The Figure

The Figure

A short story by Zachary Childers

Any other night and he’d be noticeably calm, so calm in fact that those seated around him would think he was being cold and distant, much too reserved for a priest in this situation. The locals would try and deduce his behavior and talk amongst the others. “Oh don’t mind Father Paul, he’s just a bit numb from the number of burials he’s had to attend over the years. He’s the only priest in town you know.” Of course they were right: he was the only reverend in the small town, and the obligation to sit in at funerals had been called upon him almost weekly.



Paul turned his head to both sides, attempting to clear the crick in his neck he had received on the way over from a large bump in the asphalt road. Where the town would get funding to fix it he had no idea. As he relaxed back into his chair, Father Paul looked down at his black shirt and white collar, which rested on pressed black pants. Every day, the same clerical clothes; He felt almost married to the ensemble, and it was one of the many things in his life that were constant. Until death do we part. When he was younger Paul had questioned the need to wear it all the time. He explained to Cardinal Patrick that as long as he preached the word of the Lord and continued to perform his duties, was it really necessary to be uncomfortable? The response was well rehearsed, almost political. “Priests are required to wear clerical clothing Paul.” At this point he opened a large binder filled with regulations and read off one having to do with the issue. Something about the norms issued by the Episcopal Conference and etc etc.



Paul had never questioned any other part of his profession, as he was sure it would be met with the same unconditional dis-spiriting. He tapped his leg with one of his fingers and looked around at his surroundings to regain some peace.



The external details of the funeral seemed standard: a moderately sized group of family and friends, three of four that were sobbing, flowers along the grave and in children’s’ hands waiting to be thrown into the pit, and some food scattered on a table untouched. The deceased’s sister Annie was one of those crying. Not much to look at with her traditional black dress, she sits straight, adjusting her perfectly kept hair every few seconds, and only seems to show any kind of emotion when no one is looking, quickly holding back any tears with home kept fingers that showed her lack of psychical activity. While other close relative’s makeup seemed to be runny or non-existent, Annie’s was as perfect as ever, better even, as if she had taken longer to get ready today than any other day. Her mother sits next to her, more aware than her daughter, but in an irate, quarrelsome way. She had apparently disagreed with the location of her son’s grave, but because of a lack a funds had to settle. This didn’t stop her bickering, however, with anyone that brought up how lovely the light was shining through the trees.



Paul could only wonder what the Wilkes’s house was like before the funeral. “Annie will you hurry up! That dreadful trash of a park is waiting. Mother calm down; you know how long my hair takes to dry.”



While everything was normal on the outside, Father Paul couldn’t help feel bothered. Dan’s death had been a surprise, too early everyone said. But what really was on the Father’s mind was the change in attitude Dan had acquired prior to his passing.



Paul rose from his seat and made his way over to the grave of the deceased to ponder more about this. Peering in, he pictured Dan inside the wooden coffin, not as a corpse, but as he had been a month ago when Father Stephen had last talked to him. Dan was having problems, something he referred to as “myster’us haunts.” Dan thought he was seeing things at night, and was sure he had gone mad.“Well whatta ya think Father? Can ya sort me out?” Of course Paul couldn’t fix Dan’s problems, but he rattled off some easy line about atoning for sins, and looking for signs from the Lord. Dan had left as cluttered as he arrived, and now Paul saw him lying in his coffin, with his shirt half tucked in, missing a button from one thing or another. Even with perfect attire Dan would have looked worn out from his developing facial hair to his equally developing baggage under his eyes.



As Father Paul thought deeper into his last meeting with Dan, something caught his eye at the back of the chairs. The source of the distraction was making its way closer to the grave, a tall man that the father couldn’t identify. As he came closer, Paul saw the mole next to the man’s nose, and instantly recognized Keller Geoffreys, who had disappeared some time ago from the small town. With a relaxed and rested physique, and clean clothes that looked ironed and tailored, Keller had the complete opposite appearance than he had when he lived in town. In fact, Dan’s final looks resembled Keller’s before he left. The difference was that when Keller had spoke with Paul, he seemed excited about a new start, and that everything would finally be right. “You remember that Father, everything will be different now for me. You do good and remember that.”



