The Last Parishioner

The Red River had a way of swallowing sound, but that night it seemed to hold its breath. I’d come to the Bible Belt on a swimming scholarship, a prairie kid from Saskatchewan thrown into the humid embrace of a Texas border town. My teammates were good people, but their faith was a constant, low hum—a chapel on every corner, a Jesus fish on every bumper. I was the odd one out, the heathen who laughed at the ‘End Times’ billboard on the highway.

It was Marta, the team’s butterfly stroke champion and a self-proclaimed Ouija expert, who suggested the old cemetery. She swore she’d done it a hundred times at slumber parties, just a harmless game. The place was called Rest Haven, but the name felt like a cruel joke under the flat, white sky. We went at midnight, six of us, with a board she’d painted herself and a pack of tea lights that flickered in the still, wet air. There was no wind, not even a breeze from the nearby river. The heat pressed down like a hand.

We sat in a circle on the cracked asphalt path, the board between us. The candles threw our shadows against the headstones, making them dance like distorted mourners. We started with the usual questions—’Is anyone here?’ ‘What’s your name?’—and the planchette sat dead center, as inert as a stone. After ten minutes of nothing, Jenna, the diver, scoffed. ‘This is bullshit. It’s a piece of cardboard and plastic. You’re all just moving it.’

That’s when the board moved. Not the tentative slide of a collective push, but a firm, deliberate jerk. The planchette shot to the top right corner, wrenching our fingers along with it. It spelled, quick and violent, ‘G E T O U T’. A breath of ice cold air washed over us, so sharp it felt like a slap. Every candle went out at once, as if a single, enormous mouth had blown them out. The silence that followed was deafening.

We didn’t speak. We just ran. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs as we burst through the cemetery gates. We piled into two cars, tires squealing on the gravel. Back at the dorm, we all tried to laugh it off, but the laughter was hollow. Marta’s hands were trembling as she stuffed the board into the bottom of her closet. Jenna kept saying it was the wind, but there was no wind. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed us, that the ‘GET OUT’ wasn’t a warning—it was a territorial claim.

The next day, I went back alone. I don’t know why. Perhaps I wanted to prove to myself it was nothing, or perhaps I was drawn by a morbid curiosity. The cemetery looked different in the harsh daylight—leafy, peaceful, almost mundane. I found our spot. The tea lights were gone, melted into the pavement. There was the board, or what was left of it. It was snapped in half, the corners splintered as if by a giant hand, and the planchette was missing. I froze. A cold dread crept up my spine, and I felt a presence behind me.

I turned, but there was no one. The air had changed, though. It was heavy, expectant. From the direction of the oldest section of the cemetery, I heard a low, guttural sound—not quite a moan, not quite a growl. It was like the earth itself was clearing its throat. I backed away, my heart pounding, and fled.

That night, the dreams started. I was back in the cemetery, but the headstones were all cracked and leaning, and the air was thick with the smell of damp soil and something sour. A figure stood at the farthest edge, shrouded in black rags. It didn’t move, but it was watching me. I woke up gasping, my sheets soaked with sweat. The feeling lingered, an oily residue on my skin.

The next day, I found a small, carved wooden cross hanging from my dorm room door. It was strange—I’d never seen it before. My roommate, a sweet girl from Louisiana, said she’d seen an old woman in a widow’s veil leave it. ‘She said you needed it,’ she said, her eyes wide. I didn’t know what to think. The cross felt cold in my hand, and I shoved it in a drawer.

Over the next week, my teammates began to avoid me. They’d whisper in the locker room, fall silent when I entered. Finally, Marta cornered me, her face pale. ‘You went back alone, didn’t you?’ she said. I nodded. ‘Something’s attached to you now,’ she whispered. ‘We tried to do a cleansing, but it wouldn’t respond. It’s not a ghost. It’s something older.’

That night, I woke to the sound of my floorboards creaking in the hallway. My door was ajar, and a sliver of light spilled in. I knew it wasn’t a roommate—they were both at a late-night study group. I got out of bed, and as I approached the door, I saw a shadow fall across the light. A figure stood there—the same one from my dream, but more solid now. Its face was shrouded, but I could see the faint glimmer of eyes. It spoke, and its voice was like the sound of dry leaves scraping on a tombstone: ‘You came to my house. You didn’t leave when I asked. Now you stay.’

I slammed the door and locked it, but I knew it wouldn’t help. The knocking started, slow and steady at first, then faster, more insistent. The walls began to shake. I grabbed the cross from my drawer, but it was burning hot in my hand. I dropped it. In the corner of my eye, I saw the Ouija board from my dream, but it was whole, and the planchette was moving on its own, spelling out a single word: ‘MINE’.

I don’t know how I got through that night. I stayed awake, huddled in the corner, reciting every prayer I could remember from my grandmother’s sporadic visits to church. The knocking stopped at dawn, and the figure was gone. But I knew it wasn’t over. It was waiting. It had claimed me.

The scholarship became a prison. I couldn’t leave—I had obligations, and I was terrified that if I ran, it would follow me home to Canada. So I stayed, but I never slept. I saw it in reflections, in the corner of my eye, in the flicker of fluorescent lights. It was always there, patient, possessive.

Then, on the last day of the semester, I packed my bags. I was going home. I had to try, even if it meant bringing it with me. As I walked out of my dorm, I saw the old woman again, the one who’d left the cross. She was standing by the dumpster, her veil blowing in a breeze that didn’t touch anything else. She lifted her hand and pointed at me, and I saw her mouth move, but I heard no words. I only felt the cold seep into my bones.

I boarded the bus, and as we drove out of town, I looked back. The sky was clear and blue, but I saw a patch of darkness hovering over the college, a stain on the air. It seemed to follow me, but when I blinked, it was gone. But in my reflection in the window, I saw the figure in black sitting beside me, its head tilted, its eyes a pair of dark pools.

When I finally reached my home in Saskatchewan, the snow was falling lightly. I thought I’d escaped. But that night, as I lay in my childhood bed, I heard the floorboards creak outside my door. And a voice, dry and ancient, whispered through the keyhole: ‘You came to my house. Now you stay.’

I’ve been a practicing Catholic ever since. I go to Mass every Sunday, and I carry a rosary everywhere. But the figure still follows me, just beyond sight, just beyond hearing. It’s patient. It knows the countdown to the last parishioner, and it knows my name.