desecration

Suspense Stories | Sep 12, 2013 | 16 min read
32 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
"Jesus Christ is your saviour," Father Ernest Clarke muttered in his own softly spoken and understated way. The congregation were not really paying much attention to the short, balding, middle-aged man standing before them. Their eyes wandering, their minds elsewhere; some particularly unpleasant people, Ernest noted, were chatting amongst themselves. How dare they, he thought, it was the words of the Lord that he spoke, he was God's messenger, and these… these cretins had the audacity to undermine him in the house of God. Wretched pigs, the lot of them.
Never the less, Ernest continued with the sermon regardless of the lack of attention from the audience. Reading out a passage from the bible to the unhearing, unworthy flock that sat on rows of old wooden benches in front of him, he thought, If only Father Green was here. If only it was he who was speaking the gospel to these heathens. It was never the same though; they all listened when he was here, as did everyone else when Father Green spoke. Ernest hated public speaking. After all these years he had never gotten used to it, but the Lord's work needed to be done and it was his duty to deliver the message.
Mid-way through his sermon, Ernest became aware of Mr and Mrs Thompson bickering amongst themselves near the front row. He couldn't make out the words they were saying, only the groans of Mr Thompson and the constant nagging of his wife as she pecked away at him. How rude, Ernest thought, two adults who, after all these years, had yet to learn any manners.
It didn't stop, even though Mr Thompson had given up the ghost, Mrs Thompson continued to peck away. Nag, nag, nag, peck, peck, peck. And, try as he might, Ernest couldn't get her voice out of his head. It felt like she was a pigeon pecking away on his shiny, bald head. He couldn't concentrate, his words began to feel heavy in his mouth as he tried his best to focus on each line he read out loud, but it was no good. Mrs Thompson, the pecking pigeon, had broken him. How could he possibly continue with all that racket?
Desperate to shut her up, if anything for his own sanity, he paused from speaking and leaned across to where she sat, and spoke to her with his most stern voice - which was just a smidgeon above his usual soft murmur - "Erm… excuse me, Mrs Thompson, could you please…erm," It was no use, she wasn't listening. In fact, none of them were. Did they ever? Wretched pigs, the lot of them.
After the failed attempt at shutting up Mrs Thompson, Ernest awkwardly continued the sermon, the whole time cursing his luck for having to speak to such imbeciles, and wishing Father Green was there. Father Green would know what to do with Mrs Thompson, the pecking pigeon, he always knew what to do.
Soon after - but not quite soon enough for Ernest's liking - the service finally came to an end. And as he stood at the exit shaking the hands of everyone who passed by, he started to feel a flutter of excitement in his stomach. Because now, after all the stress of the morning, it was time to go home, and it was home where he had the most important work of all to do.
After the last of the congregation had left, Ernest locked the doors and made the short walk to his house at the side of the church; the house that he and Father Green had shared for the last five years.
Opening the front door, he stepped inside and caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror. Looking at his own reflection, Ernest grinned at the man staring back at him with puffy eyes and pasty white skin.
"Oh dear, Ernest," he said to the man in the mirror. "You're getting too old to be burning the candle at both ends, my dear fellow."
He was right, staying up into the early hours and then having to stand before a room full of monkeys in church had taken its toll, but the Lord's work had to be done, and he was proud to be a part of it. Feeling a profound sense of fulfilment, he began to whistle, He's got the whole world in His hands, as he made his way along the narrow corridor to the wooden door beneath the staircase. Turning the polished brass handle, he opened the door and entered the basement. He walked down the creaky, wooden steps until he got to the bottom stairs, pulling down on a cord that hung from the low ceiling, turning on the bare, single light bulb that almost apologetically tried to illuminate the gloomy room with its limited power.
The walls of the basement were covered in black patches of damp; there were cracks in the brickwork that rose up from the earth like crooked weeds growing from rancid soil. The musty smell of stale air hidden beneath the darkened dinge of the windowless room was an odour that reminded Ernest of home. And every time he stepped into the room, the scent would fill his nostrils and his heart with a sense of familiarity, and he would always think to himself, as he did now, This is where I belong.
