Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

Barbara has me by the arm and is whispering something urgent in my ear. A number of people are staring at me. I turn away with an effort and begin up the aisle. I feel her eyes burning into my back and the only thing that keeps me from running is the weakness in my knees.

I step out into a brilliant, cold day and think of her parted lips revealing small, yellowing teeth. As I bring my handkerchief to my mouth, I picture those same teeth crushing my bones and faint.

It’s Sunday morning again and I’m lying here wondering what they want and what I’m going to do. I can guess what they want. I think I know. What do all ghosts want? They want their murderer known. A sordid disclosure of his hidden past! Isn’t that the way these stories go? The killer exposed like something poisonous found under a rock, pleading for forgiveness from a horrified world?

They won’t find me that easily. I was always smarter than the woman; she knows that. She even told me so on occasion. I wouldn’t be where I am today if I weren’t. And they wouldn’t be where they are if they hadn’t tried to outsmart me! They must have felt pretty smug sitting there with my future spread out over their kitchen table. I wonder how smug they felt when I unwrapped my little present?

That’s it, isn’t it? Initiative. I must take action. It’s no good lying about the house, pretending to be ill and waiting for God only knows what! Barbara knows something isn’t right. We haven’t had sex for a week! Since last Sunday, I just can’t do it! And the children. Every time they’re around I start to get weepy. I can’t explain it, and they just stare at me as if I were a stranger. So I must do something... and I think I know what. I’m going to beat them to the punch!

Probably, in cases like this, it’s the remorse and regret that eventually wear a person down and make him do something stupid. But what if that person were to rid himself of the so-called guilt by confession, and I don’t mean to the authorities? They suggested the answer themselves by appearing at Mass. I’ll be first in line for the confessional! The church has to forgive, and after that, what power could they have over me?

The church is almost empty upon our arrival, which is no surprise as we’re nearly thirty minutes early. I’ve convinced Barb that I must attend confession prior to Mass. She wants to ask questions but is afraid, I think. I scan the interior quickly as we enter, just to make sure. They’re not here. I would have been very surprised if they were. Everything is going as I’d hoped.

I get Barb and the children situated in our usual spot, which is on the opposite side of the church and somewhat forward of the confessional. I genuflect, turn, and cross the aisles to the booth. I can see that there’s no one ahead of me by virtue of a small light fixture attached to the side of the booth. A red light is illuminated when the confessional is in use, and a green when it is vacant and a priest is on duty within. The green lamp is on. I kneel at the nearest pew to say a quick prayer before entering, in case a priest is watching, and glance underneath the half-curtain shrouding the entrance as I do so.

In the dimly lit interior I see small, white legs ending in a scruffy pair of Mary Janes. The feet are on the floor pointing in my direction and I see, even in this dim light, that the legs are lacerated in many places, forming a crisscross pattern. The wounds are not bleeding, having dried without healing. The child on the other side of this curtain is clearly not kneeling for confession. Suddenly I’m aware of the priest at the front of the church, attending the altar. I realize now that there is no one to hear her confession. That’s not why she’s there. She is waiting for me to pull back that curtain and join her there in the darkness.

I stand up, swaying, and begin walking away. My legs will barely support me and I grab at several people on my way, who must think I’m drunk. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder for fear that she’ll come out of that box behind me. I don’t want to see her face! Barb is clutching a child in each arm and staring at me white-faced as I stumble towards the door. She doesn’t see the woman kneeling not ten feet from them stand and slowly begin that awful turn. I shout a warning as I rush out through the doorway.

It’s Sunday again! No matter. I’m not going to Mass today. A simple solution to a complex problem. They can have the church. I’ll stay right here at home. Not that it makes much difference.

Barbara took the kids and left last Sunday, right after my little episode at confession. She’s frightened. Austin and Vivian, picking up on their mother’s mood, just stared at me while Barb packed. That made me very uncomfortable. They ran when I tried to hold them. I was in no condition to make them stay.