Wolf Tracks
father david
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been thirty-two days since my last Confession. These are my sins..."
Father David tried to listen intently to the penitent, but it was proving hard to do so with the raging storm outside. It'd been weeks since he last saw a glimmer of sun. The rain was so violent, it seemed to conceal the town beneath a veil of metallic blackness. The rain was carried with the wind, and with it came the stench of the sea; the fish in which they lived off of, murky death, and despair.
Father David shifted uncomfortably on the weak bench-- he was growing restless, and wished for this man to finish. The headache from this morning had also been growing, and it seemed to thrive with his frustration. It was becoming near unbearable. He was losing his focus, the man's words were becoming a blur. He rested his elbows on his knees, and massaged his face. His hands are like wild bear paws, rough and leathery and splintered. Father David sighed, leaning back against the wall, staring before him. The light was dim, and began flickering until it burnt out.
"Father... Father... what's happened? Are you alright?" the man asked barely above a whisper; he sounded somewhat frightened. The confessional was pitch black. Father David was used to this by now. This sort of thing always seemed to happen.
"Yes, yes I'm fine. I w-" he cut himself off..
He looked at his hands, they were red. Father David blinked his eyes a few times. Red was before him, and the stench around him no longer smelled of fish and seaweed, but of something more salty, something more... alive. It smelled of blood, and he felt his mouth beginning to water.
He swished his tongue around his mouth; he probably bit his cheek without knowing it. The taste of iron coated his taste buds, yet he could feel no open wound. He began hearing thumping. Steady, rhythmic, thumping. It excited him. He shook his head; what was happening?
The smell of blood was more prominent now. The scent was so delicious it made him sick; he began breathing through his mouth. He looked at his hands once more. He still saw red, but it was now spreading. He looked before him, and he saw the walls covered in red. He looked down at his body, he was covered in red. He looked above, he saw red.
Droplets of sweat dotted his forehead. Father David tugged at his collar, then started rubbing his hands together frantically. He licked his lips, he tasted blood. The thumping was growing louder. Find the thumping, find the thumping and this will stop. It will stop. I know it will stop.
"Father..." the man's voice was trembling. "Your breath is ragged, what is happening?"
Father David pressed his ear against the lattice. The thumping, there it was. He pressed his hand to the lattice to slide it open, but what he saw was not his hand. What he saw was some mutation. It resembled a claw, but it was something more demonic. It was charcoal gray with black, cracked fingernails, tight, torn flesh, and with tufts of fur crusted with black blood.
The man was a statue of fear, frozen in the small room. He didn't feel the tears sliding down his face, nor his own nails digging into his skin from clutching his arms too tightly. The noises he was hearing were worse than those a man makes when he's possessed. They were ear shattering, and petrified him and made the screams in his throat dry up. He heard the wood of the confessional cracking, and he heard bones snapping, and he heard Father David crying.
And suddenly, all was silent.
The man swallowed deeply, every inch of his body trembling. He was drenched with sweat.
"F- Father Da- David..." he somehow managed to choke those words out, but still he did not move.
He heard a snarl, and knew his fate. The barrier between Father David and himself was thrown aside. And what stood before him was something far worse than he ever would've imagined. He screamed, eyes full of horror.
Father David lunged towards the man.
Father David tried to listen intently to the penitent, but it was proving hard to do so with the raging storm outside. It'd been weeks since he last saw a glimmer of sun. The rain was so violent, it seemed to conceal the town beneath a veil of metallic blackness. The rain was carried with the wind, and with it came the stench of the sea; the fish in which they lived off of, murky death, and despair.
Father David shifted uncomfortably on the weak bench-- he was growing restless, and wished for this man to finish. The headache from this morning had also been growing, and it seemed to thrive with his frustration. It was becoming near unbearable. He was losing his focus, the man's words were becoming a blur. He rested his elbows on his knees, and massaged his face. His hands are like wild bear paws, rough and leathery and splintered. Father David sighed, leaning back against the wall, staring before him. The light was dim, and began flickering until it burnt out.
"Father... Father... what's happened? Are you alright?" the man asked barely above a whisper; he sounded somewhat frightened. The confessional was pitch black. Father David was used to this by now. This sort of thing always seemed to happen.
"Yes, yes I'm fine. I w-" he cut himself off..
He looked at his hands, they were red. Father David blinked his eyes a few times. Red was before him, and the stench around him no longer smelled of fish and seaweed, but of something more salty, something more... alive. It smelled of blood, and he felt his mouth beginning to water.
He swished his tongue around his mouth; he probably bit his cheek without knowing it. The taste of iron coated his taste buds, yet he could feel no open wound. He began hearing thumping. Steady, rhythmic, thumping. It excited him. He shook his head; what was happening?
The smell of blood was more prominent now. The scent was so delicious it made him sick; he began breathing through his mouth. He looked at his hands once more. He still saw red, but it was now spreading. He looked before him, and he saw the walls covered in red. He looked down at his body, he was covered in red. He looked above, he saw red.
Droplets of sweat dotted his forehead. Father David tugged at his collar, then started rubbing his hands together frantically. He licked his lips, he tasted blood. The thumping was growing louder. Find the thumping, find the thumping and this will stop. It will stop. I know it will stop.
"Father..." the man's voice was trembling. "Your breath is ragged, what is happening?"
Father David pressed his ear against the lattice. The thumping, there it was. He pressed his hand to the lattice to slide it open, but what he saw was not his hand. What he saw was some mutation. It resembled a claw, but it was something more demonic. It was charcoal gray with black, cracked fingernails, tight, torn flesh, and with tufts of fur crusted with black blood.
The man was a statue of fear, frozen in the small room. He didn't feel the tears sliding down his face, nor his own nails digging into his skin from clutching his arms too tightly. The noises he was hearing were worse than those a man makes when he's possessed. They were ear shattering, and petrified him and made the screams in his throat dry up. He heard the wood of the confessional cracking, and he heard bones snapping, and he heard Father David crying.
And suddenly, all was silent.
The man swallowed deeply, every inch of his body trembling. He was drenched with sweat.
"F- Father Da- David..." he somehow managed to choke those words out, but still he did not move.
He heard a snarl, and knew his fate. The barrier between Father David and himself was thrown aside. And what stood before him was something far worse than he ever would've imagined. He screamed, eyes full of horror.
Father David lunged towards the man.