Black Mass

I found that the priesthood was the best way to serve the Lord. The pay is poor and the word can be dull, but my motive was service.

My works were duly recognised. First an altar boy, then a deacon. After the subsequent study, during which I learnt surprisingly little about the Lord, it was done. I was ordained. I recall the pleasure, the sense of fulfillment. But my service had only just begun.

I met many fine people, all of whom toiled to bring about the Father’s will. I made my oaths and did my time; I served in the church as a priest, leading many masses in many masses. I delivered the Word and taught it to them; I really enjoyed homilies. I made sure to preach that with which I agreed - messages of love and compassion. And all the while, I awaited a sign from the Lord to do more. To serve him in a greater way, that I might help to carry out his Tradition. The very image of patience, I waited.

He finally spoke one liturgy as I was delivering the Eucharist. They came as they always did in succession, arms extended, palm in palm, awaiting the body of their Saviour. I heard their words, laid Christ in their palms, and I watched them place him in their mouths.

Now, I am no fool. I was educated; a degree in theology, thank you very much. I knew that I was to satisfy myself to a certainty that the child of God to whom I had handed a piece of his Father’s body placed that piece in his mouth and swallowed it. Why? you may ask.

It is the dreaded Satanist, you see! He infiltrates the church, exploiting its hospitality, presenting as one of the congregation. Then, during the blessed miracle of transubstantiation, he thinks himself clever. Oh, yes he does! He thinks himself undetectable; if only he incants the right words and sings the right songs, he can collect his prize and shrink away to the side without consuming it. And I will not take notice? Fool! The priest is ever aware of the dangers present, ever wary of those that seek to undermine the Almighty Father. Wicked fools.

You see, the Satanist - seeking his master’s instruction - seeks to steal the Host in its precious, holy form, and defile it, desecrating the Eucharist in an ancient ritual that he believes summons the Fallen One. It is called the Black Mass. And the fool believes an ordained Catholic priest ignorant of this threat. He fancies me oblivious as he accepts the body of Christ and smuggles it away like a schoolchild with a toy.

But I saw her face - the woman - and can still see it now. Deception, which I had long ago learned to recognise, was in her eyes. Untrained, unpracticed, she thought herself invisible. But, like all Satanists, malice gushed out of her like a waterfall. As soon as she stepped sideward I was alert. She hadn’t put the Host in her mouth, I was sure - for I had not seen it, and there is no reason to conceal oneself for the act. Silly woman. She and the rest of them offend the Lord.

‘My dear boy,’ I said to my assistant. ‘I am feeling unwell. Deliver the Host from here.’ The boy was not taught to question.

Much like my prey, I trailed off to the side, drawing the glance from some of the congregation. I nodded and blessed them away, keeping an eye of God on the woman as she disappeared behind the old, mahogany doors. We were alone in the courtyard when I caught up to her.

‘Dear child.’

She turned and winced at the sight of me. Of course, she tried to hide it, but a priest sees these things.

‘Father. Is there anything I can do for you?’

She looked then unflinchingly into my eyes. The Host was in her pocket, I could feel it. She must have known that running would foreclose any future thievery. And she was willing to gamble on my fear of wrongly accosting her. I couldn’t simply ask her to turn out her pockets. Tomorrow’s paper would be headlined Local Priest Accuses Devout Christian of Satanist Activity. I would be ruined and unable to serve any longer. I needed my position to serve. I needed to play her game. So, I thought quickly.

‘It’s only that I’ve led this mass for more than a year now, my child, and I’m afraid I’ve never caught your name. I do love to meet the flock.’

She stared into my heart, cornered. Did she know? No, she did not - for she was prideful. He always was, the Satanist. And he would always announce his Fallen name.

‘Eve,’ she replied. She of the Original Sin. I repressed a scoff.

‘And you’re from?’

‘Los Angeles.’

Of course.

‘Well, my dear. I appreciate your determination to have travelled so far to be with us this morning. But I wish that you would stay for the announcements next time.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Father. Next time I’ll make sure to stay until the end.’

‘Thank you, my dear. God be with you.’

