The Messenger
Journal Entry #1:
November 2, 2008
I write this with extreme hesitation, both in my heart and in my mind. I fear that without a document explaining the strange occurrences over the past few weeks, they will become vapor, like a dream. But with every word I write, I feel as though I’m drifting deeper and deeper into a place that I can barely comprehend, let alone believe. I have been ailed, throughout my life with insomnia, but while spells of sleep come and go, they are also followed by dreams that blend with reality with such vividness; I awaken drained and tired from my mind’s nightly excursions.
Two weeks ago, these dreams became increasingly unnerving, and their onset is not what I would call normal. From the moment I close my eyes, my mind begins to peel back the veil of time and pushes memory after twisted memory into my mind. At first, I believed this to be just another stage in my growing development in astral projection, and out of body experience, (two events that I have studied for years) but now, it seems to be more of a regression than a progression. Before, I could control small amounts of these dreams, and affect them in different ways, but now…
I fear to say, but the dreams seem to have gained control over, not just my sleeping mind, but my waking mind as well. This all may sound strange right now, but I hope it becomes clearer as this entry goes on. If not, then maybe I really am losing my mind.
Throughout the past few weeks there is one dream that has recurred, and I can not, with full confidence, say that it is a dream at all.
It always begins the same way, with me, as a second grader, sitting in my classroom. Everything is grey, or shades of it. I fear not the lack of color, it seems more natural considering the dreams setting. The teacher walks in and addresses the class, informing us, that “J.R.” a former student from said class, is going to be returning to visit. Why? I can not recall, nor is it outright explained. I sit in trepidation, feeling a growing anxiety as the rest of the class sits in silence around me. I rotate my head to better glimpse my classmates, to maybe find an ally, but no one in the class is recognizable. Every face seems to shift in its nature. I find it difficult to figure even the gender of those around me. While they do not speak, it does not stop them from pointing at me and engaging in ghastly gestures signifying my demise.
I panic, rise from my desk and run towards the drawn shades over the windows. Pulling the cord, the shades open, revealing a brick wall where the window should be. I turn around and my teacher Miss Holmes asks if something is wrong. A smile wider than anything humanly possible spreads across her face, literally from ear-to-ear. She opens her mouth, revealing a flash of razor-sharp teeth.
“You can’t leave that easy, son. J.R. is on his way, and he wants to see you,” she says, laughing. Each word drawing her closer and closer to me.
I bolt, trying to get passed her, but the entire class stands in unison and surges towards me, driving me back against the false windows. As the first child’s hand touches my flesh, I am shocked by the coldness of its grasp. Falling onto my back, I try and force the children off of me, but there are too many and their weight begins to crush me. I feel as if I am suffocating beneath the pressure of their grey, frosted limbs and just before it becomes too unbearable to breathe a voice booms through the chatter.
“Remove yourselves from my guest; I will not have him tainted by the likes of you.”
The children instantly stop, their dull eyes spark for a moment, and they move back towards their seats. I push myself into the sitting position, realizing for the first time that the floor is the warmest thing I’ve touched. The desk, the windows, the students. All cold. All lifeless.
As if reading my thoughts, the voice comes in, once again.
“Do you feel it, Erik? The heat, the wonderful blaze that all worship. Is it not beautiful? Is this interaction, not what you seek every night as you pretend to sleep? Oh, I’m sure you expected something less extreme, maybe something more sexual, maybe something more pleasant, but you see the world through eyes that betray their color. Look around you. Is this truly just a dream? Or is it more? I will call upon you when the time comes. Be ready for it will be soon.”
The room around me spins, infusing the surroundings with color and life. I am back sitting at my desk and Miss Holmes is standing in front of the class, wearing a blue dress, patterned in purple lilacs.
“O.K, class,” she says, smiling. “Let’s all welcome J.R. back to Oak Grove.”
