Speaker 1: My name is Father Daniel Moreau. I've been the parish
priest at Saint Aldri's for exactly three weeks. I'll be honest.
When I was ordained, I had dreamed of something grander,
a bustling city parish, perhaps missionary work overseas, even a
quiet but influential role at the diocese. Instead, the bishop
sent me here, a sleepy little village tucked between rolling
farmland and dense woods, with the biggest events our harvest festivals,
and the occasional argument over whose turn it is to
arrange the altar flowers. Sometimes I wonder why was it
a test of humility, a gentle correction for my pride,
or simply because no one else wanted the position. You've
tried not to dwell on it. God places us where
we are needed, not always where we want to be. Still,
I've settled into the rhythm. Every Saturday afternoon, I sit
in the confessional from two until five, listening to the gentle,
ordinary sins of good people, stolen glances, white lies, petty jealousies,
missed masses. They are small town burdens, manageable ones, the
kind that let a young priest feel useful without being
overwhelmed that Saturday started no differently from the others. I
settled into the wooden booth, adjusted my stall, and waited.
Sunlight filtered softly through the stained glass windows, painting quiet
colored patterns across the stone floor. The church smelled of
old wood, pendal wax, and faint incense. The first penitent
arrived a few minutes after two. It was a girl, Emily,
a seventeen year old from the end of the village.
Her voice came through the screen, soft and trembling, the
way young people speak when they're trying very hard not
to cry. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It
was a stupid dare, she paused, breathing shallow. Last Friday night,
my two best friends and I were at my house.
We were bored, you know. We turned off all the
lights in the bathroom and I stood in front of
the mirror. We dared each other to say bloody Mary
three times. I laughed the whole time. I didn't believe
in any of that stuff, not really another long glance.
But when I opened my eyes there was a face
behind me in the reflection, pale, really pale. It didn't
have eyes, just these dark, empty holes. Piercing through me.
It wasn't my face, it wasn't any of our faces.
It was just there, standing right behind me. A voice cracked,
I screamed and ran out of the bathroom. My friends
thought I was joking at first, But ever since that night,
every night, around two in the morning, I see something
that tall, pale figure walking slowly past my bedroom window.
It moves like it's looking for the right room. It
doesn't stop, it just keeps walking back and forth, real slow,
like it's searching. She drew in a shaky breath. I'm
scared of it, father, I really am. But I'm more
scared that I invited it, that I did something stupid
and open the door I shouldn't have. But what if
it's not just outside my window anymore? What if it's
coming for me or my family? What if this is
God punishing me for playing with things I had no
business touching. I could hear her fingers twisting together nervously
on the other side of the screen. I leaned closer
to the latis and spoke gently, trying to sound calm
and reassuring. Emily. These kinds of games can play tricks
on the mind, especially at night. But even done as
a joke, this was still an attempt at dark art.
Say three hell Mary's and an act of contrition. Tonight,
pray for protection and try to get some rest. God's merciful.
He doesn't punish children for silly dares. She whispered a
quiet thank you father, But I could still hear the
fear lingering in her voice. As she left the confessional.
I sat back, frowning slightly. Just a frightened girl with
an overactive imagination, I told myself. But something about the
away she described, That pale figure stayed with me. Not
ten minutes after Emily left, the confessional door creaked open again.
This time it was the old mister Hargrove, the dairy farmer.
I could smell hay and cattle on him even through
the screen. His voice was rough, weathered by decades of
early mornings and hard work, but today it carried a
tremor I had never heard from him before. Bless me, father,
for I have sinned. He cleared his throat, then continued slowly.
Four nights ago, my best hunting dog, Rex finally passed.
He was old fourteen years. I buried him out behind
the barn properlike with a cross made from fence posts,
said a few words over him. But ever since I've
been hearing things. Yes, he paused, as if reluctant to speak.
The next part out loud, slow, deliberate, scratching right under
the barn floorboards. Not like rats. It was too steady.
The other morning I went out and nailed extra planks
down over the spot. The next morning, every nail was
pushed up from below, clean out of the wood. His
breathing grew heavier, and then I heard it whisper my
late wife Martha's name, exactly the way she used to
call me for supper, the same gentle tone, the same
lift at the end. I haven't slept since. I keep
thinking maybe I didn't give Rex a proper Questian burial.
Maybe I disturbed something that should have been left alone.
Maybe this is punishment for treating a good dog just
like another chore, instead of giving him the respect he deserved.
