Having excused the guests from his house after the book club, Mr. Brice felt unsatisfied. His rectory was filled with dust, dirt, and grime. As a priest, he felt it was his duty to clean everything. He had yet to reorganize the church where he preached, and he barely had enough time after mass to do so. He was so used to listening to other people’s stories, other people’s tragedies, that he forgot about his own life.
Mr. Brice pulled a small cross off the wall, gripping its lignum vitae wood. He wiped it down with a cloth and hung it back up. Then he turned his attention to a painting hanging on the wall. It was an old painting, and he could see it beginning to crack and peel. It was also the biggest painting in his home, spanning almost the entire wall. He hoisted it off the wall, setting it down gently and laying it flat.
The painting had come with the rectory. He had never seen what was behind it until now. A small door sat in the wall, jutting out like a sore thumb. The priest turned the brass doorknob and opened the door. He stepped through, one foot at a time, into the darkness. Something gave him the impression that this part of the house wasn’t sketched into the blueprints. A lump began to grow in his throat as he realized that he wasn’t alone; he was standing at the top of a staircase next to a dark, silhouetted shape.
The creature beside him descended the stairs. The priest could hear the faint churning of his dishwasher and the humming of electricity through the walls, as silence started to close in on him. Then he began to hear the creature breathe and roll its jaws back and forth. The priest could see that it was a black sheep, standing on the steps to his newfound basement. The priest quietly followed the sheep down the stairs, and peeked around the corner. There, a man was sitting at a computer monitor, staring into the static.
The priest stepped out into the light and gasped. “What are you doing in my home?” he demanded.
The man turned around, squinting his wrinkled face. He had no look of surprise.
“I have decided to compel you,” said the man.
The priest was confused. He had never seen this man before. The priest stared at the ground. “How long have you been here?” he asked.
“There’s no telling,” the man said. “I have been placed here by a higher power.”
“Get out!”
“No. I can’t leave. I am simply a vision.”
A silence filled the room.
“How do you and your sheep eat?” asked the priest.
“She gets her food . . . well . . . there is no telling how she gets her food,” he said, pointing at the rows of mouse holes. “She is no amateur hunter.”
The priest began muttering prayers.
“Come, come,” said the man. “Let me show you downstairs, where I keep all my radioscopic toys and porphyrin.” He cackled and stroked his wrinkled face.
The priest hadn’t noticed the pentagram on the floor until now. Suddenly, he saw the room for what it really was. The sheep stood at the bottom of the staircase, staring at him with dormant eyes, staring into his soul. The sheep was pounding at the gates of his sanity, begging to be let in.
“How did you get in my home? Stay away from me, Lucifer!” the priest shrieked. His head spun with wild thoughts. He hadn’t been trained to do exorcisms. The sheep began stomping its feet into the floor, the sound echoing throughout the concrete floors and ceiling. The priest tore up the stairs and into his home.
He slammed the little door shut and pushed the painting back over it. He called the police. He paced around the house, listening for sounds in the walls.
The police came, and they tried their best to understand the priest’s story. But when the priest removed the painting, there was no door. Only a solid wall.
“I swear it was here,” he said. “I swear to God.”
The police eyed him suspiciously. The priest searched frantically for the door in the wall, but there was no such door.
One officer tried to soothe the priest with a calming voice. The other officer was on the phone. Then more people came. They came in white suits, and took Mr. Brice away.
They put him in a padded room. Mr Brice lay on the floor of that room, listening to the pounding on the door to his sanity. The door was getting weaker, and soon Mr. Brice would be gone forever.
Mr. Brice pulled a small cross off the wall, gripping its lignum vitae wood. He wiped it down with a cloth and hung it back up. Then he turned his attention to a painting hanging on the wall. It was an old painting, and he could see it beginning to crack and peel. It was also the biggest painting in his home, spanning almost the entire wall. He hoisted it off the wall, setting it down gently and laying it flat.
The painting had come with the rectory. He had never seen what was behind it until now. A small door sat in the wall, jutting out like a sore thumb. The priest turned the brass doorknob and opened the door. He stepped through, one foot at a time, into the darkness. Something gave him the impression that this part of the house wasn’t sketched into the blueprints. A lump began to grow in his throat as he realized that he wasn’t alone; he was standing at the top of a staircase next to a dark, silhouetted shape.
The creature beside him descended the stairs. The priest could hear the faint churning of his dishwasher and the humming of electricity through the walls, as silence started to close in on him. Then he began to hear the creature breathe and roll its jaws back and forth. The priest could see that it was a black sheep, standing on the steps to his newfound basement. The priest quietly followed the sheep down the stairs, and peeked around the corner. There, a man was sitting at a computer monitor, staring into the static.
The priest stepped out into the light and gasped. “What are you doing in my home?” he demanded.
The man turned around, squinting his wrinkled face. He had no look of surprise.
“I have decided to compel you,” said the man.
The priest was confused. He had never seen this man before. The priest stared at the ground. “How long have you been here?” he asked.
“There’s no telling,” the man said. “I have been placed here by a higher power.”
“Get out!”
“No. I can’t leave. I am simply a vision.”
A silence filled the room.
“How do you and your sheep eat?” asked the priest.
“She gets her food . . . well . . . there is no telling how she gets her food,” he said, pointing at the rows of mouse holes. “She is no amateur hunter.”
The priest began muttering prayers.
“Come, come,” said the man. “Let me show you downstairs, where I keep all my radioscopic toys and porphyrin.” He cackled and stroked his wrinkled face.
The priest hadn’t noticed the pentagram on the floor until now. Suddenly, he saw the room for what it really was. The sheep stood at the bottom of the staircase, staring at him with dormant eyes, staring into his soul. The sheep was pounding at the gates of his sanity, begging to be let in.
“How did you get in my home? Stay away from me, Lucifer!” the priest shrieked. His head spun with wild thoughts. He hadn’t been trained to do exorcisms. The sheep began stomping its feet into the floor, the sound echoing throughout the concrete floors and ceiling. The priest tore up the stairs and into his home.
He slammed the little door shut and pushed the painting back over it. He called the police. He paced around the house, listening for sounds in the walls.
The police came, and they tried their best to understand the priest’s story. But when the priest removed the painting, there was no door. Only a solid wall.
“I swear it was here,” he said. “I swear to God.”
The police eyed him suspiciously. The priest searched frantically for the door in the wall, but there was no such door.
One officer tried to soothe the priest with a calming voice. The other officer was on the phone. Then more people came. They came in white suits, and took Mr. Brice away.
They put him in a padded room. Mr Brice lay on the floor of that room, listening to the pounding on the door to his sanity. The door was getting weaker, and soon Mr. Brice would be gone forever.