The Year's Best Horror Stories: XVIII

The Confessional by PATRICK MCLEOD

Fr. Thompson belched slightly as he made a half-genuflection in the general direction of the altar. The sour taste of scotch rose up to burn the back of his throat as he crossed the sanctuary and headed down the side aisle of the church toward the confessional. He fumbled discreetly through the pockets of his cassock, feeling for the breath freshener as he glanced over the nearly empty pews to ascertain the number of penitents he might expect.

Not too many (thank God), he sighed, and felt a twinge of guilt at the thought. It was early Saturday evening, and he would be hearing confessions for an hour and a half. Since St. Catherine's was an urban church, buried and half-forgotten in the growing ghetto of the old city, the weekend evening was the only practical time for its diminishing number of parishioners to name their sins to the pastor and seek his blessing. They didn't have time to spare the rest of the week, thought Fr. Thompson wryly, or the inclination.

There was only a handful of penitents scattered here and there — some kneeling, others sitting patiently. Most of them he recognized at a quick glance as he approached the door to the confessional on the side aisle. Not one of those present was under the age of thirty, he knew. Hell, not even forty. He easily dismissed any guilt he might have felt this time. He was a minister to the middle-aged and old, and he resented it. These people didn't need him. They wanted only reassurance and security, and he wasn't in the business of selling those particular commodities. Not at St. Catherine's, anyway. Another housing project or two, and the church itself would probably have to go.

He played with the little container of spray mist in his pocket as he reached with his other hand for the door handle to the priest's receptacle. Once inside, he thought with bitter irony, and a little squirt would forgive his evil breath and banish all evidence of the liquor he needed to fortify himself for the weekly ordeal of hearing other people's wickedness. A touch of the finger, a whiff of sugar sweetness, and he was almost good as new. God help me, he prayed, not for the first time.

Just as he was entering the confessional, he heard a noise at the back of the church which caused him to hesitate a moment. Looking back over the wooden pews and down the central nave, he could see a heavy-set man outlined against the twilight, itself framed by the heavy oaken doors of the church entranceway. As they swung to, the figure advanced haltingly into the dim lighting and stopped at the holy water fount. He stood there, eyeing the marble basin as though unsure of its function there or perhaps his own. It took a moment for Fr. Thompson to recognize him.

He had never seen him before in the church. His wife and daughter always came by themselves. Occasionally, over the years, the priest had seen them together outside at various places in the neighborhood, the man and his daughter. The wife was seldom with them. Once the priest had even taken the liberty of introducing himself. The man had seemed unimpressed at the time. On this evening's news, however, his grief had made his face almost unrecognizable on television, like those of non-celebrities usually are. The cameras had only been cursory in their glimpses of him anyway, much preferring the scene of the tragedy itself and the familiar comments of police and newscasters. Parents are too stunned in such circumstances for good press, and they won't stand still for the cameras. But Fr. Thompson had recognized him anyway.

Jesus Christ, he now muttered silently, and stepped quickly into the darkness of the confessional box. He sank back into the heavy cushioned chair, automatically raising the atomizer to his mouth, and listened for the approach of the penitents on either side. Not Arceneaux, he implored. Please God, not Arceneaux. He tried to listen for the big man's footsteps, but they were lost in the shuffle of those moving through the wooden benches and down the aisles to take their turn at the penitent's window on either side of him.

For the next thirty minutes, Fr. Thompson went through the usual Saturday evening routine. Leaning back with his head propped in one hand, he would slide the wooden grate aside and incline himself slightly toward the voice, which would drone automatically the formula of repentance. "Bless me, father, for I have sinned…." The purple curtain between him and the sinner stirred slightly with the expelled litany of offenses, by now so deadeningly dull and trivial to the priest's ears that he grew angry at their plaintive insistence. His parishioners as a whole, at least those who bothered to come to him, were so bereft of comfort and imagination that they were incapable of real sin. He heard over and over again the same petty self-denunciations of the men. I drank too much, I cursed and used God's name in vain, I slapped the wife around again, I looked at dirty magazines and played with myself, I missed Mass last Sunday because I was hung over. The women's confessions sounded more like complaints: I had to sneak some groceries when I went shopping because we've been so low on money, my husband and I had a quarrel because I didn't want to do it with him I was so tired and all and I'm still afraid of getting pregnant again, I used the diaphragm when we had sex because I don't know what else I can do I certainly can't have no more children, I get so angry I don't know what to do.

