THE PRIEST'S OBSESSION: Under the Blood Moon

The Box

(Luna POV)

Aunt Mildred’s cottage ran on two things: baking and church. The smell of cinnamon rolls was permanently embedded in the walls, and the church bells dictated the day like some holy alarm clock.

Clang – time to pray.

Clang – time to feel vaguely guilty about existing.

Clang – time for Luna to contemplate throwing herself into the duck pond out back.

It had been three days. Three days of polite chit-chat with villagers whose names I forgot instantly. Three days of wandering muddy lanes that all looked depressingly identical. Three days of avoiding the looming stone shadow of St. Bartholomew’s. And three days of thinking about him.

Father Vale. The Human Iceberg.

He hadn’t looked my way again. Not that I was watching. Much. But you notice things when you’re bored out of your skull.

He moved through the village like a ghost, head down, shoulders rigid under that stupidly long black coat. He didn’t chat. Didn’t linger. Didn’t seem to see anyone, really. Just… existed. Efficiently. Coldly. Like a machine programmed for piety and scowling.

It pissed me off. Which, admittedly, wasn’t hard these days. Everything pissed me off. The quiet. The damp. The way Mildred looked at me with that soft, worried expression.

The fact that Professor Creepy-Hands was probably still lecturing, untouched, while I was stuck here eating scones and contemplating eternity.

Saturday morning dawned grey and drizzly again. Perfect confession weather. Mildred bustled about, humming off-key.

“Confession this morning, dear. Always clears the soul. Father Vale is very… thorough.” She said ‘thorough’ like it was a slightly dangerous trait.

My reckless grin from the other day resurfaced. Clear the soul? Mine felt pretty murky. Maybe I could muddy his pristine holy waters a bit. What did I have to lose? My immortal soul? Pfft. Overrated. My sanity? Already hanging by a thread.

“Maybe I’ll go,” I said, trying to sound casual, like I was suggesting a trip to the sad turnip stall.

Mildred beamed. “Oh, that’s wonderful, Luna! A fresh start. He usually hears confessions mid-morning. Not too busy then.”

Not too busy. Translation: less chance of witnesses when he inevitably throws me out for blasphemy.

I put on my least offensive outfit – dark jeans, a grey jumper that didn’t cling too much, boots that tracked mud everywhere no matter how hard I tried. My reflection in the hallway mirror looked pale, dark smudges under my eyes. The 'troubled soul' aesthetic was coming along nicely. Maybe I could lean into it. Practice looking suitably anguished.

The walk to the church felt longer than it was. The drizzle soaked into my hair, cold against my scalp. The heavy oak door groaned when I pushed it open, the sound echoing in the cavernous silence inside. It smelled of old stone, candle wax, and something else… incense, maybe? And dust. Lots of dust. Like holiness had settled and gone stale.

It was empty. Of course. Just rows of dark, uncomfortable-looking pews, a few sad-looking flowers near the altar, and the faint flicker of red sanctuary lamp. And tucked away in a shadowy corner near the back, a small, dark wooden booth. The Confessional. It looked like a fancy coffin stood on end.

My heart did a stupid little skip. Nerves? Anticipation? The thrill of being a pain in the ass? Probably a mix. I hovered near the entrance, wiping my boots on the worn mat. Just walk over. Sit down. Say the magic words. How hard could it be?

Then the side door near the altar creaked open. Father Vale stepped out. He wore his priest getup – the long black cassock thing, the white collar tight at his throat. It should have looked stuffy. On him, it looked… severe. Commanding. Like armor.

He didn’t see me at first. He was carrying a heavy-looking book, head bowed, moving towards the altar. His movements were precise, economical. Like a soldier on patrol. Then he paused. His head lifted slowly. Those obsidian eyes scanned the nave, passing over the pews… and landing on me.

This time, it wasn’t blank indifference. It was… surprise? Annoyance? Hard to tell with that face. His eyebrows drew together just a fraction. Just a tiny crease between them. It was the most expression I’d seen on him yet. He looked like he’d found a spider in his communion wine.

He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod towards the confessional. Then turned his back, placing the book carefully on the altar, his posture radiating Do Not Disturb.

Fine. Message received. I was the spider.

I walked towards the booth, my boots unnaturally loud on the stone floor. The wood was smooth, dark, worn shiny in places by countless nervous hands. There were two little doors. One for the priest, one for the sinner. I chose the sinner side, slipped inside, and pulled the door shut. It closed with a soft, definitive click.

Darkness. Thick, velvety darkness, broken only by a thin sliver of light filtering through the carved screen separating me from the priest's side. I could smell the wood, faintly sweet, and the lingering scent of old incense. And something else… a clean, sharp, almost medicinal smell. Soap? Shaving cream? Him.

