The Dark Church

           The Sistine Chapel towered above me in a blaze of color and shadow, Michelangelo’s masterpieces stretching across the ceiling like visions from another world.

            Luca Valente, Clavigero of the Vatican Museums, was away tending to his mother. His assistant, Angelina Saliviati, guided me on the tour before opening hours.

            Angelina had blond hair and blue eyes, and an unsettling calmness about her. Her silver crucifix shone in the light. She looked suited for expensive wine in Trastevere or running a boardroom. We made it to the altar wall.

            “And now, Mr. Covington, we come to our final work. Michelangelo’s ‘The Last Judgement,’” said Angelina. She had a strong Italian accent.

            The painting was exquisite. I rubbed my chin as I examined it.

            “This painting was Michelangelo’s final painting in the chapel,” said Angelina.

            “It was finished in 1541, correct?” I asked.

            “Yes, Mr. Covington, you know your art history,” smiled Angelina.

            “There have been rumors of a hidden church inside the Sistine Chapel; is there any truth to this rumor?” I asked.

            “We all enjoy a good horror story or conspiracy, such as The Omen saga or The Da Vinci Code,” smiled Angelina. “Especially when many are calling our new Secretary general of the United Nations the Antichrist. Be careful, Mr. Covington. You may, as you Americans say, stir up a hornet’s nest.”

            “Maybe, especially since he came to power after The Vanishings, some would call The Rapture,” I said.

            “I’m sure after two Pulitzer Prizes, that you will have an excellent article,” said Angelina.

            A young man in a suit called. Angelina looked toward him. Tourists entered the chapel.

            “This concludes our tour, Mr. Covington,” said Angelina.

            “Thank you for your time,” I said. We shook hands and left.

            I returned to my suite after a quiet breakfast at a quaint cafe.

            Everything seemed normal, but something was off. I went into the bedroom. The cleaning staff had been in here; they had made the bed. I went into the bathroom and saw the mirror. My mouth dropped and my heart raced. The message in lipstick was clear.

            SISTINE CHAPEL MIDNIGHT

            My journalistic instincts told me I hit a nerve by being there. Was there a hidden church inside the Sistine Chapel? The only person I asked was Angelina. Who was she? There were a few things that were certain. I was a journalist and a believer in Christ. The Vatican knew something about Dante Medici, the Secretary-General of the United Nations.

                                                         ***

            The lights made the Sistine Chapel glow in the dark. I approached the pillars, looking to see if anyone was watching. Anyone who could sneak into my suite and write a message was dangerous and got my attention.

            “Mr. Covington,” said a voice. A woman in a black hoodie and leggings appeared from behind one pillar.

            She entered the light.

            It was Angelina.

            “Follow me,” she said as she looked around.

            We went to the far corner of the building. Angelina put her hand on a certain brick in the wall and pushed.

            A secret entrance into one of Catholicism’s holy places? Angelina lit a torch. She led me down a spiral staircase. There was a door at the end of the stairs. Angelina took off the lock and opened it.

            A chill shot up my spine.

            The altar stood at the far end of the sanctuary. The statue of Baphomet stood on the altar. Its horns curled toward the ceiling. An upside-down cross of cracked black wood hung behind it. Candles lit the scene and created shifting shadows. Old chalices and scattered animal bones covered the stone surface, as though the room itself remembered every ritual performed there.

            Angelina pulled a folder from underneath her hoodie.

            “What’s this?” I asked.

            “Look through it,” said Angelina.

             I thumbed through it.

            Dante Medici’s birth certificate.

            There was more. DNA evidence linking him to…Valentino Orsini??? Pope Pius XIII???

            “Pius is Dante Medici’s father,” said Angelina. “As you know, Pius became the Holy Father at twenty-five years old, soon after becoming the Cardinal of Torino. They brought Isabella Medici here to conceive him at this very altar.”

             “Wait, Pius brought Isabella Medici here? Impregnated her here? How in the world did you get this information?”

              Angelina smiled, then laughed.

              A bright light illuminated her body and shone.

              Angelina was an angel.

              Every ounce of my being felt as though I was going to die. My body trembled at the sight of her. She was beautiful, but holy. I dropped to my knees and started praying.

             “Christopher ‘Cody’ Covington,” said Angelina. “The Most High God, and your Lord Jesus Christ commands your service. Many of His righteous servants died and risked their lives for this information. You will write every truth of this information.”

