The Werewolf, by @Mole Part i.
Houses lined parallel to each other on both sides of the street. The yards were for the most part evenly trimmed, although not identical. It was a typical Thursday evening. The moon was full, and until about ten in the evening, the night had been quiet. However, to the neighborhood’s dismay, a sudden shake of womanly terror poured down a dead end street.
Horrific moans screamed through the neighborhood as blood dripped from the monster's mouth. The murder of the neighborhood echoed screams into the dark wintery night, and sirens were only heard after the beast had already scampered away from the dismembered body. Investigators were brought to the scene shortly after.
And there it was, another unexplained dead body. The town was clueless as to who was the causing the murders. People were beginning to grow weary, and the talk about moving was becoming more than empty threats.
It was five minutes past midnight when Father Sergius received the phone call, "F-Father Sergius," a young woman's voice shook over the phone.
"Yes, this is Father Sergius," his older voice shook, as well, but for a different reason. His spare hand put the bottle of slivovitz on the kitchen counter.
"It’s my mother, Father…"
"Your mother?" The man's voice was weary and tired, "May I ask who this is?" He tried his hardest not to grumble. People always assumed he had mind reading powers and could remember everyone's name and know exactly who everyone was, not just at the Chalice but over the phone, as well. Her voice sounded vaguely familiar, but it was still a stab in the dark as to exactly who the woman on the other line was.
"It's Xenia... Tomasevic, Father… the d-daughter of Petra Tomasevic…" her voice stuttered, and he could hear a small strength holding back tears. Something terrible must have happened to her mother.
His hand dove into his pocket, fiddling with fabric and the wool of his komboskini, "Ah, yes, Xenia, my dear. What has befallen your mother?" His voice was kind and concerned now, even with the slight shake.
"She…'s," Xenia was quiet, a slight whimper came from her choking back the truth. Admitting it seemed to be the hardest for her, which was also true for her confessions.
"It's alright. Take your time," he assured her, as he also did at the Confessional. His eyes glanced at the bottle of slivovitz. He might not have mind reading powers, but he could deduce what Xenia was about to tell him. He closed his eyes and shook his head.
His voice was reassuring to her, deep and low and comforting like when he heard her confessions, "She's been murdered," Xenia finally admitted before falling into a bed of tears, "She is dead… Father…" He had never heard her voice sound so ridden with despair.
He took a deep breath. This was just as he had deduced, "Oh my dearest, I am sorry to hear. My heart aches for you and your father. May her memory be eternal and may God grant you and your family comfort," he spoke with a gentle automatic response, "Does your father know?"
There was a pause on the other line.
"No," Xenia explained with a stern sadness, "He has not answered his phone. I have tried calling several times…"
Vladimir had flown out of town for a Byzantine Chant workshop this weekend. He was more than likely still on the plane as they spoke.
"Lord have mercy. Let me know where you need me. I will be there as soon as I can" His hand removed itself from his pocket and took to the bottle, once again. "Ah, your home address. I will be there soon. My prayers are with you. May your mother's memory be eternal," he slowly lowered the cellphone from his cheek and pressed the red button on the screen.
His lips closed as his gaze looked downcast at the kitchen counter. There were two intertwined crescents of incomplete coffee rings on the counter that had been there for several weeks. He had asked his son Aleksandr to clean the top this morning, as cleaning is a pious endeavor, but it appeared, his son had forgotten, once again.
The mess in the kitchen now meant nothing to him. He had to make his way to the Tomasevic household. His eyes scanned through the living room and towards his son’s bedroom. There was a dead silence coming from the room. Father Sergius sighed and picked up the cellphone again. He swiped his thumb across the screen and tapped the code to unlock the screen, “There’s been another murder. One of our parishioners this time. Be safe. We can talk in the morning. Love you Dad.”
Part ii.
On Sunday morning, the Church service proceeded as it usually did. However, there was one difference. Even though Vladimir Tomasevic had flown back into town, he was standing with Xenia and not minding the Choir as he did on most Sundays.
It seemed most of Father Sergius’ parishioners had made the service this morning. However, the only person he wished to see standing among the congregation was his wife Sophronia. Unfortunately, she had passed away when Aleksandr was only at the age of twelve.
After Sophronia’s death, Father Sergius began taking to the bottle, and it was a couple years after her death, the archdiocese transferred him to another Church. Shortly after the transfer, the murders began happening. By the will of God, his parish seemed untouched for a good while, but Petra was the third parishioner to get targeted.
The murders were never clean. No victim was ever recognizable, and all three victims’ disfigurements were scarred memories that Father Sergius knew he would not forget, even if he wished he could. They all reminded him of Sophronia’s death, and Petra’s murder was no different. The priest often wondered if he ought to retire, but he knew even if he was older in his age, he was still much too young for such a decision.
A small memorial service was chanted shortly after the service, and the two broken ones, stood with their melting, lit candles by the powdered wheat. The daughter was crying, and her father was hugging her with one arm. An elder lady stepped from the front and wrapped her jacket around Xenia, patting her back with as much nurturing care, the elder woman could muster.
After the service, Father Sergius turned from the altar. There was a silence as the acoustics of the choir quit echoing. “Thank you for attending Liturgy today,” he managed to speak calmly, with his hands out and his palms facing upwards. His speech was longer than it sounded. He could see the congregation’s wavering spirit. It matched his own, and he wished he could be of stronger faith, if not for his own salvation but for the salvation of his parishioners.
However, despite the disposition of the entire Church, there appeared to be a gentleness in the mourning of the Tomasevic family. There was beauty in their lament, and Father Sergius wanted to believe that Petra's soul would be preserved amongst those who have successfully been remembered in the kingdom of heaven. This thought was of some solstice to him.
