The architecture in this section of the house included permanent shelves, about three and a half feet from the floor that jutted out from the wall about a foot, and ran nearly the whole inside perimeter of each room. In my room, this permanent shelf, with the exception of a few scattered refugees, contained my ever-growing, collection of arcane books. On the gray painted long wall above the books hung a framed replica of Van Gogh’s painting of an almond tree. Van Gogh, although a tragic figure who usually captured the sorrows of life through his art, had created this painting in honor of the birth of his nephew. Its bright yellows, rich china blues, and forest greens reflected joy from the heart of a man who was said to have been despondent most of his life. That symbolism was very personal to me. On the ceiling just above the bed I had installed a strip of electric track from which hung four adjustable bell-shaped fixtures. The fixtures each contained a different colored light bulb which, when switched on, created an atmosphere in the room that lay somewhere between that of a planetarium lobby and Greg Brady’s psychedelic attic bedroom. The room contained everything that I would ever need; it was always my greatest refuge from the vicissitudes of life. As I lay pondering, I came to realize that my right hand was still in my coat pocket clutching the small laminated card that on one side read “In Loving Memory Of” followed by my mother’s name, and the likeness of Christ on the other. The dates read “April 8, 1942” followed by “February 12, 1995,” just two days ago. I placed the card on the nightstand in between a mug, half full with day-old tea, and an old deck of worn tarot cards. I was dreading the next shift; I almost couldn’t bear to go back. As I drifted off into a fitful sleep, earnestly praying for the first time since childhood, I was forced to face the cold fact that within the erstwhile protective confines of the room, I would no longer be granted asylum.
In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
As I sat on my parents’ four poster bed, switching through the TV channels looking for cartoons, I stopped on the Channel 7 News and listened to Bill Beutel for a minute. No one really seemed to think that Ford would be the president for very long; my parents and teachers seemed to agree with the 6’oclock news reporters, who treated him as if he was babysitting the White House until a new, legitimate, fulltime president came along. Ford had been the vice president under Nixon, who everyone seemed to hate for some scandal called Watergate, which, as an eight year old boy, I knew less about than I knew about Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity. All I did know is that it was a very very bad thing, and Nixon was forced to resign the presidency in disgrace over it. Although it didn’t cause me to lose any sleep, I found the whole notion of a lawless, rogue president to be disturbing, which further alienated me to the evil Republican Party, to which Nixon and Ford both belonged. As usual, in the absence of either cartoons or cheesy sci-fi programs, there was nothing on TV that could hold my attention for more than a minute. As my mind wandered, so did my eyes; from the wood and ivory crucifix hanging above the bed, to my father’s mahogany wooden gun cabinet that contained his hunting rifles, to my mother’s nightstand, which always had some book or other laying on top of it. My mother often read in the evenings before bed; usually some adult-themed stuff that was off limits to us kids, which always seemed vaguely dangerous. I always made a point of thumbing through those strange books when she wasn’t around, to try to learn what I could about subjects forbidden to eight-year olds. But on this particular occasion, I immediately recognized the book that was on her nightstand, and it made my blood run cold as I drew closer to pick it up. The Exorcist had also been adapted into a major motion picture of the same name, which was said to be the most frightening movie of all time; it was advertised on TV, in all the newspapers, and a lot of the kids at school talked about it, often in hushed tones. This movie was scaring the shit out of some adults that I thought couldn’t be scared of anything. My hand trembled as I picked the book up off the nightstand. I didn’t know the whole story, but as far as I could tell, based on a true account, it was about this innocent little girl, not much older than I was at the time, who gets possessed by a demon that forces her to do all sorts of disgusting things to her mother and the two Catholic priests who attempt to save her. The understated, yet terrifying, cover photo was a slightly obscured image of the little girl’s face while apparently in the beginning stages of her possession. Unlike the Watergate scandal, the very existence of this book most definitely made me lose sleep. Many a night I lay awake in bed, frozen in fear that a demon would enter into my life as had happened to the girl in the story. I very quickly learned how to pray.
Our Father, Who art in heaven: Sanctificetur nomen tuum: Adveniat regnum tuum: Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra. Give us this day our daily bread: Et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et dimittimus debitoribus nostris. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil. Amen.
