All Roads lead to Eoropaidh

3 a.m.
Reverend Brown awoke to the smell of sulphurous incense. He sat up, glanced bewildered about, and checked his clock. The witching hour – when the strength of all that is evil, is at its most powerful. With that knowledge in mind, he felt his heart beat loud, the blood pumped in his veins. He went out from his bedroom and into the corridor. The crucifix which would hang on the wall at the end of the hall, was missing. In stead, a piece of paper was attached to the nail it had been hanging on. Brown couldn’t help himself, and walked over to where it hung, as in a trance. It was one of the Bible pages he’d found in Peter Drinkwater’s house. He glanced out into the living room. It was dark, just like he’d left it when he’d gone to bed. He felt a chill travel up his spine, as he glanced back at the paper:


Dear Master.
Hallowed be thy name which I dare not speak. Hallowed be your beautiful, chestnut hair, the colour of your eyes and your lips. How I long to kiss them. I dream of showing you my love. Hallowed be your touch of love – a loving stroke on the cheek, a gentle caress, a loving word. I crave nothing more. Hallowed be thy name. It cuts through me like a knife, and I bleed love. I long for forgiveness for sins I can no longer remember.
Forgive me; I stole a carrot from the refrigerator. I was so very hungry. I cleaned the living room, like you told me to. I was going to clean the walls too, but it came alive and swallowed the sponge. I used my shirt instead, but I couldn’t get them properly clean, for the walls kept biting after my fingers. I know that’s why I was punished, afterwards. I didn’t do it right. No words can express how sorry I am for failing you. I don’t like the cane. I’d much rather you had taken me.
Your slave.


The radio in the living room suddenly turned itself on. Reverend Brown jumped aloud where he was standing, having been completely absorbed in reading the letter. His heart thumped loudly, and he stumbled backwards until he shut the bedroom door in front of him. He heard footsteps outside his window, somewhat muffled as they were, by the snow. A shadow stole past the window. A shadow forming the silhouette of a man with a triangular hat. Reverend Brown wanted to say a prayer, but he couldn’t get the words past his dry lips. He looked to the crucifix with the golden chain which he kept on his night stand. It was gone. He searched the empty the desk again and again, hoping against hopes it would appear from thin air. Something made him open the drawer underneath. To his horror, Reverend Brown found another letter.


Dear Master.
I have fallen sick. I have trouble performing my duties. The walls keep whispering endlessly. Please make them stop! You took me hard, today, while every bone in my body ached with fever. It hurt so badly. Could you not see that I am ill? Is there no respite to be had from the tortures I am to receive from you? Not a single kind word?
I feel so alone! If only you could be dow-- to stroke my hair and tell me it will be all right. I’m so cold, so very cold. I can’t stop myself from shaking, and the blanket is so very thin. I see them lurking in the corners –the dead ones! Are they people I’ve killed? I can’t rem--er if I ever killed them. They try to hurt me! Didn’t you hear me call for help? I sat at the top of the stairs for hours, kicking at their bony fingers -- rotten skulls, bangin-- the door, begging you for mercy! Why must I suffer so? WHY?


Some of the words were nearly indecipherable because of blotches made by tears. Instead of marring the essence of it, the blotches seemed to intensify the emotions behind while it had been written, and reverend Brown could feel nothing but downright sympathy and terror, reading the letter over and over, forgetting the current peril lurking outside.
It had to be Peter’s handwriting. Though he’d never seen Peter, never laid eyes on him once, he pictured a frail looking boy sitting on the faded and torn mattress in the basement, staring at the moving shadows, fighting to stay sane. Reverend Brown buried his face in his hands. What did all of this madness mean? Why him? He couldn’t wrap his head around the meaning of it all, except a powerful urge to go out and find Peter Drinkwater, to help the lad in any way he could. But what if it was a sign? What if the Devil was trying to fool him, playing tricks on him? Or was God also intervening? Was God and Satan into a game right now, with Brown as a pawn, opting for control of his soul?

He remembered the radio in the living room. He looked for the Bible in his nightstand, and he held it up in front of his chest like a shield, like the crusaders of old braving the ungodly Muslims, and opened the bedroom door. The hallway was empty. He could hear the radio still buzzing. Step by step, he made his way forward, noting that the letter on the nail still hung in its place. Gazing out into the living room, he expected the worst, but saw only the light from the radio lamp. Reverend Brown reached out for the button to the nearest lamp on the wall. Inch by inch, trying not to loose sight of the living room, he felt his way until his fingers touched the button. Reverend Brown held his breath, and clicked the switch once.
The light came on, flooding the living room in a soft, translucent yellow light. Reverend Brown quickly checked to see if everything was in place. He then did the same in the alcove which formed the kitchen, and he did not stop until he had flooded the bedroom with light, noting that it was now three thirty in the morning. He’d spent as much as thirty minutes reading those two short letters over and over, trying to get the essence of them. He lit the lights in the bathroom and the pantry also, his courage growing with each lamp he lit.

He returned to the living room, and stopped dead in his tracks as Satan himself was lounging in the previously empty arm chair, grinning at him. Reverend Brown promptly wet his pants and fell to his knees. He wavered for a while, then fell to the floor, unconscious.
‘Satan’ sighed and rolled his eyes. Good priests were so hard to come by these days.