After Dismissal, he ordered his son to help the mourning family offer kolyva to the rest of the congregation.
"I'm sorry about your loss," was all Aleksandr could manage to Xenia and Vladimir Tomasevic. "May her memory be eternal." He looked at Xenia's face. It was swollen with a sick sadness, even if there was a determined beauty behind it. All he could feel was a forbidden sense of disgust within himself.
"Thank you," she mouthed automatically.
The monster had not only devoured her mother, but it was devouring what was left of Xenia's heart, mind, and soul. She was like a person who was missing the very life that had first made her human.
As Aleksandr began to help scoop the kolyva, he did not bother to ask a simole, "May I?"
The situation was tragic, but Xenia was definitely acting too terribly shaken, and if he could have avoided her, he would have. Suddenly and awkwardly and without warning, Aleksandr dropped one of the plastic cups of kolyva. The boiled wheat spilled over the floor.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the boy quickly lamented while getting to his knees to clean up his unintentional mess.
Xenia left her own, and began helping him, “No… it-it’s alright,” she forced a smile through her despair. The smile was so broken, Aleksandr could feel its wound through his own cage of emotions.
The story went that a next door neighbor heard her mother shouting for help, and saw some giant beast ripping her apart. He tried getting his gun and shooting the animal, but he scared it away instead. There was no blood trail despite the bullets fired. With no other eyewitnesses, it is hard to say what happened. Her neighbor, still in some sort of trance, refuses to disown what he saw. The authorities have been investigating him as the potential murderer.
"Thank you, Aleksandr," Vladimir stepped into the eerie quietness between the two. His eyes had a bleak, grayness that Xenia's had. "Your father and you have been so good to the Parish," was all he could mouth. He believed the unfortunate timing of their arrival must be hard on them.
His words stung Aleksandr further. "We are under your mercy," Aleksandr replied, "Your family does so much for the Parish, as well." His hesitation was obvious, and although, he had wanted to say more, he found himself unable, “I… I wish I could hear your wife sing again.”
"In Heaven, Aleksandr. Godwilling," VThe older man shook his head as he drew in a longing, deep sigh. It was a sigh that only a man could make. He was invisibly holding back tears in fear of upsetting Xenia further, and Aleksandr could see the stoic pride in the man.
"Of course, in Heaven. She… might as well be a martyr," Aleksandr stood up. There was not one thing he could imagine the Tomasevic family having done to deserve this type of anguish. In fact, the entire town did not deserve this kind of monstrosity, but as the Church preached, not everyone deserves the conflict that happens to them. In a fallen world, sickness can devour anyone for any reason, good or bad.
"Why a martyr?" Xenia spoke with a sudden courage as she stood up, as well. Her face looked straight at him and with eyes that pierced through her veil of sadness, "What kind of comment is that?" Her voice remained soft even with the demanding tone. She had tears swelling under her eyes, now.
"I meant…" His voice was silvery, as he glanced at her, trying to avoid her sickened gaze "I meant, I meant… your mother’s a beautiful woman. She, she served God with all her heart, and her murder seems…" He paused, finding himself running into a wall as tears streamed down her blushed cheeks. Her emotions were a labyrinth of despair, and he was trapped inside the walls of them.
“S-Seems…?” Xenia’s weakness continued streaming after what he had said.
“It…” He paused again, “It reminds me of my own mother’s death. She was murdered… as well,” Aleksandr did not want to take the center of the conversation, but it only seemed necessary, now. “She was a very devout Christian.”
“No doubt,” Vladimir interjected. His black eyes looked at both young people. It had been a long weekend for the man, and although she was gone, he felt his wife was closer to him now than he could ever imagine. But for the time being, the sunken hollowness that was clinging to him, would have to wait before it could heal. Only time was needed, and now was much too soon, “Your Father would not have settled for anything less, Aleksandr,” his weathered face nodded quickly and humbly as he spoke. He took a small pause and continued, “Despite how they passed, both women, it would seem, are in a better place now. Free from such monstrosities that had befallen them. May God keep and remember them.”
Part iii.
“It was kind of you to help the Tomasevic family pass out kolyva, today,” Father Sergius remarked to his son, on their way home from Church, “May Petra’s memory be eternal.”
“I was only being obedient to what you asked of me,” Aleksandr remarked half-heartedly. He meant to be more respectful to his father, not just because he was a priest, but because he knew he was in debt to his father for a plethora of reasons. He also wanted to forget how foolish he had looked in front of the remaining Tomasevic family.
“Of course, but you did not have to mind your old dad,” Father Sergius mused while ignoring his son’s angst. It was a difficult time, not just for the parish. The murders were occurring almost every month with little rhyme or reason, and he knew he should stop turning a blind eye. The slivovitz only made him see clearer, nowadays, “I was worried when you were not home the other night,” he began. He let out a scraggly sigh as his hands gripped the steering wheel, “No one is safe…”
“I’m sorry,” Aleksandr interrupted his father in a muttered voice. His tired eyes stared out the window. The scenery passed by slowly as the car came to a stop light. The sidewalks looked bleak with the people and buildings rummaging inside their perimeters. They seemed trapped, and all he could do was watch from the outside. They were like caged animals, unable to escape the monotony of their fate.
“You know,” Father Sergius began, again, as the car came to a complete stop, “Your mother was murdered under a full moon.”
There was a long pause between the two. The silence spoke many words, and the two indulged in the quiet moment, until the light turned green. Father Sergius pressed his foot against the gas, and the car’s engine made a low growl.
Finally, Aleksandr spoke, but this time, a little more audibly than his last response, “I’ve never liked a full moon.”
Fin.
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