Chapter 64 - St. Jude’s on the Hill
By noon, the clouds had rolled in from the west, blanketing the valley in a suffocating gray mist. St. Jude’s stood three miles north, perched on a limestone ridge overlooking the old river mills. The parish had been abandoned for over a decade, its congregation dwindled, the stained glass windows boarded over with plywood to keep out vagrants and weather.
I drove the pickup through the rusted iron gates, gravel crunching loudly under the tires. The church was an austere stone structure built in the late nineteenth century, its Gothic spire piercing the dull sky like a rusted needle.
I left my phone on the dashboard, recording audio, and tucked the heavy iron key into my jacket pocket beside a heavy flashlight.
The front doors of the sanctuary were padlocked, but the side entrance—the priest’s vestry door where I had lined up in my white veil thirty years ago for my first communion—hung slightly ajar. The heavy chain had been cut clean through with commercial bolt cutters, the links lying scattered across the moss-covered flagstones.
Fresh cuts. The metal gleamed silver in the damp air.
"Miller knows I'm here," I lied aloud to the empty courtyard, raising my voice to carry over the wind. "State troopers are five minutes behind me."
Only the crows answered, scattering from the bell tower with guttural cries.
May you like
I pushed the heavy oak door open. It groaned on rusted iron hinges, releasing the stale, frozen stench of fifty years of incense, decaying hymnals, and water-damaged timber. The interior was cavernous and cold, shadows stretching between the rows of scarred pine pews.
At the far end of the sanctuary, where the red sanctuary lamp used to burn before the altar, a solitary candle flickered on the communion rail.
