“Father Romano?” Brother Vespucci called from the doorway. Father Romano turned from his desk where he was intently studying the Scripture.

“Yes, my brother?” he inquired. Brother Vespucci sighed and grabbed the door handle, deep concern and sadness etched in his face,

“I am so sorry, Enzo.”

Hearing his first name, Father Romano was taken aback and immediately knew that something was very wrong. The men of the priesthood only used each other’s first names in the most somber of times.

“My brother, what is this matter? Shall we pray?” Father Romano asked, standing and walking toward Brother Vespucci, grabbing his shaking hands. There were tears in his eyes,

“The call came through just moments ago, Enzo. Your father…” the priest’s voice trailed off, lost in a choked sob. Enzo felt his heart sink,

“What is it? What has happened?” he asked in a hushed whisper, his throat tightening. Brother Vespucci gathered himself, swallowing hard, and looked Father Romano in the eyes,

“There was a break in at the family home. Your father was the only one at home at the time and,” the Priest’s voice cracked with emotion, “and your mother found his body when she returned home. The thief had killed him. I am so sorry, Enzo.”

Enzo looked at Brother Vespucci in silent disbelief, his jaw agape and his eyes burning. The words were still processing in his head. He still gripped the other priest’s hands in his own, afraid that if he let go he would fall. Brother Vespucci pulled him close, wrapping him in his arms and whispering, “I’m so sorry.”

Enzo could feel nothing. His mind was numb, his heart was numb. The world suddenly felt too small.

“Did they apprehend the thief?” he asked. Brother Vespucci released him from the embrace and shook his head sadly.

“There were no witnesses. They’re searching the scene for DNA,” he replied.

“It’s not a scene. It’s our home,” Enzo asserted and Brother Vespucci nodded.

“Yes, Father Romano.” He took a breath, “You have been given leave by the diocese to go home and be with your family. Please return only when you are ready. There is no rush,” he said. Enzo nodded slowly and went back to his desk, closing the Bible he had been poring over and slipping it into a bag. He gathered the remainder of his few belongings and followed Brother Vespucci into the main hall.

“We’ve already arranged a taxi for you. You have our prayers and our deepest condolences. Please do not hesitate to call if you need anything at all,” Brother Vespucci said, hugging Father Romano once more before he left the monastery.

The taxi ride was silent. Father Romano watched through the window as the great stone monastery shrunk into the horizon before disappearing. Fate would dictate that he would never again return to those hallowed halls.

An hour passed before the driver stopped on the street that contained the Romano family home. Police tape still cordoned off the front door and sections of the sidewalk. The black and white police cars were parked in front of the house and detectives walked in and out of the home. Father Romano opened the taxi door and nodded to the driver, handing him some money. The driver wordlessly accepted, understanding the solemnity of the situation. Once he had gathered his bags and shut the car door behind him, the driver pulled off, leaving Enzo staring up at his home from the street.

He walked silently towards the house and was immediately rushed by his mother. She came sprinting down the stairs from the entryway and onto the sidewalk, fiercely grabbing Enzo and burying her face in his chest as she wailed. He wrapped his arms around her and held her as shuddering sobs wracked her body. His expression was blank and unreadable, no tears streamed down his cheeks. The numbness from before had only seemed to intensify during the long drive.

He quietly stroked his mother’s hair as she cried, neither of them speaking as the police continued to come in and out of the house like bees in a beehive. Eventually one of the detectives approached them,

“We’ve collected everything we need,” he said to Enzo. “We will call if there’s any updates and we are very sorry for your loss. Please know we will do everything in our power to find this murderer.”

Enzo nodded and thanked the detective, walking his mother back up the stairs and into the house. He got her settled into the spare bedroom after she could not bear to even enter the bedroom where she had found his father. He sat at the end of the bed and listened to her sob until she fell asleep. Then he quietly went downstairs and lit a fire, gazing into the dancing flames in the otherwise dark room.

Such a shame.

Enzo awoke with a start. The fire was now just a smoldering pile of ash and the room was covered in an inky darkness. He turned on the lamp that sat on a small wooden end table next to the chair. The warm yellow glow bathed the room in light. He was alone. There was silence except for the ticking of some clock that hung on the wall, counting the seconds. He stood up and walked up the stairs, pausing outside of the bedroom where his mother slept. He listened at the door and heard her snoring softly. He carefully made his way back down the stairs, relying on the banister to guide him in the darkness, and settled back down into the recliner. He turned off the lamp and shut his eyes.

The Bible tells us to turn the other cheek. But it also calls for just outcomes, doesn’t it Father Romano?

Enzo jolted upright in a cold sweat. In the early morning light the room bore a dusky blue hue. Long shadows stretched up the walls and the dark outlines of the furniture were visible without the use of the lamp. He turned on the lamp once more and saw he was, once again, alone in the room. Unnerved, he found himself unable to go back to sleep and so he walked into the kitchen. He turned the knob on the gas stove top to release gas and pressed it inward, igniting the gas into a sustained flame. He filled a teapot with water from the sink and placed it on the range.

