Reborn

5

Grace was in good voice tonight. She listened to her voice mix with the deep chords from the organ as they reverberated through the vaulted spaces of St. Patrick's Cathedral. She was hitting the highs with a richness of tone that was exceptional even for her. "Ave Maria" was her favorite hymn. She had begged for the solo and had been granted it. Now she was doing it justice.

She was aware that the other members of the choir had remained in their seats behind her, listening. This added personal pride to her usual joy of praising the Lord in song, for it was common during a soloist's practice for the choral singers to step outside for a cigarette or retreat to a distant corner for quiet conversation. Not this time. They sat in rapt attention as she sang.

A meaty voice, her choir director had said. Grace liked that expression. She did have a full, rich, meaty voice. It went with her solid, meaty body. She had given over most of her spare time to singing for the last two decades of her fifty-three years, and all those years of practice were finally coming to fruition. Her "Ave Maria" would be the high point of the Easter Mass.

Grace lost herself in the rapture of the song, giving it her all… until she noticed that the organist had stopped his accompaniment. She glanced back and saw the horrified expressions on the faces of her fellow choir members.

And then she heard it, the one, high, clear voice ringing through the otherwise silent church, singing a simple, repetitive melody, almost a chant. A quarter note, followed by two eighths, then another quarter. She could pick out the melody in her head: Fa-re-fa-mi… fa-re-fa-mi…

Then she heard the words: "Satan is here… Satan is here…" Over and over.

Who was—?

And then Grace realized that it was her own voice singing so high and sweet, and she couldn't stop it. The rapture was still there but horror mingled with it as her voice sang on, faster and faster.

"Satan is here… Satan is here… Satan is here…"