I entered that majestic Cathedral; it was immense, in the Gothic style, making one feel submerged in another era. Before such grandeur and breadth, the wooden pews facing the pulpit seemed insignificant, flanked on both sides by those arches and columns that seemed to offer a bit more shelter.
There were four dark oak doors distributed along that entire space, hiding occult secrets or simply other rooms.
I sat at the back, in the third-to-last pew. I needed peace, tranquility, to be alone with myself and with God, who knows. It was something strange—I don’t know exactly how to explain it—but I felt drawn; a superior force had made me enter there. Normally I prayed anywhere; I didn’t need a church to do so. However, I had yielded to my instinct.
In the first pew was a choir, preparing songs for the homily. Some of them, those playing instruments, were seated in chairs, forming a circle. What irony, a closed circle!
Several elderly female parishioners sat in the front rows, perhaps so their pleas would be heard sooner, or simply to establish that they were there as good devotees and believers—or maybe it was just mere habit. Who can say!
I liked to observe in silence, to meditate, to pray. The only sound was the footsteps of a few people, with their majestic echo, confirming their presence. I was so absorbed that I didn’t realize the church priest had approached where I was. My heart almost skipped a beat when I looked up and saw him sitting beside me, not looking at me, but speaking to me.
“—Beautiful altarpiece, don’t you think?”
”— You’re the beautiful one; good heavens, you’re gorgeous —” I thought, but what my lips uttered was: “—Yes, I suppose. I hadn’t noticed.”
“—I see. If you need anything, I’m here…”
And while he said it, the only thing I could think was: “—Don’t say ‘my daughter’; you’re far too handsome.”
”—…at the back.”
“—Thank you.”
That priest rose to leave toward what I assumed was the sacristy, dressed in black, without a clerical collar, but with a certain mysterious, alluring “something.”
”— It must be you who made me come in! —”
”— Good God, I’m losing my mind. He’s a man of God. And yet, where have You been when I’ve needed You? Still, I keep coming to pray. I don’t understand myself; I have a great crisis of faith, of logic, and of reason.”
Two tears fell onto my cheeks, wetting my face, which was hot and burning with contained pain.
So, I decided to get up, muster my courage, and go talk to that priest I didn’t know at all and had no intention of seeing ever again. An hour of free psychoanalysis. But as I was heading there, a parishioner stopped him to ask something. She remained on her knees while he stood; that scene, viewed from where I was, seemed humiliating. I changed my mind and retraced my steps. The choir began to sing, and the lyrics were familiar.
»Jesus, I am overjoyed to meet you face to face
You’ve been getting quite a name all around the place
Healing cripples, raising from the dead
And now I hear you’re God, at least, that’s what you’ve said
So, you are the Christ, you’re the great Jesus Christ
Prove to me that you’re divine; change my water into wine
That’s all you need do, then I’ll know it’s all true
Then I’ll grant you your freedom.«
“—I can’t believe it; they’re singing a song that casts doubt on Jesus Christ. I don’t understand anything. The priest isn’t offended, nor does he say anything to them. However, I’ve stayed rooted to the floor, still, motionless.”
The priest came back to me and indicated where the sacristy was with a gentle gesture.
I looked at him; my mood was so confused that I didn’t know whether to cry out of happiness or joy—I didn’t know what to do.
“—Please, come.”
”— With that whisper, I’ll go wherever you take me —.”
I smiled and followed him. My footsteps barely made a sound; I seemed to be levitating. A sharp headache made me dizzy, and I fell to the ground. That’s the last thing I remember until I woke up, and there he was with those large, green cat-eyes, placing a damp cloth on my forehead and contemplating me in silence. I started, suddenly realizing that he was already committed—and not exactly to me.
“—Quiet, you fainted. Why do you renounce your faith?”
“—What are you saying?”
“—You have a great conflict in your soul; it is fragmenting, and that, from experience… I tell you, it hurts, and very much so.”
I tried to divert the conversation as best I could: “—How did I get here?”
“—Do you mean to the Sacristy or to the Church?”
“—Let’s start with the sacristy,” I said while holding the damp cloth and trying to strike a more appropriate pose.
“—That one’s easy to answer: in my arms.”
“—You… you carried me in your arms?”
“—Do you think that because I’m a priest, I don’t have enough strength to hold you?”
“—No, it’s just that it surprises me. What will they have thought?”
“—Nothing. No one has thought anything.”
