THE PRIEST'S OBSESSION: Under the Blood Moon

(Luna POV) The bus smelled like stale sweat and defeat. Perfect. It matched my mood. Outside the grimy window, fields blurred into more fields, all a depressing shade of washed-out green under a sky the color of dirty dishwater. God must’ve run out of f***s to give when He designed this place. Or maybe He was just punishing me. Wouldn’t be the first time. Exiled. That’s what it felt like. Kicked out of university – not officially expelled , they called it “administrative leave pending review,” which was just fancy talk for “get your troublesome ass out of here.” All because Professor Creepy-Hands couldn’t keep his to himself, and I was the one who made a scene. Typical. So, here I was, rattling towards the armpit of nowhere, sentenced to live with Aunt Mildred. Mildred. Even her name sounded like lukewarm oatmeal. The bus wheezed to a stop in what passed for a village square. One dusty street, a pub called ‘The Lonesome Stag’ that looked like it hadn’t seen a stag, lonely or otherwise, in decades, a post office smaller than my old dorm closet, and… a church. Of course there was a church. Stone, ancient, and judging me already. It loomed over the handful of cottages like a disapproving grandparent. I hauled my duffel bag off the bus, the strap digging into my shoulder. The air hit me – thick, damp, and smelling faintly of manure and wet stone. Charming. I scanned the square. No welcoming committee. Just an old man snoozing on a bench beside a drooping geranium and a stray cat eyeing me with supreme indifference. “Luna?” I jumped. Aunt Mildred materialized from the shadow of the post office, wiping her hands on a faded floral apron. She looked… exactly the same. Round face, kind eyes that crinkled at the corners, hair escaping a messy bun. Like a cottage-core gnome. “Aunt Mildred.” I managed a weak smile. It felt stiff on my face. She enveloped me in a hug that smelled of baking bread and lavender soap. “Oh, my dear girl. It’s so good to see you. The journey was alright? Come, come, let’s get you settled. You must be exhausted.” Exhausted? Try emotionally eviscerated and pissed off. But I let her fuss, lugging my bag despite my protests. We walked down the lane, past cottages with neat gardens and lace curtains twitching slightly. I could feel the eyes. The new girl. The troublemaker from the city. Great. Her cottage was exactly as I remembered from childhood summers: small, cozy, bursting with mismatched furniture and the scent of something perpetually baking. It should have felt comforting. It just felt… small. Confining. Like a very pretty cage. “Your room’s ready, dear,” Mildred chirped, leading me upstairs to a tiny room under the eaves. A narrow bed, a washstand, a faded rug. A single window looked out over the back garden and, beyond the low stone wall, the side of that imposing church. “I hope it’s alright?” “It’s perfect, Aunt Mildred. Thanks.” I dropped my bag. Perfect for serving my sentence. Jetlag and misery hit me like a brick. I slept through the afternoon and woke groggy as dusk painted the room in bruised purple shadows. The silence was unnerving. No city hum, no sirens, no drunken students yelling outside. Just… quiet. And the distant tolling of a single, deep bell from the church. Dinner. Announcement. Judgment hour. Who knew? Downstairs, Mildred had laid out a simple meal: thick vegetable soup, crusty bread, cheese. “Father Vale rang the Angelus,” she explained, nodding towards the window as the last toll faded. “He’s very punctual.” Father Vale. Right. The village priest. The guy who probably heard every dirty secret within a ten-mile radius. Just what I needed. “He’s newish,” Mildred continued, pouring tea. “Only been here a couple of years. Came from… somewhere else, I think. Quiet man. Keeps to himself mostly. But very devout.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Quite intense, actually. Tall. Makes you feel a bit… looked through, if you know what I mean.” Intense. Tall. Looked through. Sounded like a barrel of laughs. The next morning, the village felt slightly less alien, but no less depressing under a grey, drizzly sky. Mildred insisted I get some air. “Go see the market, Luna. It’s small, but lively on Tuesdays.” Lively, it turned out, meant three stalls selling turnips, knitted socks, and slightly sad-looking eggs. I wandered, hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets, feeling like a ghost haunting a particularly dull purgatory. I bought an apple I didn’t want from a woman who eyed me with open curiosity. The drizzle turned into proper rain, cold and insistent. I ducked under the awning of the post office, shivering. That’s when I saw him. He was walking across the square, head down against the rain, long black coat swirling around his legs. Even hunched against the weather, he was tall. Impossibly tall and lean, like a shadow given substance. He moved with a stiff, deliberate grace, like every step was a conscious effort against some invisible weight. He was heading towards the church gate. Aunt Mildred’s words echoed. Father Vale. Intense. Tall. This had to be him. He reached the lychgate and paused, fumbling for a large iron key. As he lifted his hand, his coat sleeve pulled back slightly. Rain plastered strands of dark, almost black hair against his forehead. His profile was sharp – a blade of a nose, a jawline you could cut yourself on, lips pressed into a thin, uncompromising line. He looked… cold. Not just from the weather. Like the warmth had been leached out of him a long time ago. Then he turned his head. Just slightly. Not towards me, but enough. His eyes. Even from across the square, huddled under the flimsy awning, I felt it. A jolt, like static shock. They weren't just dark; they were obsidian. Deep, fathomless pools that seemed to absorb the weak grey light instead of reflecting it. And they swept across the square, a quick, assessing glance, impersonal and detached as a security camera. They passed over the turnip stall, the old man now feeding the indifferent cat crumbs, the pub door… and then they landed on me. Just for a second. Less than a second. But it was enough. It wasn't curiosity like the egg-seller. It wasn't Mildred’s gentle concern. It was… nothing. Utter, blank indifference. Like I was another piece of damp scenery – the post office wall, a puddle, a stray piece of litter. He looked through me, just like Mildred said. Then his gaze moved on, he found the key, unlocked the gate, and disappeared into the shadowed porch of the church, closing the heavy door behind him with a soft, final thud . I stood there, apple forgotten in my hand, rainwater dripping from the awning onto my shoulder. The cold seeped deeper, but it wasn’t just from the rain. That blank stare… it should have been nothing. Annoying, maybe. But it prickled under my skin. It felt like a challenge. Or maybe just a preview of the absolute, soul-crushing boredom that was my life now. He thought I was nothing? Just another ghost in this dead-end village? Fine. Two could play at that game. Maybe I was nothing here. But I wasn’t going to just fade into the damp stone. Not yet. I took a vicious bite of the apple. The tart juice exploded in my mouth. As I chewed, my gaze fixed on the heavy church door. Confession was on Saturdays, Mildred had mentioned casually over breakfast. For the troubled souls. A slow, reckless smile touched my lips. Trouble was the one thing I knew how to be. Maybe it was time Father Vale met a truly troubled soul. What was the worst that could happen? He could look through me again? Big deal. I already fel t invisible. Might as well give the man a reason to pretend I didn't exist. Starting Saturday.