Brett McBean - Tales of Sin and Madness

As he feared, there was none. He placed his head across the man’s chest and listened. He could hear no heartbeat.

Quickly, the Reverend crossed his chest and said a prayer.

Opening his eyes, he stared down at the deceased man. It occurred to him he hadn’t even known the man’s name.

He reached down and took a hold of his hand.

“It’s okay,” he said in a soft voice. “The Lord will take care of you.” He patted the limp hand and gently placed it across the man’s bloody chest.

He turned around and left the bedroom. He wandered into the lounge, where the open fire was still burning strong, and fell into his chair. He would have to call an ambulance, something he thought he’d never have to do again. He tried to move, but found he didn’t have the heart to. There was no emergency, really.

The man was already dead. Still, the sooner the better.

He glanced up at the picture that hung on the wall. It filled him with immense sorrow. Back when he was a young man, he used to think that everything served a purpose. All events, every living creature, be it good or bad, was put on this earth for a reason.

That every moment in your life taught you something.

Therefore, when a tragedy befell, he took that as the Lord’s way, something that needed to happen in order for others to learn from and, hopefully, to live a fuller and more meaningful life.

That’s what he used to believe.

The first time he began to question his belief was when his wife died two years ago from brain cancer. Seeing her wither away had been the most heartbreaking thing his eyes and heart had ever witnessed.

And when she finally had passed away, he was left feeling empty. He had felt no comfort from the Lord. He had wanted no help from the church.

The night she died, he had stared up at this very same picture and felt, for the first time, no joy or solace in the figure of Christ giving his life to save mankind.

In the years since, his faith had been in continual question.

He went to church and performed the sermons dutifully, and he even prayed every night, though he thought, perhaps, it was more out of habit than anything else.

And now this stranger.

There seemed no point in him dying. What possible use could it serve, when he was perfectly willing to care for this unfortunate man?

As the Reverend grew older, his belief in fate and purpose had diminished. Up to the point that now, as he gazed upon the shimmering picture of Christ, he felt anger.

He reached over and picked up the phone book.

A dim flicker of light fell into the room. Quickly he dropped the phone book and stood up.

He wandered into the kitchen, leaving the lights off, and headed for the window. He peered out and saw only darkness.

Can’t have been a ship , he thought. There are no ports here .

He knew that many ships passed through the not-to-distant ocean, but they always ran parallel to the shore. The nearest port was a couple of hours away.

His next thought was maybe a traveller had happened upon his cottage. But he could see no person, no torchlight.

There was a movement behind him.

The Reverend turned and saw a figure lumbering towards him.

He shuddered. His immediate thought was that an intruder had broken in. He was about to plead to him that he had no money, but then the figure stepped into the path of the moonlight.

“Impossible,” he whispered.

For the thing that was ambling ever closer was the stranger.

The bandages flopped with each step, and his mouth, forever gaping, dribbled the black muck he had vomited just before his demise.

Or apparent demise , the Reverend now thought.

I didn’t check his pulse properly, that’s all. And his heart must’ve been too weak to hear.

“A…are you all right?” the Reverend said, even though he knew he would get no answer.

The man continued closer. His unblinking eyes were expressionless. He left a dark trail of blood as his feet scraped along the wooden floor.

The smell was ungodly; it enveloped the Reverend with a stench twice as horrible as when he had found him.

Despite common sense, something deep inside told him that this was no living man. He was certain there had been no pulse, and the Reverend had seen enough death to recognise its ugly face. This was a creature sent by the devil, and it was shuffling closer.

The Reverend turned and hunted for a formidable weapon.

He sifted through the drawers until he found a large kitchen knife. When he turned back, the thing was no more than five feet away.

“GET AWAY!” he shouted, brandishing the thick knife. “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

There was no cease from the monster.

Black blood gurgled from its mouth and as it neared, it raised its arms in a sick parody of an embrace.

“Please, go away,” the Reverend pleaded.

With stiff, cold hands, the brute cupped the Reverend’s throat and squeezed.

The Reverend pried at its hands for release, but found the grip was too tight. He choked and struggled, felt his strength beginning to wane. He had to do something before the life was strangled from his body.

So he plunged the knife down. He sent the blade through the top of the thing’s head with such force that he managed to ram the knife all the way down to its handle.

The thing cried an almighty roar and blood gushed from its mouth. It brought its hands up to the buried knife and was coated in a torrent of red gore. Letting out one last scream, its body went limp and it sank to the floor.

The Reverend, eyes wide and face covered in blood, was in disbelief. Disbelief of how this man could have been walking, disbelief of what he had just done. He was a murderer. He had killed one of God’s creations, even if it was hideous to look at.

“What have I done?” he whimpered.

I will be punished severely for this .

He turned away from the sprawled thing and rushed out the door, into the mild night. Standing in the tall grass, he vomited long and hard.

When his stomach was empty, the Reverend wiped his mouth and straightened up. The breeze felt good as it lilted against the cold sweat dripping from his face.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw a light flicker. He glanced in the direction of the beach and saw a gleam of light. It wasn’t very strong; it was almost as if a mist of yellow fog was being shone through the darkness.

The Reverend began walking towards the ocean. For a short time he forgot about what was back at his cottage, lying dead on the kitchen floor. The source of the light became his immediate preoccupation.

Perhaps there’s somebody up ahead with a torch , he thought. The person could be hurt .

The light faded.

The Reverend stopped and frowned at the relinquishment of the mysterious light.

Even if there is somebody up ahead, I can’t take them back to my house .

Still, he continued.

He tramped along the sandy ground for five more minutes before he came upon the cliff where he had met the now deceased man.

He could see no person with a torch. He stepped closer to the edge and peered down at the ocean.

The Reverend was staggered to find a ship. It was moored a little way up the beach and he could see hordes of figures stepping off. Some were already out and walking along the dark beach; a few were walking down the steep stairs that led onto the sand.

He couldn’t possibly count all the dark figures, but the Reverend guessed there were at least twenty that he could see. And there was bound to be more inside the ship, waiting to hop out.

The tiny portholes that coated the ship’s exterior were lit up, including a powerful torch at the bow of the ship.

There’s my mysterious light , the Reverend thought.