At this point, I try and wake up, but am gripped by some force and can not. The door of the classroom opens, and J.R. emerges from the hallway. Though he is not a child of eight, like the rest of us, but older by at least ten years, maybe more. His face is unchanged, yet he is dressed like a priest.
He moves into the classroom as if on a cloud. Once in the center, he reaches outward with his right hand, drawing it up as if pulling a rabbit from a hat. With this gesture, the table in front of him grows taller and thinner, as if trying desperately to touch J.R’s hand. Just before his hand reaches the height of his face, he throws his fingers out and the table stops changing, and stands just below J.R’s chest. He reaches into his robe, pulls out a battered book and lays it upon the improvised altar. J.R. begins to flip through the pages, and nodding until with one hand he slams the book shut and I wake up.
Dreams of this magnitude are not new to me, but the fact that it has recurred in this same state every night for the past two weeks is something that has never happened to me. Before I go on with the point of this entire tirade let me dispel a few discrepancies between what truly happened that day and the dream I have thusly described in this Journal.
J.R. was a bully when I was in second grade. He was the tallest and most well-built kid in the class. He much more resembled a sixth grader, than a second grader. He only gave me trouble once, when he hung me on a coat rack by the back of my shirt. I couldn’t do much about it at the time, considering that I was the smallest kid in the class, and would stay that would until I was about fifteen. Thinking of that now, at twenty-one seems strange, but it was true, and still is in some ways.
That one incident spurred more than a little turmoil, since I was one of the most well-liked kids in the class, and ultimately J.R. left Oak Grove Elementary, and no one heard from him until the spring of the next year.
He was introduced by Miss Holmes in the same way as in the dream, though he was not aged, dressed as a priest, nor did he perform any miraculous transformations. He did carry around a Bible though, and when he spoke to the class he described the glory of the “new” school that he was enrolled in. A “private” school, he said, emphasizing the word with each utterance. Whether this was to shame us, the students enrolled in a low-budget public school in northern Massachusetts or he just spoke it in that way is hard to tell. What is not, is what he did after his latest academic update. The bell for recess rung and we all ran to grab our coats. Thought it was spring, winter still had a few fingers dipped into the weather. Walking down the hallway, I could see J.R. standing next to the coat rack he had hung me from just a few months prior. As I walked passed him, he knelt down before me, bowing his head and clasping his hands as if in prayer. I stopped, unsure of what I should do.
“Forgive me,” he said, tilting his head up.
I tried to look him in the eye, but they were closed. I reached out towards his shoulder, and placed my hand on it. His eyes opened as if shocked to be touched.
“Ummm,” I faltered, though unsure, I thought it wise just to repeat what he asked. “I forgive you.”
“Thank you,” he said, rising to his feet. He walked away, leaving me bewildered.
That was the last I really every thought of J.R. until the dreams started, and I had never seen or heard of him.
Until today…
I do not know if I can actually write it on the page. While not my words, they still chill my very bones as I put them down. I know not their significance, or if indeed, they are real at all. But if I am to rid myself of this inner turmoil, I at least need this document to in some way secure me to the real world, or at least my previous idea of it.
This afternoon, I arrived home from work, grabbing the mail on my way in the door. There is never much in the mail for me, but magazines and bills. Today brought nothing of the sort, just one handwritten letter, with no return address. I opened it under the belief that it was probably just a letter from some anonymous charity, or notice for a town meeting. But my assumption could not have been further from the truth. I must record its contents, before I become too terrified to speak of them. Bear with me, as I transcribe what I have read.
Dear Erik Grey,
My name is Joseph Ridley, but you may remember me as J.R. We were in the second grade together, and I write this letter to you, as a prayer and a blessing. I am sure you are curious as to why I write to you, and I will explain it all in due time. As I am sure you already know, the dreams are becoming more and more lifelike. More real, and more disturbing. Do not ponder how I know this, but know that I have been there with you these past few weeks, trying with all of my heart to save you from the elements that are surrounding you as you read this. Do not try and look about, for you will not find them, not without assistance. My assistance. For that help though, I call upon you, as I said I would, and you must heed this call. I am unsure as to how long I will be able to keep up this contact, for the wolves of Hell are sniffing me out as I write this, but do know that I will invest all in my Holy Power to aid you in this new Inquisition.
