My Last House Blessing
I’ve been blessing houses for three years. Three years of distressed parents, shaken kids, and superstitious elderly. From bumps in the night to shapes in the woods, I’ve answered calls far and wide to clear the terrified of their fear of the supernatural. I started small, in my hometown, and slowly worked my way to taking jobs out of state. I did it for free at first, but after the donations started rolling in and my name got around, I was able to earn a decent living from saving the innocent from otherworldly threats. My growth in popularity led to my persona, the young and prestigious Father Cain. I maintained a dedicated online presence, building groups and pages on social media to stay engaged with the community. Answering every question, responding to every text.
Each successful blessing brought more follows and shares, before I knew it Father Cain was a household name, and I was booked daily for months to come. My hair was gelled right, my pencil thin beard immaculate, professional. I dressed clean and drove even cleaner, rolling up to houses in my waxed Cadillac Deville and knocking on doors in black, lambskin gloves. Every time an old man or frightened woman would call I would deliver, every ghost banished and aura lifted soothing the minds around me. Each time they ask me how I perform such miracles, and each time with overexaggerated theatrics and heavy mysticism I keep them from learning my hidden secret: I’m a fraud.
That’s right, I’m a total fake. It started as a prank, just to see if I could do it, really. But after I actually got away with it, I realized I could help people by the power of placebo alone. Built upon my own arrogant skepticism, I cloaked myself as a “warrior of light”, and boy, was I welcomed with open arms. With just a bit of innovation, I put on a front that sold anyone at the end of their rope. Some well-versed scripture, sprinkled with buzz words. A cheap rosary off Amazon, scuffed with sandpaper for authenticity. A vial of holy water, courtesy of the tap. I plan each “blessing” accordingly, using the information gathered beforehand. I go in and put on a good show, leaving the family feeling rejuvenated with their newly cleansed house. I’ve had nothing but success over the years, and my social media is filled with nothing but praise and delightful reviews. Over a hundred successful cleanses, with nothing but thanks to follow. That was, until yesterday. Yesterday I blessed a house, and I will never do it again.
Yesterday started like any other routine job. After some messaging back and forth with the client on Facebook, I knew the jist of what was going on. The client’s name was Lacy Stephens, and she was concerned about some strange occurrences going on in her house. The same stuff I had heard a hundred times before; unexplained noises, a chilly draft in the house, doors opening and closing on their own. The more significant detail was an apparent leak in the basement, some kind of ooze seeping from the foundation (my guess was septic). I decided before I went out that the “issue” would be solved in the basement, the discovered “origin” from which the problem stemmed. In and out, no big deal.
I pulled my car into the driveway, taking in their gorgeous property as I parked in the front. It was an old Victorian style house, a few acres of forest serving as a backdrop. A field neighbored the property on either side, and less than a block away was construction for what looked like a new subdivision. I stepped out of the car and walked up the drive, smoothing my peacoat with my shiny black gloves. In my right pocket was the rosary, and on the left was a bundle of sage with the vial of “holy” water. I went over my lines in my head, a smug grin already starting to form.
Lovely evening, Ms. Stephens. Blessed day, Ms. Stephens. How are we faring today, Ms. Stephens?
I stood at the front door, re-teased my hair, and raised my hand to knock. Before my knuckles could rap, the door shot open.
“Good afternoon, Ms. — ”
“Jeeeeeeesus. You look more ridiculous than I thought.” A man stood in the door, tall and broad, his face twisted in a scowl. Wife beater, basketball shorts. On his head was a large gaming headset, a thin cord trailing down from it to a controller gripped in his hand.
“I’m sorry?” I asked, confused. The man eyed me up and down, and scowled again.
“Look here, pal. I don’t know what kind of shit you’re trying to sell to my wife, but do me a favor. Make this quick, let her down easy, and get the f — -” he was cut off by a much shorter woman, who shoved past him.
“Father Cain! Thank you for coming out today!” said Lacy Stephens, who beamed under the man’s shadow. She was very pretty with long brown hair, her curvy body accented by a spaghetti string top and leggings.
