The Forgotten Soul

 The Forgotten Soul 

As the door creaked open, the assistant priest stepped forward with a warm smile to greet the new parish priest.

“We were expecting you this morning, Father,” he said, reaching for the luggage. 

“My apologies,” replied the new priest with a polite nod, carefully gathering a stack of files from the seat. “I stopped by the main church to meet Father John.” 

“Of course,” the assistant priest responded, his tone understanding. “Father, would you like some tea? You must be tired after such a journey.” 

“Yes, please,” the new priest said, his voice laced with gratitude as his eyes lingered on the charming, quaint church. Its modest walls, adorned with a statue of St. Thérèse, seemed to exude a quiet serenity. “It’s a beautiful church. Truly a blessing to be here.” 

The assistant priest beamed with pride. “Indeed, Father. Welcome to your new home.”

 The Visitor Of The Night
The church stood gracefully on top of a hill, overlooking a small, somewhat isolated town. Though the town was quiet, mornings buzzed with activity as townsfolk climbed the long, stone steps to meet the parish priest, seeking guidance or assistance. Few ventured out after dusk—there was no transportation at night, and the hill seemed to grow steeper in the dark. 

Built entirely of sturdy rock, the church was a testament to enduring faith, its charm accentuated by a modest yet well-tended garden. A winding stone path led to a small mission house, simple but surprisingly spacious. It provided a comfortable home for the two priests, the caretaker, and the cook who kept the household running smoothly. 

Nestled within the garden was a little gate that opened onto a quiet lane. The gate often bustled with local villagers stopping by for their everyday errands—a hub of life for an otherwise serene sanctuary. The place seemed to carry a timeless peace, its stillness broken only by the rustling trees and distant hum of the town below. 

Settling into the new church on his first day proved more challenging than Fr. Steve had anticipated. There were matters to address and tasks to organize before the day’s end, leaving him feeling restless. By midnight, the world outside had fallen silent, and finally, he let his weary eyes close. 

Tap... tap... tap. 

A faint but distinct knocking startled him awake. Fr. Steve blinked at the clock—it was 1 a.m. His heart quickened as he sat up, straining to hear more through the stillness of the mission house. Who could it be at this hour? His mind raced, but exhaustion overtook him, and soon he fell back into a fitful sleep. 

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the windows, accompanied by the gentle voice of the assistant priest.

“Good morning, Father. There are people waiting to meet you,” he said with a cheerful smile. 

Despite his fatigue, Fr. Steve rose with renewed purpose. A man of deep faith, he spent hours in prayer, drawing strength and clarity from his unwavering connection to God. Word of his arrival had already spread, and villagers gathered outside, seeking blessings and healing. 

As he prepared to face the day, the memory of the mysterious tapping lingered at the edge of his thoughts. Was it just his imagination? Or a sign of something yet to come? Fr. Steve couldn’t shake the feeling that his journey here would be anything but ordinary.

Fr. Steve’s morning had been consumed by parishioners seeking guidance, and the demands of the day left him retreating to bed later than he intended. The stillness of the night enveloped him, and he drifted into a deep sleep. 

But just as he was beginning to rest, a familiar sound jolted him awake. 

Tap... tap... tap. 

He sat up, heart pounding, straining to hear more. The sound came from the mission door, faint yet deliberate. Fr. Steve remained frozen, listening intently as the tapping persisted, then stopped as abruptly as it had begun. He checked the time—1 a.m. again. 

This time, he didn’t leave the room. He knew the gates were locked, and no one could have entered at such an hour. And yet, the sound had been real. 

The next morning, the unease lingered as he silently approached the assistant priest, Fr.Ribera, who was busy organizing the parish records. 

“Have you heard... anything tapping on the mission door at night?” Fr. Steve asked, his tone measured but probing, as if trying to coax the truth from Fr. Ribera’s lips. 

The assistant priest looked up, puzzled. “No, Father. No one comes here after 9 p.m. If they need something, they’d call us first.” 

Fr. Steve nodded slowly, but his mind raced. The answer was logical, practical even, but it didn’t explain the mysterious sound. What—or who—was tapping at the door in the dead of night? And why? 

Something was not as it seemed, and Fr. Steve felt a stirring in his spirit. This was no ordinary parish, and his arrival here might not have been a coincidence after all.

The Lost Soul 

The following day, Fr. Steve decided to use his holiday to distract himself from the restless nights. He lined a row of flower pots neatly along the church garden path, their bright blooms a sharp contrast to the unease that clung to him. Meanwhile, Fr. Ribera busied himself with filing documents and drafting letters in the quiet mission house. 

But the nights brought no peace. The tapping continued, growing louder and more persistent each passing day. By the fourth night, Fr. Steve couldn’t ignore it any longer. At exactly 1 a.m., the familiar tap... tap... tap began, echoing through the stillness like a sinister metronome. 

