The Presence
A short story
April 20, 1878 — Morning
Monsignor,
A rousing stench, like the breath of a drunkard soaked in his own excrement, enveloped my petrified state last night. The warm, sordid air froze my existence, as though my soul were drowning, frantically battling to escape from the shell of my earthly body, yet to no avail.
All life evaporated from my lowly bedroom. My tongue was stilled, prevented of praying, while my mind became overwhelmed by the pounding, arresting pains I once knew. There was no moon that evening, as you might have known from our walk, so I could not see if something lurked in the darkness. But there was a presence of which I never wish to feel in the company of again. I am reminded of our Blessed Mother when the angel Gabriel appeared before her. Yet this was no angel. I fear this Presence — or spirit — has attached itself like a leech to my spirit for reasons unbeknownst to me.
From the corner of the room, an undistinguishable gnashing seeped through the floorboards and scurried like a rat to the foot of my bed. And there it paused. The stench was more pronounced, debilitating, as if it restrained my legs and hands. My spine felt on the brink of severing from the Presence’s grip; however, I could not feel the sensation of sweat dripping down my nose — yet I know I perspired for my blankets were drenched when day broke. I had never known so much fear.
Then it spoke. Ego nunc hic. The unknown words clashed like metal on metal, garbled by a spewing rank pit from the ocean’s depths. The voice was ancient and youthful, alluring and despicable, soft and loud — full of contradictions. Stranger, I could taste the metallic shrapnel on my lips, which still burn. Do you know what the words mean, Monsignor?
Although I have no evidence, I knew this being enjoyed my suffering, mocking my insignificant internal pleas. Surely, the Lord tested my will — but to endure the suffering of that night, one is tempted to find a modicum of solace. A drop of water in the desert, even if sold by a grifter. Even Our Lord during His Passion decreed, “I thirst.” Last night, so did I.
Time was irrelevant, as though we existed outside the limits, for I cannot distinguish how long this torment lasted. Throughout the ordeal, the Presence repeated those words — Ego nunc hic — like a commandment. Only when the light trickled through the curtains did it vanish — but not before I saw it. It looked like a deformed man, nude and hairy but with claws at the end of its elongated arms. Yet, even though I heard it speak, it had no mouth and its eyes were dead, blackened like a fire place masked in soot. But those deadened eyes delightfully curled as though it discovered secrets, doubts within the depths of my heart — as if it knew me more than I know myself. And that is most frightening, for what is lurking in my heart? What weapon does it have against me?
You must believe, a fever did not conjure this vision, nor did the imagination of an adolescent woman. Even if my mother and father were alive, I would surely never tell them. There are visions, acts and thoughts one cannot tell loved ones — for they would not comprehend, thinking me a fool or worse.
Only your wisdom and guidance, I trust.
Cecilia
April 20, 1878 — Day
Monsignor,
I am here now. That is what the form spoke to me. The words terrify my soul, as they are definitive rather than inquisitive — coldly mocking the response of prophets when they heard the Lord’s call. Every breath hurts, as if the metallic air tore my lungs.
At your suggestion, I prayed in front of our crucified Lord, entrusting myself to His Sacred Heart. I pled. I tried to silence my inner thoughts. Yet I heard nothing back. Has God forsaken me?
I stayed for most of the day, losing track of my housekeeping duties for the Vallini family. With a mighty jerk, Marie — one of the cooks — snatched me from contemplation. My heart momentarily collapsed for I thought it was the Presence. Returning to the surroundings, every sound intensified with even the footsteps of a group of nuns thundering through the nave. I had not seen or heard them before; meanwhile Marie chastised me for neglecting my responsibilities — there was much preparation to be done before the Easter celebrations. When asked why I failed to report for work, all I could admit to was becoming lost in prayer. Marie, nor the Vallinis would understand. True, I am ashamed to have skirted my duties — the family has treated me fairly since I was orphaned — but I feel weighed by an unknown guilt, even though you absolved me from such sin.