She wouldn’t believe anything of the sort, of course. She would not suspect discovery; she would have thought herself careful. That was well enough. My task remained unchanged. And what anger I had, I kept in check. Did I silently wish that the Host burned a gaping hole into her pocket and through her leg? Perhaps. But my service, too, would be hindered by discovery.

And sure enough, a month hence, amid the dimness of a candlelit evening mass, the Satanist’s face burned like a furious fire in the flock. Having desecrated the Eucharist, she was back for more. The hare had walked willingly into the hunter’s trap.

I cannot tell you how finely I restrained my excitement.

‘The body of Christ.’

‘Amen.’

A fine actress, all told. But a true servant cannot forget - cannot unsee - the face of Evil.

Once again, she stepped slowly, solemnly, silently from sight, doubtless proud of herself. I shook my head; she did not consume the Host. It was once again in her pocket. I swelled with fury at her stupidity, at her smugness. That she would think to take a priest for a fool.

But I waited, as she did, until she was freed by my final words.

‘Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.’

But I was freed, too. I, too, was no longer bound by the mass, nor by the candles, and I was near invisible in my dark robes. How useful they had proven to be.

I tailed the Satanist, her red hair painting a path through the night as she slipped through the tortuous streets of our unclean neighbourhood. I maintained my obscurity and my sight of any turned corner. The Lord aids he who does his bidding, and he led me to an alley conjured dark, ill-doings. The street lamps were burnt out, perhaps by design. Dirty, unregulated, and out of public view; this was where the foolish Satanist held a Black Mass.

The building wall was broken by a bricked archway and some stairs that led down into an otherwise seemingly abandoned basement. The steel door closed with a clang as I entered the alleyway. Locating their base of operations was insultingly simple.

I muttered no silent prayers; the Lord was with me, and His will would be done, one way or the other. I pushed open the doors and was met by a muggy darkness. The underground passage was of cold stone, and only a soft light emanated around a right-hand bend. I laughed. Of course, the melodramatic sons of bitches had used candlelight. My left was blocked by a closed door which didn’t win my interest. I pursued the flickering light, expecting that the sound of my entrance had alerted them. It had.

The red-haired wench turned the corner as I did, and her eyes were wide open as she became limp. I released her throat when I was satisfied she was asleep. The Lord would not look well upon his child’s death, however misguided she was. I laid her down.

With a clear mind and soft step, I walked briskly toward a door slightly ajar, the source of the light. As I neared it, I heard the chanting of a male. He repeated his words, but repetition does not please the Lord; action does. And surprise was my greatest weapon.

I swung the door open. The three men were young, not long out of study. They turned to face me and our silhouettes danced upon the yellow walls like an Egyptian relief. One, two, three. All of them fell before me. No one expected a priest to have a right hand. This was my second greatest weapon.

When the only sound in the room was the third one’s wheezing, I surveyed my surroundings. Less than a dozen candles lined the floor along the room’s perimeter. Tsk, tsk. Idiots. Why the Fallen One would desire his rituals practiced in dimness, I could not say. I walked over and flicked the perfectly functional light switch on.

In the room’s centre, a Sacred Star of five sides was painted in red. I bent down, touched the edges, and raised my finger to my nose. Blood. Well, at least they’d done one thing right.

The rest of the room revealed that they were unafraid of a spectacle. It was pitiable. I moved the blood around. They had inverted some of the angles and extended lines past where needed. Mending it was hasty but careful work.

The goat was already dead. It was young, and a dark grey. In their defence, there weren’t many properly black ones in the neighbourhood, and procuring a goat at all demonstrated dedication.

But their ingredients were all over the place. I shook my head. When I had finished rearranging them, I left the room. They had been awaiting a delivery when I had rudely intruded. The woman’s body still lay motionless a few feet beyond the door. I knelt, rummaged through her pockets, and there was the Host. I walked perfunctorily back to the chosen room and knelt again to place Christ in the centre, upon the blood. He caught fire instantly, and my hand shot back.

The once-silent room was now pervaded by a dreadful, ear-splitting whistling. I stood before the star and knelt. While I prayed, I thought of the young folk behind me. Their hearts had been in the right place, but they had lacked true discipline.

I halted abruptly as the candles extinguished in unison, informing me that I was no longer alone. They write that the Lord comes with thunder, but I heard only music.