In the centre of the room lay the body of John Clayson.
"Hello Mr Clayson," Ernest said to the body on the floor. "You're very quiet, what's wrong, cat got your tongue?"
Ernest chuckled to himself. And why not, he thought, this was the time to enjoy one's self. After all, the worst part was over, it was time to relax. He put on a pair of rubber gloves and an apron that he took from an old work bench at the side of the room.
He had met John Clayson at the Pink Hippo club two nights before. It had been a long night for Ernest, he had waited patiently at the bar for someone to talk to him, for someone to take an interest in this middle aged man sat on his own in a gay bar. Usually when he went to such places he never had a problem attracting attention, but this night was different. So he had sat and waited and watched; watched all the human vermin lusting over each other, touching each other, kissing each other. It had made him sick to the stomach, it always did. He never understood how men could carry on in such a way, knowing full well they were under The Lord's watchful eye. But he knew the sinners would get their day of judgement, and he was doing his bit to help them on their way.
He had nearly given up all hope of finding someone when a tall man in a black leather jacket, mid-thirties, sat down on the bar stool next to him.
"Hello," the man said. "I saw you sitting here and I thought, That guy looks like he needs a drinking partner."
Ernest had felt a little overwhelmed by the man's forwardness; he stuck out his hand and introduced himself. "My name's Allen Jenkins."
"John," the man said, taking his hand and shaking it. "John Clayson. Can I buy you a drink?"
Now, alone together in the basement of Ernest's house, it was he who was doing all the talking. John's body lay crumpled and broken on the filthy basement floor.
"Now then," Ernest said, "time to dispose of the trash."
He laid out a large plastic sheet on the floor and picked up a hacksaw that was lying on the work bench. This was a moment to saviour, he thought, a fitting end to a pathetic excuse of a human being. Grabbing hold of one limp arm, he rolled the body onto its back, as he did so he noticed the right leg of Mr Clayson was shaking. Ernest paused for a moment. It always fascinated him how a body reacts after the soul has long gone; the nervous system was truly a wondrous creation. Looking down at the twitching leg, he thought how it was almost as if the lifeless limb somehow knew what was going to happen next. He smiled to himself and began to saw.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
Who the hell could that be? Ernest thought, but decided to ignore it, he had more pressing issues at hand.
It rang again, followed by a loud knocking. Someone wanted his attention.
"Damn, drat and darn it," Ernest cursed in his own unique kind of way. He began to take off his latex gloves and his plastic apron. "Whoever this is, I'm going to give them a piece of my mind."
He made his way up the wooden staircase and into the hallway. The doorbell rang once again, followed by knocking - louder this time.
"Okay, Okay," he shouted. "I'm coming. Don't knock the God dam door down." He winced at the words that had slipped out of his mouth, blasphemy was the worst kind of cursing, he was ashamed he had allowed his anger to drag him down to such depths.
Once at the door, he pulled the handle down and yanked it open to see a man in a grey suit and starched white shirt standing in front of him; a tall man with neatly combed jet black hair and sharp, brown eyes.
"Father Ernest Clarke?" the man said.
"Yes, what is it?" Ernest snapped.
The tall man gave him a wry smile, put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his identification to show Ernest.
"Detective Kubert, Father, I have some questions I need to ask you," he said. "May I come in?"
Panic hit Ernest like a cold bucket of water being thrown in his face. First it was the shock of it happening then a terrible freezing cold feeling began to creep its way over him. He felt paralysed.
"Father, may I come in?"
"Yes, I suppose ..." Ernest said, and opened the door to allow him to enter.
They've found me, Ernest thought, they've finally found me. An almost uncontrollable urge to run out of the door overcame him. But run where? This was the police after all, they would find him sooner or later. But I have been so careful, he thought, they couldn't possibly know. Could they?
The detective walked straight past Ernest and into the living room, as he did so, Ernest noticed how gracefully he moved, exuding confidence. This made him feel extremely uncomfortable.
A cold wind wailed outside, sending an icy draft through the house. Winter had finally arrived.
"Nice place you've got here, Father," the detective said.
"Thank you," Ernest said.
