Omaha, Nebraska

Gibson wondered where the noise was coming from. It was too dark to see, but it sounded like running water. Maybe it was the toilet bowl in the bathroom between his bedroom and his little brother’s. All it took was a jiggle of the handle but Tyler always forgot.

He tossed and turned onto his side. He pulled the blanket up over his ears and tried to ignore the noise, burying his head in the pillow. It didn’t work. The water kept gurgling. Louder now.

Damn it, how hard was it to jiggle the frickin’ handle?

He crawled out of bed, feeling his way to the door like he usually did when he got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. If he turned on a light his mom got hysterical and wanted to know what was wrong. Besides, she kept a night-light in the hallway, one of those light-sensored gizmos that turned on automatically in the dark. Only tonight there was no light. The frickin’ thing must have burned out. Piece of crap.

He felt along the wall. The gurgling hadn’t stopped. And he was right. It did seem to be coming from the bathroom between his and Tyler’s rooms. He had a notion to go wake up Tyler and show him how to fix it. But wait, wasn’t Tyler supposed to be sleeping over at his friend’s? The big baby must have changed his mind.

Gibson noticed the light under the closed bathroom door. Not only did Tyler leave the toilet running, he left the light on. Geez, what a pain in the ass. He pushed open the door and froze. There on the bathroom floor was Monsignor O’Sullivan, lying on his side. The gurgling noise was blood streaming from his nose and mouth and chest. And his eyes were staring, unblinking, directly at him.

Gibson started backing away and slammed into the wall. He shook his head and looked around the small bathroom. Everything else was in place. Even the wadded-up towel he had left on the floor. He closed his eyes and opened them again.

That’s when the priest’s eyes blinked.

Jesus! Gibson turned to run, but the door had closed behind him. He couldn’t find the doorknob. What the hell happened to the doorknob?

He glanced back over his shoulder. The monsignor jerked and turned, then started to get to his feet. Now Gibson pressed himself against the wall, too stunned to move. Paralyzed, with his heart pounding in his ears and a cold sweat sliding down his back. The last time Gibson had seen him he was lying on the bathroom floor at the airport. That’s where Gibson had left him. There had been blood, lots of it. How did he get here?

Monsignor O’Sullivan looked at him and smiled as he brushed off his trousers.

“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you, Gibson? You just left me lying there.”

The priest rubbed at the blood trickling down the front of his shirt, getting his fingers red and dripping all over the ceramic tile. He was alive. And there was a flash of anger in his eyes. Anger at Gibson.

“Because you thought I was dead?” The monsignor said exactly what Gibson was thinking as if he could read his mind. “Did you really think it’d be that easy to be rid of me? Gibson, Gibson, Gibson. You of all the boys should know better than that.”

Monsignor O’Sullivan started walking toward him.

“My mom’s just down the hall,” Gibson warned him.

“No, she’s not. I checked.”

He kept coming, shaking his finger at Gibson and splattering blood as he did so. And he had that smile, that knowing look that sank Gibson’s stomach. He hadn’t heard his mom come home and now he remembered that even Tyler was at a sleep over. No one would hear him even if he yelled or screamed.

“On your knees, son. You know what you need to do,” Monsignor O’Sullivan told him, and as he got closer and closer, Gibson could even smell the alcohol on his breath.

Gibson woke with a violent thrashing, fighting and swinging at the blanket he had managed to tangle around himself. He was wet and shaking, but when he finally realized it was only a dream, relief swept over him. Only then did he notice that he was still reciting the Our Father in a panicked whisper.

He made himself stop. He tried to lay still and listen.

There was no gurgling. Nothing.

He stared up at his ceiling, watching the familiar shadow of a tree branch from outside the window. Watching and still listening. Finally the panic subsided and that’s when he noticed the smell. He cringed and allowed a disgusted sigh as he crawled out of bed. In the darkness he began stripping his bedsheets. Maybe he could change them and get them in the washer without his mom noticing. He didn’t need her worrying about him. And he didn’t want her knowing. It was too embarrassing even though it had been over a year since he had wet the bed.