Communion

“Why am I here?” A young, tousle-haired, boy slouches back in a mahogany couch.

A balding man of salty hair, face hidden behind a bountiful beard, observed the contained anger seething deep inside the boy–a ticking time-bomb waiting to explode. Head rested on three bony, fanned fingers, the psychiatrist counters, “Why not you tell me?”

Eyes water, he replies, “I don’t have a damn clue.”

The psychiatrist grins, savoring the defiance of the person of whom the school board would label a juvenile delinquent, prone to in-and-out visitations to “Juvie” and on the road to prison. See-sawing silver pen between fingers, the psychiatrist regards the legal pad on his crossed legs. “You have quite the record... Breaking-and-entering, attempted arson, assaulting a teacher...” He sets aside pen and pad on end table, and steeples both hands. “Can you tell me what might have triggered these... tendencies?”

Sounds and pictures stamp his mind. He shudders. “I can’t remember much... Just cops... A cell... Mom and pop having a cow...” He sits back, huffing in exasperation.

“The trauma has been more catastrophic to you than others are led to believe. Wes, I consider you a victim of extreme circumstances, some of which are too horrific for you to dare remember, let alone to confide to anyone. Your actions have defined you as a criminal. With your memory clouded, it’s hard to grasp at anything fundamental that would give substantial reasoning behind your rebellious acts. Tell you what. Let’s take a more unorthodox approach.” Wes, eyes to the floor, nods. “Observe the room around you. Find something that may trigger your memory. It could be anything: clothing, a piece of furniture, the color of the wallpaper, even a shift of the shadows.”

Wes observes the typically-dull office: a desk bearing paperwork, a small library of topic-specific books, framed certificates meriting the psychiatrist’s greatest milestones...

Wes’s eyes lock on a dark tribal mask, gray lines snake up the black, white-speckled, eyeless mask. In Wes’s mind’s eye, a circle of beady-eyed men donning similar masks shoot their heads toward him in the confines of a dismal chamber.

The psychiatrist watches Wes recoil back into the chair and glances at the mask on the stand. “Fear not. It is a relic of a tribe composed of astute healers and spiritualists. I do find it assuring that some sealed feelings have escaped from that vault of yours. Wish to share?”

Memories shine in Wes’s mind as a guiding light through otherwise labyrinthine, foggy woods. It all begins with a confrontation he had with a friend, the morning of the grim day. He is ready to share.

***

“Ey batter-batter-batter-se-wing! Strike One! Strike Two! So close! Yo’ sis makes bedda hits than you!”

“Shut up!”

“Ooooo... Slammed... Stee-rike Three! Shoulda kept an eye on that one!”

The batter shoves the catcher, stumbling back. In a fury, the catcher throws aside the mask and shoves at the batter.

The pitcher, Wes “Silver Bullet” Rogers, all-time-killer-of-the-diamond in the neighborhood, watches the spectacle unfold in a flurry of fists. “Jake... Mark... Knock it out...” He runs up to the two who roll over the sand, brown dirt caking their clothes.

Wes pulls Mark back, as another kid pulls back the catcher.

Mark yells, “He started it!”

Jake returns, “Everyone knows how easy his sis is!”

Wes reiterates, “I said end it. What do we have to do to have a civil game of baseball not end in a civil war?”

The disputing boys branch off in separate directions: Jake’s friends following his path, Mark’s friends following his.

Billy, nose bleeding from a too-soon-dive at second base, snorts blood, “At least we won.”

Wes regards Rent in left field. What once had been one of the most on-your-toes players went through a downward spiral from shortstop to left-fielder in under a week–ever since his mom caught him chewing a wad of tobacco, browsing the latest issue of Penthouse.

Rent stares out beyond the field, past the chainlink fence.

“What’s the deal, Rent?” Wes confronts him. “You were the life of the game; now you’re inches from being buried six-feet under!” Rent stares at the white chapel across the street. A bell tolls, calling him. “Rent?”

“It’s Randall.” Rent growls. “I must go. Time is nearing.”

Wes reaches for Rent’s arm. In a violent jerk, Rent pulls back. The edge of his denim jacket pulls up to reveal a marking.

Wes pulls the sleeve back further. “What the hell is this?” A symbol, three horns pointing East West and South extend from a North sun of dancing flames, had been branded into the flesh.


