Harken

7 Confessions

A wall with a square metal grill in its center separated me from the priest’s side, our faces masked from each other. There was little more than that and a padded kneeler. Through the mesh of the anonymity window, I could see the faint outline of Father Lonnie leaning near the divider.

“Close the door,” he hissed. I couldn’t tell if his tone was annoyance or fear, but I obeyed. Light from outside disappeared, replaced by a glow that came from a box in the ceiling and washed over the fake wood paneling and the brown leather of the kneeler. Something about the light was nervously upsetting: a yellowish, artificial hue that was just bright enough for me to see by, but dim enough that I always felt I was struggling to make out where I could stand without hitting my toes. This paired with the narrow room and the soundproof seal of the door made it feel like I’d been buried alive.

“I don’t know how you found me,” the priest started. “I don’t know why you came here or what the bloody hell you want, but for the sake of us all our lives you should never speak of the blog aloud.”

His voice was so muffled that I kneeled in front of the window just to hear him better. He shifted, the outline of his hands and face like a broken television screen in front of me.

“I just…I can’t believe I lived to see you,” he said. “Anon wrote of you, but I never thought I would…”

His voice trailed off. He was speaking so quickly that he sounded manic.

“How did you find me?” he asked. “I’m not even safe anymore. Damn it, I’m not safe.”

“I found the blog,” I told him. “But I only found you and your church through…random chance.” My hands squeezed the wooden top of the kneeler, mind still whirling that I was actually speaking across from a man who, just a day before, I’d been certain I’d never find for months or years. Even his existence hadn’t sunk in yet. Like finding Mr. Sharpe’s car, the priest was something real that continued to prove an idea I did not want to believe.

Father Lonnie huffed. “There’s no such thing as an accident,” he muttered. “Coincidence is merely the puppeteers’ curtain, hiding the hands that pull the world’s strings. But you—”

I heard him scratch the wood of his chair nervously. “I…I don’t understand. Why aren’t you dead?” He realized his abruptness and drew back.

“I almost was,” I murmured. “I think I killed my killer instead.”

Father Lonnie shook his head. I knew he and I both regarded each other’s existence with equal suspicion.

“So,” he said, “this isn’t their doing at all. You’ve managed to…oh good God.”

His forehead hit against the wood panel in weakness, his breath now so close that I could hear it going in and out of him. I couldn’t tell if he was simply lost in fright or if he was silently weeping, eyes closed and fingers over the front of his face in an exhausted manner.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” he told me bluntly.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I replied.

“No,” he insisted. “You’re supposed to be dead. You being alive…it changes everything. Everything for me. For us. For the whole world.”

His voice stayed at its steady, quiet volume, but I could hear the terror in his tone, the thoughts and calculations that were going through his head even as he spoke. Behind the old man, crazy from fear of conspiracies and plots, was a machine of a mind that sped sharper than ever—one that my appearance had sent reeling from miscalculation.

“Look, I don’t know you,” I told him. “I came to you to get answers. Why would anyone want me dead?”

I could think of a few examples, actually. I’d exposed a lot of cheaters and liars before. But none of them would have been criminal enough to pull off what Mr. Sharpe had done—or so I thought.

“Do they know you’re alive?” Father Lonnie asked, ignoring my question.

“Whoever tried to kill me is dead now, if that helps,” I said.

“It’ll throw them off for a day or two, at most,” he replied. “You’re only alive now because of their overconfidence. It was so easy for them the last few times…”

Father Lonnie was blathering to himself more than to me. He mumbled things I couldn’t even discern, muffled curses as he pressed his head harder against the wood paneling and winced as the thoughts continued to bubble inside of him. I wondered if he even heard me when I spoke.

“This is good though,” he said. “This is a change, a hope. You’ve still got a chance. But I—what do I do?”

He looked up, but I couldn’t see his eyes through the panel, only the frightened outline of his hands and face as they tried intently to sort through a thousand thoughts at once.

“Your birthday,” he said. “How long until you turn seventeen?”

