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Speaker 1: My name is Father Daniel Moreau. I've been the parish

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priest at Saint Aldri's for exactly three weeks. I'll be honest.

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When I was ordained, I had dreamed of something grander,

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a bustling city parish, perhaps missionary work overseas, even a

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quiet but influential role at the diocese. Instead, the bishop

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sent me here, a sleepy little village tucked between rolling

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farmland and dense woods, with the biggest events our harvest festivals,

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and the occasional argument over whose turn it is to

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arrange the altar flowers. Sometimes I wonder why was it

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a test of humility, a gentle correction for my pride,

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or simply because no one else wanted the position. You've

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tried not to dwell on it. God places us where

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we are needed, not always where we want to be. Still,

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I've settled into the rhythm. Every Saturday afternoon, I sit

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in the confessional from two until five, listening to the gentle,

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ordinary sins of good people, stolen glances, white lies, petty jealousies,

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missed masses. They are small town burdens, manageable ones, the

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kind that let a young priest feel useful without being

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overwhelmed that Saturday started no differently from the others. I

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settled into the wooden booth, adjusted my stall, and waited.

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Sunlight filtered softly through the stained glass windows, painting quiet

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colored patterns across the stone floor. The church smelled of

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old wood, pendal wax, and faint incense. The first penitent

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arrived a few minutes after two. It was a girl, Emily,

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a seventeen year old from the end of the village.

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Her voice came through the screen, soft and trembling, the

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way young people speak when they're trying very hard not

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to cry. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It

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was a stupid dare, she paused, breathing shallow. Last Friday night,

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my two best friends and I were at my house.

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We were bored, you know. We turned off all the

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lights in the bathroom and I stood in front of

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the mirror. We dared each other to say bloody Mary

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three times. I laughed the whole time. I didn't believe

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in any of that stuff, not really another long glance.

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But when I opened my eyes there was a face

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behind me in the reflection, pale, really pale. It didn't

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have eyes, just these dark, empty holes. Piercing through me.

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It wasn't my face, it wasn't any of our faces.

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It was just there, standing right behind me. A voice cracked,

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I screamed and ran out of the bathroom. My friends

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thought I was joking at first, But ever since that night,

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every night, around two in the morning, I see something

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that tall, pale figure walking slowly past my bedroom window.

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It moves like it's looking for the right room. It

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doesn't stop, it just keeps walking back and forth, real slow,

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like it's searching. She drew in a shaky breath. I'm

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scared of it, father, I really am. But I'm more

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scared that I invited it, that I did something stupid

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and open the door I shouldn't have. But what if

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it's not just outside my window anymore? What if it's

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coming for me or my family? What if this is

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God punishing me for playing with things I had no

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business touching. I could hear her fingers twisting together nervously

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on the other side of the screen. I leaned closer

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to the latis and spoke gently, trying to sound calm

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and reassuring. Emily. These kinds of games can play tricks

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on the mind, especially at night. But even done as

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a joke, this was still an attempt at dark art.

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Say three hell Mary's and an act of contrition. Tonight,

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pray for protection and try to get some rest. God's merciful.

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He doesn't punish children for silly dares. She whispered a

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quiet thank you father, But I could still hear the

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fear lingering in her voice. As she left the confessional.

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I sat back, frowning slightly. Just a frightened girl with

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an overactive imagination, I told myself. But something about the

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away she described, That pale figure stayed with me. Not

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ten minutes after Emily left, the confessional door creaked open again.

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This time it was the old mister Hargrove, the dairy farmer.

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I could smell hay and cattle on him even through

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the screen. His voice was rough, weathered by decades of

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early mornings and hard work, but today it carried a

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tremor I had never heard from him before. Bless me, father,

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for I have sinned. He cleared his throat, then continued slowly.

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Four nights ago, my best hunting dog, Rex finally passed.

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He was old fourteen years. I buried him out behind

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the barn properlike with a cross made from fence posts,

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said a few words over him. But ever since I've

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been hearing things. Yes, he paused, as if reluctant to speak.

