The Last Mass at St. Agatha’s

It began the Tuesday after Father Dominic left, and it hasn’t stopped since. The rectory at St. Agatha’s, a small stone church nestled in the maple woods, had always felt drafty, but that night the chill had teeth. We had just finished the farewell mass for the old priest, a man who had served our parish for thirty years, and the air, usually thick with the scent of candle wax and old hymnals, had turned sour, like the breath of something that had been waiting in the walls.

I am the groundskeeper, not a man of deep theology, but I’ve lived my life with my boots in the soil and my eyes open. That evening, as I locked the sacristy door, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders, as if a storm had passed. But the feeling was short-lived. The next morning, I found the statue of the Virgin Mary, which had stood serenely in the alcove for a century, turned to face the corner. The flowers at her feet, fresh that Sunday, were wilted black, as if scorched by frost.

I tried to convince myself it was a prank, some youths from the town, but the church has been locked at night, and the only key hangs in the sacristy, which I knew I had secured. When I unlocked the church for daily mass, the air inside was thick, like walking through a cobweb you couldn’t see. The congregants, usually a chatty bunch, filed in with hushed voices. Old Mrs. Alders, who never missed a service, clutched her rosary and whispered to me, ‘It feels like we’re being watched.’

I dismissed her fears, attributing them to her age and the unsettling news of Father Dominic’s sudden departure. He had left without a word, not even a letter to the bishop, saying only that he had to go, that he was needed elsewhere. But I knew better. The night he left, I heard him in the garden, muttering to himself, and when I approached, he had a wild look in his eyes. He grabbed my arm and said, ‘They’re coming, Thomas. The hole is open, and they’re slipping through.’

I thought he was having a breakdown, but now I’m not so sure. The next day, the church’s old pipe organ, which had been silent for a decade, began to play by itself in the middle of the night. The sounds echoed through the empty nave, a discordant hymn that made the blood in my veins run cold. I called the bishop, but he sent a young deacon who declared it a mechanical malfunction. He left within hours, his face pale, and I saw him cross himself as he drove away.

The altar cloth, embroidered with the golden chalice and grapes, began to bleed. Not a trickle, but a steady seep of dark liquid that stained the marble floor. I tried to clean it, but every time I touched it, the stain deepened, and I felt a terrible heat, as if the stone were burning from within. The parishioners stopped coming after the third day. I was alone.

I thought about leaving, but my old dog, a faithful hound named Ranger, wouldn’t come near the church. He would stand at the edge of the woods, barking at something I couldn’t see. When I tried to drag him inside, he bit me, drawing blood. That was the first time I felt the true weight of what was happening. The next night, I was in the rectory, trying to sleep, when I heard a faint scratching at the door. I opened it, and Ranger stood there, his eyes glowing amber in the moonlight, and he was drenched in blood. He whimpered, turned, and ran into the darkness, and I never saw him again.

I barricaded the church doors with pews and stacks of old hymnals, but the presence persisted. The chalice, which had been polished to a shine, turned black as soot. The crucifix above the altar twisted, the figure of Christ looking at me with sorrowful, accusing eyes. When I knelt to pray, I heard a voice, not coherent, but a whispering static, like a radio tuned between stations, and I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck.

Now, I am the last one here. The town has abandoned the church, the streets silent, the windows of the houses dark. They have left signs at the crossroads: ‘Turn back.’ But I cannot leave. The spirits, if that’s what they are, have marked me. I see them in the corners of my vision, shapes that flicker like heat mirages. They whisper my name, Thomas, in the wind that tosses the dead leaves against the stained glass, which now depicts not saints but twisted forms with too many limbs.

I found Father Dominic’s old journal in the rectory basement, hidden behind a loose stone. The last entry, dated the night he left, read: ‘I broke the seal upon the altar stone, seeking to cleanse it, but I only opened a door. They are pouring through now. They are hungry. And they will not stop until they have consumed every soul in this town. I go to seek a deliverer, but I fear I am too late.’ I dropped the journal, and the pages started to smoke, turning to ash in my hands.

The church bells, which haven’t rung in two years, began to toll at midnight, a deep, mournful sound that shook the foundations. I stood in the nave, watching the altar, as the floor began to tremble. The stone tiles split open, and from the fissures, a black mist rose, forming shapes that writhed and danced. In the center, the altar itself cracked, and a hand, pale and withered, emerged, gripping the edge. I turned to flee, but the doors were sealed, the hinges fused by a dark rust.

I am in the bell tower now, the only place that seems to offer any respite. I have written this all down, a confession of what has transpired. Outside, the churchyard is filled with figures, motionless, clad in black, their faces blurred. They are waiting. They are patient. And I know that when they finally breach the tower door, I will be the last one to see the light. But I will not go silently. I will pray, not to the God of glass and stone, but to the God who is strong enough to withstand the darkness. And I will hope that my words reach someone, anyone, before the final bell tolls for me.