There it was: the same question about my age that Mr. Sharpe had asked, minutes before he’d attempted his murderous dissection.

“Three days.” I replied.

“Good God,” he hissed. “They’re looking for you again by now, for sure. And your Chosens are nowhere to be found? You don’t have a chance. It might be best to let you die and try again in another seventeen…”

“What are you talking about?” I burst shakily. “There’s someone else who wants to kill me? If you know something then I need to go to the police.”

“Going to the police is the quickest way for you to get killed,” Father Lonnie said, his voice turning sharp. “You don’t think they have the police? It’s not much use going to anyone. You’re unguarded now. You’ve got three days and you don’t stand a chance of making it.”

“Why are you so certain I’m going to die?” I protested.

“If they knew you were here, you’d be gone the second you step out of this church,” Father Lonnie said, with such strong resolution any doubt I had was erased at once. The protest that I had already prepared to counter him vanished.

“If that’s true then why am I not dead now?” I asked. “Who are they?”

Had I somehow been confused with someone else? Someone who owed a debt, or had killed someone, or knew some great secret that couldn’t get out? There was no reason for anyone to kill me. I was sixteen, I went to school, and sometimes I read eyes for clients. But never anything worth killing me for. Never anything worth the giant plot that Father Lonnie was too fearful to speak of.

The wood of his chair creaked as he shifted. How could this be so difficult, especially for a man who from the pulpit had appeared so fiery and so mentally disciplined?

“I—I don’t know what to call them,” he said, still resisting.

“Don’t give me crap answers,” I spat, tired of the games. The confessional fell to silence again, the very walls seeming to wait upon his answer.

“Some people call them Reptilians,” he finally whispered. “Or Lizard People. But that’s not what they call themselves. They’re…the Guardians…at least, that’s what Anon has told me.”

“Why did they send someone to kill me?” I pressed. But that hardly contained every question I wanted to ask at once. The silver claws? The flying? All the things I’d read on the blog?

“Nothing is what you think it is,” Father Lonnie said, hitting the wall between us in frustration. “You have no idea what is happening around you—what has happened around you your entire life, for decades…”

He hit the wall between us again, his energy already waning. “I don’t have the strength to be an instrument of this capacity. I can’t hide you. I can’t protect you. I am just a blogger…a messenger. There’s not even a reason to be speaking to you now if your Chosens aren’t here. You could be dead tonight or even by the end of the hour—”

“Then if I’m going to die, there’s no reason for you not to help me,” I cut him off. “No one will ever know.”

“You don’t understand,” he said. “They’ll kill me regardless. I’ve spoken to you. I’ve seen you. I’ve got to die now, too.”

Unexpectedly, he broke into a light sob so earnest that my anger was immediately broken. I could hear the terror in the priest’s weeping, a fear he tried to disguise from me but could not.

“You don’t even know who you are,” he said. “You’re the bringer of the dawn, right here in front of me, right now. I’m ecstatic. You don’t know how much this world will change if you live to see the next two days.”

He gasped in and out painfully like a trapped animal. He was so intent on my importance that I was startled. I thought he might be insane, but that didn’t feel right—he appeared so well-spoken from the pulpit.

“And I want you to live,” he said, “but I don’t know if it’s possible. I don’t know if you can. I don’t even know how you’ve lasted this long alone.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. My voice broke midsentence.

“You’re a threat,” he said. “To yourself, to the ones you love, to me…to the entire world. I’m going to die. They’re going to die. Everyone you love is going to die if you stay alive now. The Guardians will make sure of it, just so you’re gone again. And even in the end—if you do live, and everyone else dies—it will still all be worth it. But only if you live.”

I had no reply. Even swallowing was painful. I could hear the depth of truth in the priest’s voice, such terror to overtake a man who knew so much, who’d seen so many days and decades, and yet appeared to hold our meeting as some type of pinnacle in his lifetime.

“I would help if I could,” Father Lonnie said. “But not now. Not when you’re alone. Not when I and others will die just for you to fail in the end.”