As he waited for the water to boil for his tea, he stared out the window, looking out over the road where street lights remained on as the sun had yet to pierce through the dawn’s cloud cover. The street was quiet, shaken by the events of yesterday, but the call of the mourning dove could still be heard.

The somber cry of the bird in the dimly lit morning struck a nerve and Enzo began to cry. Every tear that hadn’t been shed yesterday came surging forth and he sobbed uncontrollably, gripping the countertop edge as grief wracked his body. His breath came out in short gasps, suffocated by his tightened throat. He kneeled down, pressing his head against the counter as the waves of sorrow continued. This kitchen, where his father used to make the family breakfast and where the two discussed Enzo’s want to become a priest, suddenly felt alien and empty.

The shrill shriek of the teapot brought him back to reality, pulling him from the spiral he was entering. Enzo wiped his eyes and stood up, turning off the burner and placing the teapot on another eye. He grabbed a cup and a sachet of tea, placing it inside the mug and pouring the hot water over it. Small tendrils of brown effused from the collection of leaves and herbs into the water. Enzo breathed in the earthy smell of the steaming tea and carried the mug back into the living room, setting it down on a coaster on the side table. He settled back into the chair and sipped on the tea. The numb feeling was beginning to set back in.

Your father’s death is not a just outcome. Especially not with the murderer getting away.

The teacup shattered onto the floor, small porcelain shards shooting across the hard wood and the tea puddling in front of the recliner. Enzo grimaced and stood up from the chair, collecting the larger pieces of the cup and carrying them to the trash. He grabbed a dish towel and a small broom and dustpan, using the towel to sop up the spilled tea and the broom to clean up the small bits of teacup that were now scattered across the living room.

“Are you alright?” his mother asked, coming down the stairs. Enzo looked up at her from the floor where he was sweeping the last bits of porcelain into the dustpan and nodded.

“Sorry mama,” he said, standing and bringing the dustpan to the trash can where he dumped it. He wrung out the wet rag over the sink and laid it out to dry. Once he finished, he returned to the living room where his mother was now curled on the couch, draped in a blanket and staring blankly at the fireplace.

“It’s so quiet now,” she muttered. Enzo nodded.

“I know. Did you sleep?” he asked.

“Not well, but yes I did. Did you?”

“I did. Also not well.”

“Any sleep is a blessing.”

“It is.”

The two sat in silence for some time, only the ticking of the clock and the occasional creak as the house settled punctuated the silence. There was a profound emptiness in the room, and they both felt it. Eventually Enzo stood up, overwhelmed by the crushing silence,

“Let’s go for a walk,” he said but his mother shook her head.

“You go bambino; I will be alright,” she replied.

“Okay. Do you need anything while I am out?”

“No dear, thank you.”

Enzo knelt by his mother and grabbed her hands. She looked at him with tears in her eyes and smiled.

“Promise me you will let me help you through this,” he said. His mother nodded and squeezed his hands,

“I will,” she replied. Enzo smiled and stood, hugging his mother. They parted and he walked towards the front door, looking back once more before he walked outside.

The cool wind and warm sun greeted him as he stepped out onto the stairs. The street was now busy, the city awake as the morning wore on. Cars passed and people walked down the sidewalk, many giving a wide berth to the Romano home. A new superstition was beginning to bloom. Enzo felt a wave of anger but quickly suppressed it. The neighborhood had every right to be nervous but he couldn’t help but feel a slight sense of resentment that none of them had checked in on his mother.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and walked down the stairs and onto the sidewalk, keeping his head down to avoid eye contact with those passing by. He walked quietly, his hands in his pockets, until he reached the town center. He sat at a table outside of a small cafe and looked at the menu lying on the table. He already knew what he wanted, having come here many times as a kid. He ordered an espresso and a chocolate croissant from the waiter and sat observing the people who came through.

Nothing remarkable or unusual was happening. Children played soccer around the fountain. Women chatted with one another and crowds of people walked by.

The waiter brought Enzo his espresso and chocolate croissant. Enzo sipped on the espresso, continuing to people watch. He had been isolated from this busy sort of life for many years while he lived in the monastery. There was a familiarity to the crowds and a comfort in being unknown, especially at this moment. As he chewed on his croissant, he noticed someone staring back at him. He hadn’t noticed before but, standing leaned against the wall of a store, slightly obscured by the shadows of the alley, was a man. The man was smoking a cigarette, taking long drags and nonchalantly blowing out smoke. He wore a fitted mauve suit and dark sunglasses. Amidst the more casually dressed citizens, he stood out. And though it was impossible to be sure because of the sunglasses, Enzo felt as though the man was looking right at him. He turned away, looking elsewhere, and hoped the man hadn’t noticed. Chancing another look, he glanced back and saw the man put out his cigarette against the brick wall, flicking the spent end behind him. He began to walk towards Enzo.

Enzo felt his heart rate accelerate, hoping that the man was simply approaching the cafe. But then the man sat in the chair directly across from Enzo and leaned back. The two looked at each other in silence, the man still wearing the dark glasses that hid his eyes from view.

“What is justice, Father?” the man asked and Enzo felt his heart skip a beat. The question seemed familiar, as if this was a moment of deja vu.

