Samson’s tongue was caught in his throat. The man’s size and sudden appearance was the realization of all his fears. The man lumbered forward and collapsed onto one of the pews, putting all his weight on his left hand, his right clubbed foot still dragging behind him. The Stetson fell further down his face. Samson, out of habit, rushed over to him. A closer look at his foot showed he was bleeding. The foot had maroon red blood dripping down the side of the boot, like a sanguine web. Samson heaved the man into the pew. The man clasped his leg and swung it into the pew with him, allowing him to sit naturally.

“You are too kind, Father.”

Samson released his arm. A sinister cold fell over him as if his veins were filled with blistering, icy poison. He jumped back and snapped.

“Who are you?! How did you get in my church?!”

The man held up his hand.

“I am very sorry. I was in motorcycle accident just outside your church. I wandered in here looking for assistance and nothing more.”

Samson shook his head, still not convinced.

“The pages! The doors! No, no, no! I won’t hear your lies! Get out of my church!”

“What are you talking about?

Samson composed himself, meekly squaring up to the man.

“My name is Saint. I understand I must look like quite frightening, but I can assure you it is just my appearance.” The man said.

“No...” Samson shook his head still trying to be tough.

Saint reached in his pocket, pulling out a dingy brown leather wallet.

“See for yourself.”

He tossed the wallet to Samson. Samson opened the wallet. Seven dollars crinkled in the middle. A library card for the Yuma Public Library and two forms of ID. One was a company ID for the Arizona Historical Society and the other was an Arizona driver’s license. He took the license out and examined it. It said “Tobias Saint, white, 6’7”, 240lbs, eye brown, hair brown. The photo looked old, the picture was that of 16-year-old kid, thin and gangly, not like the towering person in the room. Samson returned the wallet to him.

“How did you get in?”

“Your front door was open, I don’t want to rush you Father, but could you call an ambulance?”

Samson was still skeptical. He decided if calling the hospital meant he could get rid of the man, he was going to take it. He took his phone out, the screen was black. He frantically pressed the power button, but it would not come back on. Saint coughed.

“Is your phone dead?”

“I don’t know how? I just checked it. Hold on.”

Samson bolted up the aisle. He turned sharply from the altar and into his office. He grabbed his office landline and dialed 911. The call rang. Samson continually glanced over his shoulder. The call continued to ring. Samson pulled at his frock. The call rang a third time. The phone let out a small popping sound and then went quiet. Samson dialed 911 again. This time the call was silent. He hung up the phone. His gaze fell towards the small window in office. The latch had been broken, for as long he been in the church. His mind went blank and he rushed to the window. He dug his fingers deep into the pane. The metal was rusted, and the wood warped into place. His fear was controlling him, now he was clawing at the window like he was animal caught in a trap. He threw his shoulder into the window. The large cracking sound rang out and Samson knew right away it was not the window.

He sunk to the floor and clasped his shoulder, using all his might not to scream. He looked out at the open door, expecting Saint to be standing there, towering over him. He stood up, still clasping his shoulder. He walked out of the office. Staring down the aisle he still saw Saint, his head resting on the pew in front of him. Against his better judgement, he was filled with compassion. His mind wandered to the story of the good Samaritan.

“Perhaps this is my traveler beaten on the road and looking for assistance.”

He was still afraid, but knew he had to help the man. He walked back to Saint.

“Tobias, all of my phones are not working. I am going to run to 711 down the street to use their phone.”

“That isn’t necessary, I am feeling better, really.” He said weakly. “You have been more than kind. If you don’t mind, I would like to just rest here for a bit before I head out.”

Samson looked at Saint’s boot. The blood was pooling up around the heel on the floor.

“Well let me at least clean your wound.”

Samson nodded and ran to the basin of holy water. Saint shook his head violently.

“Please no!” He snapped. “Just a cloth will be fine,” he said softer.