Ernest glanced around the room and wished he had had chance to polish the place, but then he wasn't expecting visitors.
It was a simple home with unspectacular décor. Magnolia walls with the odd painting spotted around. A leather three piece suite was positioned around an old fashioned log-wood fireplace.
"What do you…. erm, can I ask you what your business is here today, detective?"
"Oh, just following a loose end on a case I was working a few months ago. I was wondering if you could be of assistance to me?"
Ernest's mind began to race, he tried to remember who he had dealt with recently, what twisted soul had he helped on his way to the Lord, recently. It couldn't be Mr Clayson, no, it was too soon for that; so he tried to rack his brain to the ones before. He wished Father Green was there now, he was so much better at talking to people.
"Okay, how may I … erm … what can I do for you?" Ernest stammered.
The detective made his way across the room, coming to a standstill in front of a replica painting that hung above the fireplace. He had made himself so at ease here, it was as if it were his house, and Ernest was the visitor.
"Van Gogh," the detective said, staring wide eyed at the picture before him. "Even something as simple as this, a vase of flowers, he could make it look so beautiful. A truly fantastic painter, bat-shit crazy, but a fantastic painter."
What was his game, Ernest thought, why does he toy with me so, what does he know? I will play this silly game of his. He wants me to squirm, wants me to break. He doesn't know anything, how could he?
"They say there is no great genius without some touch of madness," Ernest quipped.
That got the attention of the detective. He turned to look at Ernest and smiled, the same wry smile that had greeted him at the front door just moments before, but this smile said, clever boy.
"Very true, Father, very true," he looked Ernest up and down. "I like his portraits; he had a way of showing you what lay beneath the surface of people. Van Gough knew, just by looking at someone, everything there was to know about them. All their fears, their anxieties, their secrets; and then he would paint it. Bare their soul for all to see. He was an exceptional talent."
The detective was good, Ernest thought, I'd better tread carefully. The little game of cat and mouse was beginning to take its toll; he felt the perspiration building on his brow, betraying his attempts to look calm.
"Sorry to be rude," Ernest said, "I really must get my chores done around the house; how may I be of assistance to you, detective?"
"Ah, yes, sorry to go off on a tangent, it's one of my many faults – a wandering mind." Reaching inside his suit jacket, he pulled out a notepad and began to flick through it. "Does the name Kenneth Gibson ring any bells to you?"
Ernest felt like his heart had dropped into his shoes, a horribly bitter taste of copper came into his mouth and he could hear his pulse beating in his ears. It felt like someone had pulled a plug and drained all energy, all the life out of his body. Of course he knew who Kenneth Gibson was, the man had been sent to his maker, and good riddance, a vile cretin if ever there was one. Question was, how did detective Kubert know that he knew him?
"I don't know of any such person," Ernest replied, using all his concentration to prevent his voice from trembling.
"That's interesting," the detective said. "Because, according to my notes, you were seen talking to him on the 14th of September. Tell me, Father, what were you doing on the night in question?"
"I was ... erm, doing some charity work in London, I believe." Careful, Ernest thought, be careful.
"I'll be more specific, what were you doing at 11:30pm?"
"I don't recall."
"Oh, I see," detective Kubert said in a facetious tone. "Well, let me jog your memory. You were in The Dolphin Club in Kings Cross, talking to Mr Gibson at the bar; drinking brandy, so I'm told, right before he disappeared without a trace."
"This man is missing?" Ernest said, allowing the quiver in his voice to come through. "Oh, dear God."
"Yep, missing for two months now," the detective said. "I would have gotten here sooner except I had no leads; that was until we pinched a young man about a week ago who worked behind the bar at the club. He was up on possession with intent to sell. Just as we are about to stick him in front of a judge, he tells me he can give me information on the missing person he had read about in the local paper. The kid had kept it to himself the whole time because … well, his kind don't like to deal with the law much. But, faced with a stretch behind bars, he soon became rather friendly towards us, helpful, too."
Ernest suddenly became aware of the tightness of the shirt collar around his neck.