Before I go any further, let me update you on my whereabouts over the years we have had no interaction, and from this you may draw your own conclusion as to whether or not you will heed the call of the Lord, or will you succumb, as so many others have, to the wickedness and depravity that strangles, not just the common man, but the very Holy men who proclaim their piety in public, but stalk the night like vampires, fangs and sharpened claws, digging and gnawing at the necks of the innocent.
After leaving Oak Grove, I was placed into a seminary program at St. Margaret’s. Yes, I know that I was across the street from the elementary school the entire time, but my duties were many, and I was not allowed to socialize with the common folk who attended the church. I was a sinner when I walked through the arches of the church, and because of that, I was to be punished.
The day I was dumped at the church, Father Lyons approached me and brought me into the confessional booth. He asked me if I had sinned. I told him I had not. He asked me again, to proclaim to God that I was not a sinner, to swear on His name, and the name of His son, Jesus Christ, that I had never sinned. Being young, and reckless, I told him once again that I had not sinned. I swore it on the Holy Trinity, and thus my punishment began.
My right to speak was first taken. I was to be silent, as punishment for my lies, as well as perform the rudimentary tasks of both a janitor and an altar boy. I would clean the bathrooms and then don my white robes, the fresh scent of urine and feces still clinging to my hands, and light the candles for the evening service. When it was over, I would sweep the church floor, rearrange the hymn books in the pews, and polish the feet of Jesus as he hung from the crucifix behind the main pulpit. The stained glass windows were my duty to scrub with Holy Water.
I saw not my parents, nor had any communication with anyone, other than the priesthood. Difficult to think, that I would not have escaped, but… My attempts were many at the beginning. Foolhardy as I was, it did not take long for me to realize, that I knew I was to leave only when the Church deemed it time. I will not delve deeply into this, to save you from the visage of that torment.
The priests would sit me down after we supped and lecture me from the Bible. I was allowed to ask no questions. I learned very quickly that even opening my mouth was subject to punishment. After a year of this, I was again led into the confessional booth. I was asked by Father Lyons, if I had sinned. I did not reply. The night was late, and the church was empty, save for the two of us. He asked again, and still I said nothing. He slid the window to the booth closed, and exited, beckoning me to follow. I did so, without a word.
I followed him through the pews and up behind the pulpit. Beneath the crucifix was a small gilded tub filled with water. He lit a candle and recited a short prayer. He had me kneel down, and dipped my head into the water. Though the smell was foul, I did not struggle, nor speak of it. He dipped my head twice more into the fetid water, each for a longer period of time. The last time, it became difficult for me to breathe, and I thought that he was trying to drown me. My thoughts were uninformed as he raised my head from the tub and left me gasping the sweet air of the Church. Once finished, he began to speak.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I call upon you Tobias, to be free of sin, and fulfill your duty as a servant of God.”
I stared at him, bewildered, the rancid water running down my face, soaking my robe.
“Tobias,” he called me again, “I have thus baptized you in the Holy Water of God, and our Lord and Savior. With this, your vow of silence is broken, and from this day forward, you are to live a life of servitude to the Lord. Repeat after me.”
He spoke the Our Father, and I repeated every word after him. Each syllable instilled me with a new life, a new power, which I held dear for a very long time. Before I slept, he explained to me why the Church had given me a new name. Tobias, Father Lyons told me, meant “God is good” signifying my everlasting faith in the Lord and my service to Him. I accepted it with the open arms of a Saint, and only recently have I realized the grave consequences of my naivety.