             “The Lord chose me for this? I…”

             “The Lord chose you out of his providence,” said Angelina. “Don’t be afraid; He will be with you on this quest. He promised in the Scriptures, ‘I the Lord will be with you, wherever thou goest.’”

             She waved a hand.

             It was the next morning. Adrenaline shot through my veins. I looked around. Safe inside my suite. I slowed my breathing and calmed down.

             “Wow,” I said, “cool dream. Kinda like Burning Man in college.”

             There it was, lying on top of my laptop on the desk.

             The folder.

             That same folder that Angelina gave me in my dream. I jumped out of bed, dashed to the desk, and opened it up. There it was.

             Dante Medici’s birth certificate.

             DNA evidence proving Pope Pius XIII was Medici’s father.

             I started writing the article. It only took me a few hours to finish. I edited it and made all the possible corrections. I sent it to my editor at the American Ledger. His response:

            “My, oh my.”

Feedback and critique would be appreciated! I am a beginner writer and I am glad there’s more experienced writers out there! 🙂

Amelia Capellan || Team Otter || The Dire Clang

I push my legs to keep sprinting through the burning pain. Although my thighs are crying for rest, my mind is only focuses on one thing: Run. My pursuers’ heavy gear clanging almost drowns out my feet pounding the ground as I bolt through never ending fog. 

My senses can’t feel anything that matters except the shooting sensation and the scratching sticks I am trying to ignore … until I feel a warm hand grab mine. For a split second, I am distracted by the young handsome brunette beside me, but the determined-yet-terrified smile and the small tug he gives me focus me back on the goal. 

“Alia,” Carson pants. “Let’s … go … there.” 

I look to where he is pointing with his free left hand, barely making out a small beat up wooden shack in the distance.

“Okay,” I reply, just as breathless. “On the count of three … sprint.” 

We look at each other for two seconds, then Carson breaks the silence.

“Three.” 

We take off, and I run faster than I ever have, adrenaline pumping through my veins, Carson’s skinny arm yanking me forward … and then we make it. 

“I’m alive,” I whisper, standing at the door. 

“Not for long!” Carson rushes to open the door and gives me one last tug, both of us collapsing on the ground.

“That … was … crazy.” I tell him. 

“It … definitely … was,” Carson replies. Even though we just had (and kind of are in) a near death experience, we can’t hold back our proud smiles. 

We scan the room we’re in. It’s bigger than it looked from the outside, with benches set up in nice rows and a pulpit in the center. 

“Are we in … a church?” I ask.

“More like an abandoned church,” Carson says. “Or an abandoned hidden church.” 

He’s not wrong. The floor and benches look a bit dusty, and we are in the middle of the woods.

“Is there somewhere to hide in here?” I start to look around more closely, but there’s just benches, benches … and more benches. “You know, just in case those men find this place.”

“We could hide …” Carson trails off. “Would it be too obvious to make a little ‘fort’ with them?” he says, putting up air quotes. “I mean, we don’t really have another option.

Sadly, he’s right, and we get right to work maneuvering a few dusty seats into a cube shape. Carson gets the idea of stacking a few of them beside our creation to make it look more discrete, and just as we’re placing the last bench on the stack, we hear a loud banging on the door.

We leap into the fort.

“But it’s not finished,” I hiss. There’s a gap where two more benches should’ve been a little too close to the front. 

“Shh,” he tells me, putting his finger to his lips. He points to the door in a manner I take to mean, “they’ll hear us.”

We scoot as far away from the hole as we can, scooting close and crouching down. My heart is racing so fast, I am sure Carson can hear it this close to me. 

We hear banging again.

“If you kids don’t open the door in the next three seconds, we’re just gonna have to come in ourselves,” I hear a man’s drawl.

Panic fills both Carson and I’s faces. But we stay put.

“One,” the voice drags. 

I squeeze his hand.

“Two,” the man continues.

I shut my eyes to relieve myself from reality. This isn’t happening.

“Three.” 

Carson and I shoot each other one last terrified look, our hands crushing each other’s fingers. 

“In case we don’t make it out,” Carson says. He leans in … and plants the softest kiss on my cheek. Just like Carson to be so respectful. I feel a slight blush pass over my cheeks as we look each other in the eyes. Eyes full of fear and happiness and a hint of bravery.

“Thank you,” I whisper. That’s the best memory I could die with.

We grip our hands tight, as we hear the door creak open, and the clanging of the gear echo through the room.

