

   Outside, hundreds and hundreds of curious Pepperell townspeople gathered, some to offer help. Boys Tommy’s age carried cardboard boxes filled with freshly made sandwiches, and distributed them to anyone hungry. Older girls carried freshly iced bottled water for the workers, while others poured hearty mugs of newly tapped apple cider. From the farthest ring of the crowd, the townspeople of Pepperell, all the way to Pleasant Street two blocks away were responding to a disruption, a commotion of some sort that moved with confidence through the multitude on Main Street. Never stopping, the force formed an invisible “V,” pushing the crowd aside as it navigated the corner, heading due south on Foster Street. This powerful dynamism came to a sudden stop. Then, just as oddly as she once appeared on the streets of Pepperell, Miss Suboleo stepped under the yellow police tape. Locating the first important looking, uniformed person she could find, Miss Suboleo walked directly up to a Massachusetts State trooper and read his nametag. The trooper was talking on his cell phone, wearing a pained look of concern.

   “You, Sergeant…Williams. Who’s in charge here?” she asked.

“I withdraw my question. So Sergeant, who should I tell to stop all this nonsense so I can go inside?”

“Lady, look, ‘m not sure what cult you’re with but, neither man, God, nor beast is getting inside that house. Guaranteed. Now, other side of the yellow tape, please.”

Refusing to budge, Miss Suboleo stood firm as if she hadn’t hear a word the big trooper had spoken.   Sergeant Williams was clearly taken aback by her presence. Looking down at her, Williams found himself mystified by this confrontational woman dressed in blindingly white silk clothes: silk pants, white shoes, and a blouse with a train like a wedding gown’s that flowed freely behind her without ever getting soiled or dusty. Miss Suboleo placed one finger on the bridge of her nose and considered her next sentence.

“Yes…I see….”

“You see what, lady? And I’m not going to ask you again to move,” the big sergeant replied.

“It took me a moment but, Sergeant Williams—Gary—things here are almost under control—or they will be soon. Completely. Now, you will tell your captain over there that, clearly, you are not feeling well. You will drive home and help Donna with your daughter. April is sick, very sick and she’ll remain that way for three more days. After that, Gary, I believe she will be fine. From Wednesday on, April will bring you and Donna years and years of happiness. Do you understand what I just said?”

 “Then you tell me how could you could possibly know nothing three minutes ago and now, now you seem to know everything about me and my family? How is that possible, lady? You worry me. I want to see some ID, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

“The ‘how’ is never really that mystifying, Gary. It is always the ‘why’ that people want to know. O.K., we’ll do it your way. In seven seconds you’ll begin to feel nauseous, sickly, and you’ll break out in a sweat. Now, 4-3-2-1.

Gray’s knees begin to buckle. He caught himself on a State cruiser at the last minute.

“Not feeling all that well, are you? There is your Captain and now you know what to say. Get on with you and, oh yes, stop and get some milk, too.”

Looking determined now the task was finally complete, Miss Suboleo made her way to the front door unimpeded. She stopped and turned back to issue one remaining order. “Gary, you’re buying milk, just milk. No need for cigarettes since you just quit, Gary. And no cheating, you hear me?”

  The big Sargeant stood, eyes wide and mouth agape, as Miss Suboleo, her white robes flowing but never touching the ground, glided past everyone and onto the three steps leading to the front door.

   This ghostly, translucent apparition passed by the rescuers. Just as Butterfly had done hours before, Miss Suboleo placed her hand on the rusted front door knob and turned it. No one reacted as she entered the house. Sergeant Williams could only shake his head in disbelief. . With ax in hand, a rescue worker, one of the three working on the door, passed the massive Sergeant. Williams grabbed the exhausted woman by the arm.

“Why didn’t you stop that woman before she went into the house, huh?”

“No one went into the house. What woman are you talking about?” asked the rescuer.

“The woman in the white gown. She passed right by you on the porch. You didn’t see her?”

“How many hours have been on?” she asked Williams. Williams’ eyes searched the crowd for the woman. The rescuer grabbed hold of his face, pulling it low again to meet hers. “I’m talking to you. You done more than sixteen straight?”

