Chapter 3
Steven collapsed onto the floor beside the toilet, physically and mentally exhausted from retching. He glanced up through the doorway to discover that his unexpected guests had left; however, he remained by the toilet, unmoving except for the faint trembling of nerves throughout his body.
Time continued to pass to his befuddled amazement, but how much, Steven did not know. Eventually, the foul smell of his vomit began to creep into his consciousness, forcing him to flush the emptied toilet once again to no effect. Discovering his soiled shirt to be the pungent source, the distraught man still could not bring himself to move as his thoughts continued to replay the prior events.
This is impossible. It's not real, he thought to himself. Then again, he knew that the events did transpire: a woman and a teenage girl had visited him. It was elaborate hoax, he concluded until his inner self, that part that warns you of danger, convinced him otherwise.
Steven's pulse had just begun to slow to an occasional flutter when a knock on the door sent his heart racing once again. He peeled himself off the bathroom floor to discover in the mirror the extent of the mess that covered him from head to toe, also revealing at a second glance bloodshot eyes with specks of vomit in his hair.
When the following knock on the door sent a second jolt through his body, he hesitantly moved to the peephole to find a hotel porter. Steven opened the door and watched the porter's eyes scan him from head to toe. Steven then made the universal sign with thumb and pinky that he had drank too much, causing the porter to smile simply before the man presented Steven's "misplaced" carryon bag. Taking the bag from the porter, Steven motioned for him to wait as he retrieved money for a tip from atop his dresser.
After closing his hotel door, the distraught man proceeded to inspect the carryon bag at the edge of his bed. Peering inside, he could see that the contents had been hastily repacked. And from the light weight of the contents, he felt certain that not everything had been returned. My God! They let the hotel staff scavenge the belongings of the dead, he suddenly realized.
Jumping to his feet, Steven rushed out into the hallway and proceeded to knock on his neighbor's door. He had not introduced himself to most of the other tourist, all of which who had similarly won an "all expenses paid" trip from a contest that many could not remember entering, but he had spoken to the occupants in this room a few times, fellow Americans, a couple from Iowa. Knocking once more, he recalled that they were a couple with no children and no surviving family—just like himself.
Steven knocked on the door a third time and waited. He knocked again, harder, waiting even longer, but there was no answer. When no doors on the floor opened to the loud noise, he checked the handle to find it locked. All the rooms were locked. As would be expected in a hotel, he thought feeling a bit foolish.
Returning to his own room, Steven began pacing the room as the events once again replayed in his head. He contemplated again if the woman and teenager could be conning him. But what for? An internet prank?
Pacing by the dresser, Steven spotted the bent coin. He picked it up and tried to straighten the metal object. He went to his luggage in search of his travelling toolkit only to find that it had not been returned by whoever had rummaged through his bag—the thief never expecting its owner to return.
Steven then turned to the nearby metal chair, studying the crumpled metal bar that formed the back arch. The way the metal had been crushed appeared unique. He had seen metal pipes squeezed and forcibly bent before, but nothing like this. The metal had been squeezed into the shape of a small female's hand, as if fresh clay, something metal tools could never do.
Dumping the contents of his carryon onto the bed, Steven set aside some clean clothes and toiletries. He showered and dressed before filling the carryon bag with the remaining clean clothes. When he failed to find his cell phone charger, he cursed the people who had only aided in the disruption of his life. He turned to the dresser to collect his money when he finally remembered the fold of cash left the mattress by the teenager. Steven began counting the money, stunned to find the sum more than his yearly wage.
How can this be? Are these counterfeit? he thought with growing confusion. He inspected the bills again, more carefully, scrutinizing the large nominations he had only seen in movies. When nothing out of the ordinary was found, he tucked the cash into his front pocket. He also made sure to remember the bent coin, zipping it safely into a side pocket of the carryon before slinging the bag over his shoulder. As he proceeded to leave, he paused at the door and pulled out his cellphone, with which he took several pictures of the crushed metal of the chair's backrest.
As the first hint of summer sunrise on the horizon, Steve departed the hotel in search of a sanctuary.
...
In some Italian village he could not name, a very lost and tired Steven slid his carryon bag from his lap onto the vacant pew. If he had not been so filled with dread, the high painted ceiling and fine architecture of the ancient stonewalled church would have tantalized him, despite having grown up under a different denomination.
By the time he had reached this remote village, having switched to a third bus to do so, the tremor in his hands had quelled, somewhat, but as night approached, the growing sound of rush hour traffic on the narrow village streets only increased his nervousness. Without the protection of the sun, Steven did not know if the church could keep him safe. For the first time in his life, he earnestly began to pray in a house of God.
From his left, the sound of an elderly woman exiting a confessional seem to resonated loudly through the vacant church as her wooden cane unintentionally banged against the old wood of the booth, echoing across the marble flooring and reverberating off the innate stonework of the walls. The old woman turned, gazed at the beautiful altar at the front of the church, and whispered something in Italian before proceeding towards the exit at the back.
As the woman slowly hobbled away, Steven would stare at the confessional between nervous glances over his shoulder. He had taken notice of the posted confessional hours when he first entered the church—the extent of his basic Italian. In fact, Steven had also taken notice of other small details in the church that would have been overlooked before; things he hoped would save his life, such as the small holy water fountain, candle flames, and the abundance of crucifixes.
With confession soon ending, and with no one else waiting to make their peace, Steven decided to speak to someone.
