Chapter Five: The Nightmare Unfolding

Falling…tumbling and broken. Shattered and Lost. "I ain't gonna see me only son go of'n become a priest!" The Christmas orb fell. Fell. Racing towards oblivion. "Father…I think I killed a man!" Gone, lost. "Father, he is cheating on me! And this isn't even the first time! I don't know what to do! My poor babies!" A dog snarled in the man's face. "Can I have shummmmoney fer the bus, Ffffader?" God, help me! Help this sorry world "You can't help me! I can't be helped! I'm dead already!" Burning pentagram. The door to the kiln opened…"I killed my bay-beeee!"…and inside were human ashes and charred skeletons. Double Murder. Swirling into oblivion…I remember I cried when my father died, never wishing to hide the tears…666…Factories of Death…The Hanged Man…All is lost…dust…A pile of scared and naked men…click-click went the camera…dust. "Though art dust, and to the dust thou shalt return. Death…Death…white face, fanged grimace…Death…the black prince on his black throne…the warm red tabernacle was torn open, and a bright, cold light poured in…Death…a strange, headless snaked peered in…the vacuum started…Help…! A scream that was never heard…a tiny corpse, piled amongst thousand of the same…Death!DeathDEATH!"

"Gah!"

Father O'Flaherty was alone in his room. It was four in the morning. And he new that the nightmare he had just awoken from real.

He said his morning rosary, kneeling before a faded portrait of the Virgin and her Immaculate Heart, pierced by swords of sorrow. He showered and dressed in his usual harried fashion. He put a bowl of instant oatmeal in the microwave, and a brass kettle on the burner, and walked out in the brisk spring air to fetch the paper.

There musta been another riot last night, the priest thought when he saw the paper-strewn streets, heard the wailing of sirens, and smelt the sting of smoke in the air. He bent over and opened the paper.

"NIGHT OF CARNAGE! Mayor, Police Chief, and Judge amongst those killed in what appears to be a follow-up on the wave of violence earlier this year."

Father O'Flaherty shook his head. In his heart, he prayed for those who had lost a loved one, and that the souls of the departed may be safe and at peace in the arms of the Lord. But more was to come.

"Father! Father!"

I was Seamus. He was running down the street, his woolen cap in one hand, sheleighleigh in the other. Behind him was Pete, the bum.

"Father! Someun's broken inta' St. Andrew's! They've desecrated the altar!"

"Faith'n Begara! I'll be there in a second! Let me just turn off the stove!"

When he arrived with Pete and Seamus at the church, he could scarcely believe his eyes. The ancient oak doors were broken, as though someone had chopped their way in with an axe. Old Mrs. VanHouten and several of her elderly friends were standing in front of the church steps, whispering nervously.

"Wait outside ladies."

The priest walked inside the church. It was as though a beautiful woman had been raped and left for dead. The holy water was had been dyed red, whether it was with food coloring or actual blood, he did not wish to know. The heads of the saints had been removed. Yet most grievous sin was what had been done to the altar of God.

The crucifix had fallen, it's wires cut. The tabernacle doors were rent asunder, and the Consecrated Host stolen. Where the Crucifix once hung was painted a star. A with five arms, made from a single, continuous line. The third arm was pointing downwards; inside the five arms was drawn the head of a goat, whose horns, ears, and nose filled each arm of the star. Between each arm, a strange character was carved.

The father fell to his knees. He crossed himself. He was crying