I heard the soft rustle of fabric as he settled into his side. Then silence. Heavy, waiting silence. My palms were suddenly sweaty. This felt stupid. What was I even doing here? Confessing what? That I hated turnips and wanted to throttle Professor Creepy-Hands?

A low, quiet voice came through the screen. It was deeper than I expected, smooth, but utterly devoid of warmth. Like stone speaking.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

A pause.

“You may begin.”

Right. Okay. Deep breath. Time to be a troubled soul.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” My voice sounded weird in the small space. Too loud. Too… young. “It’s been… uh… a while since my last confession.” Understatement of the century. I hadn't been near one since forced CCD classes at twelve.

Silence from his side. Waiting.

“I… I’ve been angry,” I started, picking at a loose thread on my jeans. “Really angry. Like, punch-a-wall angry.” More like punch-a-professor angry.

“And I’ve been thinking… bad thoughts. About people who’ve wronged me. Revenge-y thoughts. Like, picturing them falling down stairs. Or getting food poisoning from bad shellfish.”

Nothing. Not even a sigh. Just the faint sound of breathing on the other side of the screen. Calm. Steady. Infuriatingly calm.

“And I… I’ve been feeling lost,” I added, letting a little genuine frustration seep into my voice. “Stuck. Like I’m in the wrong place. Everything feels… pointless. Grey.” Like this damn village.

“I just want to feel something, you know? Anything. Even if it’s bad.” I leaned a fraction closer to the screen, lowering my voice slightly. “Sometimes… I touch myself. Just to feel something real.”

There. Let him deal with that, Mr. Holy Ice Cube.

A beat of silence. Longer this time. I could almost feel the stillness intensify.

Then, his voice, still low and controlled, but maybe… just maybe… a fraction tighter.

“Impure thoughts and actions are a distraction from grace, my child. They offer fleeting satisfaction but deepen the emptiness within.”

Child. Ugh. I was twenty, not twelve. And ‘fleeting satisfaction’? Buddy, you have no idea.

“But it feels good,” I pressed, unable to resist. “In the moment. Doesn’t it? Doesn’t wanting something… feeling something… doesn’t that count for something? Even if it’s a sin?” I let the question hang, leaning back slightly, picturing his impassive face on the other side. Was he shifting? Frowning? Clenching his jaw? Or just mentally calculating how many Hail Marys to assign?

Another pause. When he spoke again, his voice was like flint.

“Desire without discipline is chaos. Pleasure sought for its own sake is a hollow god. It will consume you, not fulfill you.”

There was no judgment in the tone, just cold, hard certainty. Like stating a scientific fact. Gravity exists. Sin consumes.

“For your penance, reflect on the virtue of temperance. Pray three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys. Make a firm purpose of amendment.”

A finality entered his voice.

“Go in peace.”

And that was it. Dismissed. Like my messy anger and inconvenient lust were just items on a checklist he needed to clear before lunch.

I didn’t move immediately. I sat in the dark, the scent of wood and him filling the small space. He hadn’t risen to the bait. Not really. He’d just… absorbed it. Like a black hole absorbs light. Neutralized it with scripture and platitudes.

Fleeting satisfaction. Hollow god. Easy for him to say, locked away in his stone fortress, untouched.

I pushed open the little door and stepped out into the dim light of the church. It felt colder than when I’d entered. Empty.

I glanced towards the altar. He was still there, his back to me, head slightly bowed, hands clasped loosely behind him. A statue of piety. Utterly unmoved.

I walked down the aisle, my footsteps echoing. Just before I reached the heavy main door, I paused. Fumbled in my pocket. Pulled out a piece of gum I’d shoved in there earlier. I unwrapped it slowly, the crinkling sound absurdly loud. Popped it in my mouth. Chewed deliberately, making sure my jaw worked visibly.

Then I turned. He hadn’t moved. Still facing the altar, that rigid back a wall against the world. Against me.

I walked back up the aisle, not towards him, but towards the bank of flickering votive candles near a side chapel. I dropped a coin in the offering box with a clatter. Selected a thin, white candle. Lit it from an existing flame, the wick catching with a small hiss. The tiny flame danced, casting weak, jumping shadows.

I placed it carefully among the others. A small point of light in the gloom. Then I turned and walked straight back down the aisle, chewing my gum, not looking at him. Just feeling the weight of his presence, the silence he wore like a cloak.

As I pushed the heavy door open, letting in a blast of damp, cold air, I finally glanced back.

He had turned. He was watching me leave. From the shadows near the altar, those dark eyes fixed on me. Not through me this time. On me. His expression was unreadable in the distance, but his posture was rigid. Alert. Like a predator catching an unexpected scent.

A slow, satisfied smirk touched my lips as I stepped out into the drizzle. I blew a small bubble w

ith my gum.

It popped softly.

Okay, Iceberg. Maybe you can feel something. Even if it’s just annoyance. Game on.