“I...I’m sorry?” Enzo stammered, swallowing hard. The man in the suit sat up and leaned against the table, propping himself up on his elbows.

“You shouldn’t be sorry,” the man replied cryptically.

“Can you please just tell me what you’re talking about?” Enzo asked exasperatedly, not having the energy for a constant back and forth with some stranger. The man lowered his sunglasses, revealing his eyes. Enzo nearly fell from his seat as he pushed back from the table. The man’s eyes were like those of a serpent, deep red with an oblong pupil. There was nothing natural about them, and Enzo felt deeply unsettled.

“What are you?” he asked breathily, still sitting about three feet from the table. The man pushed back up the sunglasses and laughed,

“Now you’re asking better questions. I am justice,” the man said. “The only justice that you’re going to find in this little God-fearing town.”

Enzo watched as the man reached into a light brown shoulder bag that he was convinced wasn’t there before and pulled out a black leather bound book. The book's pages had unfinished edges and they stuck out from the sides in a haphazard manner. The man placed the book on the table and Enzo saw the cover was inscribed with Latin and runes of some kind. The man rummaged in his back once more and pulled out a smaller black book, opening it to a blank page and ripping it out. He slid it inside the cover of the larger book and then slipped the notebook back into his bag.

“Do you have a fountain pen, Father?” the man asked. Enzo took a moment to compose himself and shook his head.

“Not with me,” he replied and the man waved his hand dismissively,

“Not now, in general. Do you have a fountain pen?” he asked.

“I’m sure there’s one somewhere at home,” Enzo replied, and the man nodded.

“There will be,” he said before standing up and pushing his chair in. He leaned down to grab his bag and looked at Enzo again,

“Sign your name when you’re ready, Enzo Romano. We’ll meet again soon,” the man said, and then he walked off, disappearing into the crowds. Enzo pulled his chair back up to the table and flagged the waiter down to pay. Even as his mind screamed for him not to, Enzo grabbed the book off the table and took it home.

When he arrived home, his mother was asleep on the couch. He pulled the blanket up over her shoulders and went into the kitchen to make them sandwiches for lunch. He set the book on the counter and took the bread out of the pantry and various deli meats, vegetables, and condiments from the fridge. He thought through his interaction with the strange man as he made the sandwiches. Once he finished, he put each sandwich on a plate and brought them into the living room, placing one on the coffee table in front of his mother for her to eat when she woke up.

He went back into the kitchen and grabbed the plate with his sandwich on it and turned to the counter where he had put the book. It was laid open, with a marbled gold-tipped fountain pen sitting in the centerfold. Enzo felt a chill run from his scalp down his spine, and he nearly dropped the plate. He shut the book with the pen in it, holding the page it was open to, and tucked it under his arm. He walked back through the living room, quietly passing his sleeping mother, and went down the stairs to the basement. He flicked on the light switch and ventured further into the room. In the corner against the wall was a wooden desk with a single lamp where his father used to sit and write. Next to the desk was a knee high bookshelf that contained multiple leatherbound journals, filled with the elder Romano’s writings. He had always dreamed of being an author.

Enzo sat at the desk and switched on the lamp, brightening the basement even further. He placed the black book on the desk and opened it back to the pages held by the fountain pen. He moved the pen from the centerfold and began to read,

In times of old, there were said to be those who made deals with the Devil himself. Manuscripts acquired from early settlements across the nation detail supernatural phenomenon and abilities of those alleged dealmakers, known colloquially as witches. In colonial America, the Roanoke colony is rumored to have fallen victim to a witch who sought revenge for the murder of her child. In Great Britain, the Queen Regent herself was rumored to have made such a bargain for an extended life and boundless youth. These figures have been maligned throughout history with tragic results (see the Salem Witch Trials, 1692.) Yet believers in this craft persist.

Witchcraft is the manipulation of the natural world, bending the wills of others and allowing full access to the power of your surroundings. It is a method by which a mortal becomes a hammer. Whether that be a hammer of vengeance or justice is incumbent upon the mortal’s desires. Using these enhanced abilities, those who have faced great wrongs can right them. The embrace of such a deal is not a renunciation of the Divine, but the acceptance of it.

Enzo paused; this was a heretical text. But something about it was so intriguing and he found himself wanting to read more, an odd hunger that was only satiated by the knowledge contained in this book.

Those who are deemed to be witches hold substantial abilities: regeneration, healing, premonition, teleportation, seerseeing, flight, and, for a select few, necromancy. The process for becoming a witch comes at the cost of the mortal’s soul. Though a daunting bargain, the benefits that come from the trade far supersede any that can be found on Earth. Further, it is a delayed collection as those who carry the ability of witches are able to extend their lives, often far beyond the expectancy of the average mortal. The most clever can live for millenia.

Enzo continued reading, enraptured by the book. He pored over the text and reached a section that detailed the bargain,

As noted before, the abilities of the witch must be bargained for. The cost for these powers is the mortal soul. To trade the soul, there is a ritual that must be undertaken. This ritual must be done willingly by the mortal or else the bargain will not occur. It also must be a solitary action, no help can be enlisted to complete the bargain or else the trade will be incomplete and multiple souls will be collected.