For all of them Fr. Thompson had the same prescription he had doled out weekly over the past ten years. Try to be a good Catholic, try to remember that God and his Blessed Mother love you, and say three Our Father's and three Hail Mary's. And while the person on the other side of the fluttering curtain would rattle out the perfunctory Act of Contrition, Fr. Thompson would raise his hand in blessing and murmur his own part of the ritual. "I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son…." Dear God, he thought wearily, staring numbly into the darkness of his cubicle, what an absolute travesty. He needed a drink.

The kneeling bench on the far side of the confessional groaned suddenly and the thin partition separating the priest from the person on the other side shook slightly as though it were being leaned against. The priest immediately knew who it was. The dread he felt on seeing the man at the church door had been misplaced, but not really forgotten, over the past thirty minutes. More than ever, thought Fr. Thompson as he pushed the small-latticed grate aside from the hanging veil, he wanted that drink.

The man on the other side had only partially pulled the curtain together behind him, and from the light seeping in Fr. Thompson could discern more than the usual gray outline. From the other side, the priest was practically invisible, a dark blur at best. The kneeling man said nothing for a moment or two, but his head kept moving back and forth as though he were trying to isolate the priest from the darkness, which concealed him. As Fr. Thompson leaned forward, he caught the beery smell of the man's breath, like the memory of last call in a two a.m. bar.

"Is that you, Fr. Thompson?"

"Yes, Mr. Arceneaux. Are you here to make your confession?" returned the priest hopelessly.

"You knew it was me, huh?" came the reply. "Can you see me or what? How'd you know?" He gave the priest a moment and continued, "I can hardly see you. How come?"

"I saw you in the doorway earlier, Louis," the priest said carefully, "when I was coming down the aisle here."

"Why do you call me Louis, huh? What gives you the right? You don't know me." Before the priest could answer, he went on, "What do I call you? Thompson? Father?" He made a feeble snort. "That's a joke, isn't it? You and me are probably the same age or so. How old are you anyway?"

"Mr. Arceneaux," the priest tried feebly, "this is a confessional. Why are you here?"

"Come on. I asked you a simple question. How old are you?"

"Forty-five," he sighed.

"I got a couple on you then," said the big man. "The white hair fooled me." He paused a moment, as if assimilating the information. "That still don't make you a father though, does it? A father has a child. Like I did." He was silent again before her name choked out of him in a half-sob. "My Anna Marie."

The priest sat still.

Arceneaux shifted his weight on the other side, and the confessional box shuddered with the effort.

"You knew my Anna Marie, Thompson?"

After a moment's hesitation came the quiet reply. "She talked to me occasionally."

"Yeah, I know she did. She used to say she liked you, her and her mother." There was the sound of despair in his feeble laugh. "What did she tell you anyway?"

The priest tried to suppress the chill he felt. He could see the bulky shape of the man's heaving shoulders.

"Are you here to make your confession, Mr. Arceneaux?" he said desperately, finally giving way to the faint shudder he had felt coming on.

"Yes, I am." The man had looked up with the words, and the priest was once again assaulted by the stench of his breath.

"Do you remember how to begin?" he offered, trying to stomach his distaste.

"Oh yeah," replied Arceneaux, again with a weak snort, "oh yeah." He shifted again on the tiny pew, which creaked its protest, and Fr. Thompson could see him turn aside and reach into his pocket for something. When he had settled again, the ritual began.

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned. I don't know how long it's been since my last confession." He was quiet for a moment. "It don't matter anyhow."

Fr. Thompson didn't want to look at the bulky, indistinct form on the other side of the small curtain. He put his hand to his head, shielding his eyes while he looked straight ahead into the darkness of his own compartment.

"You see," continued the voice only a foot or two away, "I'm gonna kill myself in just a minute or two. So what the hell does it matter?"

The priest didn't move, nor did he say anything. At another time he might have been frightened or shocked or angry. Now he was only weary. Nothing in human nature could surprise him any more.

"Don't you believe me, Thompson?" the man went on. "I mean it. Can you see what I got here?" There was the sound of something heavy shaken against the open latticework. "This is a.38 magnum, man. There ain't goin' to be nothing left of my face when I'm through."

The priest remained silent, and waited.

"Don't you want to know why? Or maybe you're too scared yourself. Think I might kill you too, is that it?" When there was no reply, the man bellowed at him, "Listen to me!"

"I am," the priest said quietly. "Try to keep your voice down, please. You'll alarm the others in the church."

"To hell with them. They'll have plenty to be alarmed about in a second." He was breathing quickly. "I killed her, Thompson. My own baby." The priest could hear the struggle in his voice to catch the sobs before they spilled out. "I didn't strangle her, I mean. I didn't murder her. But I killed her all the same. I ruined her."

