by A.L. Davidson
The rapture came as it was prophesied. Quiet. Unexpected. Like a thief in the night.
It happened on a Tuesday. The bodies of the believers vanished like a whisper into thin air. Those remaining watched as the hordes of Hell slithered into the streets, as their loved ones succumbed to temptation. As humanity finally gave in to the sweet, sweet sin we offered.
Even the Devil, however, could not have foreseen what came next.
The Lord’s work is never done and the Devil’s capture of Earth would not be as simplistic as he planned.
Clad in black, the last remaining defensive line of Heaven appeared in the cities upon the arrival of the first nightfall. They walk the roads as dusk falls, each and every night, like clockwork soldiers. A thurible in their right hands, a blacklight in their left. The heavy scented fog lingers around their ankles as they go from door to door seeking demonic forces to exorcize, for the left behind souls to send along to Heaven. The streets are saturated with neon hues.
They became known as the Church of The Blacklight and their forces are many.
It was unexpected, but the Devil likes a good fight.
Waves of purple light arrive in windows, looking for fingerprints, for movement, for disturbances. They swing their incense burners before them with each step, protecting their legs from wandering hands lost in the darkness. It burns to the touch. The light and the myrrh. It’s how they decimated our numbers so quickly. They are relentless. Hymns warble out like wails of mourning into the atmosphere, into the reddened sky that no longer holds stars.
He comes at 11:37pm. He climbs the creaky stairs after examining the units on the first floor and stops at my door. A door adorned with crosses and a barrier of salt he thinks I cannot bypass.
I humor him.
Father Johann Strauss, with his shocking blue eyes and mop of wheat gold hair, stands in front of Apartment 170 and hangs his thurible on the hook once meant to house wreaths in the chill of winter celebrations. It flows downward like a waterfall into the hall and fills it with a nauseating scent.
Then, he knocks.
I, in turn, answer.
“Little priest.”
He does not speak as he steps inside the chilled apartment. The blacklight is turned off and the door is locked behind him. The angry residents trapped across the hall taunt his presence, beg for him to come near. I can feel the soul of the body I inhabit glow with ecstasy at the sight of the man. Feel his hands press against the shuddering ribcage within, desperate to hold him, desperate to consume him.
These foolish lovers.
The wounds Father Strauss leaves the apartment with each night are atypical of what follows an exorcism, of what one would expect upon exiting a possessed place in this day and age. Scratches are replaced with the falling petals of lust as lips meet his pale flesh. Blood is replaced with hormonal sweat. The disheveled appearance comes from carnal pleasure and not from altercation. Father Strauss does not come to this apartment to rid it of its demons.
No.
He comes to hand himself over to them. And I relish it.
I think he does, too.
Father Strauss appears tired this evening, eyelids pink and lips dry. He does not greet me, he merely pulls his collar from his neck and sets it beside the blacklight. His body falters and I cannot control this frame any longer. My hands grab hold of him and guide him to the bed, guide him to a place to rest his weary limbs.
Then, I let go. Let Marcus Santiago return to his mortal coil as the clock strikes 11:40pm. I slither to the shadows and watch as the dark eyed musician cups the pale face of his lover, asks if he is okay, and races to get him water. Father Strauss smiles genuinely at the act of kindness but he knows it will waste forty five seconds. Forty five seconds he can never get back.
It amuses me. The powerful, strong armed man becomes such a gentle and delicate creature when the young priest arrives. It amuses me that the warrior of Heaven removes his protection in this dingy apartment and opens his soul to damnation. The little priest and his forbidden lover find safety in this chilled place. Some nights they merely lie in each other’s embraces. Some they partake in the music that comes from Marcus’ guitar. More often than not, however, they go at it like animals in heat to the symphony of chaos as war rages on outside.
Tonight is no different. Apparent weakness in the father’s frame, he shakily undoes the clasp of his garment and reveals a pale, shuddering chest. Marcus looks worried. He always looks that way. He frets so heavily over his little priest that it makes it hard to maneuver his flesh.
Love. Such a foolish thing it is. It should not be this powerful yet it’s the reason I remain. It’s the reason this same song and dance occurs every night until the birth of the next day calls the clergyman of The Blacklight back to the darkness. He knows twenty minutes is all he has. Before the incense needs refilled. Before the others come looking.
Father Strauss cannot remove me from this scenario. He knows if I leave then his lover will be whisked away to Heaven’s gates, locked up behind those golden bars, while he remains on earth in agony fighting a war he cannot win.
If I leave, they become separated, so he shucks his holy garb and lays his pale skin bare for twenty minutes of normalcy while the remainder of the day his chestnut haired sinner of a partner crawls the filthy streets doing his enemy’s bidding.
