The Horrors of Faith

“Run Bishop, it makes no difference to me. I will still get my feast before the night is over.” The evil voice called, echoing down the cavernous corridors of the cathedral.

The man listened whilst catching his breath, peering over the stone banister to look down the winding staircase and seeing the figure leap from step to step with inhuman speed. He was sweating now, and a heavy sheen was beginning to gather in the gaps of wrinkled flesh upon his face. He wiped his forehead before turning to run down another set of corridors. Fear gripped him as he knew there was no escaping his attacker, the pursuit taking the two further and further toward the clocktower, a dead end awaiting them both.

He looked over his shoulder and there was the figure, dressed in a long, black robe that draped to floor and cloaked their face. The figure moving with such ease and speed that they appeared almost like a plume of smoke, gliding through the darkness like a shadow which had lost its master.

The Bishop rounded a corner and there in front of him was the final door leading up to the tallest part of the large cathedral. He knew where it led, and he knew the implications it would have for him, the time ticking on the rest of his life coming quickly to its end. He came to a fast conclusion as the slow rhythmic footsteps of his predator began to gain volume. He flung the door open and climbed the steep, circling steps until he emerged in a long empty room with tall stained-glass windows and a long rope that hung down from a large iron bell amongst the rafters.

There was nowhere left to run, and all the Bishop could do now was turn to face the figure. As his heart thumped, he heard the door creak open again from the bottom of the stairwell, the squeal of the hinges making his blood run cold and the hair on the back of his neck flare. Then from the darkness arose the mass of black, rising slowly from the stairs as if it were floating in mid-air.

“What do you want?” The Bishop cried, stumbling backwards.

“I want you. I have watched you for some time and now it is time for my thirst to be satiated.” The figure spoke, the voice like soft flowing velvet.

The Bishop could not see the figure’s face, but he knew the figure was smiling beneath the darkness of its hood, imagining a row of yellowed teeth and glass like eyes that stared with the insane maliciousness of a psychopath.

“Thirst?” the man quivered, his legs like jelly as he gripped the back wall.

“Yes. I will drink you, Bishop. Every last drop if I can, for what a waste it would be if I didn’t finish my meal.”

The figure seemed to rise as if about to pounce on hind legs, but before they could move the room was split in two by a bright beam of sunlight, the figure recoiling from it like it were an enraged fire.

The bishop felt his legs give way beneath him and collapsed in a heap, fatigue as well as despair flooding his body.

The figure cursed in languages ranging from French to ancient Latin, the familiar tongue of the deceased language bringing back memories of his school days, revising the many verses of the Latin texts from the bible until his head throbbed.

“Aljas isten!” hissed the figure, following the beam of light with their gaze before looking up at the heap of man.

The Bishop looked at the figure, noticing a right hand that had emerged from the cloak and been touched by the sunlight, the skin now charred and crisped. What sort of person was he facing? The person clearly had a condition that meant they could not face the sun. Was this why the figure had attacked him? He thought back to the moment he was struck from behind, the hooded figure appearing out of nowhere and sending him hurtling to the ground. If it weren’t for the heavy iron cross which he had plunged against the cloaked figure’s head in defence he might have been killed there. Instead, the figure had screamed with rage and animosity, giving the bishop enough time to flee for the first door he saw. If it was the sun that the figure was afraid of then it would mean he only had twelve hours to live before it would set.

“Look, you don’t have to do this! I can help you.” He said, trying to reason to whoever he faced. The figure was silent except for whispers they spoke to themselves, sounding like the hiss of winter wind. For a long while, the figure did not move, nor did they speak. They simply remained still, occasionally analysing the long beam of sunlight to no avail.

The sun shone through a large stain glass window, its light now reaching a depiction of an emerald set in a crown as the sun shone high in the sky, a bright green light flooding the room and creating a misty haze of deep green.

Why? Why do you torture me further, God? the Bishop thought, feeling anger replace the fear he held in his heart. First my wife, now this. The Bishop thought of his wife, both before the cancer had ripped her body apart and after. Imagining her beautiful smile staring down at him, her golden hair sitting gently upon her bare shoulders. Then the image twisted and contorted, leaving just a shell of his wife that he had faced on her death bed, her last words telling him to keep faith in their God. To remain at the church and guide others from despair. He cursed under his breath, blaspheming for the last time and feeling the anger rage within him.

“You’re angry?” The figure spoke, their soft voice no longer drenched in malevolence but instead confusion.