He no longer bothered to implore the priest's attention.

"She was my own little girl, always was. And she was so beautiful. I couldn't help touching her and holding her and kissing her, even when she was a little baby. She was the only pretty thing in my life."

"Please, Mr. Arceneaux," the priest tried to interrupt him, "you don't need to do this."

"This is my confession, Father," the man spat out bitterly. "My last confession! Don't you want to hear it? Don't you want to know why I'm going to blow my brains out here so I'll make sure I go to hell?"

I know why, the priest wanted to shout back all of a sudden. I know it all. More than you. Instead, he tried to reason, repeating futilely, "You don't have to do this. You must not do this thing."

Arceneaux ignored him. "From the time she was thirteen, Thompson, I was doing it to her. I couldn't help myself. I would cry afterwards right in front of her, and I'd buy her things, trying to make it up to her. Only how can you —?" He broke off momentarily. "Her bitch of a mother never figured it out. The old cow was jealous of her own daughter.

Claimed I was spoiling her." He made a noise that tried to be a laugh. "Spoiling her!

"I didn't choke her to death last night in the park, Thompson, but I drove her there to whatever bastard did. All those times, and she was my own little girl."

The priest was looking through the veil now at the heaving shoulders. He could smell the sweaty head pressed against the tiny barrier between him and the grieving father. He didn't look away this time when the man raised his head, but he couldn't really make out the features.

"You know how old she was, Father?" It was only the second time Arceneaux had called him by that spurious title. "Seventeen. And now she's gone." He didn't break down this time. "So why should I go on? Can you tell me that, priest?"

Mr. Thompson swallowed slowly. "Mr. Arceneaux, the man who murdered your daughter is a monster. You are not. You are just a man, a weak man who —»

He was abruptly interrupted. "You know what the cops told me? They said there was a 'possibility' she had been sexually molested by whoever killed her. Sexually molested! A 17-year-old girl, my little baby." He pressed his face against the wooden grille between him and the priest. "How could they tell, Thompson, when I'd… been with her that very morning? You tell me that, huh?" And he began to cry again.

The priest could feel the vomit rising up, but he forced it back. The aftertaste of burnt scotch singed his sinuses.

"You are innocent of your daughter's death, Mr. Arceneaux. You have made your confession of the other. Please! Don't take this any further."

The big man suddenly wiped his face with a handkerchief he had produced from a side pocket, one hand nevertheless still hanging heavy at his side. The priest tried to find his eyes through the veil.

"God will — " started Father Thompson tentatively. He didn't finish.

"To hell with this," muttered the kneeling man and quickly raised the other hand to his mouth. The priest caught a glint of the metal off the faint light through the curtains behind him just before the gun exploded. There was only a small flash, but Arceneaux’s head flew back from the impact and his body slammed against the interior paneled side of the confessional before slumping to its rest.

The body was wheeled down the side aisle on the ambulance stretcher, but the police photographers were still busy taking the necessary pictures at the scene while the forensics people completed the details of their work. Fr. Thompson sat slumped in one of the pews a few feet away from the activity around the confessional. Lt. Smoak edged himself down the bench in front and sat, half-turned, where he could talk to the priest.

For what he had been through, thought the lieutenant, the priest looked remarkably calm. But of course, he was probably not unfamiliar with death. It was as much a part of his profession as it was the policeman's.

The priest's hands were pressed together between his knees and buried in the folds of the black cassock while his eyes studied the floor at his feet. He still had the long violet cloth around his neck — a stole, it was called, Smoak remembered quite inadvertently from his own Catholic childhood. He noticed that the ends were bloodstained from when the priest had been kneeling over the body, administering the church's last sacraments as the police had arrived. Extreme Unction they were called, Smoak remembered again, and marveled at the powers of association. He thought he had just about forgotten everything connected with his dim Catholic childhood, but now the recollections came rushing back like the turn of an evening tide. He hadn't stepped foot in a Catholic church since he escaped the nuns at the end of elementary school, but this one smelled just like the ones back then, musty and sweet.

At the lieutenant's approach, Fr. Thompson looked up and pulled his hands from between his knees. Smoak could see that the fingers, like the ends of the stole, were stained with dry blood.

"I'm Lieutenant Smoak, Fr. Thompson," he offered, "from Homicide." He didn't offer to shake hands.

"Thank you for keeping the press people outside, Lieutenant. They don't belong in here." The priest gave the church an exhausted look. "It's seen quite enough, don't you think?"