“Pleasure’s mine.” I said, shaking her hand with both of mine, much like a priest would in a church. I flashed a smile at her, and then to the husband, who proceeded to groan.
“Come in, come in. Don’t mind my husband. He’s in the middle of a game.” She motioned inside, and the husband shambled away, his slides dragging on the floor. He sat on the couch, giving me another warning look before unmuting his headset. On the wall opposing the couch, was a large flatscreen displaying a Call of Duty queue.
“Sorry guys, I’m back. Lacy actually invited that Criss Angel guy.”
“Would you like some tea?” She asked, heading to the kitchen.
“That sounds wonderful.” I said, watching her go. I looked around the living room at the furnishings and wall decorations. It gave the old house a much more modern look, your standard Live Laugh Love giving a taste of Instagram home happiness. I looked at the pictures on the walls, taking in additional information in my head.
Young couple. Bubbly Wife, Stubborn Husband. No kids, no pets. Should be easy, as long as the Husband doesn’t heckle too much.
It wasn’t my first time dealing with a skeptic and it wouldn’t be the last. We exchanged looks for a moment, him taking the time to remind me he didn’t approve while his character sprinted through smoke. Luckily, Lacy returned quickly.
“I put the kettle on. So, how do we start?” She asked.
“Tell me about what’s happening here, and we’ll go from there.” I said, putting my hands together.
“It started a couple months ago. Nothing really crazy, just weird. I’ve had a couple doors close on their own while he’s at work. Sometimes in the middle of the night, the house creaks, and I can hear scratching in the walls. It didn’t happen often, at first. But lately it’s been every night. My husband thinks I’m overreacting. Not that he would hear it anyway, the way he snores.” She said, her eyes traveling like she was searching for something invisible.
“I see. Sometimes darkness works in mysterious ways, Mrs. Stephens. The devil always looks to bend the ear of those willing to listen.” I said, pulling the rosary from my pocket. Behind us, the husband scoffed.
Lacy gave an annoyed look past me and motioned toward the kitchen.
“Most of the activity is in the kitchen, and the basement. The entrance to the basement is next to the pantry.”
“Let’s have a look, shall we? I want to reach the epicenter; it’ll be there where we’ll cast our blessing. If that is what you want.” I said, letting the beads unravel until the cross dangled in the air. She went to turn, and I put up a hand to stop her.
“What? Is something wrong?” She asked, eyes wide and worried.
“Ah, yes. There is definitely a presence in your house. I can feel it now, and it beckons from the basement. The devils dark touch reaches out, and I believe — ”
“Alright, alright, cut the theatrics,” The husband cut in, his headset and controller left at the couch, “Just let her show you the damn basement, so we can get this over with.” He brushed past me, and stood next to his wife protectively. She gave an apologetic look.
“Of course. Let us see the basement.” I said with a smile.
Bumps in the night were a common occurrence. Every chilling noise mistaken for a haunting could easily be debunked by rational thought and a little bit of research. Creaks in the night was always an old house settling on the earth it was built upon. Scratching in the walls was most likely squirrels, “Flying squirrels” in particular with the sheer amount of wooded land in this town. Doors that closed on their own were usually all chalked up to overall gravity and pressure changes in the rooms themselves. In conclusion, old country houses, doing old country house things. Not that I would tell them that.
“What sort of noises have you been hearing, Mrs. Stephens?” I asked, following them in slow, steady steps. I felt it helped in the act. Lacy turned to acknowledge while her husband rolled his eyes and waited with impatience.
“The scratching has only happened a couple times. There’s been a few knocks, too. Sometimes I think I hear whispers, too,” She said, rubbing her arm as if suddenly chilled.
Varmints, old plumbing, perhaps a forgotten television?
“The most unnerving one is the clicking though. I can’t explain it. It almost sounds like gunfire.” She said, looking at her husband.
“I told you Lacy, nobody’s firing off machine guns in the neighborhood. We live in a nice part of town. Here’s the basement, come on.” Said the husband, rushing the tour along.
Machine guns?
