“When you become a priest, Peter,” he says in that horrible voice, “will you visit my grave? Will you bless the ground, and pray for my eternal soul?” His garbled words become phlegmy and guttural as he liquifies; the sound of his voice leaks out, molten and slippery. “Pray for my soul, Peter, because I suffer. I’m in the dark, Son. It’s so dark!”
“Dad,” I say, voice shaking, my skin clammy, my stomach in knots. “I miss you.”
“Pray for me, Peter . . .”
“。 . . I miss you and Mom so much . . .”
“Will you bless the ground? Will you pray for my soul? Will you forgive me?”
“Dad, please don’t.”
But he’s looking down at his knees, and he’s crying. Sobbing in great, heaving gulps. His body decomposing, falling apart at my feet. He reaches down and lifts the shotgun from between his legs.
“I’ll see you soon, won’t I, Peter? Yes, I think I’ll see you very soon.”
“Dad!”
He puts the gun between his bared teeth, turns his back to me and pulls the trigger.
“NO!”
The back of his black head explodes. A hot spray of flesh and bone and brain splatters me in a wash of gore.
I wake up to a room filled with light.
47
PETER WAKES UP SCREAMING, AND DAVID GROANS.
They’ve been cooped up for hours, and despite leaving all the lanterns lit, including the two wall sconces, most of the kids are asleep. It’s late, and they haven’t heard a murmur from beyond the doors since Peter and Andrew entered.
A couple of the kids needed to use the privy but going through the lobby and outside seemed like a bad idea. Luckily （or unluckily if your cot is nearby） there are a few bedpans for overnight use if the little ones don’t want to make the walk to the outhouse.
Of course, everyone missed both lunch and dinner. David swears he can hear stomachs growling all around the room. His included. Some complained of hunger pains, but most know the drill by now. Hunger is part of life at St. Vincent’s, and complaining certainly won’t change anything.
To make things worse, the storm is building in strength. The windows rattle incessantly, and the snow blurs past with such density it makes David feel as if they are moving, as if the whole orphanage has lifted from the earth and is now flying through the sky, carried on the shoulders of the storm.
Unable to sleep, or even rest his eyes, David sits cross-legged on his cot. He looks across the room at Peter, who now stares wildly around, as if in fear of fleeing spirits.
“You okay?”
Peter turns to David, wipes his brow, and swivels his feet to the floor. Hands on knees. Breathing heavy. For a moment, David wonders if he’s going to cry, but then the moment passes, and Peter looks like Peter again. Unafraid. In control. Saintly.
“I’m okay,” he says.
Peter stands, stretches. He looks at the clock on his small bedside dresser. David watches him, curious. In the wavering orange light of the lanterns, Peter looks older. His face appears lined, as if he’s aged twenty years in the last twenty hours.
A few cots over, Father Andrew is comforting Timothy, a hand around his shoulder as the red-haired boy whimpers about being afraid, about being hungry. About everything.
David wonders if he should be talking to some of the younger boys. Checking in with them. They must be scared.
But then his heart hardens, and he looks inward. We’re all scared. I’m fucking scared. Who’s comforting me?
Knowing he’s being selfish and hating himself for it, he sighs and swings off his cot. He’ll talk to Peter and Andrew, see what they should do next. Waiting it out until morning seems the best idea. Things will be better in the light of a new day.
Who knows? Maybe they’ll leave this horrid room in the morning and this nightmare will be over. The others will have departed. Run away.
If they haven’t already.
His spirits are buoyed by the idea. Yes, he’s sure they’re gone. They just need to wait until morning, maybe even find some breakfast . . .
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
All eyes turn to the double-doors, still held closed by the metal cross wedged into the handles. David and Peter look at each other, terrified, hoping the other will deal with it. Will take charge.
A few boys cry out in fear. David notices James hide beneath his blanket.
Byron is already approaching the doors.
“Byron!” Peter snaps.
Byron turns, looks at Peter patiently. “Just gonna have a listen.”
Andrew leaves Timothy’s side and starts toward the doors, the strange staff gripped tight in his hand, ready to bless or destroy as needed.
David stands, falls in next to Andrew. Peter does the same.
When they reach the doors, Byron has an ear pressed against the wood.
His head jerks back when the sound comes again, louder now.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
They all look at each other, each waiting for another to make the decision of what to do next. Finally, Andrew steps forward, gently moves Byron aside.
“Who’s there?” he says into the thin black seam between the doors. He listens carefully.
David hears someone whispering from the other side, but can’t make it out.
“And you’re alone?” Andrew says.
Again, a whispered reply. As if whoever’s out there doesn’t want to be overheard.
David hears movement behind him, turns to see some of the boys are now standing nearby, staggered, waiting to find out what fresh horror has arrived to greet them. He sees James, Finnegan, Harry, and Timothy—all of them watching warily. Many of the boys are still asleep. Seeing their scared faces in the pale lantern light, David feels a pang of protectiveness sweep through him. It feels sudden, this rush of concern. Like a door has been flung open inside his heart. The guilt of his conversation with Peter springs forward like a trap, stunning him with shame. But he’s made the decision to stay, and that will have to be enough. He never claimed to be perfect, and he’s here now, for whatever that’s worth.
He’s here.
I won’t have them hurt, he thinks, wishing he had a weapon.
Instead, he curls his fingers into fists.
“Who is it?” he asks.
Andrew, who has been leaning over in order to hear the mysterious guest, stands up straight. He gives Peter and David a quick look. “It’s okay, I think. Be ready, I’m going to open the doors.”
“Father!” hisses Harry, but Andrew ignores him and slides the cross free.
“It’s okay,” he says again, and pulls one of the doors toward him, exposing a wedge of black so dense David wonders for a moment if anything at all still exists outside this room or if it’s all vanished into some endless void, one that they’re dropping through forever, unaware that they’re already lost.
But then a slim, pale boy slips through. There are long scratches on his cheek and forehead. His eyes are wide and frightened, but when the door closes behind him and Andrew quickly replaces the cross barrier, he smiles at them.
“Jonathan?” Peter says.
David is bumped to the side as Finnegan rushes to his friend, yelping with unabashed joy. Jonathan laughs and they clutch each other in a tight hug. David sees tears spill from Finnegan’s tightly closed eyes and looks away, letting the two friends have their moment in relative privacy.