people dipping their fingers in and making the sign of
the cross without any show of distress. They were all normal, she told herself;
there was nothing wrong with the water. The only thing wrong was her. All the
others were safe in a place of worship, loved by God and embraced by the
church. She could not say the same for herself; she was not loved, not wanted,
not saved. She could not even pray, and she knew that if she could, her prayers
would not be heard.
Falling
into step beside Marie, she walked down the center aisle until they found a
spot in one of the middle pews. Giving Marie a nervous smile, she stood aside
so Marie could scoot in first. Then Elise took the aisle seat. It wouldn’t make
the whirlwind of thoughts, memories and fears dissipate, but being on the aisle
made her feel slightly less claustrophobic. As they knelt side by side on the
riser, supposedly in a moment of silent prayer, Marie leaned over and
whispered, “Are you okay?”
Elise
nodded quickly and turned her head slightly toward Marie. She hoped there was
nothing odd about her demeanor, nothing that would remind Marie of the promise
to seek help if her condition worsened. It had worsened, she knew, but telling a doctor or anyone else about what had happened
or about her bizarre thoughts only made her feel more terrified.
She
forced herself to go through the motions once the service started—kneeling,
sitting and standing when everyone else knelt, sat and stood; singing when they
sang; repeating the refrains along with the congregation when she could
remember them. But she found it hard to concentrate as hazy memories began to plague
her. Now she could vaguely remember dancing with the man Marie had described to
her, kissing him on the staircase and feeling him on top of her in the
unfamiliar bedroom. The memory brought with it a sudden feeling of arousal, and
she felt her skin flush even as goose bumps broke out on her forearms.
She
closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was not the time or place for such
indecent thoughts, she told herself. She clenched her jaw as she opened her
eyes and forced herself to stare at the crucifix behind the altar and Father
Joe, but the thin and tortured figure of Christ only made her feel worse.
A
few minutes later, Father Joe began leading the congregation in singing “A
Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Elise stood up beside Marie and tried to remember
the words, but she could recall only a little of the song and simply moved her
mouth, hoping to appear as though she was singing with everyone else. Halfway
through the song, though, she saw a large brown rat scurry across the altar
right behind Father Joe. Shocked, she gripped the pew in front of her to steady
herself. Without thinking, she half raised her other hand to point, but saw
that no one else in the chapel seemed to have noticed.
They didn’t see it , she thought. Trying
not to look nervous, she glanced at Marie, who smiled back, but a bit
questioningly. Elise shook her head and returned the smile before she looked
away again. Marie had not seen it; no one had. It had been real, though. She
was certain. Then where did it go? she asked herself. A rat in church could no more disappear than it could
magically appear in the first place, she knew. And in realizing this, she also
knew that she had imagined the creature.
Just tired , she thought, trying to
reassure herself. Just tired.
“Not
tired.” The words came to her as a harsh whisper from somewhere behind her,
strangely part of the song and yet distinct from it—words meant for her
ears alone. Again, goose bumps raised themselves up and down her arms, and a
chill ran up her neck. It made her shudder. She would have raised a hand to
wipe the tears from her eyes, but she held so tightly to the pew before her
that she feared she might fall over if she let go.
Something
was behind her. She knew it. It was something inhuman and unholy. A fleeting
image from her nightmares came to her—a
the cross without any show of distress. They were all normal, she told herself;
there was nothing wrong with the water. The only thing wrong was her. All the
others were safe in a place of worship, loved by God and embraced by the
church. She could not say the same for herself; she was not loved, not wanted,
not saved. She could not even pray, and she knew that if she could, her prayers
would not be heard.
Falling
into step beside Marie, she walked down the center aisle until they found a
spot in one of the middle pews. Giving Marie a nervous smile, she stood aside
so Marie could scoot in first. Then Elise took the aisle seat. It wouldn’t make
the whirlwind of thoughts, memories and fears dissipate, but being on the aisle
made her feel slightly less claustrophobic. As they knelt side by side on the
riser, supposedly in a moment of silent prayer, Marie leaned over and
whispered, “Are you okay?”
Elise
nodded quickly and turned her head slightly toward Marie. She hoped there was
nothing odd about her demeanor, nothing that would remind Marie of the promise
to seek help if her condition worsened. It had worsened, she knew, but telling a doctor or anyone else about what had happened
or about her bizarre thoughts only made her feel more terrified.
She
forced herself to go through the motions once the service started—kneeling,
sitting and standing when everyone else knelt, sat and stood; singing when they
sang; repeating the refrains along with the congregation when she could
remember them. But she found it hard to concentrate as hazy memories began to plague
her. Now she could vaguely remember dancing with the man Marie had described to
her, kissing him on the staircase and feeling him on top of her in the
unfamiliar bedroom. The memory brought with it a sudden feeling of arousal, and
she felt her skin flush even as goose bumps broke out on her forearms.
She
closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was not the time or place for such
indecent thoughts, she told herself. She clenched her jaw as she opened her
eyes and forced herself to stare at the crucifix behind the altar and Father
Joe, but the thin and tortured figure of Christ only made her feel worse.
A
few minutes later, Father Joe began leading the congregation in singing “A
Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Elise stood up beside Marie and tried to remember
the words, but she could recall only a little of the song and simply moved her
mouth, hoping to appear as though she was singing with everyone else. Halfway
through the song, though, she saw a large brown rat scurry across the altar
right behind Father Joe. Shocked, she gripped the pew in front of her to steady
herself. Without thinking, she half raised her other hand to point, but saw
that no one else in the chapel seemed to have noticed.
They didn’t see it , she thought. Trying
not to look nervous, she glanced at Marie, who smiled back, but a bit
questioningly. Elise shook her head and returned the smile before she looked
away again. Marie had not seen it; no one had. It had been real, though. She
was certain. Then where did it go? she asked herself. A rat in church could no more disappear than it could
magically appear in the first place, she knew. And in realizing this, she also
knew that she had imagined the creature.
Just tired , she thought, trying to
reassure herself. Just tired.
“Not
tired.” The words came to her as a harsh whisper from somewhere behind her,
strangely part of the song and yet distinct from it—words meant for her
ears alone. Again, goose bumps raised themselves up and down her arms, and a
chill ran up her neck. It made her shudder. She would have raised a hand to
wipe the tears from her eyes, but she held so tightly to the pew before her
that she feared she might fall over if she let go.
Something
was behind her. She knew it. It was something inhuman and unholy. A fleeting
image from her nightmares came to her—a
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