Smoak ignored the last question. "That was Sgt. McNally's work, Father. I just got here." The priest shrugged, so the lieutenant got right to his business. "I hate to go through this again with you so soon, Fr. Thompson, but what more can you tell me about what's happened here than you told the sergeant? Why did this Arceneaux kill himself here of all places? And in confession?"

The priest smiled wanly. "You know what I would like more than anything right now, Lieutenant?" He didn't wait for a reply. "A double J&B on the rocks. That would be nice."

The policeman only looked at him, and so the priest asked, "What do you know about Catholics, Lieutenant Smoak?"

"Nothing," he lied.

The priest looked past him toward the confessional. "As I told your subordinate, Lieutenant, Mr. Arceneaux came to confess his sins and to kill himself. I tried to talk him out of it — killing himself, that is — " (there was a painful grimace) "but he wouldn't listen." His gaze tailed back to the floor. "That's all I can tell you."

"You can't say what he was confessing, or why he wanted to do it?"

The priest looked directly at his questioner. "You probably know as much as I am able to tell you. It was his daughter you found last night in the municipal park. Anna Marie Arceneaux. A 17-year-old girl raped and murdered, then dumped like garbage in a city park. The man was in despair, Lieutenant."

"Did he tell you she'd been raped?"

When the priest refused to answer, Smoak went on.

"We hadn't told him that, Father. When we talked to him last night, we only said it was a possibility — that's all. Now why would he be so sure of it?"

"Oh, come on!" replied Fr. Thompson angrily. "It's fairly obvious, isn't it? The girl had no underclothes on. What else was a father to think?"

"We didn't tell him that either, about her bra and panties."

The priest smiled grimly. "You're a good cop, aren't you, Lt. Smoak? You think you know all the answers."

"No, I don't know all the answers. What I do know is that in the past year we've had three young girls around here raped and murdered, probably by the same man. His method stinks of it." It felt good to the policeman to let his own anger show a bit. He didn't like the smug righteousness of the priest. "What's more, talking to the Arceneaux girl's friends this morning, it seems some of them thought the old man might have been showing her something more than fatherly affection. You get my drift?"

The priest nodded, looking back wearily toward the side where the crime experts were wrapping up their work and packing their tools.

"Furthermore, one of the other victims and the Arceneaux girl knew one another. In fact, they were in the same class. The first girl we found lived around here but went to another school." He lowered his voice, but his hand gripped the back of the prayer bench tightly. "It's beginning to fit together, Father. That's what I'm saying. And yeah, I'm a good cop. I do my job, even when it stinks like this one."

"All right," said the priest, pulling his gaze back to the lieutenant, "But you must also realize that I'm a priest. I do my job too, some of it over there." He nodded toward the confession box. "I can't expect you to understand this right now, but I am not at liberty to divulge anything I am told in the privacy of the confession. Whatever Louis Arceneaux said to me in there is now between him and God. I'm sorry."

Much to Fr. Thompson's surprise, the lieutenant only nodded. "I remember," he said. "The Seal of the Confessional, isn't it called?" While the priest continued to look at him, Lt. Smoak took a cursory glance around the church. "I was raised a Catholic, Father. Thought I had forgotten it all." He turned back and smiled wanly at his listener. "I guess you never can quite forget it all, huh."

"No, you can't."

Lt. Smoak pushed himself away from the bench and rose to his feet. "I'll be talking to you again, Father. I appreciate your time here, and I apologize if I pushed a bit. I just sometimes get a bit sick of my job."

The priest got up slowly. "I know what you mean, Lieutenant. So do I." He didn't move toward the aisle as his eyes searched the lieutenant's. "The three murdered girls," he said slowly, "they all belonged to my parish. Did you know that?"

"Not really. I hadn't even considered it. What are you trying to tell me?"

The priest swallowed slowly, trying to control his emotion, but the lieutenant was too much the professional not to read the man's grief as he struggled for words.

"In a sense, Lt. Smoak, they were my children too. They called me Father."

The two men moved toward the side aisle.

"Thanks again for your time, Father." The lieutenant hesitated, running his tongue over the corner of his lip. The priest stood there. "Can you give me anything else at all about what Arceneaux told you? Anything? We'll probably be able to wrap it up ourselves from here on out, but I'd like to be a little more sure for starters."

The white-haired man with the Roman collar and the purple vestment round his neck looked back at the police officer. Shaking his head slowly, he reached out to shake hands when he noticed the caked blood on his fingers.

"I hadn't noticed before," he said, abruptly dropping his hand. Again, he seemed to be searching for the right words while the policeman waited.

"I can tell you this, Lieutenant," he went on after a moment, "and I hope it helps. I… think… you'll have no more of these crimes here. It's in God's hands now."