Lost and Found

Irene woke up to rain pelting her tent. “What made me think that I could do a three-day backpacking trip at the age of fifty?” She muttered.

She sighed not wanting to face a wet breakfast. She wondered if anyone else was up yet. No scent of fresh brewed coffee. No voices. Only the sound of rain and wind. What if they left her?  A vibration ran up her spine, and she slowly opened a crack in the tent zipper. 

The clearing was empty. No people. No tents. She was alone! She hugged her knees to her chest as the emptiness pressed in. She felt a surge of panicked breaths. 

Joanna’s voice echoed through the fog of panic. “Box Breathing, Irene.”  Her therapist said, putting a hand over Irene’s. “Breathe in for four counts, hold for four and release for four and repeat.”

The simple ritual slowed her heart and steadied her breathing. Irene struggled into her jacket, and crawled out of the tent. Nothing around her looked familiar. The trees encircling the clearing were smaller, less dense than they seemed last night. The ground was less worn, grass and wildflowers surrounded her tent instead of bare ground. Behind her was a small stone chapel. Ivy covered walls seemed to grow out of the rock behind it.  It had  not been there last night when they set up. 

Irene was wet and hungry, and despite her fear she grabbed her pack and shoes from the tent and ran to the shelter of the little church. 

The wooden door opened more easily than she expected, and she stumbled through the door. The damp, musty smell of the old building assaulted her nose.  When her eyes adjusted to the light seeping through the narrow stained glass windows she noticed the church was devoid of pews.  There was a cross and altar at the far side of the building. She jumped as the door slammed behind her. 

At least she was out of the rain now. She was still dripping wet, but the lack of wind kept her from feeling too cold. She set her backpack and shoes down by the door, and slid down the wall next to them. There was no logical explanation for what she was experiencing. Nothing in her fifty years had prepared her for this. 

Alone. It was all she could think. She had avoided being alone with her thoughts too much for the past three years.  It led to places she did not want to go. 

Her senses were flooded with the sterile look and smell of the emergency room. Her hand in Jason’s as they sat in the small room waiting. She had no more tears to cry.  “It's not fair…” She started looking up at Jason. His eyes looked haunted. She could not finish her thought, too worried it would cause him more pain.  The baby was gone. 

Fifteen years seemed like a lifetime ago. The last time she had seen her husband smile was the day before that nightmare in the ER. They had stayed together. That was more than most couples who lose a baby do, but it had been a rough twelve years. She let the tears fall. She allowed herself to feel. 

Another ER visit, this time she was alone. Jason’s pain had won. Twelve years he had tried to push back, beat it down, but he got tired. She had tried to help. They had tried doctors, medication, hospitals, and faith, but in the end it did not make a difference. Numbness enveloped her. 

The last three years she spent ignoring the emptiness. She did have moments of joy mixed in, but they always made her feel guilty. Should she be happy, sad or angry? 

“You were given emotions for a reason, my child.” A voice echoed through the empty room answering her unspoken thoughts

Irene jumped up and nearly fell over her backpack at the sound.  Tears blurred her vision, but there was no mistaking the outline of a man standing in front of the altar. 

“Where did you come from?”

“Irene, wipe your tears. Look at Me. See Me.”

She did, and was brought to her knees by the brilliant light that surrounded the man. 

 She felt a hand on her shoulder and she looked up. He was stooped down beside her, tears in his eyes.  He took her hand and led her to the front of the church where two chairs had appeared. 

“Where have you been?” Irene asked once she got her voice back. “I suffered so much. Lost so much. I felt abandoned.”

She saw his tears and she felt a pang of guilt at the accusation. 

“Irene, I was with the nurse who held your hand when you had to leave the hospital without your son.  I was with the friends who brought you meals after you lost Jason.”

”Why couldn’t I see you or hear you?”

”Did you slow down enough to Listen? To See?”

Irene knew she hadn’t. She had filled her life with busyness. Burying the feelings. Not wanting to burden others. 

“Irene, by doing it on your own you deprived those around you of their opportunity to be my hands and feet. Do not be afraid to be in a place of receiving.”

He  hugged Irene, giving her a kiss on the top of her head. She sobbed. Her body heaved and she allowed herself to lean into her Lord and grieve.  

They stayed like that for what seemed like hours, and Irene felt drained. 

“Sleep child. I will give you my peace.”

She awoke to  voices. She grabbed her pack and headed out the door.  The sun was shining bright and the clearing looked like it had the day before. She turned to look back at the small church, but all she saw was a rock wall, and a small wooden cross.

