Cross and Conflicts

CHAPTER VI: The Angel of Death

It’s in the middle of the night when something woke the novice from her sleep. The crickets were clamorous and the coldness was wrapping her epidermis, yet neither caused the intervention. It was the weeping of a little girl just outside her quarter.

            She has had one or two dealings with beings from another dimension—ghosts to be exact. Human as she is, she feels somehow scared especially when she also remembers what Carlito told her about ghosts dwelling in the parish.

            The weeping continued and it didn’t seem that it’ll stop soon. It’s also strange that no one from the other quarters just beside hers was troubled by this. Nevertheless, something nudged her to find out what or who it was.

            Accompanying the parish’s miserable makeup is the lack of decent electricity, so when nightfall arrives, the residents of the parish seek the aid of candles and old-fashioned lamps. She gingerly removed herself from her sturdy bed. Her room is uncomfortably close to pitch-dark and the dim gaslight she found through familiarity is not much of a help. With circumspection, she made her way to open the door. The moment she got out of the room, the weeping dissolved.

            She ascertained that she was alone under the moonless sky. She gazed up at the vast expanse, looking for a single star to beam at her, but none satisfied the conception—except for one image which will likely linger in her troubles, until her last breath.

            It could have been an illusion, but it felt strikingly fearsome to be one. It couldn’t be so, for it appeared to be the handiwork of a nightmare. There, on the apex of the roof of the church, is a dark figure. It seems impossible to be recognized since the vesper has almost entirely engulfed it. Yet, she’s assured. It’s that of a man’s; whereas, it’s no ordinary man. It’s that of a man with fervid crimson eyes.

            His glare wrapped her in a frightening trance. She could hear her discordant heartbeat. She couldn’t move, nor could she tear her gaze away from him. She felt that he—or whatever it was—could smell her fear. Celeste’s words came resonating in her mind. The angel of death visited me... He told me that he has been observing all of you inside the parish.

            She thought, “Could that be—?” The sound of footsteps coming from behind her pulled the novice from her stupor.

            “Sister Mary Dymphna?” She immediately identified whose voice it was. It’s Elmer who’s holding a lamp. The dull light is slightly illuminating his lean face.

            “What are you doing out here?” He sounded startled. She’s not certain, yet his facial expression was more alarmed than hers.

            Maybe he mistook me for a ghost. She thought to herself. If only he knew what I saw. Noumenon decided to gaze back up the figure, but this time, it’s no more to be seen or to be felt.

            “I, uh, was trying to find something out here.”

            “And?”

            She hesitated. She doesn’t really want to tell him that she heard and saw something disturbing moments earlier. “Never mind, I’ll go back to sleep.”

            “Alright. Good night, Sister.” He sounded relieved.

            “Good night.”

            The novice feels eased after she closed the door, and it was mollifying that the sexton decided not to pry about why she was in her pajamas staring at—hopefully—nothing outside. She concluded that she’s tired. Maybe, that’s why she was imagining things.

The sky is a glaring blue, and the sun is already hung up there like an illustrious pendant. She can feel its heat, tepid and refreshing in the morning. She was hanging curtains and rugs beside the church, as she volunteered to wash these herself. In fact, she woke up earlier than necessary to do the task. No, she wasn’t excited to tend to the long-time unwashed dirty curtains and rugs; she just wasn’t able to sleep soundly.

            After Noumenon retreated to her quarter, her mind petrified her. It was full of thoughts about the mysterious crying girl and the man with red eyes. The latter kept her awake for almost an hour. She imagined that he might just be across her room glaring at her intently like how he did when she first caught sight of him. It wasn’t just her imagination; he even seemed to have corrupted her sleep.

            She was inside an abandoned building, and she was running away from something until she reached the rooftop. She was crying neither from sorrow nor upset; it was fear. It was the same fear she felt when she was running away from her father who shot her mother in the head. And then, there it was: the figure in a black cloak.

            She took wary backward steps trying to stay away from it, until she reached the edge of the rooftop. She gasped at the height of the raised surface to the ground; it’s a long way down, and falling will mean inescapable death. She looked back at the black figure. The moon was behind it creating a silhouette; though with an aesthetic appeal, it also signified ineludible demise. Suddenly, it draw closer, suddenly too close that she lost track of her footing. The next thing she knew, she was falling from the rooftop, while the black figure abruptly exposed itself to be the man with fierce red eyes staring down at her. The nightmare woke her up, and she was surprised to find how wet her cheeks were..

            Noumenon raised her hand as if to shield her face from the sun, yet again, she remembered how she gazed up the frightening man she saw and dreamed of last night. She decided to shake it off and forget all about it.

            It might have been an illusion, and no, the angel of death couldn’t be that apparent. She thought.