I must trust and feel blessed by the suffering for suffering draws us closer to the Lord. But my heart is torn, afraid of the long night ahead.
Surly clutching my arm, Marie briskly led me toward the village street, which basked in the afternoon light, yet I do not recall walking. Another uncharitable world lay beyond the shadowed arches of the church. Looking back, the dwindling sunlight illuminated Christ’s feet — crossed, nailed and bloodied. Passing through the threshold onto the cobble-stoned road, vulnerability crept into my bones, as though any unwarranted glance would shatter them.
I received many. Lowering my head did not diminish the effect. Every eye pricked my body like needles, which were then twisted into my skin. I felt blood would erupt from every pore. Marie did not notice my struggle. Why would she? She had her duty to perform. But the dread washed over me like the day I became an orphan, after discovering my parents were both dead. The commotion and whispery accusations spread unabatedly — were they murdered? Did my father have debts he failed to pay? Was it a crime of passion? Some even accused me — that I was responsible, but they were few. Yet the raw accusations scourged my raw emotions. And I have noticed, since then, no man courted my affections, as if I were a carcass caked in maggots.
I felt lost. Only God’s love saved me then, and your wisdom showed me a path rid of immense sorrow. Devotion to the Sacred Heart became the primary source of peace. Christ was my savior. I prayed for sainthood, believing if attained I would once more see my parents. Yet, as of last night, other whispers ravaged my soul: was the devotion built on questionable brick and mortar? Is my faith a delusion, hiding some truth I discovered along with my dead parents that day? This doubt is foreign yet familiar. Another contradiction. But the latter feels more instinctual — even easier to choose.
As Marie and I continued toward the Vallini estate, the hairs on the back of my neck began to rise, as if a finger lightly traced my spine. Then, ever so softly, I heard the gnashing. The metal. The spewing, but from every passerby. Not in an ancient language, but in my own tongue. My soul shriveled as my head swirled to find the creature. However, no single source existed.
The voices blasphemed against God, and described, in horrid detail, abuses committed by the clergy, who swam in decadency and orgies. They spoke how you, Monsignor, were a hypocrite and would one day be dwelling in Gehenna. And, as if insanity became reality, I saw the town engulfed in fire — the agonizing, insuppressible screams endlessly howling into a darkened sky — and a beggar mercilessly torn apart by other nude, hairy, horned creatures, similar to the one at the foot of my bed.
“See. Your soul will be torn to pieces unless you consent to me.”
The words suffocated my soul, burying it under mountains of ash and dust. Every time I tried to scream, the air burnt — like I inhaled fire. The pounding from the sheer terror ballooned my eyes to the brink of popping. I begged for an end.
Suddenly, I stood inside the Vallani’s atrium — a large, empty chamber more akin to catacombs than a home. The marble pillars were as cold as the wind wafting through the open door. I could see my own worn reflection in them — though I dared not look even into my own eyes. Marie loosened her grip and returned to the kitchen, preparing supper for the masters of the house. Gathering myself, I turned toward the street once more. Beyond the gates, a disheveled beggar hobbled, draped in hole-ridden clothes, similar to the one in the horrendous vision. He stumbled to the main square, no doubt searching for a piece of bread or shelter. Even in his condition, nearing his time, he appeared purposeful — on a mission. Watching him struggle, I felt hollow and overcome with grief that I could not save him.
In that moment, I did not want to die. I wished to become nothing. To never have existed. I fear the night ahead.
Cecilia
April 21, 1878 — Morning
Monsignor,
It is now Good Friday. Christ did not sleep awaiting his eventual crucifixion. I do not sleep awaiting my own.
My courage is weak. The prayers of the rosary fumble forth from my mouth, directionless, almost lifeless, as if the words were devoid of meaning. Recitation is not prayer, but I suspect the attempt is better than wallowing in the darkness of my room.
For this is no ordinary apparition haunting, stalking me. How can a girl such as I withstand the gates of Hell? Why does he want me? I am no threat to his dominion, am I?
