Chapter Text
Father Easterman carried the days in a kind of trance.
Morning bells rang, and he moved through his duties like a man half awake—reciting mass, tending to the confessional, writing his sermons—but all of it felt as if it were happening underwater, sound dulled and light distant.
In the quiet hours of the rectory he drafted a letter to the bishop, his script unsteady, each word a struggle to make ordinary. He wrote of reassignment, of rest, that his parish “might benefit from younger hands.”
In truth, it was an escape disguised as humility.
He folded the letter neatly, pressed his seal upon it, and left it waiting on the desk beside the guttered candle.
Sleep always came fitful.
When he looked in the mirror at dawn, he found a stranger watching him.
His hair had always been thin at the temples, the scalp showing through when the light struck it; now it lay dark and full, curling in ways it hadn’t in years. He brushed it once, twice, ran his fingers through, tugged lightly to test the root.
It felt real enough, yet the sight unsettled him. He told himself it was nothing—perhaps the oil he had used, perhaps the angle of the sun through the shutters.
But when he bent to wash his face, he noticed something else: a tenderness in his chest.
At first it was only a mild ache, but when he pulled his cassock on, the cloth grazed his skin and he winced. It was not pain, not exactly; rather, an odd swelling sensitivity that made him catch his breath.
He pressed his hand to his sternum, feeling the faint tremor of his heartbeat beneath his palm. “This is punishment,” he whispered, almost convinced.
He stood before the mirror longer than he should have, touching the spot through the fabric. The thought flickered, unwanted, of the dream—the heat, the strange fullness, the word mother whispered like a curse.
He snatched his hand away, fastened the collar tight, and refused to think on it again.
The hall outside was quiet. A faint chill clung to the stone floor as he descended toward the rectory kitchen. He busied himself with the small tasks of morning—lighting the kettle, setting out a mug, measuring the grounds by habit rather than thought.
Ritual, even this small one, steadied him.
When the coffee was ready, he poured it slowly and took a cautious sip. The taste was sharp, bitter, metallic. That same odd tang had lingered for days, though he couldn’t say when it had begun.
Perhaps the pipes were rusting again.
Perhaps it was simply penance seeping through even the smallest comforts.
He sat at the narrow table, fingers wrapped around the mug, eyes fixed on the curling steam.
His body still throbbed faintly, the ache coiling low, alien.
He tried to push the sensation aside and focus on his upcoming duties—the letters to the diocese, the parish accounts, his planned confession to the bishop about the transfer request.
But every thought drifted back to the same unanswerable question:
what have You made of me?
He looked down at his hands, pale against the dark mug. They trembled faintly, though the morning was warm.
“If this is Your will,” he murmured, “then let me bear it. But show me why.”
The bells began to toll outside, low and distant. The sound filled the room, and for a moment, he imagined it was not calling the faithful to prayer but marking the hour of his undoing.
He finished the coffee despite the metallic taste, set the empty cup aside, and pressed his palm to his chest once more. The heartbeat there felt heavier now, as though something beneath it stirred.
He closed his eyes. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Whatever this is, forgive me.”
The sound of the bells faded, leaving only the silence of the rectory and the faint echo of his own breathing.
Throughout the day, the air in the church seemed heavy, the incense clinging to his throat.
He could not escape the faint rhythm of his own pulse, a throb that seemed to live beneath his ribs, as if something there was growing, faint and restless. He buried himself in routine. He polished the chalice until the reflection wavered, rehearsed homilies aloud in the empty nave, anything to drown the restless noise inside his mind.
It was in the courtyard that he overheard the parishioners. He had gone to fetch the mail, passing a cluster of women by the garden wall. Their whispers slipped through the air like smoke.
“Have you heard about Mrs. Coyle?”
“Gone, they say. Vanished in the night. No word from her family.”
“Husband hasn’t been seen either, not properly. Some say he’s looking for her. Others say…” A hush, a look exchanged. “…well. You know how men are.”
Easterman stopped mid-step, his hand tightening on the mailbag. For an instant the world seemed to tilt.
He forced himself to move, pretending to arrange the envelopes, pretending not to hear. He told himself it was gossip—idle, baseless, cruel. He had not seen Coyle in days, and the silence, though heavy, had been a relief.
It was better this way.
Yet as he returned to his chambers, the thought lodged deep. He remembered the dream, the warmth of Coyle’s breath against his throat, the promise: You’ll never be rid of me.
His stomach turned. He set the mail aside and pressed a hand against his abdomen. There was a faint pulse there, deep under the skin, almost imperceptible. He held still, waiting for it to pass.
When it did not, he let out a shaky laugh, whispered,
“Nerves. Just nerves.”
He turned back to his desk, to the letter awaiting the bishop’s seal, to the papers of his sermon scattered in the lamplight. The familiar tasks steadied him, though beneath the surface something was stirring, patient and unseen.
As the night wore on, Father Easterman prayed—softly, insistently—but every time he closed his eyes, he could feel that subtle rhythm in his chest, that warmth beneath his skin, and the memory of a voice calling him Mother would not leave his mind.