The Bishop looked at the mass of black for a long moment but could not muster the courage to speak. He simply cursed God again and stared down at his clenched fists, the skin on his hands resembling scrunched up sandpaper from years of woodwork and repairs on the Cathedral.

“You blame your God for this?” the figure chuckled.

“Yes. It is clear to me that my God sees fit to torture me further.” He said, his words like hot tar in his mouth.

“But your God is so wonderful, is he not? Blessing everyone with his mere existence.” The figure sarcastically mused.

“Wonderful?” The Bishop felt himself laugh. “I used to think that. But for all my prayer and worship, God has bestowed only pain and suffering upon me.”

“I knew you had lost faith, but I did not know to what extent. A child of God, life full of prayer, who now resents his maker. How very ironic.”

“Ironic?”

“Your bible teaches you of so much forgiveness and love for the world and yet you children of god are so quick to leave their faith behind in times of hardship. When life turns sour you run to other means of escaping the horrors of the world. The truth is Humanity is too naïve to accept what terror truly is. The monster under your bed to the creature in your closets.”

“Who are you?” The Bishop asked, the words almost prewritten, like he had no control on what he said now.

“Are you sure you wish to know?”

“If I am to die, I wish to see my killer.” Am I so quick to accept death? He thought as he spoke, thinking back at how his wife had smiled as she drifted from life. No he thought to himself.

The figure said nothing for a long moment. Then, as the green light faded to a golden yellow as the sun began to fall from the midday sky, two hands arose from the mass of cloak, the left still blackened from their venture into the sunlight. Slowly they rose to grip the sides of the hood, lifting it back to reveal a face as pale and white as snow and eyes that burned with a hot crimson boring into the Bishops very soul. It was a woman, young and beautiful, being no older than 22, for her features were smooth and perfect, not a single blemish or unsymmetrical aspect upon her face. She was beautiful, and yet fear gripped him at the sight of her. There was something unnatural about her perfection that made his stomach turn and his very bones recoil, wanting to escape deep into the rock he rested on so that he may forge as much space between him and the… the…

“Vampire!” He felt the words escape him, residing in the air like a foul smell. He felt mad for uttering the word, but it was the only word he could think that could describe the demon in front of him.

“Yes. I am surprised it has taken you this long to figure it out, although you Humans are quick to place our existence in the realm of myth and legend.” The woman spoke, her rounded lips the shade of dying rose petals.

“So, it’s my blood you’re after.” It was a statement which held little meaning in his mind as it was now a crescendo of questions and denials. How could Vampires possibly exist? This was a prank! It must be. Who set her up to this? Was this Ted Marks’ work? She was so fast! A Vampire? “You can’t exist. It’s impossible.” The words were flat, his mind slowly accepting the demonic creature that lay before him.

“Impossible, and yet here I stand.”

“Why me?”

“Because you are a man with a faulted faith. Someone who has had his beliefs questioned and his life stricken by pain. Your blood has become something to be craved by my kind, and I have fought very hard to be the one to claim you.” The woman smiled. A grin of perfect teeth revealing four fangs where the canines should be, creating a sharp, perfect V shape in her mouth that terrified the Bishop.

“But why now? I have been a man of god since I was just a young boy.”

“Faith is something that causes the blood to become toxic to my kind. It boils in our mouths and stings our throats. We cannot drink it. But when that faith is lost or is questioned, the blood holds only a spice to it, becoming a well-seasoned meal for me to gorge off.” She laughed a guttural laugh, ending in a growl that emanated deep within her chest.

So, it was his lost faith that had drawn the Vampire. As the beam of light across the floor began to fade with the setting sun, he thought of his wife, feeling like the corruption of cancer had damned them both. But then he thought of her smile, the one she held as she had drifted painlessly into death. It was one of contempt. She had accepted her death because she was to join God in heaven. Now he was to join her. And though he had lost faith in God, he would not lose his faith in her.

“I am ready, Vampire. Do what you must.” He said, her brows furrowing in both confusion and disgust as he did.

The Bishop rose, a new resolve flooding his veins now and he knew that now he was ready for death. His new-found faith now feeling like he was being lifted like a balloon, elated by the sheer love he had for his late wife. His eyes closed softly, and he waited for the fangs to sink into his neck, but as time passed and the beam of light from the window had fully dissolved, death did not come. He lifted the lids of his eyes gently and saw that the room was empty. Now it was only filled by a man. A man of new-found faith.