by Michael Cummings

It had rained the night before, a heavy autumn rain marking the coming of change. It was still early, the sun just rising above the horizon. Black clouds clung low in the west, dark as night and reflecting back the rising sun. Between the two the world was cast in a curious juxtaposition, part night, part day. It made the colors of the fallen leaves really stand out to the eye.

Orange and maroon clung to the ground, knocked loose by the previous night's deluge. Nora Pimpsky shuffled through the leaves, waddling across the yard. She hesitated when she reached the road, glancing side to side to see if anyone was watching her.

She had a sense that there was someone out there, someone watching her get the morning paper. Even with her thick glasses on, she was too far into her cups to be able to see. She pulled her robe close, holding a fist of material at her hip with one hand. She tugged at the newspaper in the box, but it was wedged in tight.

"Need a hand?"

Nora yelped. The Nelson boy stood ten feet away, watching her. He was barely a teenager but she felt herself blush. She was acutely aware of how short her robe was and how little material covered her.

"The paper," she said, taking a step to the side. Her legs wobbled beneath her and she swayed. The Nelson boy reached out, cupping her elbow in his big hand, supporting her. She lifted her eyes to give him a smile, but her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were cold and grey, piercing her.

"Let me, Mrs. Pimpsky," he said, leaning over to reach into the box.

"It's all right," she whispered, still clutching at her robe. "I'll get it later."

Nelson twisted his hand inside the box and pulled out the paper. He held it up to her.

"Thank you," she said, taking the paper from him. She numbly pressed the paper against her chest and backed away a step on shaky legs.

"Are you all right?" he asked, taking another step towards her.

"I'm fine," she said. "I don't want to make you late for school."

His laugh was as cold as his eyes.

"I graduated a few years ago, Mrs. Pimpsky."

"Well, thanks anyway," she said, raising the paper. She forced herself to turn her back on him and start walking. A hard knot formed between her shoulder blades, but she refuse to turn around. She hurried across the wet leaves, her eyes focussed on the open door. When she reached the threshold she stopped and looked back. She was afraid to turn around, afraid of what she would find. The Nelson boy was still standing by the mailbox, watching her. She closed the door and locked it. Leaning up on her toes, she peaked through the peephole.

The road was empty.

Her lower lip trembled. Running through the kitchen, she turned the lock on the back door. Only after all of the windows had been checked did she slow down. Sitting on the overstuffed couch that dominated the living room, she looked down. She was still clutching the damned newspaper in her hand. She set it down, forcing the fingers of her hand to unclench, and let her breath out. The house was locked. She could relax.

A half empty bottle of gin sat on the table, uncapped. It was the drink's fault, making her paranoid. She leaned over to put the cap on the bottle when she caught the reflection of a silhouette behind her.

Nora caught a whiff of Old Spice and motor oil. She turned her head to the side, resting her chin on her shoulder.

"How'd you get in?"

"I have my ways," Vince said, sliding up behind her. He reached around, his large hands circling around to squeeze her breasts through the robe. "How long?"

"He won't be back until tonight. He's at work. Like you should be," she added.

"You want me to leave?" he asked. She could feel Vince's breath on her neck, close, warm.

"Stay," she said, her voice hoarse.

He pressed his lips against her neck, his teeth grazing over her soft skin. "God, I could just eat you up."

#

Vince still felt a rosy glow as he slipped out the back door. The sun was dipping beneath the tree line, orange and red blood smearing across the horizon. Vince tugged at the waist of his pants, pulling them up over his hip again.

A lot of folks said he shouldn't be shacking up with a married woman, but that's because they didn't get it. Her old man may have everyone at work on their toes, but he wasn't keeping it up at home. A woman like Nora, she had needs, and one of those needs was to get her toes uncurled a few times a week. If her old man wasn't up to the task, Vince figured he was as good as any to get the job done.

He hated the sneaking around, though. He understood keeping up appearances, not getting Nora in any more trouble than she was already in. But this parking a mile away and hiking back through the woods, that was for shit.

He was still half a mile away from his truck when he realized he needed to take a piss, bad. For a moment, he glanced back at Nora's house. He could still almost see the roof through the trees, the faint shimmer of heat rising on the cold Autumn night. It would be a lot easier to go back to her place and use the toilet downstairs.

No way to explain that to her husband if he came back. Sure, Vince could say he was just visiting, or dropping something off, whatever. But how did he explain why his truck was parked a mile away in the woods? It wasn't like their house was in the middle of anything. Next neighbor was the Nolan's down the road, and they weren't exactly the friendly type themselves.

The ache in his groin started to burn. Vince glanced up and down the old trail he was on, but there wasn't any sign of other people being back here. He stepped off the trail, branches and leaves crunching beneath him as he walked a few feet into the woods.

It was a relief taking a piss. The pressure lifted off his bladder as fast as the steam rose up in the cold air and he wasn't at all surprised to hear a gasp of relief escape his own lips. Vince took a deep breath and zipped himself back up. He didn't figure anyone ever came back in these woods, but he still didn't want to get caught with his fly down.

