For the first time since arriving to the house behind St. Patrick’s Church, Father James Forester commenced his planned summer routine. Precisely at 6 AM, his orange alarm rang loudly, and James slammed the shutter to sleep in for at least fifteen more minutes. 

At 6:15, James groggily arose from his uncomfortable bed. On a morning when he’d usually begin by kneeling on the ground in prayer was spent trying to mitigate his pounding head. In fact, on this warm Wednesday morning, the hungover priest will forego his usual routine of exercise, a quick bath, and a sensible breakfast all together. “Ah,” James groaned standing up slowly and sauntering to his bathroom. He winced once he flicked on the lights and did his best to brush his teeth without vomiting. The sweat from his nightmare that night dried and made his entire body sticky so quickly bathed and tried his best to not hate himself in his hungover state. Rather than shave as he normally did, James did his best to avoid the bathroom mirror all together. He was afraid of what his reflection would show. 

Despearete for normalcy, he opened the windows.  The air still smelled of burnt wood so James looked around the room to see if an old socket had fried or if in his drunken stupor, he’d lit a candle. Nothing. Just an odd smell that influenced last night’s weird dream. James arduously descended the stairs where the smell of booze and Claude’s scent remained in the air. Letting out a loud sigh, he opened the windows on the ground floor to air it out as best he could. Picking up the red-stained glasses from the night before, the stench of wine made James gag. He cleaned the dishes and went up to take a bath and scrub away any lingering memories of the night. 

7:46, James heavily ran over to the church for the 8AM Eucharist service to which a grand total of three people attended including Miss Sharon. Sweat was pouring from his body as the alcohol lingered in his system. He wanted to never touch the stuff again.

8:30, James wanted nothing more than to desperately peel off the robes from his body. But instead, he was forced to meet with the parish attendants… They turned out to be the only three people who attended the service. James awkwardly introduced himself, not recognizing that the other two attendants were Mr. and Mrs. Smythe from when he was in Sunday school. They couple did not take lightly to being forgotten and Miss Sharon tried her best not to laugh out loud. The three of them explained that no one really comes to the Eucharist services on the weekdays but simply leave the parish open in case someone wants to talk. The Smythe’ and Miss Sharon show James to Father Michael’s old office, pointing out tasks needing sorting. James smiles vacantly till all three leave, finally able to take off his robes. 

9:45, the rest of this time James was to handle parish duties for when the new Priest takes over. Today’s tasks were finances. He hoped crunching numbers would take his mind off the memory of Claude’s hands against his chest. 

12:00, James starts the noon Eucharist service… Just in case someone came.

12:15, clean-up around the church but lightly…in case anyone showed up. In the silence, everything that happened that night was starting to solidify. The hangover at this point felt quite intense.

12:30, no one showed up. Lunch and prayer. Slightly less hungover at this point and sobering to the fact that yes, he had indeed made out with Miss Sharon’s nephew. James spent the rest of the lunch lightly hyperventilating…

1:45, work on the sermon and organize office files. Father Michael had left the church very disorganized. Still not sure how in the hell he was going to talk to Claude about what they did. 

3:00, James should be off do some home visits to older folks in the neighborhood and serve communion. However, something caught James off guard. As he was turned off the lights, from the corner of his eye, James saw something move. It was a darkened figure. It was only a millisecond, but he could tell it was large in stature. James skittishly jumped and turned to the empty church. He gripped the church keys in his hands, feeling the teeth of keys dig into his palm.  “Hello?” he called out, making his way down the aisle. His voice echoed lightly and waited for a response. He made his way towards the middle of the aisle, looking around the sunny and warm church, waiting to hear some sort of response. There was nothing. Not a peep. He looked between the pews to see if maybe a kid or some large animal had gotten inside but alas, not a soul to be found. It was all only empty pews and a clean, pristine altar.

James chuckled to himself, perhaps still feeling jittery from his dream. He rubbed his eyes and began to walk back to the front of church when he noticed the curtain of the confession box. It was a small booth of worn chestnut wood with a thick violet velveteen curtain that always remained open for whoever wanted to confess. James was sure he had left the curtain opened so why was it suddenly drawn? He began to walk towards the box, trying his best to casually step between the pew’s kneeling posts. James held onto the back of the wooden pew as if it were a railing trying to see if maybe someone had entered the box for a confession. He looked down the curtain where a smart pair of men’s shoes waited. Just shoes. No legs nor anything else. Just a pair of shoes. “What in the world?” James whispered to himself. Nervously, James placed his hand upon the curtain and began to draw it. 

“Forester?” asked a voice behind him. James felt his heart leap from his chest and rapidly turned to his addresser. A man with greying blonde hair donning a collar looked at him with a stern gaze and staunch demeanor. “Y-yes?” stuttered James, catching his breath. With a furrowed brow the man replied, “We were supposed to meet?”

“Oh, my goodness, I am sorry Otto. You startled me. I was just about to tend to a congregant,” James replied trying to his best to appear calm. Why the hell is he here so early? James asked himself with a faux smile. 

“What congregant? The box is empty,” contested Father Otto, growing ever more irritated. James turned to the confession box. Its curtain drawn as he’d left it earlier that morning with the cloth hooked on its side reveling an empty little booth with nothing inside. 

“You are right… I must have imagined that” James said quietly and almost to himself. 

“Did you forget our appointment? We are supposed to go over transfer of positions now that I'm back.”

“I believed we were not meeting till the next two weeks.”