The well-dressed man in the dark suit with the strange symbol pinned to his lapel seemed to know everything about me. He knew my parents, my sisters, and minute details about my grandparents that he was seemingly too young to know from personal experience. Yet he spoke with an air of well-informed eloquence about my family that impressed me no end. I was puzzled when he told me that he had never been particularly close with any of them, yet had always wished to be. He made several other strange statements, the most remarkable of which was that he could help me deal with my grief in unique ways. He handed me a business card which I couldn’t read because I had earlier neglected to grab my glasses on my way out of the house; I could barely make out the very same symbol on the card that he sported on his lapel. I was about to press him for more information as I placed the card in my inside coat pocket, when we were interrupted by others wishing to express condolences. The man stepped to the back of the parlor, and as I greeted others, I noticed that he proceeded to stare at me with a somewhat disturbing grin on his face. After about fifteen minutes he was gone, although I never actually saw him leave. As the flow of people began to die down, I slipped into the lobby, but there was no sign of the mysterious stranger. Exhausted, I went off to a quiet, low-lit alcove, slipped into a large brown leather easy chair and once again drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
Ave Maria, gratia plena: the Lord is with thee, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in the hour of our death. Amen.
I couldn’t remember how long I had been trapped down below in the hold of the old galleon. It was so dark I could hardly discern the layout of the room, but as I felt around I discovered a bed, some old furniture, books, a deck of cards, a string of wooden beads, a still-warm cup half-filled with what smelled like tea, and a plate on which there were several pieces of hard dry bread. Somehow I finally managed to make my way to the foot of the steep, long staircase that presumably led up to the deck. It felt as if I had been so cold, for so long, that I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to once again feel the sun against my face. Thoughts of sunshine quickly left my mind though, for any weather inclement enough to create the turbulence that buffeted me violently from side to side, as I slowly began my ascent, would surely blot out the sun with little effort. Trying to maintain my balance under these conditions was hard enough; to make matters worse the dilapidated stairway’s splintered boards wreaked havoc on the bottoms of my bare feet. The room I was leaving behind contained everything necessary for my basic survival, and what lay up on the deck was almost certainly malignant. I kept questioning my decision to leave these relatively familiar surroundings, I so badly wanted to turn back, but some unseen force kept me going nonetheless. After what seemed like an eternity I finally reached the top of the staircase and faced the final obstacle in my attempt to reach the deck.
The towering oak door that stood before me was ominous with its peeling, weathered surface, and thanks to a small dimly lit oil lamp mounted above the door, I could barely make out small circular marks resembling burns left from extinguished cigarettes. Despite its old, rundown appearance it was quite sturdy and formed a near-perfect seal with the buck; the doorknob was locked tight and very little light could be seen through the cracks. I could hear heavy rain pounding the door on the other side, accompanied by intermittent cracks of thunder; strong flashes of lightning provided momentary illumination in the near darkness, as trickles of water found their way underneath the door. The weather outside presumably had grown worse during my ascent, as was evidenced by the ever-worsening rocking of the ship. Even though I could barely keep my footing I continued to try to get the door open, my efforts included throwing myself against the barrier in frustration. Finally, I realized that despite my best efforts the door wasn’t going to budge; worse still, the turbulence had become even more severe. Sitting down on the narrow landing in front of the door with my feet braced against one wall and my back against the other was the only way to save myself from falling back down the staircase. There I sat for a long while, and at the point where my body had become sufficiently exhausted, I realized that my only prospect was to descend the stairs once again as best I could, and forget this crazy notion of ever getting free. As I sat with my eyes closed and head bowed, the turbulence abruptly ceased. The suddenness of the change was so stark that I could hardly believe it. One moment the most violent shock waves, next the quietest stillness. I opened my eyes and raised my head only to see the large door, ominous and sturdy-looking as ever, gently and slowly swing open, seemingly by itself. Much to my surprise, almost shock really, I was nearly blinded by the sun burning brightly overhead. Not only wasn’t there a cloud in the sky but the deck was completely dry, no sign of moisture whatsoever. Raising my hand before me to shield my eyes from the sun, I took my first step out onto the deck.