He approached and removed the cloth to dampen it again, and while he did so, I could see an old-looking book on the table, with yellowish pages and a leather cover. It had a strange engraved drawing; the edges of the pages were gold—surely if you folded them, they held some coded message. He quickly noticed I was looking at the book.
“—It’s a curious specimen, isn’t it? It’s as if it attracts you and speaks to you.”
I stared at him perplexed, without responding. It had something hidden that indeed attracted me, but it was malignant, of dark forces.
He moved a little closer and lifted my chin with his index finger.
“—Does it attract you?”
“—Not enough.”
“—Are you sure?”
He brought his succulent, fleshy lips close to kiss me—a soft, intense kiss, the kind you never want to end. A flash came to my mind, and the headache returned even more persistent.
“—What are you doing?”
“—Testing you.”
“—They’ve already done that too many times, because I assume you’re talking about my faith.”
“—And still you doubt.”
I got up to run out of there; things were getting out of hand. I couldn’t control myself, and the worst part was that neither could he. What the devil was he playing at! The door slammed shut; he moved closer and closer to me like someone stalking prey.
“—Let yourself go.”
“—Where?”
“—Wherever you wish.”
“—Please, I can’t do this.”
He busied himself kissing my neck while taking me by the waist, until I yielded, letting myself be dragged to the chair. “—Let yourself go—” My breathing became increasingly labored, ecstasy invaded me, my heart throbbed with force.
“—I can’t.”
“—Why not?” he asked me between kisses and cries.
“—You’re a man of God.”
“—Which God?”
He lay me on the table, pushing all the documents aside, and that cursed book was left in a corner. The walls seemed to have eyes, and the light from the window began to transform into a reddish hue.
“—Stop.”
Surprisingly, he stopped immediately.
“—Did you think it was going to be harder?”
I looked around the sacristy; not a single crucifix, no image of the Virgin, neither as a child nor as a mother.
”— What kind of church is this! —” For a moment… the ecstasy made me require him to come closer to me to continue the amatory arts. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him against my chest, biting his lips softly.
“—I understand you give your permission.”
“—What?” I asked, puzzled.
“—You give your permission.”
“—I give it.”
“—Good.” He tore off his shirt and continued with the rest of his clothes until we finished making love.
The light changed radically; the walls began to shake. I looked around, and in the midst of such frenzy, he opened that ancient book to begin saying words in another language, in what seemed to be Sanskrit.
I was afraid; I knew I should stop, but I couldn’t put an end to it—I was enjoying it too much to cease. Suddenly, I looked at the cover of the book; it was titled NECRONOMICON. Thanks to my knowledge as a book conservator, I realized the great mistake I was making: the cursed book was being recited. ”— Who was that man! A demon, a black magic sorcerer? —”
”— Oh, God!”
“—I like it when you blaspheme aloud.”
“—Stop.”
“—You gave me your permission.”
“—I didn’t know what for.”
“—You knew, darling, and you’re enjoying it.”
“—If it involves something dark and malignant, I don’t give it.”
“—Too late.”
“—Enough!”
In my head, I thought of all the moments I had lived, both bitter and joyful.
“—Please, stop,” I whispered while panting.
“—Too late.”
He continued with determination, and the truth is that I enjoyed it. However, that wasn’t really me; I had always been prudent—so much so that I had missed out on many things in life. That’s why I felt attracted to him: someone different, someone unconventional.
In my head, a plea emerged ashamed: “—Help me, help me.”
“—He doesn’t hear you; He never has. Do you think He’s going to do it now? You have renounced your God.”
Between gasps of pleasure and tears of delight and regret, the inner voice became more palpable.
”— Help me, help me. —”
On the other corner of the table, a bible lay half-fallen. I reached for it and struck him hard on the head. He recoiled more out of surprise than pain. I managed to break free, hit him in the ribs, and without knowing how it happened, the impulse caused him to crash against the wall, leaving him unconscious. I took the opportunity to grab the cursed book and escape from that place as quickly as possible. Those old women weren’t pious, even if they dressed in black; the choir members wore strange attire. I caught them all by surprise and managed to get out of that sinister place. Meanwhile, a little voice grated inside me: ”— You will never escape me; you have already tasted me and you liked it. —”
Today, after several months, I can tell you that the book is protected by higher chambers of the church, near the Vatican. Since then, I’ve worked for the Church in secret, searching for legendary secrets that endanger humanity, although I must admit I still dream of him whom I thought was a priest. Sometimes at night, I wake up sweating with pleasure; I know he isn’t there, but I find it hard to contain myself because I feel him near—very, very near, almost brushing me with his breath.