The next morning, I awoke to the sound of hammering metal. Through half-opened eyes, I saw a young man striking a pin through a shackle attached to my right wrist. I tried to push myself away, but my shoulders were pushed to the ground and held with a monstrous strength. A soothing voice cooed from above, telling me that it was alright, and it was all just part of His plan. I let them finish and opened my eyes fully to see what had been done to me. The shackle was attached to a heavy chain, and thus locked into a metal plate holding a book.
The man pinning my shoulders down was one that I did not recognize, but his eyes were dark, far darker than that of a normal man, almost black in their color. He released some of the pressure from my shoulders and began to speak to me in a soothing tone.
“From this day forth, you shall do nothing without this book. The Bible shall be with you from this moment, until the Lord deems you fit to breath without its Holy Power attached to your being. You shall read, and memorize its passages and the Lord will begin testing you from this day forward. Sleep now, and when you wake, your service to the Lord will begin.”
My eyes closed instantly, and when I awoke again, it was dark. I sat up and examined the Book that was to be bound to me for a period of time, of roughly six years. During this time, my duties changed from the rudimentary, to the scholarly. I was provided forced access to the Holy Bible, as well as a key that allowed me entrance into the Churches vast library. Through this, I gained much knowledge of both spiritual and historical nature, as well as insight into the very Church I was servicing.
It seems as though, St. Margaret’s was established quite soon after the settling of the town of Crowley, Massachusetts, in the late 17th century. It was known in the surrounding towns and villages for its punctual devotions and fervent services, as well as its wide knowledge of the most sacred of rites. It is the home of a small piece of the true Crown of Thorns, that Jesus died wearing. A piece so sacred, it is buried deep beneath the church, in a vault and has been released from it only twice, and only under the most extreme conditions. Its power is far more than most believe, and on par with that of the Holy Lance, that pierced Jesus’ side.
At this point, I know I have told you much, some quite unbelievable, for I know you attended this church for some years, yet I’m sure you knew none of its secrets. Father Lyons is far more than he seems, as well as the rest of the priesthood. So, for now, I must end this conversation, but we must continue it, and soon. I have risked much in getting this one letter to you, and I do not think that I will be able to do it again. I am sure that this story may seem suspicious, or false, but please, you must believe that I speak the truth. I am sure you have doubts, but I shall leave you the rest of my story, as well as my proof to the heinous crimes being done within the confines of St. Margaret’s two days from now. God shines on us, for the voting in Crowley commences in St. Margaret’s on that very day.
I beg of you, as one who has been forgiven by you, heed my call. Come to the church to vote on November 4th. There will be many booths set up, in a U-shape. Enter the booth at the apex of that U. The tops of these booths are comprised of two flat boards. Between them will be an envelope. Take it, and may God in all His glory shine His light upon your heart. Heed this call, for the dreams will only worsen if you do not. My power in that realm weakens as the clergy forces me to fast, and perform Holy Vigils. I can not help your sleeping mind while I am awake. Remember the power of the True Lord, and not the false shapes of the so-called clergy.
Remember, remember, the 4th of November.
A beggar in your service, a shepherd in His,
Joseph T. Ridley
I am twisted in my decision. Who am I to believe in such a story, but also to be in a position where it is I who is called upon to do some type of heavenly service. I am lucky enough to have at least a little time to think over my decision. I may be better off just burning this letter, and the notes before it. But… It is still difficult for me to just leave someone who seems to be in such a dismal position. Maybe tonight, a dream will fill in a piece of the puzzle, or maybe I am just to believe…
My heart is pounding just thinking of what is in the envelope waiting for me on the 4th. It is late now, and I must sleep, but I am…
I am truly afraid to close my eyes.
Journal Entry #2:
November 3, 2008
The clock reads 3:40 A.M, I am still awake. I close my eyes and the Grey Children come at once to assail me. I can not stop them, their deadened eyes meet mine and I am frozen. They reach out for me and my body burns trying to escape their clutches. Miss Holmes waits for me with her devilish grin and demonic fangs. Even with my eyes open and alert, my body is sweating from the threats of a nightmare. The window to my bedroom is wide open, and the smell of autumn rushes in with its moist coolness. Even this does nothing to help my body from sweating out of every pore.