He fell silent, waiting. I sat very still, the image
of Emily's pale, eyeless face flashing through my mind for
a moment before I pushed it away. I spoke carefully,
keeping my voice steady and pastoral. Mister Hargrove. Grief can
do strange things to a man, especially when it stirs
up memories of those we've lost. The mind can play
tricks in the quiet hours. Say five our fathers and
five hail Mary's tonight. Ask the Lord to grant peace
to both Rex and Martha. If the scratching continues, come
see me tomorrow. We can bless the bar together if
need be. He muttered a grateful thank you, father, But
I could hear the doubt in his voice as he
shoveled out. I remained seated, fingers tight around my rosary.
Two confessions, two separate fears, both involving something supernatural, something
that knew the voices of the dead. It was probably nothing,
but my brain couldn't help but try see a connection.
I took a deep breath to compose myself, and when
I did, the church suddenly felt a little colder. Missus Landry,
the school teacher, entered the confessional shortly after mister Hargrove.
Her voice, normally so steady and authoritative, was now tight
and barely contained. Fear bless me, father, for I have sinned.
She took a moment to steady herself. I stayed late
at the school yesterday to inspect the classrooms before locking
up for the weekend. I was walking down the hallway,
checking that all the windows were closed when I heard
a rattle, like something knocking together. It came from the
science room. I thought maybe one of the students had
left the window open and something fell off the table.
She swallowed. I went in to check. The room was
dark except for the emergency exit light. The skeleton we
used the teaching anatomy. It was hanging in its usual
place in the back corner, but its right arm had moved.
It was raised slightly, fingers curled. As I stood there staring,
the head slowly turned toward me, exactly the way my
late son used to turn his head when he heard
me coming down the hallway, the same little tilt. Her
voice dropped to barely a whisper, fighting back a quiver,
threatening to break her. I ran out, locked every door
behind me. I kept telling myself it was just a
loose joint or a draft, but I can't stop seeing
that head turn. I used to tell my students there's
no such thing as demons or spirits, that it was
all superstition and old stories. Now I'm terrified. My lack
of faith is invited something into the school. What if
those things are watching the children? What if they're waiting
for me to leave them unprotected? I sat in silence
for a moment, the weight of a words pressing against me.
Three confessions in less than an hour, all strange oddities,
but this one felt like an escalation, a pattern I
couldn't brush away easily. I forced my voice to remain
calm and reassuring, though my pulse had quickened. Missus landry.
Old buildings make strange noises, especially at night. Wires loosen joints,
shift the mind, especially when it carries grief, can make
innocent things appear sinister. Say seven, Hail Mary's to night,
and pray for your son's peace. If the rattling continues,
we will bless the school together. God watches over the children.
Your doubt has not undone his protection. She thanked me quietly,
but I could hear the uncertainty in her footsteps. As
she left. I remained seated, gripping the rosary tighter than before.
The connections were becoming harder to dismiss. Pale figures, voices
and gestures of the dead, all in the same day,
I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow and
hope the next confession was something normal. The mayor's wife,
Missus Whittaker, entered the confessional shortly before four o'clock. Even
through the screen, I could hear that she had been crying,
bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Her voice trembled
with quiet, respectable fear. For the last week, I've been
leaving food out behind the church for local wildlife. Scraps
from dinner, bread, a little fruit, nothing unusual. The raccoons
and stray dogs had been hungry this spring. But a
few nights ago I had a strange dream. A very old,
very polite voice asked me nicely to keep feeding it.
It promised the town would stay safe if I continued.
She let out a shaky breath. A few nights ago,
I went out after dark to leave the usual plate.
I set it down near the old stone well and
stepped back. That's when I saw them, long, pale fingers
reaching up from the darkness inside the well. They took
the food so gently, father, almost gratefully. I didn't scream.
I just stood there frozen. Now I'm terrified I've been
feeding something I shouldn't have it, never meant to do
anything evil. He just wanted to give back to nature.
But what if I accidentally entered into a pact with
something demonic? What if God is judging me for it?
She sounded genuinely heartbroken, the fear of sin weighing heavier
in her than any actual wrongdoing. I kept my voice calm,
the way a priest should, missus Whittaker, feeding God's creatures
is not a sin. Dreams can be powerful, especially when
we are tired or worried about the town. The mind
can turn shadows and animals into something frightening at night,
Say ten heil Mary's to night and asked the Lord
for clarity and protection. If you feel uneasy, stop leaving
food for a few days and see if the dreams cease.
God knows your heart was kind. She thanked me softly,
her relief mixed with lingering doubt, and left the confessional.
