All the Lonely People

Father Mackenzie wiped the dirt from his hands. Bad dirt. Not dirt alone, but dirt and sweat and blood and sin. His hands were steady as they unlocked the back door to the church, steady as they took a mop from the broom closet, steady as they cleansed the blood of the woman from the floor.

The Old North Church attracted a lot of tourists. She had been one, a short woman in her sixties with practical short hair. She had welcomed the idea of a private tour with the friendly Father, who had seen her admiring the architecture and started chatting her up. She hadn’t known him, nor he her. He had chosen her precisely for this reason. He couldn’t have known the story behind the person he killed, for that would have made it impossible—more impossible than it already was. Indeed, it was catching up to him now. As the last drops of blood were cleansed from the floor, the steady hands wavered, the mop fell, and so did the man. Father Mackenzie dropped to his knees, and began to cry. Scared sobs intermingled with prayer echoed through the empty church basement.

He knew that this would ruin him. He couldn’t preach in good conscience, knowing the weakness he had succumbed to. Now that the creature was gone, it was hard for him to remember the voice of deadly calm, the gruesome features, and the orders that had brought him to this. He had tried to resist, but the orders had been carried out. The woman—at least, most of her—was lying deep within the soil of another soul’s grave. After all, would the authorities look for a body in a graveyard? But the other part of her—the part he had been instructed to keep and deliver—was stored in a large jar of formaldehyde in his trunk. He didn’t know when the beast would come back, when he would be ordered to make the macabre delivery. Until it did, the Father would stay here, in the vanished blood of his victim, awaiting the return of his devil.

Eleanor was knitting a scarf. She liked to think that she was making it for somebody, though she had no one to give it to. It was lovely yarn, soft and purple, gentle to her dry winter skin as she knitted tight little stitches. It would have been an error-free project, if the doorbell hadn’t startled her. “Fudge,” she muttered, slipping a stitch. Reluctantly leaving her cozy spot on the sofa, she shuffled to the door and peered out the peephole. No one was there. Stupid kids. She decided to take advantage of this disruption and check the mail. She opened the door and nearly stepped on the small parcel that had been placed in front of it. She examined it perplexedly. It was wrapped in brown paper and string, with a small white envelope taped to the bottom. In the envelope was a note, containing only two words: “I’m sorry.” Completely confused, she untied the string and ripped open the paper. She was greeted by the face of her sister, carefully skinned and floating in formaldehyde.