“You’re so sure I’m going to fail,” I said as my eyes narrowed. I’d never known anyone to have such little confidence in me. “I could go into hiding if I need to.”

He shook his head.

“Every inch of this world is controlled by them,” he replied. “The police, the media, the government. You think that your mayors and governors run your tiny piece of a country? They are sheep. Humans are like bugs on the sheep. And even the sheep have shepherds who herd them into circles, separating one for slaughter and another to be sheared at their whim.”

He laced his fingers together, almost as if he was praying for strength to continue. “But if the sheep have shepherds, who then are the masters of the shepherds? Those are Guardians. Everything you do, everything you say, everything you write and transmit and read—every piece of your minuscule life is followed like germs under a microscope. Since the day you are born you are placed into the maze, with shifting walls and doors in place so you continue to run but never find the exit: never see the hands or faces of those who master your life and death.”

Father Lonnie had taken a nosedive into things I couldn’t bring myself to fathom or believe.

“But you know?” I whispered. “If something is so secret, how did you find out?”

“I have a source,” he said. “Someone outside the maze.”

“Anon?”

The priest nodded slowly. Even after all he’d said, Father Lonnie still struggled to identify this person.

“He tells me everything,” the priest went on. “It was so long ago I can hardly remember how it started, but for a decade I’ve heard from Anon. Always letters, never a phone call or a visit. Always typed and signed, always with the direction to scan and post them onto my website…to observe the Guardians and make record of everything.”

“And you believe him?”

“Not at first,” Father Lonnie said. “I…I theorized on these things before, but never to the depth that he wrote of. Never with the information he has, and the names and charts and pictures. Never with the proof: predictions of elections, businesses going bankrupt, so-called natural disasters. He’s spoken of them to me in letters months before they even happen!”

“But where do I fit in?” I said, trying at least to sort through my burning questions. I could almost hear him trembling, so many things that he wanted to say to me but unable to choose which to start with. I couldn’t read his eyes through the screen but I knew he wanted to go on, even though he felt it was a waste. He was certain I was going to die anyway.

“Because you’re a threat,” the priest said again. Like ghosts, his words flew into my head, haunting even the fears that still gathered inside. What did that mean?

Suddenly, there was a distant knock from his side of the box. Both of us jumped.

“Father,” came the low voice of the monk. “Not to intrude the confession, but they’re locking up the church.”

“We’ll be done shortly,” Father Lonnie replied. The monk lingered.

“The lights are all out too, Father,” he insisted. “Just so you know.”

“I’ll be out in a minute, Brother,” the priest said. I panicked.

“You can’t leave now,” I said quickly, pushing closer. “I need more answers than this.”

“Keep your voice down,” Father Lonnie commanded, this time through clenched teeth. “Do you not think I know the urgency at hand? But already we’ve brought too much attention to ourselves.”

He leaned in to me. “I’d hide you here if I could, but that wouldn’t help either of us. It’s too suspicious, too unusual—someone would whisper about it and Guardians would know you were here in a heartbeat.”

“I have to go home,” I told him. “My mom will call the police if I don’t.”

“And that’s the worst thing to happen now,” he said. He drummed his fingers on the wood nervously.

“I can only risk a little now,” he resolved. “I don’t even know how close they are to you. You might not live past tonight. But you’ve gotten this far and there may still be hope yet. And there’s so much to tell you…”

He sighed. “But I must. I’ll tell you everything I can—everything Anon has sent me and all the research I’ve done in my lifetime. But we can’t draw attention to ourselves by meeting tonight. I—I’m only alive now because I’ve kept my identity a secret.”

I drew in a breath and let it out. I couldn’t simply go home after all that he’d told me—I’d never sleep. But there was no other option.

“Tomorrow, after the first mass,” he said. After lingering a few moments, he stood up and pushed his confessional door.

I hurried to follow him, but the old wooden door had become jammed. I fought against it frantically, only to find that I’d been pulling on a door that swung out.