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The next part out loud, slow, deliberate, scratching right under

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the barn floorboards. Not like rats. It was too steady.

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The other morning I went out and nailed extra planks

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down over the spot. The next morning, every nail was

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pushed up from below, clean out of the wood. His

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breathing grew heavier, and then I heard it whisper my

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late wife Martha's name, exactly the way she used to

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call me for supper, the same gentle tone, the same

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lift at the end. I haven't slept since. I keep

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thinking maybe I didn't give Rex a proper Questian burial.

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Maybe I disturbed something that should have been left alone.

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Maybe this is punishment for treating a good dog just

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like another chore, instead of giving him the respect he deserved.

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He fell silent, waiting. I sat very still, the image

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of Emily's pale, eyeless face flashing through my mind for

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a moment before I pushed it away. I spoke carefully,

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keeping my voice steady and pastoral. Mister Hargrove. Grief can

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do strange things to a man, especially when it stirs

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up memories of those we've lost. The mind can play

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tricks in the quiet hours. Say five our fathers and

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five hail Mary's tonight. Ask the Lord to grant peace

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to both Rex and Martha. If the scratching continues, come

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see me tomorrow. We can bless the bar together if

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need be. He muttered a grateful thank you, father, But

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I could hear the doubt in his voice as he

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shoveled out. I remained seated, fingers tight around my rosary.

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Two confessions, two separate fears, both involving something supernatural, something

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that knew the voices of the dead. It was probably nothing,

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but my brain couldn't help but try see a connection.

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I took a deep breath to compose myself, and when

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I did, the church suddenly felt a little colder. Missus Landry,

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the school teacher, entered the confessional shortly after mister Hargrove.

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Her voice, normally so steady and authoritative, was now tight

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and barely contained. Fear bless me, father, for I have sinned.

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She took a moment to steady herself. I stayed late

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at the school yesterday to inspect the classrooms before locking

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up for the weekend. I was walking down the hallway,

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checking that all the windows were closed when I heard

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a rattle, like something knocking together. It came from the

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science room. I thought maybe one of the students had

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left the window open and something fell off the table.

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She swallowed. I went in to check. The room was

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dark except for the emergency exit light. The skeleton we

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used the teaching anatomy. It was hanging in its usual

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place in the back corner, but its right arm had moved.

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It was raised slightly, fingers curled. As I stood there staring,

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the head slowly turned toward me, exactly the way my

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late son used to turn his head when he heard

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me coming down the hallway, the same little tilt. Her

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voice dropped to barely a whisper, fighting back a quiver,

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threatening to break her. I ran out, locked every door

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behind me. I kept telling myself it was just a

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loose joint or a draft, but I can't stop seeing

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that head turn. I used to tell my students there's

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no such thing as demons or spirits, that it was

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all superstition and old stories. Now I'm terrified. My lack

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of faith is invited something into the school. What if

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those things are watching the children? What if they're waiting

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for me to leave them unprotected? I sat in silence

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for a moment, the weight of a words pressing against me.

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Three confessions in less than an hour, all strange oddities,

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but this one felt like an escalation, a pattern I

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couldn't brush away easily. I forced my voice to remain

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calm and reassuring, though my pulse had quickened. Missus landry.

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Old buildings make strange noises, especially at night. Wires loosen joints,

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shift the mind, especially when it carries grief, can make

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innocent things appear sinister. Say seven, Hail Mary's to night,

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and pray for your son's peace. If the rattling continues,

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we will bless the school together. God watches over the children.

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Your doubt has not undone his protection. She thanked me quietly,

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but I could hear the uncertainty in her footsteps. As

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she left. I remained seated, gripping the rosary tighter than before.