I do not believe that sleep will come tonight, so I have gotten a glass of water, and finished it quite quickly. My thirst is still not quenched, but my flesh is weary and I do not want to get another. I have reread Joseph’s letter twice more, and am convinced that he is either awake and can not help me in my sleep, or he has been caught in this risky business and will not be able to help me ever again. Neither would surprise me, as it seems he has gone through incredible risk to contact me. Yet still, I do not know if I am up to the task.
A thought occurred to me some time later and I set about praying for the first time in many years. Kneeling beside my bed, the words to the Our Father bubbled forth from the depths of my memory and out of my mouth in a slow and solemn prayer. As the closing lines emerged, almost silent from my dry lips, the sincerity of it all brought a tear to my eye. It has dripped upon this page and I will not wipe away its watermark.
It is now 4:15 A.M and I am lying in bed. My eyes are closing on their own accord, and I can only hope that my prayer has been answered… Or at the very least heard.
Journal Entry #3:
November 3, 2008
It is true! My prayer earlier this morning was answered, or by some divine miracle, the Grey Children, were not to be found. What this means I am not sure, but if it is the Lord’s protection that I need, I shall reach out for it. After so many years of personal defiance on the subject, I feel an unlikely candidate for this type of transformation, but sleep has rejuvenated my senses, and possibly my faith. I am in no position to make a conclusion at this time, but I am more inclined now, at least, to think of the possibility.
The time is late in the afternoon, and I feel as if a small amount of preliminary work may be useful if I am going to seriously make an attempt on this quest.
I have returned from St. Margaret’s 5:00 P.M. Mass. I am unsure as to what has happened to a place that I have only vague memories of, but it is clear that something is truly wrong there. While the pews were not empty, they were not full either. The scattered parishioners did not sing, nor did they reply amen as the Priest called out to them. While the service itself was full of energy, about love, compassion, acceptance, the Priest’s voice gargled together, as if each sentence was a single word. I sat in the rear-most pew, hoping to get a glimpse of something familiar, or a sign that would help me better understand what it was that I was going to help with.
Scanning the surroundings, I could see that Joseph must have been busy with other things, for the floors were covered in filth and grime thick enough to scuff with the toe of my shoe. Even the crucifix behind the pulpit seemed to be dressed in cobwebs, and beneath His outstretched arms, a span of webbing draped behind him like a great pair of dusty wings. What to make of this I am still unsure, but I felt very peculiar sitting in this place. My mind is reeling from the experience. My expectations shattered. I had hoped that the Light of God would shine down upon me when I entered. A foolish thought for someone who has prayed, once, in the past ten years, but still, I thought last nights dreamlessness was some type of divine indication. After seeing the state of the Church, though, it seems as if I am back at the same place I was when reading Joseph’s letter for the first time.
Can I really believe in what he is saying? Will I be able to confront a group of men who allowed the Son of God to fall into such disrepair that He more resembles a bleak demon than that of the Savior.
At this point, I can not keep this to myself any longer. Tomorrow will be a day of Trials, and my self-confidence is waning.
I have e-mailed a transcription of Joseph’s letter to my sister, Mariam. I await her reply.
Journal Entry #4
November 3, 2008
Mariam has replied to my e-mail, and I have transcribed her message here.
Dear Erik,
I hope you do not think ill of me for saying this, but I just can not believe any of what you have sent to me. And the mere thought that you are considering to venture out on this ridiculous quest makes me question your health. What has happened since we last spoke, I was under the impression that you had left Crowley already, in pursuit of “The American Dream” which you had told me about since we were children. You know as well as I do, that Crowley is not the place to do this, you have told me this yourself. Too many bad memories, too many old ghosts haunting those streets. Again, your words, not mine, but still, I think you really need someone to tell you them again.
