F Wilson: Midnight Mass

A glance over his shoulder showed him that the creature had half folded its wings and was diving his way from above. No choice now. Zev veered left for the tree and whatever waited within its shadowed branches.

He was almost there when the woman's voice shouted, "Down!"

Zev obeyed, diving for the grass. He heard a hiss of rage, felt the wind from the creature's wings as it hurtled past no more than a foot or two above him. He lurched back to his feet and staggered forward. Pale hands reached from the branches and pulled him into the shadows.

"Are you all right?" the woman said.

He couldn't see her—she was a shadow among the shadows—but her voice sounded young.

"Yes. No. If you mean am I hurt, no."

But all right? No, he was not all right. Never again would he be all right.

"Good." She grabbed his hands and pressed them against a tree limb. "Hold on to this branch. Steady it while I try to break it. Quick, before it makes another pass."

The dead branch sat chest high and felt about half an inch in diameter. With Zev steadying it, the woman threw her weight hard against it. The wood snapped with a loud crack.

"What are you—?"

She shushed him. "It's coming back."

She moved to the edge of the trees, carrying the branch with her. Zev watched her, silhouetted against the moonlit lawn. Average height, short dark hair were all he gained about her looks. He saw her crouch, then hurl her branch like a spear at the creature as it swooped by on another pass. She missed and high-pitched derisive laughter trailed into the sky.

She returned to Zev, stopped on the other side of the broken branch, and patted the front of his shirt. She pulled him close and whispered in his ear.

"Your cross—tuck it away."

"No! It will—"

"Do as I say. They can see in the dark. And try to look frightened."

Try? Who had to try?

She put an arm around him to hold him close, keeping the branch between them.

Another whisper: "Pull out that cross when I tell you."

Zev had no idea what she was up to but had nowhere else to turn, so . . .

Her grip on him tightened. "Here it comes. Ready ..."

Zev could see it now, a dark splotch among the shadows of the branches, wings spread, gliding in low, arms stretched out before it.

". . . ready . . ."

Suddenly it folded its wings and shot at them like a missile.

"Now!"

As Zev pulled out the cross he felt the woman shove him away. He lost his balance and tumbled back, saw her fall in the other direction, felt a clawed hand grip his shoulder, heard the creature's screech of triumph rise into a wail of shock and agony as it slammed against the trunk of the tree.

Zev regained his feet amid the frantic and furious struggling of the hissing creature. Its charging attack had opened a passage through the branches, lightening the shadows. As he ducked its thrashing wings he realized it had impaled itself on the broken branch. It flopped back and forth like a speared fish, then pushed away from the trunk, trying to dislodge itself from the wood that had pierced its chest.

Zev turned to run. Now was his chance to get away from this thing. But what of the woman? He couldn't abandon her.

He spotted her standing behind the creature. She'd hiked up her already short skirt and kicked at the thing's back, shoving it further onto the branch. The creature howled and thrashed, and in its struggles broke the branch off the trunk with a gunshot crack.

Free now, it whirled and staggered out into the moonlight. Its wings flapped but couldn't seem to lift it. Perhaps ten feet beyond the branches it dropped to its knees. The woman was right behind it, giving it another kick. It rolled onto its back, clawing at the wooden shaft that jutted two or three feet from its chest. Its movements were weaker now, its wings lay crumpled beneath it. Howling and writhing in agony, it gripped the branch and started to slide it out of its chest.

"No, you don't!" the woman cried.

She gripped the upper end, shoving it back down and leaning on it to hold it in place.

"This is for Bern!" she screamed, naked fury rawing her voice. "This is what you made me do to her! How does it feel? How does it feel?"

For an instant Zev wondered who was more frightening, this screeching woman or the struggling monster she held pinned to the earth.

The creature clawed and kicked at her, almost knocking her over. He had to help. If that thing got free ...

Mouth dry, heart pounding, Zev forced himself from the shadows and added his own weight to the branch. He felt it punch deeper into the thing's chest. Then a sickening scrape as it thrust past ribs and into the ground beneath.

The creature's struggles became abruptly feebler. He saw now that it was a female. It might have been beautiful once, but the sickly pallor and the bared fangs robbed it of any attractiveness.

Finally it shuddered and lay still. Zev watched in amazement as its wings shriveled and disappeared.

"Gevalt!" he whispered, although he didn't know why. "You did it! You killed one!"

He'd heard they could be killed—all the old folk tales said they could be - but he'd never actually seen one die, never even met anyone who had.

It was good to know they could be killed.

"We did." She finally released her grip on the branch but her gaze remained locked on the creature. "If you have a soul," she said, "may God have mercy on it."

What was this? Like a harpy, she screeches, then she blesses the thing. A madwoman, this was.

She faced him. "I'm sorry for my outburst. I... it's just..." She seemed to lose her train of thought, as if something had distracted her. "Anyway, thank you for the help."

"You saved my life, young lady. It's me who should be thanking."

She was staring at him. "You're Rabbi Wolpin, aren't you."

Shock stole his voice for a few heartbeats. She knew him?

"Why ... yes. But I don't recognize ..."

She laughed. A bitter sound. "Please, God, I hope not."

He could see her now. Nothing familiar about her features, no particular style to her short dark hair. He noticed a tiny crescent scar on the right side of her chin. Heavy on the eye makeup—very heavy. A tight red sweater and even tighter short black skirt hid little of her slim body. And were those fishnet stockings?

A prostitute? In these times? Such a thing he never would have dreamed. But then he remembered hearing of women selling themselves to get food and favors.

"So, you know me how?"

She shrugged. "I used to see you with Father Cahill."

"Joe Cahill," Zev said, feeling a burst of warmth at the mention of his friend's name. "I was just over at his church. I saw ..." The words choked off.

"I know. I've—" She waved her hand before her face. "She's starting to stink already. Must be an older one."

Zev looked down and saw that the creature was already in an advanced state of rot.

"We'd better get out of here," the woman said, backing away. "They seem to know when one of their kind dies. Get your bike and meet me by the tree."

Zev continued to stare at the corpse. "Are they always so hard to kill?"

"I don't think the branch went all the way through the heart at first."

"Nu? You've done this before?"

Her expression was bleak as she looked at him. "Let's not talk about it."

When Zev wheeled his bike back to the tree he found her standing beside a child's red wagon, an old-fashioned Radio Flyer. A book bag emblazoned with St. Anthony's School lay in the wagon. He hadn't noticed either earlier. She must have had them hidden among the branches.

She said, "You mentioned you were at St. Anthony's. Why?"

"To see if what I'd heard was true." The urge to retch gripped Zev again. "To think that was Father Cahill's church."