"Told me that he saw Mr Gibson talking to a new face in the bar that night, he remembered you from Sunday service where he took his dear old grandma that weekend. Said it seemed odd you being there but he never thought much of it afterwards; that was until Mr Clarke made an appearance in the newspaper under the heading, ‘Missing Person."
"That could be a possibility," Ernest replied. "I was helping out at the local church there, I met a lot of new people. I may have spoken to him and not even remembered. I'm sorry for any confusion caused, it's just that …"
"What were you doing in a gay bar, Father Clarke, in the middle of the night?" detective Kubert interrupted.
Silence. The conversation was going to a place where Ernest dared not follow.
"I can understand your reluctance to admit that you were in such a place, given your position with the church; but I have a missing person, and the last place he was seen was at The Dolphin Club talking to you."
Feeling rather light headed and suddenly quite unwell, Ernest sat down on his soft, leather sofa.
"Oh dear," Ernest said, "This poor man. I pray for his well being."
Detective Kubert didn't answer, he just starred at Ernest. He then walked over to the vacant chair opposite the sofa and sat down.
"It must be difficult being homosexual and a man of God," the detective said. "The bible doesn't tolerate your kind very well, does it?"
"My kind … I beg your pardon?" Ernest said, his eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement.
"That kind of conflict in a man can be a terrible thing, dangerous, even."
"That's outrageous," Ernest said, standing up off his seat and puffing his chest out. How dare this man come into his house and hurl such wild accusations at him, the blood began to boil in his veins.
"Is it?" the detective said, his eyes widening with anticipation.
They starred at each other for what seemed like an eternity for Ernest, before he finally broke the icy silence.
"I'm afraid you're going to have to leave, detective."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. I am not at all happy with your insinuations and I have nothing further to say on the subject."
"Is that so?"
Damn it, Ernest thought, he is trying to get to me, to wind me up, and it's working. His right hand began to tremble with fear or rage he wasn't sure, maybe both. That was when he heard it, a soft murmur from afar.
"What was that noise?" detective Kubert said, standing up from the chair.
"What noise?" Ernest said, panicking.
Then there was another murmur, louder now. This time they both realised where the noise was coming from, the basement.
How could this be, Ernest thought, his mind racing for answers.
"It seems to be coming from over there," the detective said, as he began walking towards the basement door.
Desperate now, Ernest said, "You can't just wander around in my house without a warrant, you know." But it was no use, the detective had already made it to the door and was turning the handle. From where Ernest stood he could see straight through into the kitchen where he spotted the knife rack on the wall. Please don't make me do this, he thought. He closed his eyes and prayed.
As the door opened, there, on the wooden stairs, was John Clayson. He had managed to crawl halfway up the staircase before collapsing in a heap. But now, with the light coming down on him from the opening above, he raised his head up to see the detective standing in the doorway. One of John Clayson's arms had been completely sawn off, as was one of his legs from just below the knee. A trail of blood tracked his path from the middle of the room. Reaching out with his one remaining hand, he cried out for help, except he couldn't make any tangible words as his tongue had been cut out, making it sound more like a whining murmur.
Detective Kubert had only time to register the horror before his eyes when the carving knife plunged into his neck, going in at an angle from the side and sticking out the front, completely severing his Adam's apple and sending blood gushing out onto his polished, leather shoes. John Clayson attempted a scream, which came out sounding like a squealing pig being slaughtered.
Pulling the knife out of the detectives' neck, Ernest stood back and watched in terror as the man he had just stabbed turned to face him and began to walk towards him, blood spraying out of his wound like a geyser, covering the nearby walls with claret.
"I'm sorry," cried Ernest, tears rolling down his face. He dropped the knife and put his hands over his eyes like a child hiding from the imaginary monster in the closet. "I'm sorry," he repeated.
Staggering towards Ernest, detective Kubert made a faint hissing sound before falling to his knees at Ernest's feet. He clawed at the trouser leg of his attacker who again repeated that he was sorry, before kneeling down with the detective and hugging him.
"Forgive me, Father," Ernest said, looking up to the ceiling and sobbing to himself. Holding the bloodied detective in his arms until he had bled out, his body twitching with muscle spasms as the last remnants of life drained out of him.