The anticipation sickened me. As I announced the fifth mystery, a voice within me whispered, “The wicked one attacks those purest of heart to sow despair in others. But do not fear. You will suffer, but I will give you strength.” A remnant of one of your homilies, Monsignor? The message landed coldly in my despairing heart — yet I continued praying into the night.
Suddenly, I awoke in the morning, kneeling on the floor next to the bed. My gown was bloodied on the knees, no doubt from blisters. Yet, thankfully, the creature had not come.
My wish is to avoid this cross — to avoid descending into Hell as our Lord did after He commended His spirit. But I suspect, the stay in execution is temporary. I pray for strength. That an archangel flies to my side. However, I expect no immediate answer and — within my heart — I expect no response at all. I do not feel the Lord’s presence.
Cecilia
April 22, 1878
Monsignor,
For years I wondered where my parents’ souls now dwell and, on this day, I realize the devil seeks revenge after Christ stormed Hell and freed souls. Specifically, this day, he longs to snatch souls and chain them — or simply extinguish them. No pain. No existence. No love. The possibility of complete annihilation crushes my mind.
The thirst for love is both instinctual and unquenchable until the earthly threshold is crossed. Once again, I lingered in church following the service, where security reigned. But there was a fate I could not escape. An unavoidable war. Only saints have been victorious against the powers of darkness — some even directly battling the devil himself. When I asked for sainthood, perhaps I was foolish, not realizing what that meant and the duty bestowed on me by grace.
That grace brought me to the precipice this night. Face to face with the doubt lurking in my heart.
Nothing extraordinary or foul announced the Presence’s arrival. I had been merely gazing out on the narrow streets below. Meanwhile, the clock tower in the main square tolled though I couldn’t distinguish the hour. My nerves nearly catapulted me out the window. Down below, I saw the beggar hobbling, curling into the doorway of a bakery. He would move from time to time, trying to find a comfortable position, eventually huddling against the stone wall. His head, arched, rested on his crossed arms — it looked like his head were on a serving tray. Yet, with his troubles, he slept. I knew then our sufferings were not equal — but mine were not greater, nor his greater than mine. I asked God to nourish him and whatever brought him to his current condition, may he be forgiven.
“He is damned.” Those words slithered forth from the Presence’s sealed lips, flicking my ears. My attention turned toward the dissonance, but it was not the same form. This devil was clothed in a black robe. If not for his prior savagery, I would have mistaken the Presence as a gentleman of court. An aristocratic man, similar to Vallini — with combed blonde hair, expertise in banking, and a family lineage stretching to the Roman Empire. Despite the Presence’s youthful appearance, his aura effused a primordial pain. He stood in the middle of the room, as if his feet were chained, for he dared not step forward. My heart raced. The sweat accumulated on my forehead.
I asked the Presence why he chose me, but he did not answer. He did not blink. His eyes pierced through my being. That unnerved me most.
From his sleeve, a serpent weaved around his left forearm; however, the Presence was not alarmed, nor paid any attention to the slithering fiend. The silence was palpable, stinging the burns on my lips. My hand twitched. The Presence mirrored the movement. I moved an inch backward toward the window. He moved an inch toward me. The pounding headache erupted once more, clouding my judgment. I asked the Presence again what he wanted with me; instead, as if he consumed my words, he repeated them, yet in reverse, producing a horrifying, grating sound.
My heart nearly tore through my chest. The same heart I entrusted to Christ. I feared more how long this would last and not so much how it would end.
Then he spoke. “I see your heart. Why do you cling to a temple with no foundation? Your God has already cast your lots. You are damned for that sin which you committed years ago, do you not remember?”
Suddenly the serpent perked its head, turning in my direction. It began convulsing, shrieking, nearly shattering the glass in the room. Its face morphed into a myriad of people melding together — all gasping for relief from the eternal fire. The Presence lifted his arm as the convulsing paused on the faces of my father and mother. It was undeniably them, though their appearances were deformed, reduced to shadows. Their eyes were charred, darker than anything I had ever seen. They called for a savior. They begged for forgiveness. They asked what I had done — for every sin I committed scourged their molten flesh.