 “No, you’re right,” said Williams. “I need to go home. I can see the Captain from here. I…I do need to go home.”  

   Mary didn’t have to wait long for her eyes to adjust to the sudden shift in light. Finding herself on the other side of the door, she kept her gaze fixed on the drama before her. Like a big cat ready to take down animals that sprint for survival, Mary had her eyes on the weakest of the four, Tommy, floating above the others. Mary, still with her brilliantly white train following closely behind, made a beeline for Tommy. From young Butterfly’s perspective, the view was quite different.  One moment she saw four people, and then, suddenly, there were five. This Mary, it seemed, could be anywhere and nowhere at the exact same moment. Without warning Mary was standing by Butterfly’s side.

   “You need to decide if you really want to give that to them or not, Butterfly,” Mary asked a much-startled Butterfly.

   Butterfly shrieked, seeing Mary suddenly appear. Hand over her heart she calmed herself until she felt ready to resume. Then, her hand over her heart, she mimicked what she had seen older people do when they were frightened. Calming herself, she felt ready to resume.

   “You really scared me, you know. Please don’t sneak up on me again. Who…who are you? And how did you get in here?”  Butterfly asked with a wry half-smile. “Are you one of them?”

   “No sweetie. I’m here to take you home.”

 “Like Hell you are!” burst forth from the pasty white, defrocked priest.

Mary moved a few steps closer to Herzberger and his bride. The corner of Herzberger’s lips rose into a sneer at the newest arrival. He sized her up and down. “You couldn’t put me away before, you skank, and now you think you’re God Himself and will finish a job you screwed up before? You and this little blob of excrement, eh?”

  Mary carefully pondered what she was about to say to Herzberger. “No, no I don’t think I’m God—but you certainly do. Yes, it did take me a while; I’ll grant you that. But you knew I’d find you eventually. You can’t possibly conceal the stomach-churning stench that comes from you. Now, I have my instructions.”

The woman in white turned her back on the Devil and focused solely on Tommy. No one moved or uttered a word as the boy, still suffering, floated back onto the bed. Looking askance, Mary twirled back to Satan and his bride, Miss Elliot. She fixed her angry gaze on her nemesis and, for the first time, Miss Elliot and Herzberger, the Satan were perceptibly nervous, agitated in a way that seemed to grow more recognizable with each passing moment,

   “Now, mark my words and listen carefully to every word. I will not repeat myself,” Mary advised Herzberger and Miss Elliot.

“Am I supposed to somehow be afraid of you and your shallow little periculum?” the Devil asked in a voice that rose as he spoke.  

“No, I don’t expect you and your girlfriend to be frightened. I do expect you two to be returned to Hell shortly though. Listen to me: Both children are walking out of here fully restored. And you and this poor excuse for a morph, well, as I said, I do know where you’ll be having lunch in a short while.”

  Mockingly, the Devil slowly clapped his hands, applauding Mary. “Congratulations. You found me. Wow, I can only imagine the great difficulty that entailed.  Oh, I nearly forgot. You lowered the little piece of dung back onto his soon-to-be deathbed. But from where I stand and our history, such as it is, I’d say you’ve exhausted your little bag of tricks.”

   Herzberger turned, standing directly beside Butterfly, enraged by the delay Mary’s presence had caused him. Mary stood at an equal distance to the other side of Butterfly. After all the screaming and shouting, the silence now had Butterfly nervously twirling the ends of her hair.  Butterfly considered the room: the broken and aged furniture, Tommy, eyes closed and breathing deeply,  and Miss Elliot, eyes downcast, her face relaxed and eerily serene. The quiet was suddenly interrupted when the Devil himself, Nicholas Herzberger, turned his fury and rage on Butterfly.  

 “I ask you, But-ter-ball,,.” Herzberger began in a long, slow drawl. “Would you like me to resume where I left off on little Tommy? I am going to assume that you, being such a good little girl, don’t want to see what I have in store. He still has a great deal of life left in him. But I’ll tell you what. He’ll experience pain like never before. It is completely up to you. His life is in your hands.”

