Father Francis gathered the newspaper clippings and slid them into his leather portfolio. He stopped, held up his hands and stared at the brown spots, the bulging blue veins and the trembling that had become commonplace.

It had only been three months since Ronald Jeffreys’ execution. Three months since he had listened to the confession of the real killer. He could no longer keep silent. He could no longer preserve the sanctity of a killer’s confession. Maybe it wouldn’t make a difference, but he had convinced himself that it was the right thing to do.

He shuffled down the hall to the church. His footsteps were the only sound echoing off the majestic walls. No one waited for confession. It would be a quiet morning. Still, he entered the small confessional.

Despite his having seen no one in the church, the door in the black cubicle next to him opened within minutes. Father Francis sat up and laid his elbow on the shelf, allowing himself to lean closer to the wire-mesh window between the two small rooms.

“Bless me, Father, for I have killed again.”

Oh, dear God. The panic came crashing against the old priest’s chest. It was difficult to breathe. Suddenly, the small, wooden box had only hot and stale air. The throbbing began in his ears. Father Francis strained to see beyond the thick wire mesh that separated them. All he could see, though, was a huddled black shadow.

“I killed Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner. For these sins, I am truly sorry and ask forgiveness.”

The voice was disguised, barely audible, as if forced through a mask. Was there anything, anything at all, that he could recognize?

“What is my penance?” the voice wanted to know.

Could he speak if he could not breathe?

“How can…” It was difficult. His chest ached. “How can I absolve you of your sins…heinous, horrible sins…if you only intend to do them again?”

“No, y-you don’t understand. I only bring them peace,” the voice sputtered. He obviously hadn’t come prepared for a confrontation, Father Francis realized with some degree of satisfaction. He had come only for absolution and to do his penance.

“I cannot absolve you of your sins if you intend to only go out and do it again.” Father Francis’ strong, unflinching voice surprised him.

“You must…you have to.”

“I absolved you once before, and you’ve made a mockery of the sacrament by committing the sin again, not once but twice.”

“I am truly sorry for my sins and ask forgiveness from God,” he tried again, mechanically saying the phrase like a child memorizing it for the first time.

“You must prove your remorse,” Father Francis said, suddenly feeling powerful. Perhaps he could influence this black shadow, make him face his demons, stop him once and for all. “You must show your repentance.”

“Yes. Yes, I will. Just tell me what my penance is.”

“Go prove your repentance and come back in a month.”

There was a pause.

“You aren’t absolving me?”

“If you can prove your worthiness by not killing, I will consider absolving you then.”

“You will not give me absolution?”

“Come back in a month.”

There was silence, but the shadow made no motion to leave. Father Francis leaned closer to the wire mesh, again straining to see into the pitch-black cube. There was a soft smack, then a hiss as a spray of saliva flew through the wire mesh, hitting him in the face.

“I’ll see you in hell, Father.” The low guttural tone sent shivers down Father Francis’ spine. He clung to the small shelf, gripping the Bible. And though the sticky saliva dripped down his chin, he couldn’t move even to wipe at it. When he heard the door open and the shadow exit, his paralyzed body made no attempt to follow or look out after him.

He sat for what seemed like hours. Thankfully, no one else came in. Perhaps the snow had kept other sinners home, he thought absently. Which meant no one had seen the shadowy figure enter or exit the confessional.

Finally, his heart resumed its normal beating. He could breathe again. He fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped his face with hands trembling more violently than usual. He held on to the walls of the small confessional as he eased himself out of the hard chair and onto wobbly knees. He gathered his leather portfolio and Bible and peered out. The church was empty and silent. Outside, he heard the laughter of children, probably crossing the parking lot to go sledding on Cutty’s Hill. At least they traveled in groups.

He shuffled to the front of the church, hanging on to the backs of pews as he made his way down the aisle. The panic and terror had exhausted him, drained him of energy. He would share this morning’s visit with Maggie O’Dell. The decision to do so made him feel stronger. Already the guilt lifted from his soul. Yes, it was the right thing to do. He started down the hallway from the church to the rectory, and even his feet seemed lighter. The ache in his chest eased to a mere annoyance.

On the way to his office he noticed that someone had left the door to the wine cellar open. He stopped in the doorway and peered down the dark steps. He could smell the musty dampness. A draft made him shiver. Was there a shadow? Down in the far corner, was someone huddled in the darkness?

He stepped onto the first step, clinging with a shaky hand to the railing. Was it his imagination, or was someone huddled between the stacked wine crates and the concrete wall?

He leaned forward on weak knees. He never saw the figure behind him. He only felt the violent shove that sent him sailing down the steps headfirst. His frail body crashed against the wall, and he tumbled the rest of the way. He was still conscious when he heard the steps creak, one by one by one. The sound of the slow descent sent terror through his aching body. He opened his mouth to scream but only a moan erupted. He couldn’t move, couldn’t run. His right leg was on fire and twisted beneath him at an abnormal angle.

The last step creaked just above him. He lifted his head in time to see a blaze of white canvas smash into his face. Then darkness.