And this Tobias character, he seems like someone you’d meet on the streets of Boston, you know the type, all fire and brimstone, repentance and remorse. A psycho, nitwit, a bum with no teeth. His words of torture under the hands of the clergy seem preposterous, considering no word of it has leaked from anywhere. Children are just dumped at churched without more contact by their parents. Nobody does these things Erik, and you know it as well as I do.
Have you considered any of this? Or are you just stuck in your own delusional world again. Living in your dreams, and letting them guide you instead of your own mind. It’s happened before, remember? And I don’t want it to happen again. I’ve spent enough nights listening to you scream in the adjacent room or the hospitals beds, and I can’t do that again, not now. I’ve far too much on my plate these days to travel halfway across the country to save you, again.
Please, don’t be angry, but think about his rationally, with your awake mind, and you should see it as I do. If you can not agree, please, for my sake if not your own, call Dr. Leonard and tell her your story, and see what she says. I am sure she will guide you in the same direction I have.
You know the only thing in my heart for you is love, so please heed my warning, and give up on this delusional and misguided venture, before you hurt yourself… Or someone else.
With Love,
Mariam
P.S. I do expect you to at least vote tomorrow, but do not go passed the first booth. And remember to Barack The Vote! Hope to hear from you soon.
She’s wrong. She hasn’t seen the Grey Children like I have. She’s so wrong, and it makes me sick to think that she’d throw my past “disturbances” in my face like that. My own sister, never was one for tact, but, ohhhhhhh, she went too far this time. Using my words, my sick words from a time of sicker thoughts against me. And now?! At such a crossroads, at a point where my mistakes could be rectified by an act so pious even the Saints would bow before my halo. It is unbelievable, rational thinking, she wants me to think rationally. Call Dr. Leonard she says. I will not. I will not retread the steps I’ve walked years ago. Those days are over, and the nights as well. I’m off to the church again, my prayers were answered last night, there is no reason why they will not be answered tonight. I have retracted my faith in humanity, and from this point place it into the open arms of God.
Journal Entry #5
November 4, 2008
The early morning, 1:13 A.M to be precise, brings a sense of relief to a night that started so strained. Mariams e-mail has been deleted, trashed, shredded in the ether junk-box of the internet. I will contact her no more on this subject, until it is done. When my proof rings against her dissent, she will repent and beg for me to forgive her unjust words.
My trip to the church was fulfilling. Even in the late hours of night, men and women, some children as well, were setting up for the mornings voting. Everyone seemed in high spirits, and no one bothered me as I passed through the doors and into the main hall of the church.
I kneeled in the front pew for a long time. I announced my plan to assist J.R, or Tobias, and to do anything in my power to become pure in the eyes of God. My faith has been renewed by this visit, as well as Mariam’s unwillingness to believe. I find it noteworthy to mention that it was Mariam who first denounced her faith in the church, and it was only after her belief had waned that I followed suit. I will not make the mistake of following her anywhere from here on out. It is my life, and my soul that hangs in the balance, and if she will offer no encouragement, than I can offer her soul no aid.
I have prayed once again and with closed eyes there is nothing but the shifting patterns of awkward light. No Grey Children to be heard or seen. I will write again when I have returned from the Church in the morning.
Journal Entry #6
November 4, 2008
I have returned, from voting, and from gathering the newest letter. I have yet to read it, for the morning did not go completely as planned. As I made my way to the church, I was filled with empowering thoughts. Knowing in my heart that I was on the path of good, and righteousness spurred a new spring in my step, a new door in my heart, and a fresh path of thought in my mind. All of this was so real, I could not remember even reaching the doors of the Church. Upon entering it, I barely noticed the massive amount of chatter blasting around the reverent building. The “voters” wasting the space of the church for something so unholy. The election of a man of power not appointed by God. Neither man, nor collection of them has the power to place a man higher than himself, or another.