I found myself alone in the back of the church, the monk folding a cloth near the pulpit, which was obviously only a thinly veiled ruse to stay in the room. Cool air burst in my face, the stuffiness of the box gone. The monk looked up at me curiously so I turned for the door.

I don’t have to believe him, I told myself. As I stepped out of the church, the incense-filled air dissipated and my thoughts became clearer. Nothing was scary in the blinding sunset that washed over the surrounding houses and parishioners who still chatted in groups.

Even so, I couldn’t shake the horrible feeling in the back of my head: the senses that made my eyes dart from one side of the church lawn to the other. Could I trust the priest? Could I at least give him an ounce of belief, that maybe some parts of his words were true? I didn’t want to, but then again, I hadn’t wanted a man with silver claws to attempt my assassination.

Evening brought me no comfort. As I slowly faded into an exhausted sleep, every shadow in the room was a hunter coming to finish the job that Mr. Sharpe had started.

A window’s shattered pieces hit a tile floor…

I snapped up like a bent spring bounding back into shape—asleep in my room one moment, on an unfamiliar leather couch the next.

I heard sounds of scuffling and rushed movements as someone frantically ran down a hallway. The room was dark but I could see well enough to know that I was somewhere I’d never been before. From the couches that lay in a U shape to the pictures and paintings going all around, I could tell that I was in the living room of a house, but not mine, not a friend’s. The walls had cheap paneling and the floors were covered in carpet, gentle light from the boxy television illuminating the room with static-filled white and blue flashes. These flashes reflected off the silver ring now returned to my right hand.

I heard another crash, this time closer than before, and suddenly the silhouette of a person appeared from around a corner. It was none other than the girl who’d died in my last dream—Callista, whose face I’d already memorized.

In reaction, I tried to say something to her. But like the dreams before, I was merely a spectator in this movie-like sequence, my body moving on its own accord, jumping to its feet.

“Who are you?” I asked, the voice not even sounding like my own. Just then, the boy with the long black hair slid out from behind her. They were startled to see me already awake, their faces showing exertion from running. That didn’t stop them from springing into action though, as they dashed forward and grabbed me, one at each of my arms.

“We’ve got to run!” Callista said urgently. My body protested against them but they were far stronger than I was, pulling me around and toward a stairway. I fought them but the girl pressed her face close to mine.

“I can’t explain now,” she hissed, “but you better not fight us now or he’ll get here.”

There came another smash, louder and more viscous than theirs had been, like an ice pick being driving against a screen door and ripping its mesh apart. I heard the door’s remains kicked across tiles in rage, and somehow that horribly determined sound convinced me that these two were not anywhere near as bad as what was coming. I ran with them, up the stairs and around a corner, someone else’s shoes striking the bottom step just as we turned the bend.

The boy went ahead of us, throwing open doors in the narrow hallway and checking inside, only to find a bathroom behind one and a closet behind another. The hall was lined with family portraits and its carpet fought in vain to mask our footsteps. Finally, at the end, the boy found a room and the three of us rushed inside.

“Block the door!” he said, his black hair now running with sweat from his forehead. They already knew what they were doing, the girl lifting one of the chairs and the boy—muscles flexing—heaving the long dresser from the wall, sliding its hundreds of pounds of weight against the door. Then they moved the bed against that, faces filled with such a terror of whatever was behind us that even in the dream, I couldn’t help but feel my own fears increase.

“Take him out the window!” the girl commanded, but there came a sudden blast against the door that shook the entire house, rocking us off our feet. The boy grabbed my arm again, pulling me toward the window.

Wait! I tried to say, but my mouth still wouldn’t move. I wanted to stop running for just a few seconds, only long enough for me to ask a question, to find something that I could use when I woke up. I knew I would awaken any second—I already knew that whatever was chasing us would cause this dream to end just as horribly as the previous.

Then, as if the dream itself was eavesdropping on my fears, the door split apart through the center. Its pieces exploded away with a force like a cannon, and behind it appeared our pursuers.