Butterfly looked toward Tommy, sleeping so peacefully.  Still clutching the scapular, Butterfly looked to Mary for reassurance or help, anything to tell her she was doing the right thing. For her part, Mary said nothing, her face bearing an untroubled look. She appeared detached from the conundrum before Butterfly.

“I never did like this old scapular anyway. Always feels scratchy on my back. It’s silly for me to give it to Miss Elliot. Why don’t you just take it and give it to her? She’s your girlfriend. Why must I do it?”

Hours before, Butterfly Jones was up at first light, ready and dressed for her important day. Now, this gifted girl, the top of her class, appeared more than willing to sacrifice some old piece of cloth blessed by Pope Francis in exchange for the life of her best friend. The Devil-priest ordered Miss Elliot to move closer to Butterfly.

“I want you directly in front of this little dog, so she can place the scapular directly over your head.” Miss Elliot, no longer resembling the fresh-faced first communion teacher, moved as she was told.

“Now, I want you, Tommy’s little slutty friend, to place the scapular over the shoulders of my mother-to-be and arrange the front so it is directly above her heart. That should not be too difficult for a perverted little primate like you. I am going to count to three, Butterfly, and if you hear me say three, the next sound you’ll hear, one to linger forever in your memory.

“Look, I told you I don’t even want it. But you want it. So here, take it.” Butterfly shouted angrily, moving from between the two women to place the cloth directly into his palm. Instantly, Butterfly heard a sound like bacon sizzling in a heavy pan, and then breathed in a smell so powerfully putrid that when the stink of hissing, blistering flesh reached her nose, she immediately fainted.

 Stunned, Herzberger staggered toward Miss Elliot. “Get this thing off my hand! Now! Now, do you hear me?” he screamed at her, but, still in a sort of trance, the woman walked toward him at glacial speed. All the while the Satan-Herzberger, now writhing in agony and uttering loud, anguished screams, struggled to pull the scapular off with his teeth.

“Wake her up. Now! She can remove it. Wake her!” he once again screamed to Miss Elliot. But there was no need to wake Butterfly, who was opening her eyes on her own, placing her shirt over her nose to block out the thick stench.

“You little lying bitch. You knew exactly what you were doing all along, didn’t you?”

Butterfly, now wearing a smile for the first time all day, moved toward the Devil-priest. “Here, I take it back.” Rather than removing the blessed cloth from the scorching, searing palm of Evil’s hand, she reached out and grasped his hand firmly, intent on holding it with a white-knuckled death grip. 

“What are you doing? Let go of my hand, you little maggot.

Mary’s eyes, immediately attentive, grew as wide as saucers. Still, she hesitated to help Butterfly. Like a rodeo cowgirl caught on a bucking bull, Butterfly bucked and swung in circles around the Evil One—but never let up her death grip. Finally, sensing the perfect moment had arrived, Mary now crept closer to the bucking Butterfly. Firmly holding Butterfly’s free arm, Mary stared directly into the eyes of Evil.

“I am sure you have heard the chapter and verse from Matthew, 18:20: For where two or three have gathered together in My name, I am there in their midst."

At that moment, Mary grabbed hold of Butterfly’s arm. As she did, the clatters and clangs coming from the Devil shook the walls, thundering and screeching in Butterfly’s ears. This time it was Mary’s turn. She removed her own scapular, placed it directly on the forehead of the Evil One and declared: “For where two or three have gathered together in My name, I am there in their midst. The Lord is now with us.”

  As if shot from a cannon, the front door flew open, allowing Father Portrais and Cardinal Sean to be the first ones through. Outside, the rescuers ran to the door to see what caused it to suddenly open. Townspeople stood in shock to see the Cardinal and Father move past everyone and into the semi-darkened house, 

“Here!” Mary yelled to make herself heard above the turbulent gusts encircling everyone and everything in the room. “Take hold of my arm and do not let go. Father, you grab onto the Cardinal.”