The timing of this ritual matters not but the particulars must be followed for success. 13 tallow candles must be arranged in the form of a pentagram with the lines chalked between the candles to form the complete shape. All these candles must burn together though they need not be lit simultaneously. These must endure for the entirety of the ritual. The mortal must then recite the following;

Offero este

Meus anima

Et commutationem

Nam potestates concessas

Sine revocatione

In morte

In vitam

Aeterna

Enzo translated the words as he read them, “I offer you my soul and exchange for powers granted without revocation. In life, in death, eternal.” His heart pounded in his chest as realization of the weight of such a ritual set in. As a lifelong priest and devout Catholic, he should reject these texts, and yet something drew him in. A gnawing sort of fervor pushed him to read more,

Upon completion of the recitation, the mortal must then offer a blood sacrifice. The greater the sacrifice, the greater the power granted. This sacrifice will bind the mortal and the Morning-Star.

Enzo paused again,

“The Morning-Star,” he muttered, the phrase familiar to him. Then he remembered. The Latin translation of “Morning-Star” was Lucifer. This ritual would be a soul trade with the Devil himself. Panicked, Enzo shut the book and threw it into one of the drawers. He turned off the lamp and went back up the stairs to the living room.

His mother was awake, sitting on the couch and eating the sandwich he had made for her. He smiled at her,

“Did you have a good nap?” he asked. She nodded, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing and setting the plate and half-eaten sandwich back down on the coffee table.

“What were you doing in the basement?” she asked.

For a brief moment Enzo felt like a child again as if he was caught in the act of doing something he shouldn’t.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“Spending a moment in quiet reflection,” he lied.

Good.

“Enzo, are you alright? You look pale,” his mother asked with a look of concern on her face. She stood up from the couch and walked over, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead with a slight frown. “Your skin is so cold; it’s not healthy to be down there for long stretches of time.”

Enzo grabbed her hands and smiled.

“I’ll be alright mama.”

The two sat and talked for some hours, reminiscing about Enzo’s late father. There were many tears and laughs. The room was warmed by a fire burning in the fireplace and through the nostalgia of their memories. Enzo prepared a roast for dinner and they ate together in the living room. Though he was under the roof of his childhood home, sitting with his mother, there was still a deep weight left by the absence of his father. The family felt broken, and it broke his heart.

As the sun melted into night and lights were required to maintain visibility, they continued to talk. Eventually the incessantly ticking wall clock struck 11pm and Enzo helped his mother up to bed. He walked back down the stairs and glanced at the basement door from the living room, that gnawing urge in the corner of his mind again. Enzo clasped his hands and pushed his index fingers against his lips, thinking over his options. He stayed still for a long time.

Tick tick tick…

The clock continued rhythmically counting each passing second. The fire sputtered as it consumed the last log, slowly depleting and casting longer and longer shadows. Still Enzo stood, staring at the basement door.

Tick tick ti…

The clock suddenly stopped and the fire extinguished. Enzo felt himself drawn to the basement door and he walked. Each step felt like it took an eternity and the door seemed to stretch endlessly away.

Thump thump thump

Enzo’s heartbeat replaced the ticking cadence of the clock. His hand touched the cold metal doorknob and he turned it, swinging the door open.

Tick tick tick

The clock resumed and the smoldering cinders in the fireplace returned. Time moved normally once more. Enzo looked behind him at the warm living room and the long shadows cast behind the furniture, stretching over the family portraits and melding into the recessed corners. He stepped onto the first step of the basement and quietly closed the door behind him.

Darkness enveloped him as his eyes adjusted and he felt his way along the wall, walking gingerly down each step. His toes finally pressed against the cold unfinished cement floor of the basement and he felt along the wall for the light switch, flipping it on. The cold fluorescent lights bathed the room in a bluish white light. He made his way to the desk and opened the drawer, pulling out the sinful tome. As he placed it back on the desk, it fell open to the page he had left off on.

Thump thump thump

Enzo’s heart pounded, feeling as if it was lodged in his throat. He turned on the desk lamp and eased himself into the chair. His hands shook as he held the book up and continued reading,

Once the sacrifice is made, the mortal must then sign his name in a page of the Morning-Star’s Black Book using the mortal’s own blood. Then the contract is completed and the mortal will have powers bestowed upon him until the death of the mortal. Once sealed in blood, this contract is irreversible.

Enzo slammed the book shut as he remembered the man in the mauve suit from the cafe ripping a page from a black book. The page that was now in the front cover of the book he had just closed. Enzo had met the Devil.

“You’re smart for a theologian,” a voice said, and Enzo leapt from the chair, turning to look behind him. Sitting at the bottom of the staircase was the suited man, sunglasses still on. He stood and stretched, walking towards Enzo who backed up against the desk. “You had none of that initial denial. You haven’t so much as uttered a prayer since you were given this book.” The man walked directly in front of Enzo, standing only a foot away. He pressed his index finger in the middle of Enzo’s chest.

“You want this.”

Enzo was silent, his heart racing. The man removed his finger and stepped back. He removed his glasses and looked directly at Enzo with his hellish serpent-like eyes.