”Irene!” The guide said. “Thank goodness. We thought we had lost you.”

Irene smiled, “I was found.”

Praying For Mr. Jason

Justin looked over his shoulder for the seventh time. Still clear. Good. He took a left turn into an alley as the rain drops began to fall harder. He did his best to avoid the waterfilled potholes but the whole alley was practically a stream with fast food wrapper boats floating down it. At this point, he would just have to resign himself to soggy shoes...and socks.

On his left was a staircase that descended to a below ground door. No signage. Just a forbidding looking bouncer leaning against a door set in the red brick wall. Justin walked to the stairway and descended.

"Shamiq." He said.

"Justin." The man replied and opened the door.

Justin walked into a wall of sound, darkness, and strobing without looking back at the closing door. The smell of smoke, alcohol, and sweaty bodies permeated every corner and penetrated to the very depths of his nasal cavity. To Justin, the smell, the sound, and even the broken humanity that surrounded him meant one thing, safety.

He wove his way through the packed tables to the bar in the back, with an occasional pause to greet some patrons he knew. When he reached the bar, the tender asked in a deep gravelly voice,

"What are you havin'?"

"Could I get five crackers and two sardines please?"

"Nothing to drink?"

"Do you got any new wine?" Justin replied.

The man grinned slightly,

"Coming right up," he nodded his head to the plain wooden door that stood to the right of the bar, "but wash your hands before you eat."

"Thank you." Justin said before walking to the door and opening it. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. He looked to his left where another bouncer sat in a shadowed alcove with a shotgun on his lap and a beer in his hand.

"Ernesto." Justin said nodding to him.

"Justin." The man replied lifting his beer in salute.

Justin followed the stone lined hall of what had once been a medieval church basement which some budget devoid contractor 60 years prior decided to just build on top of rather than excavate and replace. After a series of twists and turns, Justin came to another door. He knocked seven times and waited. After a minute, a sliding shutter was removed and a feminine voice asked,

"Who's there?"

"It is Justin. I have come to break bread."

"Justin! One moment." The shutter closed and the sound of a heavy bar could be heard sliding out of the way. Then the heavy wooden door slid open on oiled hinges revealing a pretty girl in a simple dress.

"Welcome Justin."

"Thank you Ruby." Justin said as she closed the door back and slid the bar back into place. He turned to walk into the chapel when Ruby's voice made him pause.

"Just so you know. Mr. Jason is here tonight."

Justin smiled as he turned back to say,

"Wonderful. Did he bring his family?"

"Not this time. It's just him and two bodyguards."

"Well that's still good news. Maybe tonight will be the night."

"I'm praying that it is."

Justin nodded and turned to enter the chapel.

The chapel was illuminated with warm lights and the frescoes on the walls and ceiling seemed to dance with the flicker or many candles.

In the chapel were tables covered in food. All the chairs were on one side and faced the front, allowing servers to serve each table and the teacher who stood on a slightly raised platform at the front of the chapel to be seen.

Justin walked over to the table where Mr. Jason was sitting.

"Welcome Mr. Jason. We are honored to have you here." He said.

"Yes you are." The man said quietly, then laughed, "You are always so kind and hospitable."

"You do own this place sir." Justin said with a smile.

"True." The man said nodding, "But you take care of it for me. You are the best tenants a man could ask for."

"How is your family?"

"They wanted to come, but the youngest two and my wife caught cold so the older children are taking care of them."

"We will make sure you leave with abundant supplies for their comfort and recovery as well as our prayers for the restoration of their health."

"I would expect nothing less."

Justin walked to the front of the chapel and stepped onto the dais.

"The Lord bless you brothers, sisters, and guests. Thank you for gathering today to break bread together, to pray, and to learn more about the God we love. Please join and agree with me in supplication to the Lord as I ask Him to restore the health of Mr. Jason's wife and children."

To be continued...

THE PARTY

My cousin elbowed me in the ribs. “Hey,” she hissed,  I can’t see!”

“Well neither can I!” I hissed back. I pushed myself up close against my older brother, “C’mon–move over,” I insisted.

Jordan shushed us both but made room. I stepped up onto the rocky ledge sticking out from the base of the wall and stretched myself as tall as I could to peek inside the window. Myrtle copied me. We were just tall enough if we stood on tiptoes. Jordan was taller than both of us and didn’t need the ledge in order to peek inside. The rough stones from the wall poked at my belly and scratched my knees.