Samson held the basin in his hand dumbfounded. He knew the wound needed to be cleaned before he wrapped it.

“I need to clean the wound. You definitely have sand in it.”

Saint coughed, each breath sound more a like a deep growl.

“Make it fast, please.”

Samson poured the water on Saint’s leg. Saint let out a blood-curdling cry. Samson looked up him. He pushed the Stetson down on his face and growled again.

“The sand has gotten deep in the wound.” Saint joked.

Samson stared at the wound, the water mixed with the maroon blood giving it more a traditional bright red color. He set the bowl down.

“I will be right back.”

“Where am I going to go?” Saint joked again.

Samson felt he was trying to be humorous again, but honestly wanted to ask him that question. He headed back to his office, his mind trying to piece together the night. First the loud noises, then the Bible, this stranger, his phone just dying. He kept trying to say a prayer, hoping God would give him some clarity on this evening. She snapped back into his head. He figured she was trying to call him. He was mad at himself, knowing she was on her way over. He did not want her to see Saint. Even if he was just a traveler, she would try to help which would put more unneeded stress on her.

He made it to the bathroom. A simple looking one, added on years later. The red title poorly attempted to mimic the red marble of the church. He grabbed a white cloth from under the sink and handful of paper towels. He stood up and looked at the mirror. It was massively cracked, as if some had struck it with a sledge hammer. Samson remembered coming into the bathroom that afternoon and the mirror was untouched.

“Had Tobias broken the mirror? Was that the crashing he had heard?” he asked himself.

His fear returned, consuming his entire existence.

“Just wrap his wound and leave. Get the police. It will all be okay.”

He left the bathroom. Quickly pacing himself, trying to run without actually doing so. He approached Saint. The pew in front of him was chipped. The pine wood scattered on the floor. Samson couldn’t remember if this was one the pews that had been chipped or not. Choosing not to think about it, he addressed Saint’s wound. He stuffed the paper towel around Saint’s ankle. His thumb grazed against Saint’s boot. A sharp pain struck him, and he dropped the towel on the floor. His thumb had been caught on a small piece metal protruding from Saint’s boot. That unbearable cold he had felt the first time returned as small drops of his blood fell to the floor, mixing with Saint’s. Saint coughed again and tried to mask a smile.

“Are you okay?” Saint asked coldly.

Samson grimaced, but nodded.

“Small cut…I am fine.”

“I am very sorry, for that and what I did to your plot.”

“My plot?”

“During the crash I believe I broke a few graves in your cemetery out back.”

“Cemetery? Oh.”

Samson knew what he meant but he was not correct. Behind the church was a section of head stones. Sandstone and granite, old and faded from years of sand storms. Samson had been told they had been there since the old west. It was a cemetery years ago, but no one had been buried there in a hundred years. Samson had been trying to remove the graves for years, but the Arizona Historical Society had not gotten back to him about their historical significance. That was years ago, and Samson had been busy with so much else that they had slipped his mind. Now the graves were just covered with a sage brush and the occasional beer can.

“Don’t worry about it.” Samson said. “You might have done me a favor. I have been trying to get rid of those graves for a while.”

“How come?”

“Long story, they don’t belong to anyone on record. I was hoping to turn the area into picnic area for families, but that was long time ago.”

“What’s the hold up?”

“The city said I have to clear it with the historical society and my request has gotten in the mix and I just haven’t had time to look into it.”

Saint nodded.

“That does happen. We do our best to try to get back with people but there is that bunch that gets left out.’

Samson was confused at first but quickly remember seeing his Historical Society ID in wallet. He found it quite convenient that his wounded traveler just happened to be a member of the Historical Society and had just happened to crash in to the very headstones he was trying to get rid of. Samson always tried to look for the best in people, but his years in this neighborhood had made him jaded. Even though he spoke againts it every Sunday.

“That is a coincidence.”

