A Stranger Truth

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

Sister Jillian prays; her rosary drapes around her youthful clasped hands. Her voice is frenetic, shaking on every syllable, “Forgive me Father for I have sinned…” She falls to her knees on the dank cobblestone floor, cowering. Her habit frames her anguished expression at what she’s uncovered.

“You most certainly have Sister,” he uses the same even keeled voice when addressing the souls at St. Peter’s Square. A white artificial glow emanates from behind his papal regalia in the doorway.

She shudders, “Hail, Mary, full of grace…”

The glow becomes brighter. Blinding. Whiter. “You never should have come here, Sister. You know I can’t give you any exception,” he says.

“…the Lord is with thee.”

The Pope retreats into the forbidden room. Sister Jillian’s eyes widen, her bare lids trembling, “Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” She know’s the prayer won’t help her now. But it’s all she knows to do. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…”

All it had to do was look at her. It’s bulbous black eyes connecting to hers like two hypnotic circles.

“…now,” her desperation palpable, “…and at the hour of our death.” Sister Jillian’s body stiffens. A vibration of her prayer reverberates as an echo in the cavernous tunnel.

“You’ll die with the truth,” the moist, gray creature says inside her mind. It’s long knobby finger extends and circles toward her, scooping up her ethereal substance, evicting it from every crevice encased inside her skin.

“It’s done?” the Pope looks on at Sister’s crumpled form.

“She’s with the rest of them now.” Thousands of tiny light orbs twinkle inside a flying sphere, pulsating synthetic light.

The Pope closes Sister Jillian’s vacant eyes, “Amen.”