Marcus’ lips suckle against the crescent shaped birthmark upon Johann’s shoulder until it turns as red as the skies outside. He prays for forgiveness for his damned soul into the flesh of his lover.
It amuses me, so I let it happen.
From the corner of the bedroom I watch as Marcus wraps his arms around Johann’s frame, as his fingers cup the soft pectorals of the thin clergyman, and those well-worn lips find that moon upon his skin. Johann succumbs to the pleasure, to the touch, and loses himself to Marcus’ hands.
The mortal vassal I pilot holds an immense amount of pent up energy from being trapped inside himself. It is expunged in the raw, simplistic nature of touch as his hands trace the all-too visible spine of his lover. He whispers something soft, asks if he’s alright, if this is what he wants tonight. He tells him it’s fine if simply needs to rest. Johann merely shakes his head no.
In the shadows, I sit and watch the scene unfold, the dark choreography of intimacy and its dancers as they ruffle the sheets and clasp hands. I can feel the husks next door pound against the wall. They sense the sin, the raw humanity and honest deeds of love, the vulnerable priest’s body, the delicious human souls like ripened apples waiting to be plucked. The walls writhe with the energy of Hell as it seeps into the wood and chipped paint from their angered fingertips.
These foolish little mortals. If only they knew how closely I watch, how heavy my presence lingers to keep them at bay. It isn’t the myrrh or frankincense, the fog that rolls into the hall outside, or the rosary that thumps against Johann’s sunken chest that provides safety in this space. It’s my energy in the shadows and it grows with each passing intimate interaction.
Marcus’ cigarette soaked lips meet Johann’s and a muffled cry of pleasure slips between the oxygen they share. Lungs inflate with the heft of passion. I want it. I want those pale pink lips and the feeling of his skin, but this situation is too lush to risk it. So, I never do.
By 11:59pm, Johann is sound asleep. He has become so numb to the wicked wails and pounding fists, the marching feet in the streets and rumble of the earth, that he can rest for a small moment and not be awoken. Marcus watches diligently beside him at the rise and fall of his ribcage. The splayed, limp limbs that rest atop the mattress and the fine hairs upon his naked body that shoot up from the chill.
Marcus lights a cigarette and addresses me, “It’s midnight.”
“I’m aware.”
“You haven’t moved.”
“I’m aware.”
I know why he’s worried. He’s afraid of what I may do to his little lover once I slip back into his skin. His fingers reach to wake the clergyman.
“Leave him be, Marcus.”
Marcus’ hand recoils. His deep eyes shift to the corner of the room. I know he cannot see me, but he hears me.
“It’s not the night to send him away, Marcus.”
“Why?”
“The streets are going to run red with blood. The residents of Hell are tired of pretending. You send him away, you doom him to death that does not see those golden gates at the end of it. If my kind digs his claws into him this unholy night they’ll drag him down to Hell with hooks and fangs. Let him rest, he’s tired.”
Marcus’ expression is one of concern, of confusion, and worry, “And you?”
“And I?”
“Would you not doom him to a fate worse than that while he’s this vulnerable?”
“Even the Devil was once an angel, Marcus. Let this be my last act of kindness. Let him sleep this night. He’s not long for this world and I’m sure you’d prefer he die in your arms.”
Marcus exhales a plume of smoke from between his lips. It’s heavily visible in the chill of the powerless apartment. He lays down beside his lover and looks at that blood red moon upon his shoulder, encased by the imprint of his own teeth, and takes another drag.
“Can I go with him?”
“The abomination that is the Church of The Blacklight won’t survive this night and I’ll be free to drown this world in chaos. I’ll no longer need you, dear vassal, go be with your little priest in the hereafter.”
Marcus stamps his cigarette out against his bare chest and flicks the dead stick to the floor. He grabs the tattered quilt and covers himself and his lover in its pitiful warmth. He bundles him up in his arms and looks at the watch around his wrist.
12:03am. How long had it been since he had seen the start of a new day? How long had it been since he slept with his sweet Johann in his arms? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. This nightmare will finally be over and he is glad.
I remain in the shadows. I can smell the myrrh run thin, I can hear their breathing slow. Come sunrise the cold will claim them both but, until then, I’ll keep them safe. The Devil may be evil, but no one can say I’m unsympathetic to the plight of desperate love. I perhaps know that better than any mortal ever could.
I’m looking forward to the dawn.
A.L. Davidson (she/they) is an author who specializes in massive space operas and tiny disturbances. She writes stories about ghosts, grief, folklore, isolation, space exploration, eco-horror, the human condition, and queerness. She lives with her yellow-eyed demon of a cat, Jukebox, in Kansas City.
