the series of r/nosleep | volume one: the {smile} series

{E}zekiel

"A reading from the book of Matthew, chapter six."

The congregation shuffles in their pews pulling out bibles to follow along. Ian Mcleritin cups a hand to his ear and lets out a hoarse, "Huh?"

Sixth time this mass, Ian, I think. "Matthew, Mr. Mcleritin. The book of Matthew. Chapter six."

He nods and thumbs through the pages. I clear my throat, adjust the bendable microphone on the dark stained oak pulpit, and begin. "No one can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and mammon." There are a few Amen's, a handful of head nods, and one woman in the back, Mrs. Yerner probably, lifts a heavy hand in the air and voices a warbling "Halleluiah".

St. Paul's is a medium sized parish with a less than medium sized turnout each week, but with the past few weeks' unfortunate events it seems more and more people are showing up for mass. I dial up the gospel and homily on purpose. Nothing wrong with razing a little hell, I like to say.

"Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life," I continue. My voice is full and echoes off the marble columns. No traces of the cancer here, folks. A pack a day for thirty-seven years ain't nothing if you pray all the time, I like to say. "What you shall eat or what you shall drink, nor about your body, what you shall put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?"

The double doors at the back of the church swing open. An early winter sunrise glares in from the outside followed by a gust of cool wind. A wide-brim floral hat flies off the head of someone in a rear pew and rolls down the center aisle. The congregation turns to look at the black shape silhouetted by a cloudless sky that stands unmoving in the center of the archway. It walks forward, the shadows dripping away as it – as he – stops beneath a stained glass-encased light revealing a normal looking man in jeans and a blue oxford. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows. He pauses under the light, ignores the people in the pews and stares directly at me. The corners of his eyes wrinkle as a smile appears on his face. He nods his head as if to say, "Please continue," and then takes a seat in the back pew while two ushers hurry to close the doors.

I clear my throat again. The congregation takes the cue and turns back to face me. Nothing exciting about a late entrance, I like to say. "Look at the birds of the air," I read, pointing towards the heavens for emphasis. "They neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?" I look up from the ornate bible. More nodding heads. The newcomer seems to have moved up a pew. He's sitting next to the Marshall family now; maybe he knows them. Odd, I think.

I look back down to the bible, find my spot, and read, "And which of you by being anxious can add one cubit to his span of life?" I add a little embellishment at the last part, holding onto the "span of life" for emphasis. Gotta bait the fish if you want to fry, I like to say. I look up expecting to see Mrs. Yerner testifying but she's sitting on her hands. A grey hue mottles her dark brown skin. Next to her the newcomer sits with his legs crossed and an arm around the back of the pew behind the large woman. He stares directly at me with that same frozen smile.

I feel myself sweating under my vestments. "And ... and ..." I'm struggling to find my spot. Someone coughs in a near silent church. "And why are you anxious about clothing?" I read. "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin;" I quickly memorize the last line and look up from the pulpit. "Yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory –"

My mouth goes dry. I struggle to swallow. The newcomer has moved up two more pews. He's six rows away from me and I can feel his stare. The smile doesn't waver; in fact it grows as I look out at him. He doesn't blink. He doesn't move. He's like a blonde statue just staring at me with strange eyes. What is it about his eyes?

There's another cough from the back of the church. The ushers are standing by the door with their heads tilted, curious as to why I'm not talking. How long have I been silent? I clear my throat again and try to remember where I was. "Even Solomon..." I start, but the rest is blank. I quickly look down and find the verse. "Even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these," I blurt out in rapid speech. I look up and scan the church. He's gone!

No, wait! He's moved up again. One more row, but this time he's on the other side of the aisle. How did he move so fast?!

There's visible sweat dripping off my brow and landing on the thin pages beneath shaking hands. A soft rattle is forming in my lungs. I can feel my knees wanting to unhinge. I don't want to look down, but I have to finish this gospel. I can recite the entire homily from memory, I'll never have to look away, I just have to get through these last few verses!

A trembling finger marks the line where I left off. "But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O men of little faith?" I look up. He's a pew closer. He sits between Ms Reynolds and Junior Mackey now. "Therefore do not be anxious, saying, What shall we eat?' or What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the Gentiles seek all these things; and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all." He's on the other side of the aisle one pew closer. Dan Lafferty is pulling his toddler away from the newcomer. His wife is crying. "But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things shall be yours as well," I read quickly.

"Huh?" Mr. Mcleritin says.

I look to the first pew and my heart stops. The newcomer sits directly in front me, the same smile carved into an angular face. The smile doesn't reach his eyes anymore; they burn with a strange intensity that sets his face in a vibrating haze, like looking down asphalt in a heat wave. Mr. Mcleritin sits next to him a hand cupped to his ear.

I forego repeating myself and read the last verse as fast as possible, "Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day's own trouble be sufficient for the day!" I scream. And he's there. There, right in front of me. Large hands rest on the top of the pulpit. Well-manicured nails tap the leather binding on the book. I begin to protest in mock bravery, to question how this man, this stranger, could have the audacity to interrupt my sermon when I'm transfixed by his eyes. They're two different colors; one a cold blue like a frosted lake, and the other a bright, nearly transparent, brown that's ringed with a burning red line. "I... I..." I start but the man's smile grows. It grows until it reaches proportions impossible to conceive; distorted facial features that widen on ends and collapse back on themselves like a melting wax figure propped up in front of a fan. His smile grows until rows of filed teeth clamp in an alligator smile and a split tongue darts through gaps. It grows until I'm too afraid to keep looking and yet far too afraid to look away.

He smiles while the voice seeps through thin lips pulled back on crimson gums. "And in the fire was what looked like four living creatures," he whispers. "In appearance their form was human, but each of them had four faces and four wings." He reaches out and grabs my shoulders, pulling me over the pulpit to him. "Their legs were straight; their feet were like those of a calf and gleamed like burnished bronze. Under their wings on their four sides they had human hands." He turns my head so he could talk into my ear. I can feel his teeth brushing against my skin. "All four of them had faces and wings, and the wings of one touched the wings of another. Each one went straight ahead; they did not turn as they moved." He lets me go and I fall backwards, barely keeping my feet. His head tilts, as if he's studying me, and then in a soft voice he says, "You should have read that one, padre."

The cough comes with such sudden violence that I find myself doubled over, hands on my knees. Thick phlegm chokes my lungs and catches in my throat. My face goes purple as my oxygen starved brain turns my surroundings to white. I place a hand over my mouth and wretch. Two altar boys rush over and move me to a chair. Slowly the cough subsides, my lungs fill back up with air, and my vision returns. I look out into the congregation where everyone sits wide-eyed and panicked, but no one moves.

The newcomer is gone.

I go to stand, pressing down on my knees to steady myself and see blood on my robe. I look around but see no wounds, and then one of the altar boys motions to my mouth and I wipe it with the back of my hand. The hand comes away shiny red. I cough again.

A thick rattle forms in my lungs, a black mass making itself known, and I know that praying won't help me, won't help anyone, ever again.