“Cecilia, save us,” they garbled, yet I could barely register what they cried at first for they had no tongues.
Tears streamed down my burning cheeks as rapidly as a river. I could not breathe. The pounding intensified. In that moment, I could have thrown myself from the clock tower. Their charred bodies extinguished my hope for their salvation. It must have been a lie. I could not believe.
“You have been abandoned forever by the greatest liar. There is no hope for you. I’ll spare them if you consent to me — like I have for others.”
His eyes curled once more like they had the other night, beckoning me forward. As if under a spell, I walked toward him and he toward me. Meanwhile, the serpent still convulsed. I wanted nothing more than to save them from torment, and to quell the endless shrieking. Where was God in this moment? How could he love, yet allow his creations to suffer? Did not Christ’s sacrifice save their souls? The doubt swelled in my heart — overflowing like a cup with too much water.
I lifelessly stood before the Presence. Filled with lust, his eyes undressed me while the claws caressed my arms. Any warmth within me evaporated. A frost rippled through every nerve, freezing any impulse to flee. The beats of my heart diminished, no longer on the verge of tearing open my chest, flickering seemingly every other minute. If I sinned, I must suffer — I resigned myself to this state, Monsignor.
Then, out from beyond the window, the beggar coughed albeit for a moment; yet I undistinguishably heard it louder than the shrieks. Louder than the silence in my soul. How so? Regardless, the cough shattered the Presence’s spell. My seldom heart beat became more prominent in my ears, and I remembered another heart — His. The Presence had the power to smite me in the most horrific fashion; but not destroy me. It was then I knew the visions — that of my parents — were lies. And I told him so. Our Lord absolved me and, even though I experienced this darkness, had not abandoned me.
“What sin damned me?” I asked. Immediately, I threw my being toward the window, escaping his clutch. His lustful, dominating eyes morphed into fear, then anger. His sown mouth stretched, tearing and bleeding profusely as he sought to scream. The rank breath was suffocating, and his aristocratic appearance morphed once again into a horned beast.
Within a flash, the Presence leapt and jerked my hair in his claws. My body collided to the floor, separating my arm from its socket. I prayed. I prayed with full meaning, with all my heart. What fear! I called for the Lord as splinters dug into my back — for the Presence dragged me to my bed. His breath singed my eyes, charring them like my parents’ in the false vision, and his claws shredded my hair as he towered over me. Death was near. But nothing could compel me to succumb to the Presence’s lies. If I was to suffer, then so be it. Then I would be closer to Him. The suffering at the hands of the Presence was inescapable.
Or so I believed. My hair fell on the sheets. The horrible shrieking subsided instantly. A warmth seeped into the room and through my body. Everything ached, especially my arm and back, and I had little to no strength — but there was a lightness that lifted me from the bed. I searched the room to find no remnants of the Presence. No stench lingered. Pressing my foot against the floorboard, I found no creases where he could have slithered into. He had vanished. I was amazed. On my sore knees, I prayed a prayer of thanksgiving, weeping tears of relief that I survived this battle.
After completing my prayers, I walked to the window and saw the early morning sun stretch its rays across the cobble stones to the beggar’s crossed feet. Without realizing, nearly instantly, I wrapped him in a blanket with one arm — but I don’t remember walking down the stairs. Nor did I glide. However, that did not matter. Through his crusty blue eyes, the beggar expressed more gratitude than stating it so. He smiled like he were proud of me and I felt a lightness in his soul, as if he understood what I experienced.
I kissed his cheek, thanking him. I promised to bring him bread later — hopefully Marie will provide.
For the first time in ages, this morning, doubt ceased to exist. Whether my parents passed through the gates while hearing “Well done my good and faithful servants” was not my decision. But I trust in His. And there it will remain until faith recedes into glorious reality.
I await a beautiful Easter.
Cecilia