I entered the kitchen, and actually felt a chill waft over me. I could see the culprit immediately; a pair of single pane windows by the sink. I kept my smile to myself and followed the husband, the wife following close behind. The husband opened the door next to the pantry, to reveal the dark entrance to the basement. With a sigh he reached into the dark and flicked the light switch, and the stairway filled with soft yellow light.
“It’s down here. Watch your step, Copperfield.” He taunted.
“Of course. This is where the energy is manifesting. Would we like to say a prayer before we head down?” I asked, and Lacy considered.
“No. I don’t want to deal with this all day. Let’s get it done.” He said.
“Brian, don’t be a dick.” Lacy said.
“It’s quite alright. The Lord is with me now, every step of the way.” I said, looking down the old wooden steps.
“Sure, sure. Don’t hit your head.” Brian led.
We went down the stairs, each step creaking as we descended. The basement was unfinished, the crude cement walls damp and dimly lit. Lacy passed us and walked to the old washer and dryer, her bare feet slapping the concrete floor. There were two green rugs on the floor, one in front of the machines, and another in the far corner.
“This is where I hear it. Every time I do laundry. He thinks I’m crazy.” She put her arms out in the empty space.
“Hear what, exactly?” I asked.
“The clicking.” She said.
“Probably just a jackhammer or something. They’re putting in that new neighborhood, I’m sure you saw the construction.” Brian said.
“It’s only when I’m down here. Alone.” She said, hugging herself.
I hadn’t heard of any clicking in the past. An old clock, sure. But a sound as fast as a jackhammer? That was a new one for me. I walked to the closest wall, running a gloved hand over the bricks.
“You said there was a leak? May I see it?” I asked.
Lacy walked over to the second rug and peeled it up. It separated from the ground with a wet sucking sound, and I moved closer to inspect it. Septic leak would be anywhere from clear to brown, not to mention the smell. This “leak” was black, like the color of tar. Underneath the rug was a wooden padlocked door, and the black ooze had been seeping from underneath it.
“I had a guy check out the septic. We should be good now.” Brian said.
“That was two days ago. It’s leaking again.” said Lacy.
“Then I’ll call him again.”
I looked at the trap door, and the rusted lock that looked like it hadn’t been touched in a decade. I could feel a breeze coming from it, like a damp breath pushing out. There was something about the door. It didn’t feel right. I looked at it, feeling my ears get hot. The longer I looked, the more I thought I heard something. Slowly rising beneath it. I clutched the rosary nervously, the noise getting louder.
“The Kettle!” Lacy said, and made her way upstairs.
I chuckled. Always an explanation.
We watched her go, and when she was out of sight, Brian narrowed his eyes on me.
“We finished here? Come on, man. Don’t drag this out.” He said.
“What’s with the door?” I asked, pointing to it on the floor.
“It’s a crawl space. Never seen one before?”
“Why’s it locked?” I asked, crouching down to get a closer look at it. Trying to look more concerned than necessary.
“I dunno, man. Realtor said it floods. The lock was there when we bought it. We just left it there. Covered it with the rug, it’s pretty gross.” He explained.
Excellent. The Realtor already explained it, so the only one concerned here was the wife. The husband already didn’t want me here. He could give his “blessing”, feign some sense of clarity, and be on his way.
“Evil enjoys dark, damp seclusion, Mr. Stephens. It gives it an adequate place to hide, fester. It burrows into the property and grows. The longer it’s there, the more mischievous, more unrelenting it gets” I played it up, gently grabbing the lock. The surface of the rusted metal deteriorated on my gloves. I rubbed my fingers together and it smeared into a disgusting paste. “Do you believe in God, Mr. Stephens?”
I waited for an answer, but none came. No attitude, no jab, no sigh. Above me, the door slammed hard, and I jumped. I looked for Mr. Stephens, but he was gone. Standing alone in the basement, the lights went out.
I sighed. I felt a chill on the back of my neck and chuckled to myself. So this is how it was going to be. I felt through the dark, heading to the stairs. I cleared my throat and spoke aloud.
