I sat in the trees, instinctively inhaling to hold the breath I no longer needed, as Father Teddy Brent exited the spacious office of his church and slid the door closed behind him. He moved fast, his eyes darting around in a clear sign that he was nervous. Not the most welcome development, but one I could deal with.
I’d hoped the local news would wait before reaching out to him for comment. To be honest, I hadn’t even considered that the package of incriminating evidence would have reached them yet. Realizing there was nothing to do about it now, I slid out of the small, wooded area in the outskirts of the parking lot and stalked to the other side of his car.
He started when he saw me and, moving quickly before he could bolt, I locked him in my gaze and spoke.
“Get in the car.”
His eyes took on a glossy look, and I knew without checking that he was reaching toward the car, the key fob in his pocket unlocking his door, while I used a simple act of will to unlock mine. Once in the car, he appeared to gain confidence, finally finding his voice.
“Wh—why are you here? If it’s money you want, we have plenty. There’s no need for . . . theatrics.”
“I know.” I replied calmly. “I’m aware of how wealthy you are.” I tried to keep my voice neutral, no need to panic the frightened creature.
“I didn’t come here for money. Rest assured—what I want, you have. And, like wealth, you have it in spades.”
“Wha—what do you want? Is this about . . . ”
He trailed off, unsure how to finish. Couldn’t say I blamed him.
“Drive.” I answered, deliberately avoiding the question. I focused on the demand, pushing some of my will into the words. The wayward Father, compelled to do so, put the car in drive and pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street. I let him drive for several minutes before I spoke. “Do you want to live, Father?”
He swallowed hard before responding. “Y—Yes.”
“I suppose you would, wouldn’t you? You’re either a fraud, in which case death must be quite the scary prospect, or you actually believe the things you say every Sunday. If that’s the case, I imagine you know where you’re going when this ends, and that must make the idea of death downright terrifying.”
“Please . . . ” The sound of his voice was weak and pathetic. “I have a problem. I need . . . I need help.” He was holding back tears at that point, barely keeping his voice from cracking.
I sighed impatiently, still not quite used to the fact that I didn’t breathe.
“I’m not here to help you, if that’s what you’re looking for, but I will make a deal with you.” I pulled a small portable tape recorder out of one pocket and a Ziplock back from the other.
“Don’t look at me, look at the road.” I instructed the priest as his focus turned toward the items in my hands and the car started drifting off the road.
“The deal is this, Padre,” I began, once he’d had time to correct his steering. “List your victims, everyone one of them. State your name and occupation for the record and, if at all possible, state the names and ages in chronological order. It’ll make it easy for the police. No need to go into detail, and I’d rather not have to hear about it anyway. Just names, ages, and a very general description of your crime. Do that, and you’ll be forgiven. Just that easy.”
The look in his eyes told me he didn’t think that sounded easy at all, so I switched gears slightly. “I can make this a very long, very painful night for you, Father Brent. I have nowhere to be tonight, and you . . . You’re not going anywhere. Make this easier on us both.”
Before he could respond, I pushed record and tilted the instrument toward him. Seeing no other options, Father Brent began his confession. I was shocked when, after the first six victims, he continued talking. I’d only been aware of three and, while I assumed there were more, the two dozen names he rattled off were far beyond what even I had suspected. I wondered vaguely how he even kept track, then decided I didn’t want to know. I clicked the recorder off, sliding the item into the Ziplock bag and placing it in the center console.
“Why the Ziplock bag?” The Father’s voice, so unsure and quaky just moments before, had already regained a hint of his patented confidence and strength. Good—he’d need it.
“Oh, that?” I asked, casually pausing a moment. Ahead, the forest gave way to the clear sky surrounding a bridge that traversed one of Massachusetts’ many bays. The full moon reflected off the water and cast a pale light over the scene.
“It’s for waterproofing.”
Father Brent shot a confused look at me as I casually reached over, grasping the shoulder strap and buckling myself in before looking toward him, trying and failing to keep a malicious smile off my face.
“Turn right,” I said suddenly.
The Father, having no choice, once again followed my compulsion, jerking the steering wheel right. The ancient bridge barrier was no match for the $90,000 sport cars, and the screech of metal tearing through metal assaulted my sensitive hearing as the vehicle tore through the flimsy metal deterrent, and off the bridge. There was a moment of weightlessness as the car plummeted, but it was short lived. The bridge was not particularly high, and I hardly had time to notice this was the first time I’d experienced this particular phenomenon before we hit the lake.
The jarring impact of the car breaking through the water snapped my head forward, but I recovered quickly and unbuckled myself, immediately reaching over and grabbing Father Brent. The cold sensation of my dead hand on his face seemed to wake him, as he shot a look toward me before speaking. “You said . . . You said you would forgive me!” The squeaky, weak tone of his voice almost had me feeling sorry for the doomed man. The water had just started filling the car, already making it past the soles of his shoes. It was October in New England. The chilling liquid would have no effect on me, but even if he escaped the car, he’d likely freeze to death in minutes. He probably didn’t know it yet, but that was the least of his worries.
“You misunderstood, Father, I said you’d be forgiven, but that’s between you and God. Didn’t they teach you anything in Seminary?” He didn’t seem to see the humor in my logic, so I continued, realizing we were running out of time. “For what it’s worth, I do forgive you. I don’t hold a grudge. But everything has to eat and, as I said, I happen to need something you have, rather urgently.”
Finally tiring of the game, I hissed menacingly at him, showing my fangs as I did so.
The Father, predictably I suppose, took on a look of sheer panic as he grabbed the crucifix around his neck, gasped and screamed. “Nosferatu!” Which may have been some sort of curse in Latin? I made a mental note to look it up later, but I had more important things to worry about as the man of faith brandished the cross like a shield and shouted: “Begone Spawn of Satan! I Banish Thee!”
I screamed, holding my hand in front of my face and shrinking away. I noticed absently that the water was up to his knees and, deciding enough was enough, I dropped my hands as my screeched morphed into laughter.
“Spawn of Satan? Really Father? Nobody says that anymore. And, seriously?” As I spoke, I yanked the crucifix out of his hand, flipping it around and driving it into his neck.
“If these things repelled monsters, how the fuck would you be able to wear one?”
Realizing I was out of time, I removed the cross from his neck, replacing it quickly with my fangs.