The warmth of the sun was heaven-sent, it seemed to immediately rejuvenate me, and I no longer felt the pain of the bruises that I’d sustained climbing up the stairs and throwing myself against the “impenetrable” door. The sails were up and the ship was cutting water, nicely making-way, but again, no crew in sight. Was this a ghost ship? The strange, and vaguely familiar symbol on the flag flying atop the mast struck a raw nerve in me, but I wasn’t exactly sure why. I walked to the edge of the deck and looked over the side in an effort to spot some land; I saw nothing but calm, blue seas seemingly stretching into the infinite. Finally I decided that I needed to make my way to the ship’s helm; for if any member of the crew was still on board they would most certainly be there. If no one were steering this vessel then all would be lost anyway, because I don’t know the first thing about navigating a ship. After exploring for a while I finally stumbled up into the wheel room and found, to my disappointment and horror, that it was completely empty. Apparently someone had placed one end of a long wooden pole between the rungs of the wheel, the other end of which fit into a hole drilled into the floor. This presumably was a makeshift automatic pilot that prevented the ship from deviating too far to the port or starboard from its intended course; whatever that was. On a table next to an old dust covered sextant, there was some barely legible writing on a an old parchment, which seemed to make reference to the "holy city of Byzantium", which made little sense to me. I tossed the parchment back onto the table in frustration, if there truly wasn’t anyone on board, my options were limited. Would I helplessly wait until the ship ran aground, collided with another vessel, or sank?
As I exited the wheel room I began to call out in desperation to anyone who might be in earshot, but no one answered. Finally I thought I spotted a darkly dressed figure, barely within my field of vision, down on the deck. I bolted from the wheel room down toward the direction of the man. My heart was beating so fast I thought that it would pound its way right through my rib cage. I called out as I approached the man, who didn’t turn to face me until I was right behind him. As he laid his eyes on me, his expression at once changed from a twisted scowl to an almost sinister grin. Out of breath, and before I could rattle-off any one of a thousand questions rolling around in my head, he temporarily disarmed me by warmly greeting me, by name. As I gathered my thoughts, I sized up the oddly familiar stranger. He was smartly dressed all in black; a fully buttoned mock-collar shirt, pleated trousers, distressed leather bucket boots, and a single-breasted crushed-velvet frock coat. His embroidered lapel emblem was identical to the eerie symbol on the ship’s flag. “Who are you,” I sputtered. “My name” he coolly responded, “is unimportant.” He extended his hand in welcome, which I ignored, “I don’t know you, so how the fuck do you know my name?” “You’re right, you don’t know me, but I know everything about you, and I can help you,” he smugly replied. “Well, you can start by telling me how I got here!” “You came from below,” he answered, “don’t you remember? I was the one who released you from the hold, or did you think that door opened by itself?” “I have no idea how it opened,” I shot back, “and no more smart ass answers, how did I get on this ship?!” Before he could answer, I found myself getting lightheaded, my vision became blurred and suddenly the landscape began to change; the clear blue skies and calm seas gave way to choppy waters and dark overcast clouds, as the ship seemed to gain speed. In the distance, but rapidly approaching, was a huge landmass beginning to fill the horizon, ablaze like an inferno. I never imagined anything like it. It got so hot so fast that within a minute my clothes were drenched with sweat and my skin was burning. My nameless interlocutor stood there, seemingly unaffected by the searing heat, displaying that same smug and unsettling grin; I clenched my right fist with the intention of smashing it off his face. Suddenly, I found that I was unable to move a muscle, as the intense heat continued to burn me alive. Just before the ship was about to collide with the massive conflagration, I could read his lips as he mouthed the words, “you have always been on this ship.” The last thing I remember seeing before blacking out was a broken string of wooden beads in his hand.
Gloria Patri, et Filio, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.