The dark-haired woman stepped through first, olive skin set against her black clothing and gray eyes picking us out of the dark without a moment’s uncertainty. Her hands were stretched out in front of her, fingers spread, shaking once like she was flinging water from them. Except instead of water, bits of wood and metal were stuck in ten long, silver claws that came from the ends of her fingertips.

The silver claws had split through the wood like they were axes, though they were each no wider than her fingernails—long and curved like a lizard’s. With inhuman strength, her palms knocked the dresser and then the bed frame aside, parting the blockade like the waters of a sea.

A step behind her was a man I’d already seen before in a different dream: the man with the white eyebrows, with claws like hers. The woman’s eyebrows matched his. So did the red ring on her right hand. Just as before, he carried a pistol.

They disregarded the other two in the room and looked straight at me, the man lifting his gun. Suddenly, there was a flurry of motion, and the boy leapt up from the floor, jumping between us: now bearing silver claws of his own. He held his hands out like bladed shields but the woman was prepared, her right claws striking out at once and catching his hand by the side. There was a sharp clang of metal like swords striking each other as she shoved him away. He lost his footing and fell, and I was exposed again.

“Are you happy, mother?” the man said, trying to align his gun as my defender fell.

“After you pull that trigger, Wyck. Then I will be,” she replied coldly.

The girl slid from behind me with a shout, claws of her own now out and ready to fight. But it was already too late. For one second, the path between the man and me had been cleared.

There was a shot. It only lasted a millisecond before the world that surrounded us was bludgeoned to death.

My eyes flew open immediately, sitting up in bead, sweaty and breathing heavily. I was still in my bedroom.

I checked the face of my alarm clock: 3:14 AM.

So this is how it’s going to be.

It was too early to turn my light on. I reached up to wipe my eyes and felt something wet touch the side of my face. Thinking I’d drooled on my hand in my sleep and had now transferred this to my cheek, I went to my desk and searched its mess for a rag or shirt or tissue or… anything? My hand didn’t come across a single cloth. So I reached to switch on my computer screen for light.

I froze.

I shoved my hand closer to the glow of the screen.

Like a scene in horror movie, my entire hand was covered in blood, now staining my shirt and neck. I felt its warmth against my face from where I’d unknowingly pressed my hands to it.

In horror I turned to grab something to stop the blood, only to find that beside me were the open sheets of my bed. Long streaks of red now stained the white like the grisly aftermath of a murder.

I dashed to the bathroom on the balls of my feet so that I wouldn’t wake anyone up. I closed the door and punched the lock, diving to the sink. The bandage I’d put on the night before was still stuck to my right finger, sliding and unable to stop the gentle blood that had been coming from underneath it. I pulled it off sharply.

A stab of fiery pain shot through my finger . I had to grind my teeth together to hold my voice in. The sting! Tears burst into my eyes as the sharp feeling coursed throughout me. To my horror, I saw that with the bandage, the adhesive had also pulled off a thin layer of my own skin.

My breath came in sharp gasps, barely getting air out before I was drawing it back in again. With the fingers on my left hand splashing the flow of water from the faucet, I struggled to wash the gash. This only made me bite back another yell.

“Stop, stop!” I hissed. The blood washed away and I saw the blackened skin of my birthmark again, now looking like it was singed and dead, like plastic wrap over a bone. The water continued to burn against the raw skin so I pulled my hand back out, fire shooting through every nerve.

My birthmark was raised even higher than the day before, looking like it was about to pop, fresh blood emerging from the skin that had peeled from around it. Edges of more skin were lifted up beside it and itching, bits of the bandage’s adhesive still stuck.

I carefully reached to pull it free. The layer of skin peeled further. Blood was coming from the open wound. I knew if I stopped now it might only close up again, so I pulled more, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth.

Pain throbbed from the gash as air hit. To my horror, I saw that I had peeled away my own skin. Now between my two shaking fingers, I held a thick strip of black. It hung loose like a dead flower petal.

But what terrified me most—and what burned throughout my mind even more intensely than the pain—was what had emerged from hiding beneath my now-absent birthmark.

It was a silver ring on my finger.