I was not there to participate in the charade. I was granted with a higher purposed. I passed through the doorway, ignoring the calls of those behind me. Angry voices, hands brushing up against my clothes, my skin, but they were not strong enough to stop the force of the Almighty the flowed through my very veins. There were a dozen booths lining each side of main hall, and one, just one at the apex of the room. My booth. The only one that is empty, waiting for someone special… Divine.
I entered the booth, briefly eyeing the ballet, but reading none of it. Shaking hands grasped the table-top, feeling for my prize. It was difficult to grasp, but as I pulled it out, I could feel my strength become bolstered by its holy contents. A hand slammed down on my shoulder, turning me around. I came face to face with an crotchety old fellow who proceeded to yell at me about lines, and patience, and that this is a place of voting, a federally sanctioned event and that I was being rude and unpatriotic by cutting the entire waiting populous and not even casting a vote. I smiled at him, an easy, tight-lipped grin, and spoke in a calm, unapologetic voice.
“My good sir,” I told him, “there is no such place that you have described, only a House, built by God and His followers, not some punch-drunk political floozy ordering people around without the Lord’s consent.”
His eyes opened wide for a brief moment, and I just walked right passed him without a word.
The power of the Lord does flow through me, the power of tongues, to tempt and beguile those who have no understanding of the world around them. I am home now, and will read Tobias’ letter.
No comments yet. I must transcribe His words before I lose myself…
Dear Sir or Madam,
If you are not the one whom I contacted previously, please disregard this message, as it is in the wrong hands, and I would not want to cause undue grief to any who are not prepared to experience it.
As you read these words, I am assured that my message has become clear enough for you to aid me in this Inquisition. In my previous letter I portrayed the early years of my stay at St. Maragaret’s. While some of it may seem horrid, and disturbing, it is only the beginning of the terror that I have experienced under the dark hands of the clergy.
It was during a Holy Vigil, late in the month of December of last year, I was wandering the halls of St. Margaret’s labyrinth of books and relics. I had done considerable research in these halls over the years, and thought that I had seen all of its contents.
I was wrong. I wish that I had stopped the moment I heard the faint screams from below my feet in Room 19 in the deep recesses of the church, but I could not stop myself from following the whimpers, and wails. I guided myself in careful little steps, listening to the painful cries. I continued moving faster, and faster as they increased in volume. When I reached the far wall, I could hear more than just the victim, but also other voices, sinister ones that came not from the throats of humans, but the deep thrum of demons. I had read much about them over the years of research in the library, and I believed, truly, that if I were to come face to face with one, I would handle myself with the grace of God, yet then, hearing them speak, knowing that this encounter could be dangerous, if not fatal, I was unsure. I stopped and leaned against the bookcase, straining to hear something more clear. It seemed as if the sounds that I was hearing, were coming not from my side, but below. At my feet, I felt the deep rumble of some unholy force.
I took a silent step, feeling my heart race, and the sweat on my hands became slick and shaky with anxiety. The Bible attached to my wrist, I learned to hold open in my palm. The weight of it began to fill me with an extraordinary sense of guilt, as I had not at this point acted in any way to help whoever was below me.
My words were answered in a most unorthodox way, as the noises below me grew in intensity, my hands shook with a violence that caused the plate behind the book to shift, slipping off of my open palm and tumbling onto the floor. The weight of the plate, combined with book crashed onto the floor. As it did, the sounds below stopped, and only silence met my hammering heart.
I bent forward to pick up my Bible, and as I stood up, a voice shot out from the shadows behind me.
“Tobias!” the voice called in an angry whisper. “Are you alright? You seem… a bit shaken-up. Come back, into the light, and we will sup. You will feel better.”
I just nodded, and scooped up my Bible and followed him out. I spent the rest of that evening studying, but my mind was still trapped in the library with whatever was down there with me.