But why was Keller here? Sure he and Dan had been friends sometime ago, almost inseparable on the weekends or during basketball season, but for a few years the two grew far apart. When Dan had been chosen for a job promotion over Keller, a transformation seemed to begin. The two were polar opposites emotionally. Dan became stylish and classy, while Keller degraded. Keller had often come into the parish, complaining to Father Paul about Dan’s work ethic, and each month Keller was more and more distraught, and stopped taking care of himself. He would wander into the church late at night, looking for ways to get back on his feet, sometimes quite literally. Paul always told him to keep his faith, but Keller never accepted that. Eventually Father Paul stopped letting him in, and would leave Keller on the sidewalk, drunk and unconscious. He ended up losing his job and wife, and soon after made the decision to leave. Keller disappeared with only a ragged shirt and worn out pants, without a word to anyone but Father Paul.



But here Keller was, looking as if he’d never had a worry in his life. Was he taller, or just standing up straight? Father Paul watched as Keller strode past Annie and her mother, who both continued chatting with an older couple next to them. In fact nobody seemed to acknowledge Keller’s arrival. Had he been expected?



As Paul wondered about Keller’s intentions, mixed with his last words at the parish, the new man made his way down the aisle, and arrived next to the Father overlooking Dan’s grave.



Keller stood over the pit for a moment, closed his eyes and smirked. Father Paul cleared his throat, but Keller didn’t seem to notice.



“Keller, I-“



He didn’t see what hit him, but he felt the impact. Had a tree branch hit him? Impossible, he had never closed his eyes to miss it. His breath sped out of his lungs, which he was sure had collapsed. Unable to move, Paul could not escape the sharp pain. All the Father knew was that Keller’s eyes were now completely open, and he was staring into the hole.



What came next was worse than ten tree branches hitting Paul: a white-hot, smoldering coming from within his own body. It started in his chest, and spread to his shoulders, and to his arms. And to his hands, and his fingers, which throbbed uncontrollably.



What in the Good Lord’s name is happening to me. Oh… God. Boiling…. Something...Boiling…my blood. When the searing heat reached his face and eyes (Oh God…my eyes...), Father Paul tried to open his mouth, to let out an ear-deafening scream, but could not. All that escaped him was a heavy breath of burning air, as if he had become an erupting volcano.



Paul could barely let out his screams in his mind, which he was sure had melted into a puddle of sludge by now. Keller continued looking forward, taking no notice to the pain the Father was in.



Ke…KELL..ER…Help me…don’t you…see…I’m on fire…I’ve…com..busted…



“The pain will end Priest.”



Father Paul heard Keller, but couldn’t be bothered from the unbearable anguish.



“The pain will end for but a moment.”



As if from a dream, Father Paul was snapped back into reality, his body back to its normal temperature, however he could barely move without feeling the pain.  At rest all was fine and right, but once he moved, it yanked the Father back into what he could only imagine the deepest circle of Hell was like. Father Paul kept still for a second, gathering all the energy inside him, and opened his mouth just enough to let out a simple:



“What…” He decided to end his question early, the pain was excruciating.



“Don’t bother speaking Priest.”



Priest. That was the second time he had put such emphasis into that word.



“And don’t bother thinking too much. The only reason I’m sparing you is so you can be our messenger. You will never understand, even though the truth is right in front of you.”



Father Paul tried opening his mouth to respond, and was met with another sharp flame. How can I pass on anything when this pain overtakes me everything I choose to speak! I will never speak again at this rate… No, I must…know what this is…



Choosing his words wisely, Paul could minimalize the pain. “Who…are you…”



“Your Good Lord cannot suppress the pain I’ve given you. Only I have that power Priest. You did this to yourself.”



Mustering up a bit more energy, Father Paul muttered, “Why…Keller.”



“Keller was nothing special, just another soul gone unhelped by your church; By you. He is simply a surrogate now, like you all will become. You turned him away again and again, until he was at his worst Father. For a man who is supposed to comfort and guide, you did the opposite, which led him astray.”