Vince lifted a hand, absently scratching at his nose. He caught a whiff of his hand, a mix of Nora and his scents. He smiled, thinking about the next time he'd be with her. How someone could marry that girl and then leave her alone he didn't understand. She was wild in the sack and well worth the risk of some buckshot in his backside.

Vince started working his way back to the path, twisting his way between branches and tree stumps. Behind him, there was a loud crack, like the sound of someone stepping on a branch.

Vince stopped and turned, looking back. Even in late autumn it was hard to see through all the foliage. There was just too much bramble and branches to see too far.

"Hello?" he called out.

Nothing. Not even the sound of birds. Most had already started to fly south, but weren't there some little finches or something that hung around all winter? Vince wasn't sure, but he was sure they weren't what broke the branch.

He started to turn back to the path again and heard it closer. There were two snaps, both of them closer, both of them unmistakably the sound of footfalls. Vince reached down and grabbed a large piece of wood. It felt soft in his hands, but he hoped it was intimidating enough to whoever was following him.

"I don't know who you are, but cut it out," he said, waving the piece of wood in front of his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something move, a shape behind the trees, not quite in focus. He turned, but there was nothing there.

The hairs on the back of his neck started to rise.

Vince took a couple of stumbling steps backward. He started to fall on his ass and caught himself by grabbing hold of a thorny bramble. Vince yelped, warm blood trickling down his palm. He raised his hand to his lips, sucking on the blood, while he watched the woods. A shadow moved again, this time on his left side. Vince spun around, wood raised, and found himself staring down at a kid no more than twelve or thirteen.

"What the fuck, kid?" he said, lowering the wood in his hand. "I almost hit you, you stupid son of a bitch. Anyone ever tell you not to come sneaking up on people?"

The boy stared back at him, silent. He didn't make a move, didn't twitch a muscle, but Vince had the feeling the boy was in constant motion towards him. The boy gave him goosebumps. Vince considered dropping the piece of wood in his hand, then thought better of it.

Vince dragged himself through the bramble, still nursing his one hand and dragging the wood behind him with the other. Standing on the path, he could still see Nora's house back the way he'd come. The sun was further down now, and darkness was starting to creep in. He glanced back in the woods. The boy was still standing there, watching him, his face passive.

"Go on," Vince said, lobbing the soft piece of wood in the kid's direction. It shattered into a thousand pieces as it passed through the brambles. The boy remained motionless.

Vince let out a heavy breath, a big puff of steam rising, then he looked back at the boy. The kid wasn't just not moving. He wasn't even breathing.

Vince looked up the path to where his truck was parked, and then back to Nora's house. Either way, he was screwed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the shadows moving, circling him. When he looked back for the boy again, he was gone.

Screaming, Vince ran.

The sky looked like someone had taken a fist and pommeled it. Purple clouds lay in thin shreds over a blood red background.

Alex Kingston stared at the sky. It had an ominous vibe to it. His bones ached, the muscles below his ear feeling like they had cotton rammed into them. Something bad was coming.

The light cast everything in the Tooth and Nail in a ghastly shade of red.

"Evening," Father Ted said, giving him a slight salute.

"Evening, Father." Alex smiled, averting his eyes down from the skyline. "How are things going this evening?"

"Fine," Ted said, sliding on to a barstool. Alex slid a small glass off the tray and held it up, head tilted questioningly. "Yes, please," Ted said.

The old priest watched Alex while he set the drink up, eying the bottle as Alex tipped it over and measured out two fingers worth of whisky.

"That's quite a sunset," Alex said, setting the glass down. "Sailor's take warning, isn't that the old saying?"

"Bah," Ted said, taking a sip. His gaze was still locked on the bottle. "Superstitious crap and you know it, Alex."

Alex shrugged, picking up another glass and started to shine it.

"I'm sure there's something to it. All that extra moisture in the air." Alex waved a hand. "Stuff."

Ted tilted his glass, watching the whiskey slosh side to side.

"All of God's glory and you sum it up as 'stuff,'" he said with a grunt. Ted tossed the rest of his drink back, his left eye twitching as the drink hit his throat. He let out a hoarse cough.

Father Ted watched Alex as he refilled his glass.

"You know, you and I aren't that different from one another," Ted said, staring down at his full glass.

"How's that?"

"You and I. We aren't that different from one another when it comes down to it."

"Oh, I don't know," Alex said, exchanging the glass in his hand for another from the rack. "I think I get to have a little more fun than you do. And you aren't buried in debt because of your ex-wife."

"We both take confessions," Ted said, ignoring the other man. "We both let someone sit down across from us and listen to them tell us about their sins and mistakes."

Alex gave a snort.

"You got something you want to confess to me, Father?"

Ted looked at his drink, a half smile tugging at his lips.

"Not today, Alex."

Alex watched the old priest finish his drink. Father Ted reached into his wallet and pulled out a set of crisp five's. It was tempting to tell the priest the drink's were on the house, but Alex couldn't turn down the business. With a smile and a nod, he took the money and slipped it into the register.