He left his carryon bag on the floor outside the confessional, just visible under the curtain, and slowly entered the booth, very unsure what he would find. As he took his seat, he jumped when a small window at his side opened swiftly. When the priest began whispering in Italian, Steven did not know how to proceed. When the man whispered a second time through the small window, Steven whispered back, "I'm sorry, I don't speak Italian."
After a short pause, the priest said, "Not a problem, I speak English."
"I'm also not a Catholic. If you want me to leave, I'll understand."
The man's lips betrayed his amusement. Liberated from protocol, the priest smiled fully and said, "Still not a problem. This house of worship is open to all. Would you like to make a confession?"
Steve thought for a moment. "I...I don't know. I'm here because I had a terrifying experience last night." Steven's mind raced, trying to think of a way to present the things he had witnessed the night before. "A woman...and a teenage girl entered my hotel room, uninvited, and...threatened me."
"Were you robbed?"
"No. Um...they...they said that I had to join their...cult, for the lack of a better term, or I would be killed."
"What kind of cult? Satanic?"
Steven stared at his carryon bag beneath the curtain. When he failed to answer the question posed by the priest, the unnerved man asked what had been truly nagging him. "Father, does evil truly exist?"
"Yes. Many believe so."
"Do you?"
The priest paused with a long sigh. "I'm very old and have heard many confessions. If evil is a thing, it resides in all of us. It is our duty to resist that evil with the only weapons given to us by God: with compassion and love."
"I like that," said Steven. "I consider myself a pacifist; that all makes sense to me."
The priest took notice at how the young man's words seem to fade out at the end of his sentences. "I sense something more happened last night?"
"Um, yes. I thought I sensed great evil in those two girls. I felt it; I felt it down to my soul. Maybe I'm sick."
"I can help you get to a hospital if you think you need one?"
"Thank you, Father. I don't think that will be necessary. I think the pair must have been trying to trick me. They were very good with their con. For a moment, they had convinced me that they wanted to turn me into a vampire, like them. Normally I'm immune to being tricked, but somehow, I actually thought they were speaking the truth."
"But they did not rob you?"
"No," replied Steven. "They just simply spoke to me, told me the vampire garbage, and left. In fact, they left me money, a lot of it. See what I mean, none of this makes sense."
"It definitely sounds...mischievous, if I've picked the correct English. Most importantly, I'm glad no one was harmed. You will have quite the story to share once you travel home."
Steven cursed aloud, grimacing with regret. "Sorry, Father, but you just reminded me that they took my passport. I tried to take it back, but..."
"You're a pacifist?"
"Yes, sir."
"Nothing wrong about that. The world would benefit greatly if there were more like you."
Steven smiled. "Thank you, Father. I've always thought life too short to waste on hate and anger."
"Very true. There are criminal organizations that need stolen passports. Perhaps you were entrapped in an elaborate theft for yours. The money was to buy your silence, time perhaps."
But the girl already had lifted my passport, back at the museum, thought Steven. "Perhaps," he said after a long silence. "I suppose I need to call my embassy."
"Sooner than later, my child. And for that, I'll be praying for you. The devil wears many disguises, and some say bureaucracy is one of his favorites."
Priest humor? pondered Steven before sighing heavily with the unpleasant thought of visiting the notorious unfriendly embassy, which brought him back to his reason for running. "I have one more question, Father."
"Yes, my child, what is it?"
"Would it be okay for me to remain in the church overnight? I don't want to sleep on a pew or anything disrespectful. I just...I would simply like to pray through the night, to do some soul searching, if that makes any sense."
"It does make sense to me, but I'm afraid we close the church at 8 p.m. We can no longer leave the Church unattended like we did years ago."
"Oh, okay." Steven bowed he weary head, his sense of unease growing.
"There is a nice shelter run by nuns nearby. I can show you where it is."
"Thank you, Father. I noticed the hotels by the river coming into town. I'll simply find a room there."
"As you wish. Do you have any other concerns?"
"No, sir. I think that I'll return to the pew and pray a little more."
"Very good."
When Steven exited the confessional, he became slightly startled when the priest exited just after him, appearing quite old and balding, but muscular considering his age.
The priest stood up straight and dignified, smiling cordially. "It's tends to be very quiet this time of day."
Steven returned his smile. "It's peaceful here, very soothing."
"Yes it is," added the priest as he stepped away to an inconspicuous door at the side of the altar, parting with, "If you would excuse me."
Returning to his pew near the front, Steven resided himself to finding a room in one of the many touristy hotels. He debated how long he should wait, whether he should risk traveling in the twilight. Thinking it best to depart immediately, Steven still could not bring himself to leave his newfound sanctuary. He found the old church relaxing, and for the first time since the night before, his fear did not have a total grip on him, choking him with the taste of bile, making him feel as if he was about to jump out of his skin.
Steven may have never read the Bible, but he had faith. The melting candles, the religious artwork, even the altar did not represent God to him, but human's faith in a supreme being was something he shared with many churchgoers. Coming in touch with his spiritual being, the man closed his eyes and began to pray.
From behind, the sharp, echoing sound of high heels rudely interrupted Steven's prayers. The heels made hard clacks that echoed louder with each step. The confidence pace of the steps—and their tone—hinted to their owner, a certain female with mahogany shoulder-length hair and aloof stare.
Steven did not look back to see who was approaching. As the feeling of dread returned, stronger than before, his eyes came to rest on the altar as he began to recite one more prayer.