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The connections were becoming harder to dismiss. Pale figures, voices

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and gestures of the dead, all in the same day,

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I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow and

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hope the next confession was something normal. The mayor's wife,

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Missus Whittaker, entered the confessional shortly before four o'clock. Even

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through the screen, I could hear that she had been crying,

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bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Her voice trembled

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with quiet, respectable fear. For the last week, I've been

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leaving food out behind the church for local wildlife. Scraps

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from dinner, bread, a little fruit, nothing unusual. The raccoons

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and stray dogs had been hungry this spring. But a

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few nights ago I had a strange dream. A very old,

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very polite voice asked me nicely to keep feeding it.

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It promised the town would stay safe if I continued.

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She let out a shaky breath. A few nights ago,

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I went out after dark to leave the usual plate.

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I set it down near the old stone well and

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stepped back. That's when I saw them, long, pale fingers

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reaching up from the darkness inside the well. They took

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the food so gently, father, almost gratefully. I didn't scream.

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I just stood there frozen. Now I'm terrified I've been

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feeding something I shouldn't have it, never meant to do

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anything evil. He just wanted to give back to nature.

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But what if I accidentally entered into a pact with

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something demonic? What if God is judging me for it?

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She sounded genuinely heartbroken, the fear of sin weighing heavier

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in her than any actual wrongdoing. I kept my voice calm,

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the way a priest should, missus Whittaker, feeding God's creatures

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is not a sin. Dreams can be powerful, especially when

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we are tired or worried about the town. The mind

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can turn shadows and animals into something frightening at night,

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Say ten heil Mary's to night and asked the Lord

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for clarity and protection. If you feel uneasy, stop leaving

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food for a few days and see if the dreams cease.

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God knows your heart was kind. She thanked me softly,

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her relief mixed with lingering doubt, and left the confessional.

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I sat alone in the growing shadows, lad beating harder

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than it should. I thought back to the other confessions,

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the oddities that were different yet seemed linked. And now

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the mayor's wife, watching long, pale fingers reach out from

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the old well to accept her offerings. I was new here,

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barely three weeks of this quiet parish, Yet on my

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first busy Saturday of confessions, every single person seemed to

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be describing pieces of the same presence. A chill settled

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deep in my chest. I closed my eyes and whispered

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a quiet prayer for treth, but my hands would not

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stop trembling. The last confession of the afternoon came from

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mister Kowalski, the hunter. He smelled of gun oil and pine,

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and his voice carried the rough edge of a man

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who was not easily frightened. Bless me, father, for I

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have sinned. He shifted uncomfortably on the wooden kneeler. Two

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nights ago, I was out after dark tracking a deer

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i'd wounded earlier. I was moving through the tree line

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behind the old mill when I saw something standing there.

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I struggled to say what it was, but there was

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no denying it a skeleton, just bones, hanging upright like

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someone had propped it up. At first I thought it

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was a prank or some kids messing around with that

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plastic teaching skeleton from the school. But then it moved.

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His breathing grew heavier. It turned its head toward me.

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Then it raised one bony arm and started waving, slow

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and deliberate. And then it spoke a slurred, raspy voice, sing, run, run,

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over and over. I didn't think. I just raised my

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rifle and fired three times. The bullets hit it square

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in the chest. It didn't fall, It just tilted its

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head like it was confused, still waving that arm. He

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swallowed hard. I ran father, I ran all the way

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home now and convinced I shot at something that cannot die,

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something unholy. And because I answered with violence, I may

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have cursed the whole village. What if whatever I wounded

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his angry now, what if it comes for all of

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us because of what I did. I sat behind the screen,

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my mind racing a skeleton waving, telling him to run.

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There was another confession involving bones or pale figures that

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moved when they shouldn't. Four stories touching the dead are

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the unnatural all in a row. I forced my voice

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to stay calm and measured, though my pulse was hammering,

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mister Kowalski. The woods at night can play cruel tricks

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on even the most experienced hunters. Fear and darkness can

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make ordinary objects appear alive, say ten Hell Mary's and

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an act of contrition. We will pray together for protection

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over the village. If you see anything again, come to

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me immediately. God's mercy is greater than any curse. He

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thanked me gruffly and left with a heavy thud of

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his boots, echoed long after he was gone. I remained

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in the confessional, heart pounding the rosary beads digging into

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my palm. Five confessions. A girl who saw a pale

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face after a mirror ritual. A farmer hearing scratching and

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a call in his dead, twise voice under the barn.