“Justice won’t come without action. That useless police force isn’t going to find your father’s killer. And what about the neighbors? Fifty-five years your parents have lived here, raised you in this house and not one of their neighbors has come to speak to your mother. Did anyone even greet you when you came home, Enzo?” he asked. “I know that I would be quite enraged.”

The last word rattled around the room, echoing off the walls. Enzo flinched as a cacophony of sound ricocheted through his brain. He was angry, and he was tired of pretending he wasn’t. No one had come to visit this house, not one sending of condolences. The entire morning he had been out and the only person who spoke to him was this man, the Devil.

The man wore a faint smirk as Enzo sat on the desk silently.

“You have all the instructions right next to you. Until we meet again.”

Enzo woke up with his face pressed against the pages of the book, still sitting in the desk chair. He groaned as he slowly sat up, his back aching. As he sat up, he looked around the basement. It was empty and the only sound was from the electric hum of the overhead lights. He closed the book and hid it in the desk drawer before returning upstairs to the living room.

BONG BONG BONG

The clock struck three as Enzo shut the basement door. He had only been in the basement for a few hours. He walked back into the living room and suddenly was hit with a memory. Before the electricity was fully wired through the basement, his father used to write at the desk using long tapered candles that he purchased from some local vendor.

You don’t find tallow candles like these much anymore, he would remark every time he came home with some. Enzo felt a sudden urge to find these candles. He quietly ascended up the stairs and opened the door to his parent’s bedroom.

It was dark and cold in the room, a draft coming through the still broken window. The room felt as if it had transformed into a mausoleum, cold and devoid of life. Enzo quietly shut the door behind him and walked over to the closet, pulling the drawstring to turn on the overhead light. The dim yellow bulb provided barely any light and Enzo fumbled through the dark recesses of the closet until his hand brushed up against a small wooden box. He pulled it from the corner, up and through the hanging clothes, and held it near the light. Inside the box were a handful of long tapered candles, some of them having been used before, their wicks blackened and solidified streams of fat clinging to the sides. Enzo counted them. Inside the box were eleven candles. He would need just two more. He quietly carried the box downstairs to the basement and hid it underneath the staircase before returning to the living room. He settled into the couch and fell into an uneasy slumber.

Enzo awoke to the shriek of the teapot. He blinked hard through the bright sunlight streaming into the room from the windows and sat up, his back still aching from last night. He looked into the kitchen where his mother was pulling the teapot off the stove and pouring the water into two cups. She brought them into the room and set one down in front of Enzo,

“Thanks mama,” he said sleepily, picking up the cup and absentmindedly pulling the tea bag up before allowing it to drift back down into the hot water as it steeped. She sat in the recliner, dipping her tea bag into the water while she stared at one of the photos on the wall. It was a family portrait that had been taken during the Christmas season. The family was dressed in formal wear against a backdrop of snow. It was a beautiful photo, and all three of them wore wide smiles on their faces. Enzo cleared his throat.

“I’m going by the market today. Do you need anything?” he asked. His mother thought for a second.

“Yes, I’ll give you the grocery list. I don’t think I can bring myself to leave today.”

She stood up and set her cup down, walking back into the kitchen and pulling a paper list held by a magnet off the fridge. She then grabbed some money out of her purse and brought it over to Enzo, handing him both items. He looked over the list.

“I’ll pick this up for you,” he said and his mother smiled, patting his arm.

“Thank you.”

Enzo left the house, blinking in the bright sunlight. He shoved the paper list into his pocket and walked briskly towards the town center. As he walked, he passed a storefront he had never seen before. He stopped and turned to look at the building. Tucked in between two long standing buildings, one a home and the other a former post office that was being redeveloped, sat the unfamiliar store. Its door was weathered and bore a barely legible sign that read “Monsignor Estrel’s Oddities and Curiosities.” In the window was an “Open” sign but the view into the store was blocked by heavy drapery.

Thump, thump, thump

Enzo’s heart beat in his chest. The door seemed to pull him closer and he grabbed its handle, turning and pushing the door in. His vision went temporarily black as his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior. A musky mothball sort of scent filled the room. Dimming fluorescent lights swung overhead, casting long shadows between rows of shelves and assorted furniture strewn about haphazardly. Enzo walked in, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Enzo looked around, seeing the strange antiques and various knicknacks on the shelves, porcelain dolls, weathered books, taxidermied animals and even what appeared to be the mummified remains of someone’s hand. He walked in between the aisles, looking at the curios on display.

Tick, tick, tick

A grandfather clock made from some dark wood that Enzo had never seen before counted away the seconds. Aside from the electric hum of the fluorescent lights, the clock’s ticking was the only noise in the shop. Enzo’s eyes scanned the dimly lit space and fell on a display positioned in the back corner of the shop. Atop a black cloth covered table sat boxes of long tapered candles with a label that read,

Hanged Man’s Tallow Candles: Guaranteed to burn for up to 18 hours.