There’s possibly no greater comfort to an insecure, socially awkward, pre-teen than a two month long summer vacation. When I was a kid, those long summer days filled with countless hours of T.V., toys, comic books, and swimming were well-needed medicine for a mentally frail boy who, during the school year, averaged one mini nervous breakdown per week. Well, that may be overstating the case just a bit; there were some down sides to summer vacation; like my father breaking my balls from time to time about mowing the lawn or cleaning up the house. Then there were the occasional fist fights with assorted neighborhood thugs, who seemed to deal with their summer boredom by making my life miserable. But most of the time I was relaxing and having fun. On Saturday nights my parents would occasionally invite the neighbors over for coffee or drinks, and we kids would go do our thing while the grownups did theirs. Once in a while I would get to spying on the grownups, and on several occasions witnessed some pretty disturbing stuff. No crazy sexual swinging crap, or anything like that, but weird and frightening nonetheless. One night, for instance, our neighbors from across the street came by with one of those foldable lightweight aluminum card tables, so naturally I figured an exhilarating game of pinochle would soon break out. But that’s not what happened at all; instead all the adults sat around the table, lightly placed their fingertips on the table’s edges in front of them, and took turns asking questions aloud; not to one another, but to some unobserved party. The strange questions, beginning with “is there anyone out there?” were of the yes or no variety. Often, but not always, the table would slightly, gently rise and fall to the kitchen’s tile floor. As the neighbors explained to my parents, one tap constituted a “yes” response; two taps meant “no”. At first I thought our neighbors were playing some kind of trick on my parents, but as I observed closely it was clear that the table was moving all by itself. As I sat out of sight, watching, spellbound, the atmosphere became more and more bizarre as long Q&A sessions ensued purportedly with some physically absent responder. The subjects included predictions of future events, information about deceased relatives, and other illicit themes. There seemed to be a vague trepidation in the air during the whole session, as if something seductive and dangerous was being released from some unseen vessel. Apparently, the session was considered to be over when the table stopped moving and several questions went unanswered. On this occasion, after a thrice repeated unanswered query, an eerie hushed silence fell over the room; suddenly, and without apparent cause, an empty crystal punch bowl tumbled off the countertop and smashed into hundreds of pieces on the ground, scaring the shit out of everyone, causing the women to scream, and nearly causing me to soil myself. After cleaning up the mess on the floor, the shaken adults poured some more drinks and excitedly talked about the experience for hours. All these years later I can’t remember much of the details of those conversations; all I can remember is the pall of dark apprehension that seemed to fall over the house, and my feelings of impending dread.
By the sign of the cross all magic is stopped, all sorcery confounded, all the idols are abandoned, and all senseless pleasure ceases, as the eye of faith looks up from earth and perceives heaven- Saint Athanasius
The brightest, whitest, most brilliant light that I had ever seen was all around me, yet my eyes were as relaxed as if I had opened them in the dark. My skin no longer burned, and at first there was nothing else to be seen other than the beautiful light. As I became more aware of my surroundings, it occurred to me that I was laying on my back looking upward. I wouldn’t have known this except for the lovely woman’s face looking down at me, my head resting in her lap as she lovingly held the weight of my sins in her arms. Her face was white as pure light and her clothes beamed like the sun; somehow the light of her soft face outshone even the omnipresent glow of our radiant surroundings. Miriam seemed to know my questions before I asked them, answering with comforting assurances and often speaking of her loving son, whose light she reflected onto me. I told her of my experience on the galleon, and how it still terrified my soul to its core. Before I completed the thought, I found myself once again standing on the deck of the old ship, but this time the immaculate lady was at my side. Her son now reigned here; as I came to realize later, he always had. No longer at sea, the ship was now docked in the harbor of a magnificent shining city, the quayside bustling with activity; stevedores at work, all manner of people coming and going. Atop the ship’s cruciform mast, the flag that once bore the baleful icon of the well-dressed man was gone, and in its place was a banner marked with the image of a lamb. When my lady spoke, I could more feel her words than hear them, “you have glimpsed into hell, where the souls of poor sinners go. In order to save them, and yourself, God wishes to establish in the world devotion to my immaculate heart.” I acknowledged her words without speaking, as the lines of her face began to dissolve into the pure white light. She continued, “sacrifice yourself for sinners and pray the rosary daily to help sinners avoid the fires of Gehenna.” Before my lady’s image disappeared completely, she motioned for me to go ashore. After disembarking, I looked back, and she was gone.
Domine Iesu, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, and lead all souls to heaven, especially those most in need of Thy mercy
I peacefully awoke in the lobby of the funeral home feeling well rested; the final shift had arrived at last. I checked the breast pocket of my coat, finding the well-dressed man’s business card. Getting up and walking towards the parlor, I tore the card into pieces and deposited it into the nearest garbage pail. And for possibly the first time in my life, as I crossed the threshold from the lobby into the parlor, I realized that there might be possibilities open to me other than decline and despair.
Hail, holy Queen, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn, then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this, our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary. Pray for us, O holy Mother of God. That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.
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