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The room smelled of blood, so thick that she could almost taste it…
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
Amelia scarcely heard the words escape her mouth as she crossed herself and clasped the rosary tighter in her hands.
The little dark-red wooden beads didn’t give her the strength they once did. As she stared at the silver cross that dangled between her fingers, she knew her traditional faith in God had died a long time ago and part of her felt like a fraud.
From inside the confessional, Father Malcolm Wainwright shifted his weight awkwardly, but never broke his concentration. He continued to remain silent, awaiting the inevitable confession.
But the confession never came.
The silence felt as though it would swallow him whole. He turned his head slightly, peering through the ornate carvings of the wooden partition, but could see little in the darkness.
His eyes were not what they used to be but he could just make out the outline of her face, and where the light crept through the small cracks in the wood, he saw the most beautiful shade of red hair. Like fire, it seemed to reflect in his eyes, flecks of light dancing across his iris.
‘Take your time, my child. Trust in God.’
Amelia closed her eyes, squeezed her rosary, but remained silent.
Then she turned to face him, her hands placed flat against the partition, her fingertips poking through the spaces in the wood.
The cross on the rosary was swaying back and forth against the wood, like a crude attempt at Morse code.
Wainwright saw her eyes for the first time as a stray beam of light caught the brightest shades of green, the colour of a turquoise sea.
Her eyes started to mist as she brought her face closer, her breathing heavy, her lips just inches from his face.
‘Do you remember the girl, Father?’ Her voice rasped from within her throat as her demeanour changed.
Wainwright frowned as Amelia contorted her body, until she was pressed against the wooden partition.
‘You remember, Father? She tried to tell, to cry for help.’ Her voice began to rise. ‘There were times you could’ve stopped it. All the pain she suffered… You had the chance to set her soul free, but instead you did nothing.’
Wainwright felt the air in the room change, and for the first time in all his years in the ministry, he felt what could only be described as fear.
What could I have done?
Amelia saw the recognition flicker across his eyes. Her mouth pulled into a grin, her eyes knowing. ‘There’s blood on your hands, Father. Can’t you smell it, feel it on your skin?’
Wainwright snapped.
‘You’ve mistaken me for someone else,’ he said, trying to control his voice. ‘I want you to leave immediately and…’ He trailed off as he heard someone approach the curtain to his compartment.
The last thing Wainwright saw was the flash of light against the steel of a slim blade as the curtain was pulled aside, just seconds before the knife tore through his robes and sliced through his withered skin.
Pain ripped through every muscle in his body. As blood soaked through his garments, he swore he could feel his soul screaming for release.
Looking up to see his attacker he saw only the woman, now standing in front of him. Her hair was like fire with the glow of sunlight cascading through the stained-glass windows behind her.
She grasped his hair, slammed his head back against the confessional, and brought her face closer to his. Despite the pain in his body, he could smell her sweet perfume so vividly.
‘You remember this face, Father.’ Her lips were just inches away from his. ‘Do you remember these eyes? My voice?’
Wainwright tried to scream but blood pooled in his throat, a thick taste of copper.
He knew her. And he silently damned her to Hell.
His eyelids fluttered involuntary as the energy began to drain from his body.
‘What does it feel like to hurt, Father? The pain you feel is nothing compared to the years of torment you let be inflicted on the innocent. Too many years you’ve kept that secret that stops you from sleeping at night.’ She shook her head. ‘There’s blood on your hands, priest…you shouldn’t have helped him that day.’
Tears pricked Wainwright’s eyes. How does she know? There were only three there that day…and the other.
Amelia took the cross hanging from her rosary and pressed it hard against his dry lips.
Wainwright’s eyes widened, begging in silent prayer for forgiveness.
‘For all the years you’ve preached your poison, and for the tormented souls who will never be free from your idea of faith, I shall unite you with God, and He will decide the punishment for your soul.’
Wainwright tried to fight her off as she forced the cross past his lips and into his throat. Much stronger than she appeared, Amelia pushed his jaw up hard, and pulled on the rosary beads until they broke free.
They scattered to the floor, dancing over the flagstones, as he began to choke.
His lungs felt like they were on fire, desperate for air. He fell to his knees, his hands reaching up and clutching at Amelia’s clothes.
She stepped back and watched him crawl after her, one hand at his throat and the other reaching out, silently begging.
Amelia’s face was resolute as he wheezed and spluttered, his face turning vivid shades of blue and purple. He collapsed face down, his forehead hitting the flagstones hard. His eyes felt heavy. He let them close, as