Young Writers Society

Keys…check, wallet…check, cell phone…check. Father Trotter made sure he had everything he needed as he entered the church’s parking lot, it had been almost a month to the day since he had begun practicing this nightly ritual of taking his own personal inventory, after all he wouldn’t have another incident like the one last month when he left his house keys in the rectory after locking up and failed to realize it until he reached his front door.

As he walked across the parking lot that now looked abandoned after having just an hour ago been filled with the bustling and laughter of his clergy arriving at their cars after exiting midnight Christmas mass, He balanced the left over Christmas cookies in his right hand while reaching his left arm across his torso to transfer the large brown bag filled with gifts donated for the toys for tots drive. He fixed the keys to his car in his hand and as he approached he sensed a shadow in the corner of his right eye , he felt a immediate warmth of terror in the core of his chest as he turned his head to greet the apparition. He saw the trees that lined the east side of the parking lot pushed and pulled by the wind which whistled as it rushed passed his raw cheeks and nothing more.

He took a quick survey of the abandoned lot and as he realized he stood alone in front of his car his heartbeat began to slow and the warmth in his chest moved to a lump in his throat and as he swallowed he felt relief wash over him “Relax old man, you’ll give yourself an heart attack” he said to himself in jest. And as he turned back to his car a metal pipe whistled as sharply as the wind as it cut through the air to land in the middle of his face breaking his nose and knocking out two of his teeth. He cracked his elbow on the concrete as he landed on his side gasping for air, as he tried to position himself to crawl away from whatever had held the pipe which delivered the blow he was struck again in the small of his back and a pain he had never before felt rushed through his body. “HEELLLP, PLEASE….DON’T” he cried as his attacker began again to rain blows down on him, he could be certain it was a man who was standing over him as the rough grunts which accompanied the blows made clear he was also sure that he was being beaten with a pipe because of the hard dull metallic sound which preceded each shock of pain he felt.

After about a minute all he could hear was his cries but each blow still felt as fresh as the first, he never fully turned his head but he caught a glimpse of a tattoo that stained the skin on his attacker’s wrist, a black and red spider. A faint sense of numbness which started in his finger tips when he gripped the cement as if trying to dig his way to safety began to crawl through his body and the voice in his head began to recite a name in a calm soft female voice. “Charlotte”…, two years earlier young Helen Mince the Sunday school teacher sat in a sunny classroom in the back of the church surrounded by small children as Father Trotter stood in the doorway with his arms crossed and watched he felt a smooth warmth enter his chest as her full crimson lips came together and parted in a sensual rhythm and the sound of her soft, sweet voice read a story to the children. “What is your name, please? May I have your name?” the teacher recited as she looked up her eyes met his and she paused briefly and a flush of red surfaced in her cheeks as she noticed the intent of his gaze she continued eyes glued to his “My name said the spider, is Charlotte”. This was the last thought of Father Marcus Trotter, as the pipe met the top of his skull a wet thump ended his life.