That night I dreamt of the same children I protected you from in your dream. The Grey Children are more than just lifeless imitations of those we have met in life. They are the non-physical incarnations of every child abused by the clergy, and their faceless features are no accident. It is said that in dreams, the faceless belong to those who are shamed, the guilt-ridden, and the frightened all belong to this category. Unrestrained by their physical and emotional inabilities in physical life, these children, in a non-physical realm are vicious, angry, vengeful upon any who stumble into their realms. They fill the empty spaces in a dream, much like water flowing into caveats as it flows. I learned early on, that they feed on the dreamers anxiety within the dream itself. A calm and confident dreamer an easily avoid, fight, or command the Grey Children. Such as in life, those with the composure to face tasks confidently will reign over those who are weak. The dreaming world has much of the same rules of the waking one, but with increased sensitivities and less constraints to both space and time.
It was only after many nights of this torment that I found a way to gain power over the Grey Children, and once I had, my fears lessened dramatically. There was still no explanation for what I had heard and I was beginning to feel a bit more at ease with the fact that I did not know.
My forays into the library resumed, and I heard nothing but the rustling pages of ancient tomes and labored breaths as I hefted pails of Holy Water to and fro, mopping the floors of the labyrinth.
. I received Communion from the church as well as Confirmation. While these rites are usually performed publically and with many people in attendance, mine were private affairs between just myself and Father Lyons. After my Confirmation, Father Lyons took me back into the confessional booth, and I prayed this would be the last time. With my hands clenched together I waited for him to speak.
“Tobias,” he whispered through the shadowed panes. “It is time for you to perform a special task for the Church. Your mission will keep you inside of these walls, but will also bring you closer to the inside of God’s Heart. The Lord shines a light that casts many shadows. I am calling upon you, as is the Lord to become more than just a light bearer in His service, but a light itself. This is not something we ask of normal folk, but you have proven through your intense devotion to both the Lord and His flock that you are more than just a sinful sheep brought to heel under His divinity. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father,” I replied.
“Good,” he said. “Cleanse yourself in Holy Water, and meet me in Room 19 when you are ready.”
He left the booth, and I pondered over what service I could provide, beyond that which I had already given, but my idle thoughts could not have prepared me for what was in store at the hands of Father Lyons and his pride.
I am running out of space here to write. Please, if you have received this, I am sure you are well on your way into His light, and His service. I beg of you, return Sunday morning for the A.M. service. The left-most rear pew will contain another letter with detailed instructions on how to assist me in escaping this den of Demons. I have enclosed a picture behind the letter, to give you just a small glimpse of the terror that I am still enduring. Do not let it frighten you, the Truth of His word will keep you safe.
Until then, pray and forget not your Duty in His service.
An ally in your service, a shepherd in His,
Joseph T. Ridley
I am sure now that I have been Chosen… I have re-read Tobias’s most recent letter, and am now staring at the picture attached behind it. I am aghast at the possibilities of such an atrocity, of not only flesh, but of all that is Holy being consumed in such a way. I do not know if it is Tobias or not, but I pray for him if it is. The picture is a pale, bare chest of a young man. Upon the entire sternum, no… it seems as if embedded into the entire sternum and across the chest, almost to the nipples, is a metal cross. It is not connected by anything above it, yet it stays as if surgically molded into place. The place where the metal butts up against the skin is a dark, malevolent red. Arcing away from the cross are streaks of blue and purple. It looks as if the cross is casting out blackened lightning across a white sky.
My God, it is almost unbearable to look at. What monsters, what demon would subject anyone to such a torturous endeavor. It is clearer now than ever, that my path has been chosen for me. I must with all of my power, devote myself in the aid of this man.
I must arm myself for this quest, but the hour is late, and I have endured enough for today. I will rest easier tonight, knowing that the Grey Children can be overcome without Tobias’ aid. I may need their assistance soon; I only hope that I have enough time to convince them to help… More I am sure in the morning…