Clutching his rosary tightly in one hand, he rose from his bed. His heart pounded with each deliberate step toward the office door, the sound of his own breath unnervingly loud in the silence. The tapping was relentless now, each strike against the wood vibrating through the room, as if something was demanding to be let in. 

Fr. Steve hesitated at the door, his fingers trembling as they reached for the lock. He was no stranger to fear, but this was different—an oppressive, unnatural dread. Slowly, he turned the key, the metallic click ringing out like a gunshot in the night. 

With a deep breath and a whispered prayer, he pulled the door open. The darkness beyond seemed to breathe, an impenetrable void that swallowed the dim light spilling from his room. The cold air that rushed in carried a faint, acrid scent—burnt wood and damp earth. 

But the corridor beyond was empty. No shadow moved, no figure loomed. And yet, Fr. Steve could feel it—something was there, watching him from the depths of the night. 

His grip tightened around the rosary as he whispered a Psalm under his breath, his voice steady but strained. The tapping had stopped, but the silence that followed was even more unnerving, as if the air itself had stilled to listen. 

Then, from somewhere far down the hall, a faint creak sounded, like the slow groan of an ancient hinge. Fr. Steve froze, his pulse quickening as he peered into the darkness. Whatever was haunting these nights wasn’t going to remain unseen for much longer.

The old door creaked ominously as it opened, revealing the cold, suffocating darkness of the night. Fr. Steve held his breath, clutching his rosary so tightly that the beads pressed painfully into his palm. 

Then it happened. 
Out of the shadows, a flaming skeletal hand emerged, its bony fingers ablaze with an otherworldly fire that flickered and hissed without consuming it. The hand moved with an unnatural grace, its burning glow casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls. Fr. Steve stood frozen, unable to look away as it stretched forward, reaching into the room. 

The skeletal hand stopped at the bookshelf, its flaming finger hovering over an old, weathered book. Slowly, it pointed, as though demanding attention, before brushing against the spine. The room filled with the acrid stench of smoke as the flame licked the edges of the book, yet the pages remained unscathed. 

Fr. Steve's eyes widened in horror as he recognized the book—the parish ledger, filled with the names of the departed for whom Holy Masses had been offered. The ledger was ancient, its yellowed pages nearly full, its leather cover cracked with age. 

The hand lingered for a moment, the flames pulsing brighter as if alive. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it retreated, vanishing into the darkness beyond the door. The oppressive silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint smell of burning lingering in the air. 

Fr. Steve stood paralyzed, his thoughts a whirlwind of dread and confusion. What was the meaning of this unholy visitation? Why had the fiery apparition chosen that book? He could feel his faith being tested, his resolve trembling in the face of something beyond mortal comprehension. 

This was no mere haunting. It was a warning—or perhaps, a harbinger of something far more sinister.

Fr. Steve sat in stunned silence, the rosary still clutched in his trembling hand. The room felt heavier now, as though an unseen presence lingered, watching, waiting. Taking a deep breath, he knelt before the old ledger, offering his thoughts and prayers to the Lord. His whispered words echoed softly in the stillness, a plea for strength and clarity. 

Summoning his courage, he opened the book, the ancient pages crackling under his fingertips. The names of the departed stared back at him, each entry a testament to a soul remembered and prayed for. As he turned the pages, his eyes scanned the faded ink, searching for... something. He didn’t know what. 

Then, it appeared. 
Tucked between two brittle pages was a yellowed piece of paper, its edges frayed with time. The handwriting was hurried and uneven, as though the writer had been in distress. It was a request—a Holy Mass to be offered for a soul named Michael Thompson exactly one year ago. 

Fr. Steve’s brow furrowed as he flipped back to the corresponding pages in the ledger. Line by line, he combed through the entries for that week, but the name was nowhere to be found. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as the realization sank in. Michael Thompson had been forgotten, his request lost to time. 

The room seemed to close in around him, the weight of his discovery pressing heavily on his chest. Fr. Steve whispered a quick prayer, his hand trembling as he picked up his pen. With deliberate care, he wrote the name into the book, the ink staining the page like a solemn vow. 

 Finally, At Peace 
The following morning, the church was bathed in the soft glow of candles as Fr. Steve prepared to celebrate Holy Mass. His voice was steady but filled with emotion as he lifted his hands in prayer, offering the sacred rites for the soul of Michael Thompson. 

As he prayed, a strange stillness settled over the church. The air grew colder, and the flickering candle flames seemed to dim. Fr. Steve closed his eyes, pouring his heart into the prayer. He asked for peace, forgiveness, and eternal rest for the forgotten soul. 

At that moment, a faint sound reached his ears—a soft sigh, barely audible, yet unmistakable. It was as if the very air around him exhaled in relief. The chill lifted, replaced by a warmth that wrapped around him like a gentle embrace. 

Fr. Steve opened his eyes, feeling a profound peace he couldn’t explain. The Mass continued, but in his heart, he knew. The forgotten soul had finally found rest.