Rent pries free, clears the field, runs across the street; a car stops seconds before hitting him, horn blaring. He then proceeds into the chapel.

Wes wonders, “What’s so special about that church?”

After much argument and a variety of threats exchanged, Wes and Billy enter the chapel.

An uninvited feeling about the atmosphere chills their bones.

A priest spouts, “I sayeth upon those infidels who dare tread the broken route of corrupted knowledge ‘Curse upon ye, may ye feel the fiery depths of hell consume your souls!!!”

Wide-eyed, Billy stops in his tracks, pulling Wes back.

Wes remains stolid, in the lion’s den, ready to take in anything that may come his way.

The priest’s pupils, bearing the darkest of sin, strike fear into them. “Intruders! What heinous intentions brings you in thy sacred realm?”

An assembly of forty members amongst the pews turn toward them with glazed eyes.

Wes sees Rent standing left-dias, dressed in altar boy attire. “There’s Rent.”

Billy stutters, “As much as you enjoy being Man-of-the-Hour, now’s not the time. Come!”

The doors behind them slam shut. Both boys tug and bang the door to no avail.

Hands grip the boys’ shoulders. The priest acknowledges, “Welcome to the East Sun Church.”

Wes cusses, “Screw your church!”

The priest stands stolid. “I quote Rekianis 8.13: ‘IT DOES NOT BEHOOVE GOD-FEARING PERSONS TO SPEAK WITH DISRESPECT OF THE DIVINELY APPOINTED PRINCE OF DARKNESS’. Repent, infidels! Become one of us!”

As both boys are ushered toward the dias, they recognize familiar faces: teachers, policemen, parents, friends, and more important figureheads who make up their town.

“Sons.” The priest grins in subdued malevolence. “Come... beneath the alter... where our dark lord resides.” The altar retreats automatically to reveal a stairway losing itself to the depths of the abyss below.

* * *

Wes fades in-and-out. People in black masks... Screams through the darkness... Red-hot iron brands Billy’s exposed wrist.

A simple phrase floats in Wes’s mind. “Sacrificial lamb...”

* * *

Wes awakens, cold and alone in a dark chamber. “Billy?” The room is empty. Light slants from an open shaft above.

Dazed, Wes wobbles upstairs to the empty chapel. The front doors are open, letting a subtle Autumn breeze filter into the desolate room.

Wes races outside, reaches the edge of the street. A white hearse brushes past Wes, almost grazing him.

Panting, hands cupped over knees, Wes makes a horrible discovery: Billy bangs for help on the rear window as the vehicle fades into the distance.

* * *

“I never saw Billy again. His family disappeared the next day. No mention of moving. Not even a moving van. Their house left empty.” Wes’s lips quiver. “The weirdest thing is when I asked about Billy and Rent, nobody knew who I was talking about. The gang who I played baseball with thought I was nuts.” He smiles more from uncertainty. “I guess I am...” He looks at the beams of sunlight piercing into the otherwise gloomy office. “Wow...” Overwhelmed, Wes admits, “All of those memories just... coming...” He then breaks. Tears welling down his face, “Oh God... To think what I did... Going back to that church... Burning it down...”

The psychiatrist takes a moment before saying. “Wes, let’s recap. You speak of having friends who disappear. You speak of a church that, as far as town records have documented, has been closed for decades. You then speak of a cult nobody has heard of, and throw in that it has some strong connection with our town. I can only deduce that you suffer from chronic paranoia, schizophrenia, and megalomania.”

“I’m a genuine basket-case.”

“That is harsh. There are some underlying reasons behind your wild imagination, and your urgency to endanger the lives of others with the vindication that there is some sort of crusade you are on to protect others. I can only assume that the causes are domestically-inspired. For that, I am going to admit you to Shaded Glen Asylum for observation, and that your family will be reported to the county for investigation of abuse.”

Wes shoots up. “What!? You can’t!”

The psychiatrist pages the secretary. “Request security for patient transport.”

The doors open shortly after, two stocky guards shackle Wes. Upon fighting them off, Wes stops at the sight that stuns him in sheer horror. A little below the edge of the psychiatrist’s sports jacket bears the familiar marking of the three pitchforks.