It wasn’t always so; There was a time when Father Paul could instill hope into his patrons, a time when people divulged their fears to him, and the Father would listen, really listen. Nothing had really happened to change this, at least nothing like a death in his family, or some tragic event. Father Paul had simply grown weary of listening to the troubles of others. He was required to comfort those who came to him.



“We are feeding on your troubled ones, entering this world quicker and quicker, gathering finally. It’s really quite extraordinary how easily a man will give up his soul; A lucky streak, or riches, even love from another. Your kind’s biggest downfall is the desire for material things, or compassion from someone who will inevitably let them down. And when their wish has been granted, they give up their place here.



Keller’s wishes were to simply confront the one who had wronged him, and stand over his grave.



So Keller was here at first, but had…given himself up?



Simpler than others, no doubt, but exciting none the less. Vengeance always is. Do not try to understand more that that Priest. You will find nothing until it’s too late.”



“No…I-“



The pain had returned, this time exploding at all points of Paul’s body at once, pushing him back towards the others. He landed with a THUD into his seat, scraping his forearm on one of the protruding metal pieces. The wound bled, but did not transcend the pain of the burning. He was completely immobile now, unable to move his head.



Why does…n’t any…one see…. what’s happ…’ning. J-Just flew through… the…. goddamn air.



Father Paul could hear the others behind him, talking amongst themselves as if nothing had happened, but he didn’t bother trying to turn his head, for fear of the pain growing. The figure that had taken Keller’s body stood over the grave, looking into the pit again. Father Paul watched as a dark shadow seemed to envelope Keller’s (Must stop calling him that) body, becoming thick and dense, flowing like a flame had mixed with a heavy fog. As the cloud continued to envelope the figure, a layer started to detach itself from the rest. No, not detaching, Just expanding outward. The layer divided and became two hand like shapes, raising into the air. They paused for a second, and then soared toward the Father.



This is it, the end. The end of the pain, at last.



Father Paul didn’t bother trying to get out of the way. He waited for his end to come as the hands came closer.



But wait. What about the figure’s talk about spreading the word? No. Just end this, please, please!



The hands were feet from Paul; inches.



A burst of lightning, followed by a loud thunderous clap. The Father opened his eyes,  and the figure was gone, as well as the dark sky. Paul put his hands over his head, and quickly realized he could move again. He rose up, knocking the chair over, and turned towards the others. Why are they still talking. Hadn’t they seen?! He didn’t think about it for long, and opened his mouth to explain what had happened, but it was too late.



It was over. Paul’s eyes opened, his desk soaked with sweat, his wound bleeding as it always had after the dream. But it wasn’t a dream. It had happened. He was sure of it, and had to keep telling himself everyday after the dream. Always the same ending, but it didn’t matter. The others had never believed him that day anyway, or even began to understand what he stammered in front of the grave. “Just what is Father Paul babbling on about now?” “Mot-HER! That’s rude!”



Sometimes the wound bled a dark color, as dark as the sky had been that day, in which case Father Paul would save the liquid in a jar by his feet. Three jars now. He was afraid to send it away to the big city chemist Paul had talked to, who had, “no idea what to think of it.” The Father was afraid of getting another involved anyway.



Father Paul turned his chair towards the large wall in his room, which was covered with writings and symbols, most of which appeared when he closed his eyes. His hair had grown long, and other parts of his body were starting to show a lack of regard. His appearance mattered little to Paul, he hadn’t been out in days anyway. After those at the parish noticed his pale color and unkempt body, he hadn’t returned; there weren’t any answers there anyway.



Father Paul tore open a pack of towels, grabbing one and placing it next to his bottle of alcohol. The bottle was a third empty from daily use. The Father cleaned up his wound, which was second nature by now. The wound didn’t sting, but it never healed completely either. A reminder to that day; A reminder to continue his work.

He re-bandaged the cut, got up, and began writing on the wall with a small piece of chalk. The figure’s voice echoed through him, as it had since the event:



Do not try to understand more than that Priest. You will find nothing until it’s too late.