Lt. Smoak nodded. "Thank you, Father." He took another look around the church and started toward the entrance, leaving behind the priest who continued to stare at the anonymous figure outlined in chalk at the foot of the confessional.

Once inside his rooms in the small rectory attached to the church, Fr. Thompson loosened the collar around his neck and went to the desk where he kept the scotch. He had taken to locking the liquor in the bottom drawer because of Mrs. Cybulski. Though he had told her she need not bother with his room — he could take care of it and the adjoining bathroom — she would hear nothing of the offer. She had been minding the rectory and the church for thirty years, she told him, and she'd never heard of a priest taking care of himself like that. He had too many other things to do. So he gave up trying and just locked the bottles in the drawer. He also took care of the empties so as not to upset the good woman.

The first deep swallow was from the bottle itself. Then he filled the small tumbler from the adjoining bathroom and sat down at the desk while the sweet sting of the liquor worked its magic.

Earlier as the police had been leaving the church, Mrs. Cybulski pushed her way through the assembled reporters and small crowd of curious on-lookers. Without a word from him, she produced a heavy ring of keys and started to lock up the church.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cybulski," he had whispered to her before turning to the press and television cameras.

"It's a sin, is what it is, Father," she declared loudly, "that you should have to deal with this." She glared at the small group assembled below the priest on the concrete steps.

"It's all right now," he tried to soothe her. "If you'll just lock up, I'll take care of this shortly."

"I still say it's wrong," she had replied before disappearing into the church.

The questions and interviews had continued for nearly twenty minutes until the arrival of Monsignor Heavenrich from the bishop's office enabled Fr. Thompson to dismiss the reporters. Another thirty minutes followed with the bishop's man in the rectory office, going over details and diocesan policy in regard to police business and the press. In the meantime the answer machine fielded the phone calls.

At each message Fr. Thompson had dreaded hearing the voice of Mrs. Arceneaux, but she never called. Tomorrow he would have to talk to her, no way out of it. God almighty, he kept thinking all the while Heavenrich was there, God almighty.

He went over what he had told the police lieutenant about the confession, and the monsignor nodded sympathetically. "It's the kind of situation we all think about and study in seminary," Heavenrich remarked. "The dilemma of the confessional seal! But we don't think it will ever happen to us."

"Do you know the Hitchcock movie?" he asked after a moment. When Fr. Thompson only stared dully at him, the younger man went on. "I Confess, with Montgomery Clift. A priest hears a murderer's confession who then tries to frame him for the crime. Did you ever see it?"

"I don't like the movies," Fr. Thompson had replied quietly. The monsignor then concluded his business quickly.

In the silence of his upstairs room, Fr. Thompson now tried to still his mind. He glanced at the folded letter to the bishop he had worked on this afternoon, requesting a change of parish. He hated St. Catherine's, and now things were out of hand. Unless he got a transfer, they could end only one way.

He poured a little more into the empty glass and stared at the small footlocker at the bottom of the bed. It had been with him since his first assignment as a priest, seven parishes and four counties ago. Twenty-one years in all. Somewhere along the way, he had taken to storing the records of his accomplishments in the insignificant black trunk, the press clippings from the religion sections of various papers and the small parish pamphlets which tracked his progress to what he once was sure would be the bishop's office. A long time ago that seemed now. Just when those dreams died and the others started, he wasn't sure. But there were records. The footlocker told everything. What a confessional it would make, he thought drunkenly as he set the empty glass on his desk and started fumbling for the key chain in his pocket.

He lurched over and stumbled to his knees in front of the small black trunk, strands of hair hanging in his eyes as he worked the tiny key into its inconsequential lock. He pulled at the clasps on either side and pushed the lid open, pitching forward with the movement. He caught himself in time, but the white collar came loose from his neck and fell on the bra and panties lying on top. He tossed it aside and picked up the girl's underclothes.

He paid no attention to the tawdry photographs, the lurid magazines, the yellowed news clippings, or even the other girls' things lying in the footlocker. He knew he should get rid of all of them someday, but he was never able to bring himself to do it. Just as he had hoped there would be no more victims after the last one. He always hoped that, but God never heard him. All he ever really wanted was to help, to reassure them, to show them that he cared more than anyone else. But God had damned him, and he was lost until he found his own peace.

Fr. Thompson buried his coarse face in Anna Marie Arceneaux's delicate underthings and sobbed. "I'm sorry," he cried to no one in particular. "I'm so sorry. I won't let it happen again."

It was a familiar ritual, with no absolution at the end.