I sat alone in the growing shadows, lad beating harder
than it should. I thought back to the other confessions,
the oddities that were different yet seemed linked. And now
the mayor's wife, watching long, pale fingers reach out from
the old well to accept her offerings. I was new here,
barely three weeks of this quiet parish, Yet on my
first busy Saturday of confessions, every single person seemed to
be describing pieces of the same presence. A chill settled
deep in my chest. I closed my eyes and whispered
a quiet prayer for treth, but my hands would not
stop trembling. The last confession of the afternoon came from
mister Kowalski, the hunter. He smelled of gun oil and pine,
and his voice carried the rough edge of a man
who was not easily frightened. Bless me, father, for I
have sinned. He shifted uncomfortably on the wooden kneeler. Two
nights ago, I was out after dark tracking a deer
i'd wounded earlier. I was moving through the tree line
behind the old mill when I saw something standing there.
I struggled to say what it was, but there was
no denying it a skeleton, just bones, hanging upright like
someone had propped it up. At first I thought it
was a prank or some kids messing around with that
plastic teaching skeleton from the school. But then it moved.
His breathing grew heavier. It turned its head toward me.
Then it raised one bony arm and started waving, slow
and deliberate. And then it spoke a slurred, raspy voice, sing, run, run,
over and over. I didn't think. I just raised my
rifle and fired three times. The bullets hit it square
in the chest. It didn't fall, It just tilted its
head like it was confused, still waving that arm. He
swallowed hard. I ran father, I ran all the way
home now and convinced I shot at something that cannot die,
something unholy. And because I answered with violence, I may
have cursed the whole village. What if whatever I wounded
his angry now, what if it comes for all of
us because of what I did. I sat behind the screen,
my mind racing a skeleton waving, telling him to run.
There was another confession involving bones or pale figures that
moved when they shouldn't. Four stories touching the dead are
the unnatural all in a row. I forced my voice
to stay calm and measured, though my pulse was hammering,
mister Kowalski. The woods at night can play cruel tricks
on even the most experienced hunters. Fear and darkness can
make ordinary objects appear alive, say ten Hell Mary's and
an act of contrition. We will pray together for protection
over the village. If you see anything again, come to
me immediately. God's mercy is greater than any curse. He
thanked me gruffly and left with a heavy thud of
his boots, echoed long after he was gone. I remained
in the confessional, heart pounding the rosary beads digging into
my palm. Five confessions. A girl who saw a pale
face after a mirror ritual. A farmer hearing scratching and
a call in his dead, twise voice under the barn.
A teacher whose classroom skeleton turned its head like a
missing son, the mayor's wife watching long pale fingers take
food from the well. And now a hunter shooting, and
a moving skeleton that told him to run. On this
ordinary Saturday, every soul who came to me seemed to
be describing fragments of the same nightmare. A terrible thought
settled over me like cold water. What if God had
not sent me here to tender peaceful flock. What if
He had sent me here because something dark was stirring
in Saint Older and I was meant to confront it.
My hands would not stop shaking. I sat alone in
the empty church as evening fell, the last of the
daylight bleeding out through the stained glass windows in long,
dying streaks of crimson and violet. The confessional door stood
open behind me, the screen still warm from the last penitent.
I closed the main doors. The eery sounds of the
outside were gone, but the silence felt heavy. I could
not stop replaying the five Confessions in my head. Five
ordinary people, five unrelated sins, or so it had seemed
at first. I rose from the pew lakes unsteady, and
walked to the small rectory library at the back of
the church. In the bottom drawer of the old, old cabinet,
the one the previous priests had warned me never to
open without good reason, with the restricted texts, volumes of
dioceses kept under lock and key, not for public eyes.
I lit a single candle and began to read, flipping
through accounts of local folklore, old warnings about restless spirits,
and handwritten notes on strange happenings in rural parishes. One
passage spoke of spirits that could slip through small openings
mirrors gaps beneath floors, and grow stronger when people paid attention.
Another described apparitions that could move in unnatural ways, mimicing
gestures or voices of the departed to draw the living closer.
Another warned that once such a presence was noticed and acknowledged,
it could spread through a community like a shadow, lengthening
at dusk, feeding and fear and guilt until it claimed everything.
My stomach tightened. I kept reading, cross referencing, making frantic
mental connections. The mirror ritual had drawn its attention. The
scratching under the barn was it trying to rise. The
skeleton in the classroom had moved because it had been acknowledged.
The food left at the well had been accepted. The
skeleton in the woods had instructed, which was followed. It
all pointed toward one ancient, patient presence, something pale, something
that knew how to wear the shapes and voices of
the dead, something that had been quietly waiting in Saint
Aldrich's and was now stirring because it had finally been noticed.
A cold certainty settled over me. God had not sent
me here to simply blessed crops and hear petty sins.