“My sabbatical ended early. I thought Bishop Henry had relayed the notice. He said he called the house on Saturday.”

“ I didn’t arrive till Sunday.”

“Wait. You drove down here on Sunday?”

“Yes, that was what I was told to do.”

Father Otto’s aggravation escalated as they exchanged more words. He took a deep sigh and demanded, “Let’s finish this conversation in the house.” 

The two walked down the gravel road in silence. Once reaching the house, Father Otto stuck his hand out for the key and entered the home as if it was already his own. James followed behind him, still feeling ill and shook from what had just occurred. Father Otto abruptly turned to James and sniffed him. James turned to the man with a bewildered expression, “Excuse me but what are you doing?” 

“Ugh,” he groaned, pulling away and walking down the corridor then into the kitchen. James could hear the keys being thrown onto the little table by the phone. “You and this entire place reeks of alcohol,” he yelled across the house. “I understand this was like a childhood home and that Father Michael had a soft spot for you but how dare you treat this place as some backwoods saloon.” 

Taking off his boots in the entryway, James bit his tongue, suppressing his steadily increasing frustration. Father Otto had always hated him. They were a couple years apart during seminary but loathed James with an unbridled passion. While favored by the upper clergy, Father Otto never quite connected with congregants. His brown-nosing came off as phony and prickly to churchgoers and student alike. James, on the other hand, tested well and higher than Otto on exams and was too well liked by congregants. Something Otto would cling to and use as material to allude to James’s secondary gender. “I was having dinner with a friend,” replied James in the most neutral tone he could muster. 

“There’s half a dozen bottle by the trash James. If this continues, I will have to report to the bishop. We cannot have a drunk for a priest. Even if temporarily.” The last bit of his hollering was laced with venom. Father Otto was supposed to take over the parish in the following month as Father Michael was planning to retire. Otto was supposed to be enjoying the last bits of his sabbatical in Rome but with Michael’s death, his plans went awry. Miss Sharon’s imploring of James to take over for the month angered Otto subsequentially contributing to his already established loathing of James. 

After storing his shoes in the stair’s cupboard, James walked towards the kitchen, keeping himself cool and collected.

 “It was just a dinner, and I am allowed visitors and drinks. I haven’t been back here in ten years, let me live a little Otto.” James walked into the kitchen prepared to serve himself and his colleague, as it were, some of the leftovers from last night and iced tea. Fortunately for him, Otto had already begun to help himself to food and drink. Southern hospitality and manners be damned by that man. 

“Still,” Otto replied with his mouth half-stuffed with food, “it’s incredibly irresponsible. What if a parishioner had smelled you? The church has enough problems as it is. The last thing we need is some alpha growing savage by booze.” 

James took a deep breath, giving into Otto would only hurt his own reputation more. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your sabbatical still Otto? And what is this call I missed?”

“Hah, always to the point with you. Well, the Bishop wants me to keep an eye on you. Even though you’re Georgian, he doesn’t think you’ll be sticking to our Southern values. He suspected you missed Sunday service and guessing by your arrival date, he was right. As you know I must report this as a first infraction.”

“But I didn’t know!” James protested, trying his best not to raise his voice. “I was still driving down from Providence.”

“And we lost out on Sunday collection as well as kept the doors of our historic church closed to our congregants. That may fly in your fancy Yankee institutions but not here. The church will soon be run by me, and I would like my congregants to expect nothing but the outmost transparency and clarity.” 

“Yet Sunday collection is the first thing you talk about. You haven’t changed…”

“This house has not been updated since the World Wars; with funding from both the church and the diocese, the Bishop and I hope to turn it into an updated home for future priests who take it for residency. It wasn’t my decision.”

“But I am sure you recommended it. The money should be given back to the community. Half the townsfolk are unable to walk to the church let alone drive. I was going over the finances and I think a small shuttle bus for the people would—” 

“Bold of you to make suggestions for a place you’ll barely live in,” Otto chuckled haughtily, throwing his dishes into the sink. “I give you another week tops. You’ll screw up like you always do.” 

James opened his mouth to reply but Otto stopped him. “Don’t bother with the home visits today. I’ll do them since you look a wretched mess. Next time, have your little dinner parties with moderation. Or better yet, give me a reason to be rid of you for good.” Father Otto walked away from James without another word and slammed the door on the way out. Otto always pretends to hate these impositions; taking on tasks that were not his responsibility and loudly complaining about having to clean up after others. But Otto always delighted in looking selfless and like the ideal priest. James was sure he was grinning on the other side of the front door. 

James walked over to the door and placed on the deadbolt. Seething with anger, James stomped up the stairs and into the en-suite to see if he really did look as bad as  Father Otto claimed. To his annoyance, Otto was right. James looked awful. His reflection was somewhat worthy of Otto’s disdain—James’s eyes were partly bloodshot with the bags underneath to match. His face was stubbly with the salt and pepper five o’clock shadow coming through. What’s worse were there were two dots still visible right on his neck and a purpley bruise. “Shit,” whispered James to the mirror as he arched his neck backwards for a closer inspection of Claude’s damage. It was only two fang marks that could easily be attributable to mosquitos but the bruise's placement would definitely strike some doubts. Exasperated, James turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. What was I thinking? He internally screamed. Thank goodness Otto'd been too busy complaining about James’s hungover state. Thank Christ the idiot was also beta and couldn’t sniff the last lingers of Claude’s pheromone. Even more so, had he been more vigilant and brighter, Otto would have noticed a faint hickey mark on James’s neck.