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A teacher whose classroom skeleton turned its head like a

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missing son, the mayor's wife watching long pale fingers take

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food from the well. And now a hunter shooting, and

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a moving skeleton that told him to run. On this

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ordinary Saturday, every soul who came to me seemed to

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be describing fragments of the same nightmare. A terrible thought

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settled over me like cold water. What if God had

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not sent me here to tender peaceful flock. What if

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He had sent me here because something dark was stirring

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in Saint Older and I was meant to confront it.

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My hands would not stop shaking. I sat alone in

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the empty church as evening fell, the last of the

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daylight bleeding out through the stained glass windows in long,

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dying streaks of crimson and violet. The confessional door stood

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open behind me, the screen still warm from the last penitent.

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I closed the main doors. The eery sounds of the

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outside were gone, but the silence felt heavy. I could

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not stop replaying the five Confessions in my head. Five

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ordinary people, five unrelated sins, or so it had seemed

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at first. I rose from the pew lakes unsteady, and

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walked to the small rectory library at the back of

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the church. In the bottom drawer of the old, old cabinet,

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the one the previous priests had warned me never to

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open without good reason, with the restricted texts, volumes of

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dioceses kept under lock and key, not for public eyes.

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I lit a single candle and began to read, flipping

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through accounts of local folklore, old warnings about restless spirits,

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and handwritten notes on strange happenings in rural parishes. One

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passage spoke of spirits that could slip through small openings

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mirrors gaps beneath floors, and grow stronger when people paid attention.

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Another described apparitions that could move in unnatural ways, mimicing

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gestures or voices of the departed to draw the living closer.

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Another warned that once such a presence was noticed and acknowledged,

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it could spread through a community like a shadow, lengthening

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at dusk, feeding and fear and guilt until it claimed everything.

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My stomach tightened. I kept reading, cross referencing, making frantic

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mental connections. The mirror ritual had drawn its attention. The

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scratching under the barn was it trying to rise. The

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skeleton in the classroom had moved because it had been acknowledged.

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The food left at the well had been accepted. The

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skeleton in the woods had instructed, which was followed. It

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all pointed toward one ancient, patient presence, something pale, something

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that knew how to wear the shapes and voices of

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the dead, something that had been quietly waiting in Saint

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Aldrich's and was now stirring because it had finally been noticed.

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A cold certainty settled over me. God had not sent

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me here to simply blessed crops and hear petty sins.

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He had sent me here because this thing was already

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moving through the village, and I would be the one

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to confront it. My hands shook as I gathered the

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holy water, the chrism oil, and my stole. I laid

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them out on the altar like weapons. Pardon me. Wanted

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to run to call the bishop immediately, to beg for

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experienced help, to admit I was only a young priest

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who had never faced anything like this, but a deeper part,

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the part that had taken wholly orders with genuine fire

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in my heart felt a strange, fierce resolve rising. If

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the devil had truly come to my parish, then I

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would meet him here on this ground with whatever strength

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God had given me. I whispered a prayer for courage,

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crossed myself, and waited for whatever the night would bring.

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I was still in the rectory when the heavy church

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door creaked open. My heart lurched, the candle flame jumped.

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For one wild second, I was certain the thing from

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the Confessions had finally come for me, a presence that

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had been moving through the village. I grabbed a vial

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of holy water and stepped into the nave, ready to

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face whatever horror had stepped across the threshold. Instead, I

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saw a man. He was swaying slightly in the doorway,

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back lit by the last gray light of dusk, mid forties, disheveled,

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reeking strongly of whiskey. He blinked at me with bleary,

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sheepish eyes. Ugh, he's the confessional still open, father, I

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almost laughed from sheer relief. Just another late penitent, a

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drunk man who had wandered in at the worst possible moment.

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I composed myself, smoothed my stole, and motion toward the booth.