“I understand my presence here aggravates you, Mr. Stephens. But pranking me isn’t the way to solve this matter.” I said, my footsteps echoing on the old steps. I reached for the basement door and opened it, expecting them to be waiting, possibly laughing. Maybe they were playing me. But there was no laughter, no pointed fingers. There was nobody at all, just an empty, cold kitchen. Even the appliances were gone.
“Hello?” I called, watching my words come out as fog.
The house was bare, and unbelievably gray. I walked into the kitchen, my footsteps kicking up dust. My first thought was to just leave, the irrational fear of the unknown gripping my spine like ice. I headed for the front door and shoved it open. My car was gone. The driveway was gone. Nothing but open fields, no construction, nothing. The sky above was the color of ash, overcast for as far as you can see.
“Mrs. Stephens? Mr. Stephens? Helloooooo” I called, but my voice barely reached. The sound wouldn’t carry, it was being suppressed by something else. It was an odd noise, and my mind conjured the only thing to make sense of it.
Clicking.
There was movement in the monochrome landscape, about as far away as my car had been. Long, twig legs attached to white elegant feathers. A pair of storks in the grass, their legs robotic under a seemingly fluid body. They looked at me, eyes beady and wide as if they were alarmed. Their bodies contorted, long necks bending backwards in unison, like they were dancing. Together they pointed their beaks to the sky, a loud chattering erupting from their bills. It sounded like gunfire over the valley.
I slammed the door to block out the noise and hide from their beady eyes.
“No, no, no-no-no-no” I stammered. Feeling helpless, out of control. The rosary in my hand was steaming, the beads radiating warmth. I looked around the living room, the flatscreen, the couch, video games, all gone. Bare walls, fogged windows. There was a loud crash, and I squeezed my eyes shut, the rosary held close. Whatever it was, it came from the basement.
“H-hello? Anybody there?” I cried weakly. Over a hundred houses. Never anything unordinary. This didn’t make sense. It just wasn’t possible.
I stood there in denial for a time. I knew what I had to do, or rather, the only thing I could do. My feet moved on their own when they were ready. Slow, creaking steps, one by one. Back to the kitchen, the air getting colder as I moved. I shivered, the chill stiffening my peacoat. No hot burner, no piping kettle. My attention felt drawn to the basement doorway, to the dark passage that seemed to push wind from it. Like it was breathing.
I went in, holding the beads close. Pushing forward, down the steps. I waited for something, like a hand to grab me, but the sensation was different. I felt eyes on me, but there was no one in sight. At the landing I turned hesitantly, knowing what I would find but afraid to see it. No washer and dryer, no rugs. Only the cellar door, thrown wide open. The padlock and latch littered the floor in pieces.
The dark hole beckoned, its mysterious black luring me in. I didn’t want to go. It was something that just happened on its own. I could hear sounds coming from it, like someone was plucking a tight guitar string. It was metallic and wiry.
I stood before the hole and looked in. There was nothing, only a void. Black so thick it looked like you could grasp it. The noises came from the hole, the metallic ting, with a whisper on the cold breeze. Whatever it said, it didn’t make sense.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy — ” A loud pop interrupted my mumbling, and I clutched my stomach in pain. It felt like someone had punched me. I felt the sensation of trickling water and assumed I pissed myself. To my dismay I did not; the leak was coming from my coat.
I reached in to feel my glove soaking, and pulled it out to find a handful of glass. The vial of holy water had burst. My mind raced. With a shaky hand I tried to get all the glass out, wet shards hitting the concrete like pebbles. I kept trying to mumble, to say something in comfort, but the words felt scrambled in my head. The now wet bundle of sage tumbled out with the glass and I watched it fall. As soon as it hit the floor it shriveled, igniting in embers and a puff of smoke.
God help me, I thought, the smoke stinging my eyes. I stepped in front of the hole, peering in like it was an open casket. I felt the wind, and there it was again, the metallic twine. I didn’t have a choice. I had to go in.
“B-blessed is the man, who remains s-steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test…” I stammered; the irony was not lost on me. I was a joke. I deserved this.
Holding the rosary, I closed my eyes, and jumped in.