Enzo approached the boxes and pulled two of the candles out before reconsidering and grabbing two more in case extras were needed. He walked to the counter and rang a small bell,

Dddinggg

The bright metallic sound reverberated off the shelves like a gunshot, piercing the silence. There was a shuffling noise and an older man emerged from the backroom, shuffling up to the counter. He looked up at Enzo with one beady eye, and a smile played across his lips.

“Find what you were looking for?” he asked gruffly, bagging the candles and punching in some numbers on the register.

“Yes, thank you. How long has this store been here?” he asked. The man paused.

“As long as it has been needed. Total is $8,” he said.

Enzo handed the man some money and took the bag, leaving the store. The store clerk’s answer was cryptic and as Enzo stood outside, the bag of candles clutched in his hand, he decided he needed clarification. He turned to reenter the store but instead of the door he had just exited from, there was an open alleyway. The two buildings that had flanked either side of the store now cut off at the corner with walls and windows facing each other over the alley. Enzo walked down the alley, looking for the storefront again but there were only draining gutters, brick walls, and bins of garbage. The shop of oddities and curiosities had vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

As long as it has been needed.

That cryptic sentence played through Enzo’s mind. He walked toward the town center, the bag of candles tucked under his arm. He purchased the items on his mother’s grocery list as if on autopilot, his mind running through the events of the past two days. Once all the items were purchased, he took the bags of groceries and walked past the cafe where he had encountered the man who began this odd string of occurrences. He looked around the square, glancing down the alleyway where the red suited devil had stood smoking a cigarette. No one stood leaning against the brick wall today, all appeared to be normal. Enzo sighed, feeling as though he was losing his mind. Perhaps it was the stress and the grief. Maybe none of this had happened at all.

“Such backward thinking for a priest. Careful now, you might be branded a heretic.”

Enzo whirled around with a start, turning to face the voice behind him. Sitting at the same table at which they had first met was the man in the mauve suit, dark sunglasses on his face, and his smirk obscured by the cigarette between his lips. He pushed out the seat across from him with his foot and waved his hand towards it. Enzo set the bags of groceries on the table and hesitantly sat down. The man took another drag from his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and stamping it out with the toe of his black shined shoes. The two sat in silence.

“You’ve decided to go through with it?” the man asked, and Enzo took in a deep breath, biting his bottom lip in contemplation. The man raised one eyebrow and looked to the bag of candles, tilting his head towards them. Enzo nodded slowly.

The man stood up and stretched, placing his hands on his hips and looking down at Enzo over his sunglasses, the dark red irises and oblong pupils seeming to pierce into Enzo’s soul. Enzo’s eye twitched and he instinctively scooted the chair backwards. The man smirked again. He pulled a box of cigarettes from his breast pocket and a small silver lighter seemed to materialize in his other hand. He placed one of the cigarettes in his mouth before looking back to Enzo.

“The greater the sacrifice, the greater the power. Equal trade,” he paused, “Game, set, match.” He flicked the lighter to ignite it and lit the cigarette, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke into the air.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Enzo was suddenly standing in the foyer of the family home, the bags of groceries in his arms. He looked to his left and right, bewildered.

“I didn’t hear you come in, let me help you get those unloaded,” his mother said, peering around the corner from the kitchen. Enzo gave her a tight lipped smile and walked forward, each step feeling heavy as if he was relearning how to walk.

He set the bags of groceries on the kitchen counter, looking for the candles. He rifled through the bags, seeing the variety of produce, breads, and meats he purchased but not the tallow candles.

“What are you looking for?” Enzo’s mother asked. He looked up at her and smiled.

“Just making sure everything is here,” he replied. She smiled and began putting the various groceries away. As she unpacked the bags, she looked to Enzo.

“Would you mind checking the mail?” she asked.

“Sure,” Enzo replied, walking back down the hall and out through the front door. He opened the metal receptacle that was hung on the wall next to the door. A handful of envelopes were inside. He pulled them out and walked back into the house, dropping one onto the ground. He bent down to pick it up, noticing the return address: it was a thick envelope from the regional hospital with a red “URGENT” stamp across the seal. A gnawing feeling of unease settled in the pit of Enzo’s stomach but he ignored it, shuffling the envelope back in with the others and handing them to his mother. She rifled through the envelopes before setting them aside on the counter.

“I am going to make spaghetti alla puttanesca tonight. I think cooking will do my soul good,” she said and Enzo nodded.

“I think so too.”

The two talked for a while and Enzo helped his mother prepare their dinner. In the warmth of the kitchen, alongside his mother, Enzo felt his anxieties slip away. He was home, and, though it wasn’t the same without his father, he felt surrounded by nostalgia and love.

Nightfall, however, brought a different atmosphere. Enzo said goodnight to his mother around eleven and stayed downstairs, gazing into the smoldering embers.

Tick, tick, tick

The clock’s ticking returned in the silent room. That gnawing in the back of Enzo’s mind returned and he remembered the envelope from the hospital marked “URGENT.”

Tick, tick, tick

Enzo stood up from the couch and found himself compelled forward toward the kitchen, each footfall landing with a muffled thump. He paused at the counter where the pile of mail lay in the dark kitchen, faint moonbeams reflecting off the white envelopes. He spread out the envelopes and grabbed the one occupying his mind.