“What are they doing?” I whispered. 

Jordan shushed me again, quietly. 

Ignoring him, I remarked, “They’re all dressed up really fancy.” 

Pulling myself up by my fingers along the stony windowsill, I could see a little further inside. Just one room. It was tiny. There were funny benches with curved backs and people were standing between them, like they were lined up at school, and at one end a man stood behind a table. There were candles on the table, and a single place setting. 

Looking over at Jordan I asked, “Do you think they’re having a party?”

Myrtle’s breath brushed across our knuckles as she whispered back, “I think so. They’re singing.” 

“Shush, you two!” Jordan pleaded. “You wanna get caught?”

The voices echoed on the other side of the glass. It sounded happy. Myrtle tucked her face next to my ear and whispered so that Jordan couldn’t hear, “Maybe it’s a birthday party.” She turned back to examine the singers.

That made sense. There was singing. They had candles. Everyone was dressed up really nice. And now the guy at the table was holding up a cake.

Then I noticed something. I turned and whispered back into Myrtle’s ear beneath her brown curls, “They’re all really old."

Myrtle didn’t look away as she explained quietly, “Old people have birthdays too.”

Mosquitos were nipping my legs. I forced myself to ignore them. If I tried to swat them I’d probably fall. Not that we were up high. The bottom ledge was only one big step up from the ground. But if I fell away I’d lose my place.

The singing inside stopped. The man at the table began to speak. Suddenly the people answered him together. It was loud. That startled me. And Myrtle. One of us leaned too far back and the other got knocked and next thing you know we fell off. 

We landed on our bottoms in the long grass. Jordan hadn’t moved. He kept his face tucked along the corner edge of the window–his nose and cheeks reflecting the light from inside. I looked up–I could see at least five stars. The moon was shining brightly overhead. We needed to get back. And it was a long walk. Not that I was scared of the dark–I wasn’t, not a bit. But Nana didn’t like it when we got back late. Aunt Emma didn’t care–she knew we were strong and courageous–that’s what she told us. But Nana was strict. And when we stayed with Nana it was, “My house, my rules,” she said. And Nana’s rules meant we had to be back by dark.

I yanked on my brother’s shorts, “Jordan!” He looked down at me and Myrtle, then out at the woods around the clearing, filling up with shadows. He jumped down next to us, silent as a cat. “Shoot!” he exclaimed. Reaching out both hands he pulled me and Myrtle to our feet beside him. “We gotta go,” he insisted. “C’mon, hurry.” He started jogging back through the gravestones. 

We started down the same trail we’d followed this afternoon. It was narrow but certain, winding through trees and bushes from Nana’s lake house right up to this little meadow. It hadn’t seemed far during the daytime. But now, in the twilight, it seemed a lot longer ahead of us. I stood straighter and puffed out my chest. That helped me feel braver. Aunt Emma said there wasn’t anything dangerous up here, not anymore, maybe just a black bear, but so long as we didn’t bother them, or any cubs, they wouldn't bother us. Uncle Richard said he’d seen a wolf here when he was a boy. He figured they were still here, just hiding. He said they only ate naughty kids.

I was glad we had the moon above us. It gave us lots of light between the shadowy patches. There were more stars. Not really full dark though, so there was hope we wouldn’t get in trouble. At least, not much.

Jordan led the way. He wasn’t scared–never was, he said. Myrtle and I walked side-by-side, trying to keep up with his long strides. No longer afraid of being caught, Myrtle piped up, “Why do they go all the way up there to have a birthday party? And it’s such a little house–who lives there do you think?”

“It must be the person who takes care of the graveyard,” I reasoned. “There were a lot of graves. It would be a lot of weeding.”

Myrtle didn’t seem so sure. “Why would you have a party in a graveyard house?” she asked.

Jordan snorted softly and answered without looking back, “It’s not a graveyard house, silly.” 

“What is it?” I asked. 

No answer. Jordan began to walk faster. “Keep up,” he said. 

We trotted as fast as we could in the dusk. I kept thinking about the singing, about the happiness inside that room. “Let’s go back tomorrow!” I decided. “I liked it.” Secretly I hoped they might invite us inside next time.

“Me too,” Myrtle agreed.

“Go ahead and go,” Jordan said, still charging ahead, “But they won’t be there tomorrow.”

“Why not?” she countered.

“I wanna go,” I pleaded.

Jordan explained in his big brother voice, “They won’t be back for another week. And we’re going home before then.”