Falling, endless black. I hugged myself, the wind flapping my cheeks as I yelled, plummeting into nothing. There was nothing but gusting wind, my stomach twisting as the blind momentum continued. I thought of prayers, something for comfort, but it didn’t matter. Even if I could find the words, I didn’t deserve to use them. Eventually my shoes felt surface, softly at that. I landed gracefully at my destination, and once I had the courage, I opened my eyes. I was in what looked like a cavern, but a man made one. Carved out ten foot ceilings in the stone, like a larger, cruder basement. Torches lined the walls, fire that burned white. I wanted to call out, but my breath was ripped from my lungs. Whatever I was meant to see I had found, and it was right in front of me. I watched in horror, unable to speak, unable to breathe. The sounds of metallic plucking clear as day.
Hanging from the ceiling on a long braid of barbed wire, was a woman. Blind folded and gagged, she hung like an art piece, a complicated shibari tie forcing her pose, upside down. Her naked skin was scuffed with a slick black rub, an oily substance that reflected the torchlight. She swayed slightly, the barbs tinking off other strands. It looked terrifying and painful, the way the wire bound her. Arms tied tight behind her back, each leg positioned individually with the grace of a ballerina, like she was twirling in the air. Through the horror of the bondage was a beauty, her figure displayed like a twisted sculpture.
The rosary was hot in my hands, steaming against the lambskin glove. My fingers wouldn’t let it go, like it was the only thing I had left. I could hear the sound again. The maddening clicking of the storks, bouncing off the walls from some unknown location. I took a step toward the woman, to try and help her, but froze. A shape emerged from the shadows of the cavern, a broad figure garbed in what looked like layers and layers of leather. I could hear the fabric of their clothing as it moved, whatever resided beneath was being restrained. I guessed it to be a muscular man from the build, but its face was shielded by a porcelain mask, arced slits for eyes, and a long shoebill beak. It looked like a plague doctor but tainted. Behind the eyes of the mask two globes glared, bloodshot and depraved. I could hear his breathing now, heavy and labored.
The dominator came to the woman’s side, their hulking presence casting a shadow over the helpless pose. A leather hand moved across her body, sliding over the slick rub, caressing the breast. The woman writhed in her restraints, her whimpers indiscernible from pleasure or fear. The hand rested on her stomach, fingers tapping the skin like this was a carnival show. With a heavy step, their boot pressed into the floor, an indent in the stonework causing a groaning shift. The floor split apart, opening a pit beneath them. They floated in the center, a small platform serving as a stage. It was now the noises got louder, reverberating so intensely it shook the walls and rattled my teeth. Dozens, no, hundreds. The chorus of clicking blasting from the pit.
Below the stage, an army of wild-eyed storks clacked their beaks. They jumped excitedly, wings smacking each other as they reached for the bound woman. They didn’t notice me there, every beady eye locked hungrily above. The masked man reached behind him slowly, and the birds clicked in anticipation. Theatrically he withdrew his hand, a long sickle shining in the white torchlight. The commotion grew as he placed the cold steel against her abdomen, and she twitched under its touch. After a pat of admiration, he pulled the blade fast, and her lean stomach separated. A geyser of black and red rained into the pit and the dominator let her go, her sculpture body spinning, her legs curled. Like a Stork.
Below the birds went wild, clacking wet beaks at the splashing blood. They shoved and fought for it, stark white feathers stained a vibrant red in the light. It covered everything, until all you could see was a writhing mess of beaks and claws. Their pupils dilated, and the clicking got erratic, unsynchronized. As she ran dry, the woman gave her final convulsion before going limp.
In my hand, the rosary exploded. The sound was deafening, beads bouncing off the cavern walls like a shotgun blast. The squawking and clicking stopped and all fell silent. Ahead of me, the hulking dominator looked my way, a long finger unraveling from his fist as he pointed. Those bloodshot eyes looked angry, offended even.
Like a sonic boom the birds cried together, bursting from the pit like an erupting volcano. Red feathers, sharp beaks, eyes dotted like pin pricks. They were on me instantly, pecking and slashing with their extremities. They squawked in my ears before pecking at them. Their talons tore my clothes, ripped my coat. I felt the beaks puncture my scalp and knock my skull, a volley of spear-tipped stabs picking me apart. My flesh peeled away, their solid beaks rattled against my bones.
