Devil's Christmas Part 2 An Exorcism
Most churches have bats in their belfry—mine happens to have a demon.
I’m a bit skeptical but to soothe peoples’ nerves I spend a few minutes in the belfry after lunch, tidying up, sweeping the floors and then, sprinkling some holy water and praying a blessing over the church grounds.
I say a special prayer for Victoria when I spy her from the bell tower, coming home with Christmas presents.
Again, I stifle a pang of loneliness.
But I’m no sooner back in the sanctuary when I’m accosted by Peter Murphy, the local solicitor.
“So, Father, have you heard the news? —It’s all over town. The Clarion is running a feature and St. Tristan is front page news.”
“What’s the article about, Peter?”
“Well, it appears that packages and gifts of money have started appearing on various parishioners’ doorsteps, courtesy of St. Tristan’s. The whole town’s talking about it—calling it a Christmas miracle.”
“Hmm…maybe the spirit of St. Nicholas is alive and well,” I smile.
Peter frowns, “That may well be true, but people are talking about a different spirit—apparently the same one haunting your belfry.”
I groan audibly.
“I know, I know,” he tries to console me. “But something has to be done. The gossip mills are working overtime.”
“I’m not sure what’s causing such a stir, but I’ll look into it.”
“It’s a familiar story, Father—trouble in Paradise. The Old Serpent is up to his tricks—and at Christmas, no less.”
He tips his hat and heads out the door. And for a few moments as the door stands ajar, a gust of wind carries a flurry of snowflakes whirling into the vestibule.
The expected snow has arrived. It will be a white Christmas as the weatherman promised, but hopefully, also a peaceful season full of light, and without darkness.
I see her again at Vespers—a dark shawl subduing her lovely blonde tresses, though they still make the darkness bright.
Thankfully tonight, she doesn’t seek confession, but I still have to struggle with my disappointment, and berate myself for my obsession.
I stay behind to extinguish votive candles and secure the church for the night.
The moment I switch off the last sanctuary light, I sense a presence near the belfry. The hair on my arms stands up and my scalp tingles with irrational fear.
I strain to peer into the darkness, but can see nothing. I’m frozen to the spot and can scarcely breathe.
Suddenly, there’s a great crash and I let out an involuntary cry.
“I’m sorry, Father—didn’t mean to scare you. I often seem to slam doors.”
“Angelo—is that you?”
A low laughter reverberates in the darkness. “I’m not the custodian, Father. I’m Oliver Morton, late of this parish.”
“I don’t understand. How did you get in here?”
“I’m always here—it’s my second home.”
Great—just great! A homeless man squatting in the belfry.
“You can’t camp out here—if you’re homeless we have a shelter on Main Street that’s equipped to look after your needs.”
The figure in darkness chuckles softly. “I’m not homeless either, Father—as I told you, I’m Oliver Morton, late of this parish—in other words, I’m dead.”
A wave of icy terror sweeps over me and I begin trembling.
“You have no need to fear me. I mean you no harm.”
It takes me a few attempts before I can manage to make a sound. “Wha-what are you doing haunting a church? —Surely you know this is a sacrilege.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he says drolly, coming out of the shadows, and sitting down at the end of a pew. “I just happen to like spending time here, and since they tore down my house to make way for a restaurant, I decided to stay here.”
Realization dawns on me. “You’re the former owner of Morton House—the Victorian manse on the corner.”
“The manse that was, I’m afraid. It’s now Barbarians—a suitable name for a tacky eatery.”
I feel myself going lightheaded. “I can’t believe this is happening—it goes against all my theology.”
“Sorry, my friend, but you should be used to that by now—I see the way you stare at a certain young lady. You’re one of the most conflicted men I know.”
My knees turn to water and give out, but before I can sink to the floor, a chair from the usher’s table slides under me and supports my weight.
“There, there—we can’t have you suffering a slipped disk just before Christmas.”
“How—how did you do that?” I sputter.
“Simple. I’m a ghost.”
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