#

Ted stepped out of the Tooth & Nail, pulling his wool coat close. With sunset approaching the temperature was starting to drop. Alex Kingston might be superstitious with his cloud warnings, but even a man of God recognized a shift in cold front's. That and Ted wasn't such a luddite that he didn't watch the Channel Eight weather when it came on in the refectory.

He hated this time of the year. Not for the season or the pageantry, though he didn't care for what the retail world had made of the holidays. His hate was deeper, more personal. His hatred was something he woke up to every morning, like the scars on his arms. It was something he saw when he closed his eyes and laid his head down to rest. He knew that when his time came and he was held accountable for his days, it would be his pain and anger more than his failures that labeled him a sinner.

Ted smiled and nodded at folks as he walked back to the church grounds. Most folks returned the greeting, though largely out of respect for the collar than the man that wore it. His actual congregation was small and shrinking by the day. Only the old seemed to come out on Sundays, as much out of habit as boredom he suspected.

Ted unlatched the gate to let himself in when he heard it. At first, he thought it was a child, trapped somewhere near. It was the high pitched mewing of pain and distress. Ted stopped, the gate swinging open with a long drawn out creak of rusty metal. The cry came again.

Ted half turned, looking up and down the street. It was almost dusk and the road was empty of traffic. Most folk were either on their way home or sitting down to dinner. A chill wind blew down the lane, rustling leaves.

Across the street, a low stone wall separated the road from the graveyard. For half a second he had an irrational notion that the noise had come from within the cemetery.

"Hello?" he asked, stepping out into the street. He heard it again, more a mewling sound than a voice.

The sun was almost set now, the long retaining wall casting the street in shadows. In the darkness, he saw something move. Ted felt his heart beat harder in his chest, his ears filled with the wump wump wump sound. He felt an ache developing in his shoulder and across his left shoulder. Was he old enough to have a heart attack?

"Hello?" he said again again. His voice sounded hollow echoing off the stone wall. The scars on his arms ached, and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket to keep them from shaking.

He spotted the cat in the ditch, twitching on its side. From the way it was lying he reasoned it had been hit by a car and left to die. Ted knelt down, hesitantly putting a hand out. The cat lifted its head and looked at him. Or tried to. One eye was bulging in the socket, the fur around it dark and matted with blood. It tried to move closer, pulling itself forward with it front paws. Its back legs twitched but didn't move on their own. It could have been the shadows, but Ted didn't think they looked straight anymore.

"Shhh," he said, sitting down on the curb beside the cat. The stone was cold beneath his coat, penetrating through the layers of fabric to his bones. "What happened here?"

The cat lifted its head and mewled again, looking up at him longingly. Ted reached down, placing his hand on the cat's forehead.

"There's nothing I can do for you, little one," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

The cat shuddered, the sound that came out of it almost human again. Ted pressed his thumb between the cat's eyes and closed his eyes. His lips moved silently, a prayer rising to his lips unbidden. In the darkness that surrounded him he could see the shining silver light, a thin silver membrane hung in the space behind his eyes. Ted stretch for it, his thumb moving in small circles.

"Amen," he whispered as the silver filament shook and lifted in his mind's eye, rising to the heavens above.

Ted opened his eyes to bright light shining down on him.

"Father?"

Ted let go of the cat's head and pushed himself up off the curb. He brushed his hands off on his coat.

"Are you all right, Father Ted?"

"I'm fine, thank you," he said, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the light. Beverly Kimes stood next to the open door of her Grand Torino station wagon, the motor churning up a cloud of purple and grey smoke behind her.

"Do you need a hand?" she asked. She glanced over at the cemetery wall behind him, then at the dark shape at his feet.

"No. Yes, actually," he said, backing up. "I found this poor fellow on my way home. Hit and run, no doubt. He's passed on, but I could use a hand getting him out of the street."

"Are you going to bury him?" she asked. There was a note to her voice, almost a question.

"The church doesn't believe animals have souls," he said. It was beside the point. Burying the dead had nothing to do with the preservation of the soul, just like being alive was no guarantee you still had one. Ted had seen something once, something that looked like a living boy. It had been a soulless thing, a shell harboring only evil. Ted blinked, pushing the memory back. He looked back at Mrs. Kimes, a concerned expression developing on her face. Ted gave her a kind, caring smile. "But that doesn't mean he should be left in the street. Do you have something I can put him in?"

"Of course," she said. She opened the trunk of her car, pulling out a black lawn and leaf bag. She flapped the folded bag until it expanded out with a loud popping noise.

Ted took a deep breath, forcing a smile on his lips as she handed the bag over. Twisting the bag inside out, Ted slid the body in, then let it fall through to the other side, turning the bag right side out. He tugged at the red plastic pulls until they extended out to form handles.

Mrs. Kimes remained behind her car, staring at him.

"Are you all right?" she finally asked. "You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he said, hefting up the bag. "Thank you for your help."

She smiled back at him now that the grisly work was out of the way. She climbed back into the station wagon, giving him one last wave before driving down the hill.