“Get off me! Get off, get-“
“What the fuck is your problem man? It was just a fuse!” Said a familiar voice.
I thrashed wildly and opened my eyes, Lacy and Brian looking at me bewildered. We were back in the kitchen. I huffed for breath, sweat trickling down my back and beading on my forehead. At my feet was a shattered teacup, China glass crunching under my feet.
“Wha- what? What happened?” I asked, taking off my gloves and wiping my face. I unbuttoned my peacoat, I was burning up. The beaks tearing my flesh. The holy water, sage, and rosary. I patted my pockets; they were empty.
“What do you mean what happened? The breaker blew, I went to fix it, you said you would burn some sage and sprinkle some water or whatever. Said you’d be right up,” Brian said, his brow furrowed, “then you come up here, mumbling and shit, and she handed you some tea. You squeezed the cup until it broke. Reached out for her, all crazy. Now look at this mess, what’s wrong with you man?”
My mind raced. I looked at Lacy, who put her hands up and backed away, moving behind Brian. I thought of it all, it replayed in my head on fast forward. The barb wire, the girl, the storks.I looked at Lacy’s face, the hair, her skin. It was her, the bound woman. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. My face was flushed, and I felt a hot trickle from my nose. I touched it to see the red drip of a nose bleed.
“You need to get out of this house! It’s not safe!” I pleaded, and they flinched when I stepped forward.
“You guys gotta go, I don’t know what it is, I can’t expl — -”
Brian cut me off.
“No, it’s you who needs to go. Get the fuck out of here. C’mon, let’s go. Now.” He said, grabbing me by the arm, hard.
“No! You don’t understand! Your wife, she’s not safe! You gotta’ get her out of here!” I begged as he shoved me through the living room.
“Yeah. Not safe from you, no doubt.” He opened the door and tossed me out, jabbing a finger in my face.
“Don’t come back here, understand? Don’t message my wife, don’t show your face here again. I’ll call the cops. Psycho!”
He slammed the door in my face.
I walked to my car, my head foggy, my nerves shot. My hands were shaking, and when I got into my car, I sat there for a moment. I looked at the house, with all of its color returned. I looked to the front window, Lacy was there, mouthing the words I’m sorry briefly before her husband was there, phone in hand. They started shouting at each other, and I started my car, tires spinning gravel as I turned around. I drove home, not really sure of what to think. Not sure what to do. I drove home in silence, I couldn’t get it out of my head. I pulled into my driveway. The tears started to fall when the adrenaline wore off, and I bawled at my steering wheel.
It was wrong. Everything was wrong. My whole world came crashing down. No more blessings, no more cleanses. I took it all down. I’m done. The charade is over. I shut down the website. Canceled all meet and greets and future appointments. I ghosted everyone like the fuckin’ fraud I am, and now I’m done. I see their eyes when I sleep. In the back of my mind I see the hanging pose. The geyser from the gaping wound. The clacking beaks.
Days have passed now. The phone calls are getting less frequent, and the messages have died down. I made a post on social media, announcing my resignation. My fans deserve better, but in the end I’ll only hurt them more. I’m moving soon, far enough away to escape the stain that is my own existence. I check in on the site from time to time, seeing the love from those I have helped in the past. I hope I really did help them somehow. Maybe it wasn’t all a waste. I’m sorry everyone. Really.
Lacy sent me an email. It’s two in the morning. I’ve read it a dozen times, and I don’t know what to do. Every time I read her name I’m reminded of the clicking, the beaks echoing in my mind. Nothing makes it go away. I can only turn down the volume but it never leaves. Why? Why won’t it stop?
Father Cain. It took me a while to track you down. I’ll understand if you don’t respond, but I don’t know who else to talk to. The door is open. My husband doesn’t see it, it’s always closed for him. But I can. It opens at night. It calls to me. I know you warned me. But I don’t know how long I can resist. I just heard it open. I can hear it. The clicking. It’s getting louder.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
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