“Take it easy. Hey, come on now.”
“It huuurts,” the man bellowed.
The Reverend, astonished at the man talking, momentarily lost his hold, and the man struck the side of his head with his flailing arms. The Reverend grunted and fell to the floor.
“HURTS… COMING… STOP,” the man cried.
The Reverend rubbed his temple and stood up with wobbly legs. He looked down at the man and frowned. What was wrong with him? Why was he talking now? It was almost as if he had been in a trance and was only now coming out of it.
“C…calm down,” the Reverend breathed. He grabbed the man’s arms and pinned them down. “It’s okay. Are you in great pain?”
“Coming,” he forced out. “Get away…it huuuurts,” he sobbed.
“What?” the Reverend said. “Coming, who’s coming?”
Without warning the man sat up, breaking the Reverend’s hold.
Breathing rapidly, the man, whose complexion had grown even more pallid, opened his mouth.
The Reverend stood back and watched intently, waiting for whatever it was he was going to say. Instead, the man made a gurgling sound and blood started to flow from his mouth.
The Reverend rushed to the man. “Oh please, God. Help this man.”
Thick, mucus-filled blood poured from the man’s mouth and his eyes began streaming with tears.
“I’ll call the ambulance,” the Reverend told him. “Don’t you worry.”
But the man grabbed the Reverend’s forearm with a ferocious hold. “Let go,” the Reverend choked. “I have to call you an ambulance.” He tried to pry the fingers off, but there was no give. “Stop!” the Reverend shrieked.
But the man tightened his grasp so much that the Reverend expected to hear his bones crunch at any moment.
He clawed at the man’s hand, and just as he was about to give up, the man stopped squeezing. The blood that spewed from his mouth turned black and his eyes bulged large and fearful.
With one last cough, the man fell back to the bed. The hand that had been holding onto the Reverend dangled towards the floor.
The Reverend remained still for a moment, stunned.
Then reaching cautiously over the body, he placed his trembling hand to the man’s neck and using two fingers, checked for a pulse.
As he feared, there was none. He placed his head across the man’s chest and listened. He could hear no heartbeat.
Quickly, the Reverend crossed his chest and said a prayer.
Opening his eyes, he stared down at the deceased man. It occurred to him he hadn’t even known the man’s name.
He reached down and took a hold of his hand.
“It’s okay,” he said in a soft voice. “The Lord will take care of you.” He patted the limp hand and gently placed it across the man’s bloody chest.
He turned around and left the bedroom. He wandered into the lounge, where the open fire was still burning strong, and fell into his chair. He would have to call an ambulance, something he thought he’d never have to do again. He tried to move, but found he didn’t have the heart to. There was no emergency, really.
The man was already dead. Still, the sooner the better.
He glanced up at the picture that hung on the wall. It filled him with immense sorrow. Back when he was a young man, he used to think that everything served a purpose. All events, every living creature, be it good or bad, was put on this earth for a reason.
That every moment in your life taught you something.
Therefore, when a tragedy befell, he took that as the Lord’s way, something that needed to happen in order for others to learn from and, hopefully, to live a fuller and more meaningful life.
That’s what he used to believe.
The first time he began to question his belief was when his wife died two years ago from brain cancer. Seeing her wither away had been the most heartbreaking thing his eyes and heart had ever witnessed.
And when she finally had passed away, he was left feeling empty. He had felt no comfort from the Lord. He had wanted no help from the church.
The night she died, he had stared up at this very same picture and felt, for the first time, no joy or solace in the figure of Christ giving his life to save mankind.
In the years since, his faith had been in continual question.
He went to church and performed the sermons dutifully, and he even prayed every night, though he thought, perhaps, it was more out of habit than anything else.
And now this stranger.
There seemed no point in him dying. What possible use could it serve, when he was perfectly willing to care for this unfortunate man?
As the Reverend grew older, his belief in fate and purpose had diminished. Up to the point that now, as he gazed upon the shimmering picture of Christ, he felt anger.
He reached over and picked up the phone book.
A dim flicker of light fell into the room. Quickly he dropped the phone book and stood up.
He wandered into the kitchen, leaving the lights off, and headed for the window. He peered out and saw only darkness.
Can’t have been a ship, he thought. There are no ports here.
He knew that many ships passed through the not-to-distant ocean, but they always ran parallel to the shore. The nearest port was a couple of hours away.
His next thought was maybe a traveller had happened upon his cottage. But he could see no person, no torchlight.
There was a movement behind him.
The Reverend turned and saw a figure lumbering towards him.
He shuddered. His immediate thought was that an intruder had broken in. He was about to plead to him that he had no money, but then the figure stepped into the path of the moonlight.
“Impossible,” he whispered.
For the thing that was ambling ever closer was the stranger.
The bandages flopped with each step, and his mouth, forever gaping, dribbled the black muck he had vomited just before his demise.
Or apparent demise, the Reverend now thought.
I didn’t check his pulse properly, that’s all. And his heart must’ve been too weak to hear.
“A…are you all right?” the Reverend said, even though he knew he would get no answer.
The man continued closer. His unblinking eyes were expressionless. He left a dark trail of blood as his feet scraped along the wooden floor.
The smell was ungodly; it enveloped the Reverend with a stench twice as horrible as when he had found him.
Despite common sense, something deep inside told him that this was no living man. He was certain there had been no pulse, and the Reverend had seen enough death to recognise its ugly face. This was a creature sent by the devil, and it was shuffling closer.
The Reverend turned and hunted for a formidable weapon.
He sifted through the drawers until he found a large kitchen knife. When he turned back, the thing was no more than five feet away.
“GET AWAY!” he shouted, brandishing the thick knife. “LEAVE ME ALONE!”
There was no cease from the monster.
Black blood gurgled from its mouth and as it neared, it raised its arms in a sick parody of an embrace.
“Please, go away,” the Reverend pleaded.
With stiff, cold hands, the brute cupped the Reverend’s throat and squeezed.
The Reverend pried at its hands for release, but found the grip was too tight. He choked and struggled, felt his strength beginning to wane. He had to do something before the life was strangled from his body.
So he plunged the knife down. He sent the blade through the top of the thing’s head with such force that he managed to ram the knife all the way down to its handle.