Sssttt

He tore through the sealed envelope and slid out the documents inside. His eyes straining in the darkness, he read the first page,

Ms. Romano,

Enclosed please find the results of your lab tests. We regret to inform you that the tests for metastasis came back positive. The biopsy was conclusive in determining that the glioblastoma is malignant and has spread throughout the body. Treatment options are available, however, at this stage treatment would be to alleviate symptoms and extend expectancy by a few months. The condition is terminal. Please call my office if you have any questions or concerns.

Enzo set down the papers, his hands shaking and eyes burning. He had just lost his father and now he was going to lose his mother too.

“It’s not fair, is it?” a now familiar voice asked. Enzo grasped the counter and didn’t even look behind him,

“Not now,” he whispered. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to face the suited man standing in the kitchen, sunglasses still on in the dead of night.

“It’s infuriating how unfair life can be. And it is not justice to lose one parent suddenly and watch the other waste away into nothing.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that now,” Enzo said defeatedly.

“Isn’t there?” the man asked. Enzo sighed and turned back to look out the window. “Mercy comes in many forms.”

Enzo turned back to ask what the man meant and saw that he was again alone in the kitchen. Sitting on the floor was the bag of tallow candles from earlier.

Thump thump thump

Enzo’s heart rate accelerated, and he leaned over, grabbing the bag of candles and reentering the living room, his stomach twisted in knots. He looked across the room at the basement door, shrouded in the dark shadows of the night.

Tick tick tick

The seconds stretched into minutes as Enzo stood staring at the basement door, his heart in his throat, scarcely able to breathe. He clutched the bag of candles tightly in his hand.

Creeeaaakkk

The basement door groaned as it swung open, stressing the hinges. The fire extinguished, dousing the room in darkness. Once again, Enzo felt his feet begin to guide him forward, his body moving without him willing it to do so. Within a minute, Enzo was standing at the top of the stairs, peering down into the inky abyss of the basement. He grabbed the door handle as if to steady himself and immediately jerked his hand back as the metal knob seared his hand with heat from an unknown source. He stepped onto the top stair and the door slammed shut behind him, completely engulfing him in darkness.

Thump thump thump

Enzo’s heartbeat was the only sound in the silence of the dark basement as he made his way down the stairs. He felt along the wall for the light switch and flicked it into the on position but the fluorescent lights failed to turn on. He flicked the switch up and down a few more times, becoming more frantic with each failed attempt, but still the darkness remained.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump

Enzo’s heart rate accelerated and he took a breath, leaning against the wall to steady himself in an attempt to calm his nerves. With a click, the lamp on his father’s desk turned on, piercing through the darkness with a warm yellow glow. Enzo jerked his head towards the light, expecting to see the suited man but there was no one there. He walked toward the desk and saw the black book lying open to the ritual page and, by its side, was a fountain pen and the torn page from the suited man’s book. Tucked under the desk was the box of the other candles with a thick white piece of chalk in the box alongside them. Enzo set down the bag of candles and grabbed the chalk, pausing for a moment as he considered what he was about to do.

What other option is there?

Enzo looked around the room to try and find the source of the voice in his head, but he only saw the barren walls of the basement. He walked to the center of the room and began to draw out a pentagram with the chalk, his lines uneven and shaky. Once it was finished, he stepped back and looked at the shape. His hands shook as he gazed down at it. He was defying the last two decades of his teachings, his faith, and his conscience. But in the back of his mind he felt something pushing him forward.

What did your faith get you? The priesthood took away the last few years you had with your parents. And where did that get you? Back where you started minus one and the other dying. God didn’t provide, where was this divine retribution? Where is the justice?

All of these thoughts raced through Enzo’s mind as he placed the candles at the vertices and points of the pentagram as drawn in the black book.

Father gone, mother cancer, killer free… father gone, mother cancer, killer free…

The incomplete string of thought ran through Enzo’s head like a chant, driving him into a frenzy. He began to laugh as he lit the candles, tears pouring down his face. His laugh was sharp and ragged, shortened by choking sobs. The flames danced in the drafty basement, casting ominous twisting shadows against the walls. Enzo’s face burned, his jaw hurt from the twisted laughter and smile erupting from within, his vision blurry with hot salty tears. He stared at the 13 lit candles, their wicks burning with a surprising strength, giving birth to flames that leapt higher than any candle he had ever seen. He breathed heavily, his chest rapidly rising and falling as his laughter subsided and the tears stopped streaming. He walked over to the desk and grabbed the black book,

“Offero este. Meus anima. Et commutationem. Nam potestates concessas. Sine revocatione.In morte.” He paused, convinced that the flames had somehow strengthened. The pentagram too seemed to have a supernatural glow.

“In vitam.”

The flames shivered and the shadows twisted along the wall. In their form, Enzo could imagine demons dancing, reveling in this unholy action.

“Aeterna” Enzo spoke with two voices, one deep and guttural, reverberating off the walls. The bulb in the lamp shattered, extinguishing its light. The candlelight shivered and then steadied, their flames burning as if in suspended animation, all pointed straight up to the ceiling. The shadows stilled. Enzo felt a strange buzzing in his skull as he walked back to the desk, setting down the book, and grabbing the fountain pen. He stared at its gold tip, glinting in the candlelight.