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Of course, come in, my son. I stepped into my

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of the confessional and slid the wooden panel shut. The

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familiarity screens settled between us. I could hear him fumbling

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to Niel, bless me, father, for I have sinned. He

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began voice, thick and slurry. It's been well, a real

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long time, maybe never anyway, here goes. I could tell

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by the way he stalled that whatever he was holding

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back was heavy. He let out a long, embarrassed sigh,

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and I braced myself for the worst. Last week, Oh,

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I got absolutely hammered fighting with the wife, lost the

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bet with the boys, the usual. I don't remember half

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the night, but the bits I do remember there pretty bad.

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He paused, then continued with the weary honesty of the

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truly drunk. I was trying to get home and really

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had to pee. I went in a bush by someone's

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house since the window wasn't lit. But when I pressed

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my face right up against the glass in the middle

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of my business, I scared the hell out of some

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poor girl doing a makeup or whatever. Felt bad about that.

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I opened my mouth to absorb this mischievous man, but

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he kept going. Then I got thirsty again. I remembered

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old mister Hargrove kept a few bottles dashed under his barn,

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so I crawled in there to grab one or two.

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I know, I know that was stealing, but where I

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usually squeezed back out was blocked off with fresh nail boards.

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I pulled them up from underneath and cut my hand

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pretty badly on a nail. I was yelling my hand

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my hand because it hurt like hell. Mister Hargrove must

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have heard me, but he didn't come help, just left

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me down there. Thought that was pretty rude, so I

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might have cursed him out a bit while I was

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crawling out. Sorry about that too, only got a word

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out before he went on. Then I got tired, real tired.

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So the school was still open. Janitor must have left

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the side door unlocked. Figured i'd sit down for a

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minute inside where it was warm, but then I heard footsteps.

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Knew I shouldn't be in there, and ended up hiding

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behind that big plastic skeleton in the science room. Got

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all tangled up in it, arms everywhere. When I finally

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tried to leave, the doors had locked behind me, so

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I had to break a window to get out. Might

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have accidentally taken the skeleton with me. Thought it'd be

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funny to carry around for a bit. Is it a sin?

359
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If I just thought it was funny? My smile froze

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the classroom skeleton, the head that turned the waving arm.

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I tried to stop him, asking questions, but he continued oblivious.

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Got hungry after that, saw Missus Whittaker, the mayor's wife,

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leaving food out by the old well. I figured, who's

364
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for the stray cats. I didn't want to scare her

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or for her to think I was a thief, so

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I reached down with a couple of long sticks I

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found and fists him out, whispered thank you kindly so

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I wouldn't scare her. Seemed polite at the time, the

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long pale fingers reaching up from the well. I was

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starting to feel light headed, and I gave up trying

371
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to stop him because he was on a sinful roll,

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a record I prayed would never be beaten. After that,

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I was stumbling through the woods behind the mill, trying

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to find my buddy, mister Kowalski, the hunter. Great guy.

375
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Thought it would be funny to wave at him with

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a silly skeleton and yell rum rum to see if

377
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he wanted to drink with me. But then out of nowhere,

378
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he starts shooting at me. I was still holding that

379
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damn skeleton, waving its arm like an idiot, but it

380
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was right past. I ran like hell, cursing the whole way.

381
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He led out a long, defeated breath. So yeah, I

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don't really remember the rest of the night. I woke

383
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up in my backyard this morning with no idea how

384
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I got there. How bad is this father? There was

385
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a long, heavy silence. I sat there, rosary beads pressed

386
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so tightly into my palm that the imprint would probably

387
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stay for days, the pale face in the mirror, the

388
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scratching under the barn, the skeleton that turned its head,

389
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the fingers at the well, the waving bones that told

390
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a man to run. All of it, one very drunk,

391
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very stupid, very non malicious man who had simply gotten lost,

392
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hungry and mischievous on the wrong night. I finally found

393
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my voice. It came out hoarse and exhausted. Ugh ten,

394
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Hail Mary's