  Now with four believers and two scapulars imprisoning him, Satan’s yelps grew even louder as he weakened. Awakening from her dazed stupor, Miss Elliot took hold of her Master. Immediately, everyone in the room experienced a warmish slime, the Evilness, the pure power in the Evil One, increase a hundredfold. Susan McCarthy, Director of the Pepperell Senior Center, entered the room, followed by an assembly of octogenarians ready to do battle. Twelve in all, including three women carrying heavy black skillets. Without being told what to do, Susan and her troops locked arms, forming a human chain that stretched out the door.  Next was Paul Palmer, owner of the Groton Exchange and two-foot-long dreadlocks. Paul, always the true gentleman, at first lightly took hold of one of the old men but was instantaneously tossed away like a bag of chips against the wall. Determined not to let it happen again, the Rastafarian, using both hands, grasped hold of the man’s arm. Behind Paul, his son Ian was screaming at his father to free up one arm so he might be a part of the chain, too. The sturdy John McNabb grabbed Ian. John’s wife Cathy took hold of hands that had helped so many over the years. Determined to make the chain as strong as possible, Deb Spratt, Head of the Lawrence Library, locked arms with John McNabb.

   Next came Al Somma, followed by the Dressel doctors, Brian and Jennifer, moving the human chain around the corner of that house on Foster Street. Sprinting to be next were Joe and his wife Ann. Mike Murphy, Slurpee in hand, set down his drink and joined the chain. From outside the house everyone listened to the cacophony of demonic cries the Devil-priest was emitting each time someone joined the chain. 

   As the moments ticked by, more and more of the Pepperell townspeople volunteered their services and bodies to the human chain. The Evil One and his bride grew weaker, dropping to their knees their, shaking violently from side to side with each new addition to the corporal chain. With Butterfly’s scapula still glued to Herzberger’s palm, and the holy cloth belonging to Mary still embedded onto his forehead, the thrashing and whirling of the two Seducers for Sin. Then, like a piece of movie film held too close to heat, the Satan Nicholas Hershberger and Miss Elliot began to burn and slowly dissolve from their hearts outwards until, poof, two shreds of sacred cloth floated gently to the floor.

  In the end, the human chain of concern and compassion, formulated solely from townspeople of Pepperell, reached not just out the door, but encircled the house completely. The line of love grew and grew, snaking down Foster Street, onto Main Street and ending at Donalyn’s supermarket. When the final tally was counted, 286 individuals had joined in to form the chain, Inside that house on Foster Street, Miss Elliot and Nicholas Hershberger ended their stay in Pepperell that October 31^st and dined elsewhere that day. Opening his eyes and wondering how he came to be where he was, Tommy Elliot could only smile to the others in the room. Missing from his view was Miss Suboleo.

******************************************************************************

Later that day, Sunday, October 31^st, Butterfly Jones, scrubbed clean and ready to receive the body of the Lord for the first time, stood with her classmates outside Our Lady of Grace Catholic Church. As the parish bell tolled, signaling the advent of the First Communion Mass, Mary, also known as Miss Suboleo, tapped Butterfly on the shoulder.

“Here, I believe you left this behind,” she said, handing Butterfly her scapular.

“Oh thank you. I never thought I’d see it again.”

Miss Suboleo was now hardly recognizable with her stylish red hair in ringlets, poking out from beneath a Sinamay hat with a point d’esprit veil. She was naturally beautiful. Wearing a simple black silk dress subtly gleaming with silver blooms, she appeared even more so. To Butterfly, she was almost angelic.

After a moment, Miss Suboleo removed herself to the back of the gathered crowd.

“Wait, please. I don’t even know your name. What is it?”

“Why…it’s Mary, of course.”

The organist began playing. Two lines of children, boys on one side and girls on the other, began marching into the church to receive their first Holy Communion. Last in line and almost inside Butterfly quickly pivoted and called out to Mary.

“Mary? Mary what? What’s your last name?”

“Magdalen. I’m Mary Magdalen, sweetie.”

   Inside Our Lady of Grace Catholic Church, Father Portrais stood before a packed congregation, fully vested in his celebratory white vestments. Hands folded in prayer, Butterfly Jones gazed up at the life-size corpus of Jesus Christ.  Directly to her left, in an alcove, stood a statue of the Virgin Mary. Nearby, another woman was kneeling at the foot of a crucified Jesus.

“Let us begin in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit,” Father Portrais began.

Only Butterfly Jones knew the true identity of the kneeling woman—whom everyone else called Miss Suboleo.

                                                                        THE END