Wiping away tears mixed with blood on his cheeks, Ernest turned his attention to John Clayson, who had managed to crawl his way to the top of the stairs.
"You," he said, with eyes fixed on the mangled human being before him. "It's all your fault. This man was innocent. You Godless bastard."
Moving away from the body of detective Kubert, Ernest started towards Mr Clayson, picking up the bloodied knife as he went.
Mr Clayson began squealing like a pig, again. He tried to back away but didn't get very far before Ernest was on him. Straddling over the top of the mangled mess of a man, Ernest drove the knife into him over and over again, repeatedly saying, bastard, bastard, Godless bastard, with each and every thrust of the blade.
By the time Ernest had finished the attack, John Clayson was unrecognisable. His face a bloodied pulp, his chest crushed and torn open, exposing his broken ribcage. Ernest, panting heavily, dropped the knife and stumbled away from the body, before falling to the floor and vomiting all over himself.
"What have you done, Ernest?" a voice seemed to come from nowhere. Ernest turned his head to see Father Green standing in the hallway dressed all in black with a white collar around his neck. Ernest began to cry.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Ernest bleated, and dropped his head in shame.
Father Green looked around at the bloody mess of gore and death, his stone cold stare hidden behind his wrinkled, worn face, surveying the carnage before him. He never blinked.
"What happened?" Father Green said, his voice calm.
Ernest looked up at him through blood shocked eyes, "I was cleaning up, as usual … at least, I was trying to. I was disposing of his body when I was interrupted." He looked down at the body of the detective, his voice began to tremble. "Oh dear Lord, I murdered him. I murdered an innocent man."
"What about him?" Father Green said, looking over at the mangled remains of John Clayson.
"He wasn't dead," Ernest said.
"What do you mean he wasn't dead, that's impossible. I made sure…"
"He was still alive. You never finished him off. Oh dear Lord…"
Father Green walked over to Ernest who sat on the floor, covered in blood and vomit.
"I'm sorry, Ernest," he said. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. But you are doing the Lord's work, it's a just cause."
Looking up at Father Green, Ernest felt the butterflies in his stomach begin to flutter as they always did when close to him. The sense of awe he felt from just being around the man was overwhelming. Ernest had never killed a man before today, he knew now why, he never had the stomach for the work. That was Father Green's job; he just got them to the place, Father Geen did the rest, then it was Ernest who cleaned up the mess. But that was all well and fine for Ernest, as the man had said, it was a just cause.
"What now?" Ernest said, staring into the abyss behind the eyes of Father Green who stood over him.
A moment of silence passed while Ernest's question went unanswered.
"May god have mercy on your soul," Father Green said, and clasped his hands around the neck of Ernest and began to squeeze.
Ernest just sat still while the grip tightened around his windpipe, a look of wide eyed bewilderment on Ernest's face as the supply of oxygen to his brain began to diminish, and so too his conciseness as he fell slowly, painfully, into darkness. His dead eyes transfixed on the man who murdered him.
Father Green dropped Ernest's limp body to the floor and began looking around the small house for something to wrap up the body in so he could remove it from the scene. After this, the police would come looking, but he knew what to do, knew what to say. I have no idea where he has gone, he imagined himself saying, I came home and stumbled across this horrific scene. I rang you as soon as I could.
There would be a thorough investigation. They would probably dig up the basement and find the remains of the other 12 men buried there.
I never suspected a thing, he would say. He was such a quiet and reserved man, he kept himself to himself. Oh dear God. Then he would break down and tell the detectives that he could no longer practice here, in this Godforsaken place, and that he would have to move away and start again somewhere else and leave the painful memories behind.
Looking down at the lifeless body of Ernest, his eyes still staring at him, Father Green clasped his hands together, closed his eyes and began to pray. He prayed for the soul of the man he had once called a friend, who had assisted him on his quest of righteous punishment. He prayed for the family of the innocent man who had met his end by the cruel hand of fate. And prayed for himself, to be able to continue with his work and wield God's sword of vengeance to those deserving of his wrath. For his was the work of the just, and the virtuous, and nothing would ever stop him, how could it? It was he who had the power and the glory, and God was on his side, for ever and ever, Amen.

The End
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