“I guess it is.” Saint coughed. “The damage I did to the stones probably ruined any sort historic value they might have held. Most of the historical stuff around here is with the tribes.”

“I see.” Samson said trying to still be friendly.

“This whole area is drenched in history though, Mexican caravans, settlers who decided copper was better than gold, and ministers who were looking for a new flock.”

Samson skin crawled when he said “ministers”.

“I was surveying out this way a few months back. There is a legend about this one minister who came out here from Hanover. People think he came all way to the desert to escape some kid out of wedlock, but everyone agreed when he got here had something to hide. Do you know what we all think he was hiding?”

Samson shrugged.

“No?”

“Knowledge.” Saint laughed.

Samson laughed as well, feeling he was dealing with world’s scariest nerd.

“But the locals say it was a treasure purer than gold,” he said and coughed.

“Fascinating.” Samson nodded.

Samson finished tying the cloth around Saint’s ankle. The blood stained the cloth but no longer was dripping to the floor.

“Thank you, I feel I have rudely disrupted your evening.”

“I was on my way out.”

“Meeting someone?”

“No. Just leaving.”

Samson knew lying was a sin, but he guessed God would make an exception for keeping someone safe.

“Well I appreciate the kindness. My appearance is quite off putting to a lot of people. I don’t blame them, but it is hard to find someone who will help.”

Samson felt as if he was in a classic cartoon. The devil and angel each on his shoulder telling him how to think. It was like he had fallen asleep and his brain was doing ist best to make sense of the situation. Saint pulled himself. His lurking figure filled the church again.

“I won’t waste anymore of your time.”

Saint lumbered towards the door. Samson’s angel won him over and he called after him.

“Tobias…no. Let me drive you. And yes, I would like those stones appraised if you can.”

Saint grinned, his sharp teeth clicked in his mouth.

“Let’s do it now.” he said

Samson shook his head.

“Let’s get you taken care of then-”

“I insist, Samson.”

Samson felt it. The poisoning cold, only this time he was no longer unsure.

“How do you know my name?” You said it when I first saw it and now…

Samson backed away from him. Saint coughed, the gurgle in each cough was mix with laughter.

“For a holy man you are quite untrusting. Most of the other suckers let me crush them in second but you…you made me work. But I am tired. Let’s take a look at those graves.

Saint strained his back, clicking his sharp teeth as he rose out of his crouch and towered over Samson. Samson backed further down the aisle.

“Get back!” he shouted.

“I won’t ask again Samson.”

Samson squared off to the giant, trying his best to look big.

“Get out of my church. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow-”

Saint lumbered toward him and reached for his frock. Samson ducked under his swing, sinking to down almost to the floor. Saint lashed back at him, clicking his teeth. Samson sprang to his feet and ran for the door, Saint caught his arm and pulled him up to his chapped face. Samson couldn’t see his eyes, which still blocked by the Stetson. In a last attempt, Samson swung, striking Saint across his chapped cheek. Samson let out a scream of pain. Saint gargled another laugh.

“Okay then.”

With one quick motion, Saint struck Samson in the chest, sending him soaring through the ebony doors. His damaged shoulder snapped completely, breaking his collar bone. He landed hard on the steps, tumbling down and struck his head on the fountain. Blood poured from his temple. He tried to pick himself up with no luck, his legs wobbly from the attack. He looked back at Saint. He was still dragging his clubbed foot, but his speed was as if he was running. The ease at which he moved seemed as his was not touching the ground. Samson attempted to run as he felt Saint clasp a handful of his sand blonde, lifting him off the ground. He moaned in pain trying to call out for help.

“Had to be the strong Samson? Like the Nazarite?”

He thrust Samson’s face into the bronze statue, breaking his nose and bruising his eye. In the same motion, he threw Samson to the ground on his already broken collar bone. Samson screeched in pain, sobbing, fearing the worse. Saint clasped his hair again, dragging him to the back of the church.

“I think you should get a closer look at that graveyard.