The night was haunted. Heavy rain fell. Moonlight seeped through cracks in the dark clouds above. Below, wading through mud and dirt, a group of men were hauling a great wooden box across a waterlogged field toward a village. Guiding them: a humble vicar draped in sodden robes. He looked onwards with a piercing determination—something undetected amongst the exhausted labourers behind him. They groaned wearily as they pushed the heavy wooden box forward. Through the cold rain and the bitter wind, the vicar shouted forth. ‘There can be no rest. Not until we have homed the almighty.’
The labourers, drenched too in water and mud though more severely than the vicar, did little else but grumble to themselves and carry on. The word of the vicar was the word of God. And the word of God was the word of goodness. Pure and holy goodness.
Through the fields, they had arrived at the village and carried on along the main street. Before them stood the church. Nothing about this church was unusual. Yet, nothing about this church was usual. It was ancient and tall and littered with gargoyles and statues that had decayed through the centuries. A crack in the clouds above doused the church in a light. A light so bright and, yet, so cold that only a perception of dread could be possessed before it.
Through the sea of gravestones overcome by moss and nature’s passing, the vicar and labourers continued. Up until they had reached the doors that imposed upon them. It was decorated in ornate carvings that had, like the rest of the place, been withered by time. The vicar, from within his robes, revealed a small set of old rusted keys. He adjusted the set of keys to find the correct one, pushed it into the door, and twisted. Within a moment, the doors to the church opened.
Within was the church’s great interior. It was cloaked in a veil of darkness that was only distilled by small candles that were strewn about the nave. That, and the moonlight that leaked through the great stained-glass windows.
‘Up next to the altar!’ the vicar boomed, stretching his arm forth.
The labourers, without question, submitted to his will. They heaved the box further through the church. It wasn’t far now, but the weight of the thing inside the box had taken its toll. The labourers, with a final almighty gasp, pushed the box before the altar, and collapsed in exhaustion. The vicar stood, towering over them. ‘You have done God’s work today,’ he said, ‘you have earned your rest.’
The labourers quickly thanked the vicar and scurried off—all except for one. He was the youngest of the labourers and, perhaps, the most naïve. He stood, still dripping from the rain and covered in mud and dirt, fixated on the box. ‘What—’ the boy stuttered, ‘what’s in it?’
‘The lord’s gift,’ the vicar boasted, ‘the coming of the almighty one who shall bless us all.’
The boy’s eyes widened. They were filled with a growing fear.
‘What gift?’ the boy queried.
‘You, my dear boy, shall see,’ replied the vicar as he began to lift the box’s lid. A rancid smell oozed out. It was warm and rotten.
‘What is that smell?’ The boy asked in disgust, holding his nose.
‘This is the scent of our new saviour,’ the vicar announced, pushing the lid further aside, ‘here to absolve our sins once more.’
The smell became stronger and more monstrous, and with it, a sound. A faint sound. A sound of something squirming. Something moving. Something alive.
‘And as Christ did for all our sins,’ the vicar continued, unabated by the contents of the box, ‘our sins shall be absolved again’.
The boy, struggling to keep the smell from overwhelming him, stepped forward slowly. Each step was more difficult than the last. The boy was afraid to see what was inside. Yet, somehow, this unholiness urged within him a holy spirit. This was something as godly as it was ungodly.
‘And once more, humanity shall be saved from our own transgressions.’
The boy took little notice of the vicar’s words. But he felt them as he felt the beating of his heart.
‘We have been led by temptation. We have been led astray.’
With one more thrust, the vicar removed the lid entirely from the box. Its contents were exposed. After a few more timidly placed steps, the boy had reached the box. He peered down, grabbing a candle from the altar as he did so.
‘But we are blessed. Blessed by God. Blessed by Christ. Blessed by the almighty.’
The boy watched as his candle lit the contents of the box. He flinched. Something unearthly writhed before him. Yet, it was something undeniably familiar.
‘Now, with this gift, we must absolve the sins and rid them from our earthly form.’
From this moment, the contents of the box no longer provoked fear within him. From this moment, the boy had eyes filled with hate. The vicar removed himself from his words and placed his attention firmly on the boy. He had seen the look on the boy’s face before. He knew what must be done. From within his robes, he pulled out a large wooden stake, and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
‘Here,’ the vicar said, handing the boy the stake, ‘absolve us of our sins.’
The boy didn’t react. His focus remained entirely upon the creature in the box. Instinctively, however, he reached out to the stake and clasped it. He had accepted the vicar’s offer. The vicar stood back. This was a moment for the boy and the boy alone.
‘My sins—’ the boy whispered to himself.
He spent a moment, simply observing the contents of the box as he had done so for what felt like all the years he had lived. Then, with the stake, he began to build an energy. A rigidness in his arm. He would plant the stake into the box and kill the creature. He would puncture the creature’s heart and all sin would be absolved. After it had screamed. After it had shrieked. All that was awful would all be well. Before him, the vicar would not see the boy who stood there mere moments ago. Before him, the boy would be a man within whom the vicar would see God.