The Loop of St. Agatha’s

I was eleven that autumn, living with my father in the gray tract house on Willow Lane, two towns over from anything that mattered. The divorce had finalized three years prior, and my mother had moved to Arizona with her new husband, leaving me with a man who spent his evenings staring at the television with a bottle of whiskey. Church had become a battleground—my father forcing me to attend, while I echoed the questions that had sprouted in my mind the previous summer. I never asked Jesus to die for me, I told him. He’d yank my ear and say I was going to Hell.

The trouble started with the walk to school. Every morning, I’d wake up, dress in the same corduroy pants and striped sweater, and trudge the half-mile to St. Agatha’s parochial school. The route was fixed: down our cracked driveway, past the Murphys’ dead oak, across the vacant lot where weeds grew taller than me, and onto the sidewalk that hugged the Catholic church’s parking lot. The crossing guard, Mr. Castellan, always waved me over with his orange-gloved hand, and then I’d continue another block until the school’s brick face appeared. And then—snap—I’d be back in bed, the alarm clock ticking, my father’s snores filling the house. It wasn’t a dream. Dreams felt soft and blurry. This was sharp, like I’d peeled a layer from the world and seen something underneath. The first few times, I chalked it up to my mind playing tricks. But when it happened every single morning for two weeks, I started to pay attention.

It was the details that got me. The way the Murphys’ wooden fence had a loose slat that clattered in the wind—even when there was no wind. The pattern of cracks in the sidewalk in front of the church, which formed a shape like a leering face. The exact number of steps between the mailbox and the dead oak. I knew them by heart. And on the tenth morning, I noticed something new: a figure standing at the far edge of the vacant lot, just beyond the tall grass. It was a man in a long coat, too long for the season, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. He didn’t move. He just watched me. I tried to ignore him, but as I approached the crossing guard, I glanced back—and he was gone. The next morning, he was farther away, near the church’s side door. The morning after that, he was leaning against the fence, close enough that I could see his pale hands.

I told my father, but he laughed and said I had a vivid imagination. I told Mrs. Alvarez, my teacher, but she said I was probably still half-asleep. So I kept quiet and kept walking. But the loop began to change. On the morning of the thirteenth day, I walked past the church and saw the door ajar. Inside, a faint light flickered, like candles. I wasn’t supposed to be late, but I took a step closer. The light grew brighter, and I felt a pull, like the whole building was breathing. Then I snapped awake in bed, my heart racing. The next morning, I was determined to make it further. I crossed the parking lot and peered through the stained-glass window. I saw a small figure in the aisle—a child, maybe my age, kneeling in prayer. But the figure turned its head, and it had no face—just a smooth, sickly white oval. I ran, and ran, and ran, but the sidewalk stretched on forever. I was still running when I snapped awake.

By the third week, the loop had taken a toll. I stopped eating breakfast. My grades fell. I had dark circles under my eyes, and my hands trembled when I tied my shoes. The man in the coat now stood at the entrance to the school, his hat brim low, but I caught a glimpse of his mouth—a smile that was too wide, too wet. And the no-faced child appeared in the classroom, standing in the corner, always watching. My classmates didn’t see it, but I did. I started whispering apologies under my breath, not knowing what for. One day, I tried to stay in bed. I forced my eyes shut, clutched the blanket, and willed myself not to move. But the world yanked me anyway—I was walking down the driveway against my will, my feet moving on their own.

On November 2nd, All Souls’ Day, my father forced me to attend Mass. I sat in the wooden pew, the smell of incense thick and cloying. The priest droned about the dead. And that’s when I saw the man. He was sitting in the back pew, his coat now black and shimmering. He tipped his hat at me, and his face—God, his face—was a skull, but not a normal one. It had faint, pulsing blue veins, and its eyes were pits of endless night. I screamed. I ran out of the church, down the aisle, past the statue of Mary, whose eyes I could have sworn followed me. I burst into the sunlight, and the world tilted. I ran the length of the vacant lot, through the tall weeds, and onto the street. I didn’t stop until I reached the school’s front door, where I slammed my palms against the glass, sobbing. But the loop didn’t snap me awake. The door opened, and a nun stood there, her face calm and empty. ‘You’re late,’ she said.

I walked inside. The hallways were different—painted a color I’d never seen, a dark red, like dried blood. The floorboards creaked under my feet. The classrooms were empty, but I could hear whispering from behind every door. I found my classroom, but the teacher was Mr. Castellan, the crossing guard. He wore a priest’s collar. ‘Take your seat,’ he said. On the blackboard, written in chalk, were the words: ‘You never asked, but you were asked. You never chose, but you were chosen.’ I sat down, and the no-faced child was beside me, its hand on my forearm. It leaned in, and a voice like a thousand echoes filled my ears: ‘You are the gate.’

I woke up on my bedroom floor, my forehead sticky with sweat. The sun was rising. The alarm clock read 7:03. But my room was wrong—the posters were different, the bed was facing the opposite wall. I ran to the window and looked out. The street was the same, but the sky had a greenish tint. The Murphys’ oak was gone, replaced by a dead stump. I saw a man walking down the sidewalk—the man in the coat. He stopped, looked up, and pointed at me. And then the loop began again, but this time, everything was stranger. The school bell rang at odd hours. The crossing guard whispered words that made my skin crawl. The priest at Mass said my name, though he’d never known it. On the street, people I didn’t know would stop to stare, their faces flickering like bad reception.

I realized then: I was stuck. Not in a dream, but in a place between. The loop had finally snapped, but not back to my body—it had taken me to the other side. And this world was hungry, lonely, and waiting for me to say the words that would open it wider. I felt the pull each time I saw the man, each time the child’s hand brushed my skin. And the worst part was, I had a feeling I’d been here all along, since that first day I questioned the faith. The echoes of my own voice from the past were repeating in my skull: ‘Why is this one right? Why this one?’ I never got an answer.

One morning, after what felt like weeks, I found myself in the church again, but this time the altar was draped in black. The no-faced child stood beside me, and the man in the coat ascended the pulpit. He spoke in a voice that rattled the stained glass: ‘The gate is open. You are the key, and the key has turned.’ And with that, the entire building began to dissolve, the walls melting into darkness. I felt my body being lifted, and I screamed. But the scream came out silent.

I woke up in my bed, the sun shining, my father’s snores echoing. I almost cried with relief. But then I looked at my hands, and they were somehow older—wrinkled and weak. And on my bedside table, there was a note in my own handwriting: ‘It took forty years, but I found a way back. Don’t let it take you again.’ I stumbled to the mirror and saw a stranger staring back. I am 27, but my face is 67. My hair is gray. The room around me is a nursing home. A nurse in white enters and says, ‘Good morning, Mr. Hart. You’ve had a peaceful night.’ I open my mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a whisper: ‘It’s not over.’ She smiles. She has no face.