He had sent me here because this thing was already
moving through the village, and I would be the one
to confront it. My hands shook as I gathered the
holy water, the chrism oil, and my stole. I laid
them out on the altar like weapons. Pardon me. Wanted
to run to call the bishop immediately, to beg for
experienced help, to admit I was only a young priest
who had never faced anything like this, but a deeper part,
the part that had taken wholly orders with genuine fire
in my heart felt a strange, fierce resolve rising. If
the devil had truly come to my parish, then I
would meet him here on this ground with whatever strength
God had given me. I whispered a prayer for courage,
crossed myself, and waited for whatever the night would bring.
I was still in the rectory when the heavy church
door creaked open. My heart lurched, the candle flame jumped.
For one wild second, I was certain the thing from
the Confessions had finally come for me, a presence that
had been moving through the village. I grabbed a vial
of holy water and stepped into the nave, ready to
face whatever horror had stepped across the threshold. Instead, I
saw a man. He was swaying slightly in the doorway,
back lit by the last gray light of dusk, mid forties, disheveled,
reeking strongly of whiskey. He blinked at me with bleary,
sheepish eyes. Ugh, he's the confessional still open, father, I
almost laughed from sheer relief. Just another late penitent, a
drunk man who had wandered in at the worst possible moment.
I composed myself, smoothed my stole, and motion toward the booth.
Of course, come in, my son. I stepped into my
of the confessional and slid the wooden panel shut. The
familiarity screens settled between us. I could hear him fumbling
to Niel, bless me, father, for I have sinned. He
began voice, thick and slurry. It's been well, a real
long time, maybe never anyway, here goes. I could tell
by the way he stalled that whatever he was holding
back was heavy. He let out a long, embarrassed sigh,
and I braced myself for the worst. Last week, Oh,
I got absolutely hammered fighting with the wife, lost the
bet with the boys, the usual. I don't remember half
the night, but the bits I do remember there pretty bad.
He paused, then continued with the weary honesty of the
truly drunk. I was trying to get home and really
had to pee. I went in a bush by someone's
house since the window wasn't lit. But when I pressed
my face right up against the glass in the middle
of my business, I scared the hell out of some
poor girl doing a makeup or whatever. Felt bad about that.
I opened my mouth to absorb this mischievous man, but
he kept going. Then I got thirsty again. I remembered
old mister Hargrove kept a few bottles dashed under his barn,
so I crawled in there to grab one or two.
I know, I know that was stealing, but where I
usually squeezed back out was blocked off with fresh nail boards.
I pulled them up from underneath and cut my hand
pretty badly on a nail. I was yelling my hand
my hand because it hurt like hell. Mister Hargrove must
have heard me, but he didn't come help, just left
me down there. Thought that was pretty rude, so I
might have cursed him out a bit while I was
crawling out. Sorry about that too, only got a word
out before he went on. Then I got tired, real tired.
So the school was still open. Janitor must have left
the side door unlocked. Figured i'd sit down for a
minute inside where it was warm, but then I heard footsteps.
Knew I shouldn't be in there, and ended up hiding
behind that big plastic skeleton in the science room. Got
all tangled up in it, arms everywhere. When I finally
tried to leave, the doors had locked behind me, so
I had to break a window to get out. Might
have accidentally taken the skeleton with me. Thought it'd be
funny to carry around for a bit. Is it a sin?
If I just thought it was funny? My smile froze
the classroom skeleton, the head that turned the waving arm.
I tried to stop him, asking questions, but he continued oblivious.
Got hungry after that, saw Missus Whittaker, the mayor's wife,
leaving food out by the old well. I figured, who's
for the stray cats. I didn't want to scare her
or for her to think I was a thief, so
I reached down with a couple of long sticks I
found and fists him out, whispered thank you kindly so
I wouldn't scare her. Seemed polite at the time, the
long pale fingers reaching up from the well. I was
starting to feel light headed, and I gave up trying
to stop him because he was on a sinful roll,
a record I prayed would never be beaten. After that,
I was stumbling through the woods behind the mill, trying
to find my buddy, mister Kowalski, the hunter. Great guy.
Thought it would be funny to wave at him with
a silly skeleton and yell rum rum to see if
he wanted to drink with me. But then out of nowhere,
he starts shooting at me. I was still holding that
damn skeleton, waving its arm like an idiot, but it
was right past. I ran like hell, cursing the whole way.
He led out a long, defeated breath. So yeah, I
don't really remember the rest of the night. I woke
up in my backyard this morning with no idea how
I got there. How bad is this father? There was
a long, heavy silence. I sat there, rosary beads pressed
so tightly into my palm that the imprint would probably
stay for days, the pale face in the mirror, the
scratching under the barn, the skeleton that turned its head,
the fingers at the well, the waving bones that told
a man to run. All of it, one very drunk,
very stupid, very non malicious man who had simply gotten lost,
hungry and mischievous on the wrong night. I finally found
my voice. It came out hoarse and exhausted. Ugh ten,
Hail Mary's