The Dark Sacrament by David Kiely

committal to institutions and her own suicide attempts. She vowed to spend the rest of the night on the couch. She would keep calm, watch some television, drink tea—a lot of calming tea.
    At eight o’clock, she called in sick. She had to tell somebody about her frightening experience. She tried Joe’s sister, but could not reach her. She knew her friends would ridicule her. As a last resort, she called the person who had been closest of all to Nan Sal: her mother, Bernadette.
    â€œAh, you were only dreaming, daughter.” There was, as expected, a lack of concern in the voice. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
    â€œNo, I was not dreaming, Mommy. I was wide awake and she was standing right beside the bed.” Heather was annoyed at her mother’s unsympathetic tone. “She was wearing a blue gown of some sort andI saw that ring she always wore. You know the one—with the big garnet or whatever it was.”
    There was a prolonged silence at the other end of the line.
    â€œMommy, are you still there? Mom?”
    â€œI might as well be honest,” Bernadette said at last. “Your granny was buried in a blue nightgown, and the ring went with her, too.”
    â€œOh, my God, I’m going to die!” Heather cried. She broke into sobs. “I don’t want to die now. I never want to leave Joe. I’m so happy with Joe. What’ll Joe do?”
    She waited to hear some consoling words but knew in her heart that they would not be forthcoming. She dried her tears.
    â€œMommy, are you still there?”
    â€œDon’t be such a bloody idiot,” the mother said and hung up.
    It was the last straw. Heather’s nerves, raw after her sleepless night, got the better of her. She broke down, slumped to the floor, and wept uncontrollably.
    She had been here before. Twice. Heather felt the old fears returning, the ones that had driven her to the edge of despair on two occasions, that had been responsible for her choosing the ultimate escape route. Twice she had attempted to cut short her life; twice there had been somebody on hand to save her from herself. Now she was alone.
    She heard something. It was something Heather had not heard in two years, and she had hoped never to hear it again. But there it was.
    The voice—the man’s voice.
    It only ever spoke to her when she felt hopeless and despairing. In the past she would hear it sometimes inside her head, at other times outside. It was coming from somewhere down the hall.
    â€œ The blades are in the bathroom, Heather .” The words were delivered in a calm, authoritative tone. “ Go and do it now. You know it makes sense .”
    Heather looked down the hall, rigid with fright. There was no one to be seen. The voice came again, this time more rapid and urgent than before, beating out the words in a lilting meter.
    â€œ The blades are in the bathroom, Heather. Go and do it now. The blades are in the bathroom, Heather. Go and do it now ––”
    â€œNo!” she screamed, clamping her hands over her ears. But now the voice was inside her head and getting louder.
    â€œâ€¦ do it now, do it now. The blades are in the bathroom, Heather. Go and do it now. Now, now, now ––”
    â€œStop it, stop it, stop it!” she wailed, burying her face in her hands and curling up into herself.
    All at once, just as suddenly as it had started, the voice stopped. She lowered her hands, slowly, unsteadily. Was she safe now?
    â€œ You know it makes sense! ”
    She jumped. The voice was close, next her ear, whispering in her ear. “ You know it makes sense! ” There was a strong smell of nicotine. Heather screamed.
    Uncle Seth, her mother’s boyfriend, had always said that, and usually after having perpetrated some vile act on her. “Shut up!” he would say as she howled in pain. “Keep quiet about this, Heather. No one else is to hear about it. You know it makes