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by Melanie Fletcher
Dark Fantasy, 23 pages.
Originally Published in Helix SF, 2006
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When someone finally pulled the gunnysack off Father Ray Marotta’s head, the first thing he thought was, Let there be light.
And there was. And it wasn’t good at all.
He was on the floor of what looked like an old backwoods shack, with three men in flannel shirts and jeans staring down at him. The pungent scents of body odor, old barbecue and gasoline drifted off the trio in an invisible but nose-shriveling cloud. The one in the middle, wearing a mesh trucker’s cap with the slogan “Redneck And Proud Of It,” scratched his armpit meditatively.
“I s’pose you’re wonderin’ why we brought you here,” he said.
The banjo theme from “Deliverance” went though Ray’s head, and his butt muscles clenched. “I swear, I never even looked at an altar boy,” he pleaded.
The man on the left shook his head. “He’s a Cath’lic preacher, all right. I don’t know about this, Jimmy James—”
Trucker cap sighed. “I do, DeWayne, and a Cath’lic’s what we need. Y’all saw the movie.”
The other two nodded reluctantly. Jimmy James gave the priest a quick, uncertain look. “You are a Cath’lic, aincha?”
Ray blinked. Having to point to his Roman collar was just icing on the surrealistic cake, but it seemed to reassure the other man.
“All right, then,” Jimmy James said. “I’ll take him to see Gramma.”
* * *
Ray stared around the dim room where Jimmy James had deposited him with the injunction to “Sprinkle some holy water or wave a cross around, whatever y’all do — just fix her, padre.”
Unlike the rest of the house, which had been decorated in Nouveau NASCAR Fan, this room was genteel in a faded sort of way. Muted floral wallpaper and framed samplers covered the walls, and the furniture was solid dark mahogany that dated from the 1930’s. On the far side of the room sat a huge old horsehair armchair, with an antimacassar draped over the back.
When the man in the chair stood up, Ray yipped, tripping over his own feet and falling back against the door.
“Oops, sorry about that,” the man apologized, coming over and extending a hand. “I’m Rabbi David Konig — call me Dave.”
“F-father Ray Marotta.” Ray shook the rabbi’s hand a little harder than he intended. “What the hell is going on here?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“What?”
Dave gave him a weak grin. “Sorry. I’m terrified, and when I’m terrified I tend to make stupid jokes. I’m assuming from the collar that you’re a Catholic priest?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Ray demanded. “Look, I was kidnapped—”
“From the conference in Little Rock, right?” Dave said. “Yeah, they grabbed me yesterday. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until after our hosts brought me back here that they thought to inquire about my particular flavor of faith.” He shrugged. “I think my coloring fooled them. A blond, blue-eyed Jew — who knew?”
Ray went cold. He hadn’t heard anything about a missing conference member. To make matters worse, one of the conference’s special guests this year was the Reverend Timothy Poole, the biggest televangelist in the tri-state area. In their infinite wisdom, the organizers had allowed Poole to bring his Pentecostal road show to the conference, complete with a tent revival in the hotel parking lot. With that kind of three-ring circus going on, it could be days before someone noticed they were short a priest and a rabbi.
He sagged onto an overstuffed sofa. “Great. So we’re screwed.”
“Oh, it gets even better than that,” Dave said, pointing at a nearby door. “Check it out.”
The priest glanced at the door, and did a double-take; the door itself seemed perfectly normal, until he noticed the rusting iron hooks screwed into each side of the doorframe. A thick length of wood stood nearby, ready to bar it shut.
“Jesus,” he muttered, fighting the temptation to cross himself. “What’s in there — an albino banjo player with an axe?”
“Just an old lady,” Dave said. “She’s why we’re here. While we’re on the subject, I would strongly suggest you go see her under your own steam. You really don’t want her grandsons tossing you in there — I speak from experience.”
Ray pictured his three kidnappers and shuddered. Damn it, this is the last time I go to an interfaith conference in a red state.
Reluctantly, he crossed the room and opened the wooden door. Beyond it was a very old-fashioned bedroom, a brass bed glimmering in the dim light from the sitting room. Next to the bed, a dark shape rocked back and forth.
He cleared his throat. The rocking stopped, and two red glints appeared in the darkness.
“Her name is Mrs. Mackay,” Dave called helpfully.
Ray glared at the rabbi, then forced a smile. “Hello, Mrs. Mackay,” he said, stepping into the room. “I’m Father Marotta, and apparently your family thought I should see you—”
T -- [End of Preview.]