Mercy comes in different forms…

As if in a trance, Enzo began to walk back up the stairs to the living room, his feet plodding slowly up each step until he reached the living room. He paused, staring up at the family portrait. The soulless eyes of the painting stared back at him. A deep feeling of rage welled up from Enzo’s stomach and he jumped at the painting, stabbing the tip of the pen into it and letting it rip through the canvas as he slid back down to the floor. He choked back a sob and ambled into the kitchen, grabbing the letter that spelled out his mother’s terminal diagnosis.

Mercy…

He crumpled the pages into a ball and threw it on the ground before walking into the foyer. The stairs to the bedrooms seemed to stretch endlessly into the darkness. There was a jolt in his spine as he stepped onto the bottom step and a low humming noise, almost electrical in nature, filled his ears. He continued up the stairs, the dull thrumming continuing. His hand gripped the fountain pen tightly. He made his way to the top of the stairs and paused outside the guest room where his mother slept.

Unfair to have to watch her waste away. All that pain, unable to care for herself.

Enzo grabbed the doorknob,

BONG BONG BONG

The clock struck three and Enzo used the noise to push into the room, hiding the squeal of the door hinges. He quietly shut the door behind him. The dull hum had stopped and now he heard his mother’s breathing.

Mercy comes in many forms.

Enzo took a ragged breath and stepped forward. He was now looming over his mother and she was completely oblivious to his presence. He raised his hand into the air, the fountain pen still in it, its golden tip pointing at its intended target.

Father dead, mother dying, killer living

Enzo’s hand remained in the air, suspended as competing thoughts ran through his mind. He saw glimpses of his mother caring for him, heard his parents’ laughter, remembered their tears the day he left for the monastery. He saw the police officers, the broken window, and the obituary printed in the paper. The capitalized letters spelling out URGENT in red swam in front of his vision. He saw his mother in a hospital bed, oxygen being pumped into her lungs through tubes in her nose. He heard her feeble voice, weakened by chemo and saw her withered hand. And he saw the smile of some person that he instantly knew was his father’s killer. A wide, shit-eating grin, dripping with the injustice of its freedom.

With one fluid motion, Enzo swung down his hand pushing the pointed golden tip into his mother’s throat. There was a strangled sort of gasp and her eyes fluttered for just a moment. Then there was silence. Blood pooled onto the white sheets, blossoming out from her body. Enzo still held the pen, frozen as he stared down at his mother’s body. He released the pen and covered his mouth, his eyes wide with shock. He choked back a sob and stumbled backwards, falling against the vanity that was positioned in front of the bed.

“What did I do?” Enzo whispered, slowly standing up and walking back over to his mother.

She looked peaceful except for the pen sticking out from her neck, lodged perfectly into an artery. She had bled out within seconds. He stroked her hair and then grabbed the pen, pulling it from her throat with a final spurt of crimson blood. Enzo turned his head and swallowed down the bile that had begun to rise in his throat. He paused at the doorway before leaving the room and looked back at the bed,

“One day, I hope you will understand why,” he said, shutting the door behind him. Slowly he walked down the stairs, returning to the living room.

Tick tick tick

The clock kept the time as Enzo made his way back to the basement, stepping onto the cold steps, shutting the door behind him. The candle’s flames had begun to dance again and the shadows twisted wildly as if beckoning Enzo down into the room. As he reached the bottom step, he saw the man in the red suit leaned against the wall beside the desk, smoking a cigarette while the flames reflected off his dark sunglasses. The man smiled and gestured toward the desk where the torn page sat. Enzo slowly walked forward and sat down at the desk, placing the nib of the pen, saturated with his mother’s blood, against the paper.

Enzo Romano, he signed. As he finished the final letter and picked up the pen, the man in the suit began to laugh, a harsh sound devoid of joy. Within his laugh, Enzo could hear other voices, echoing in a cacophony. Some of the voices sounded like screams and Enzo clapped his hands around his ears. The unholy sound engulfed him and Enzo screamed, his voice joining the chorus of sound.

Then there was silence and the candles extinguished. Enzo felt an odd sensation. The electrical feeling that had started at the back of his skull had spread to his fingers and now filled his body. His entire being hummed and he felt an odd warmth. He looked at the broken lamp and stretched out his hand, willing the lamp to turn on.

The glass from the bulb began to pull itself back together, reassembling and igniting the coil inside. Enzo kept pushing and the bulb burst again, but this time it shot out a flame. Enzo’s lips began to pull back from his teeth into a grotesque smile as he guided the flame, pulling it in a line against the wall, pushing it up into the ceiling where it caught on the wooden beams, spreading rapidly. He laughed as he guided it further, expanding through the house, burning through the portraits and the ripped painting. Enzo felt himself levitating up and through the home, passing through the floor and ceiling as if it did not exist. Soon he was in the cold night air, suspended against the backdrop of the moon and he watched as the house was swallowed by fire. By the time the firetrucks blared their sirens and raced down the street, the house was falling in on itself and Enzo Romano, the former priest, was gone.