Where the Devil Says Goodnight (Folk Lore 1)

None of this would have happened if the pastor, or someone else from the village, had come to collect him up from the train station in Sanok. But since nobody was picking up the phone at the Dybukowo parish, getting on the last bus of the day had been his only option.

It was almost eleven p.m. when the vehicle came to a halt, and the driver looked down the aisle running through the middle of the bus. “Anyone getting off at Dybukowo?”

Adam swallowed a curse and shot to his feet. He swiftly put on his light black jacket, hauled the backpack over his shoulder and picked up the heavy duffel bag that contained most of his belongings.

“Come on, other passengers have places to be,” the driver urged, shaking his head as Adam walked past him.

Adam chose to ignore the man’s rudeness but scowled when the first droplets of water fell on his exposed head. While rain was bad, the wind that blew icy needles under Adam’s open jacket was so much worse. The rapid gusts tried to rip the bag from his hand, so he ran straight into the small roofed shelter, relieved to feel cold instead of freezing. The unmistakable smell of urine stabbed his nose, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Adam faced away from some obscene graffiti and love declarations just as the bus rolled forward, revealing a small blocky building with windows full of food-related posters.

His heart couldn’t have been warmer the moment he realized it was a store, and that the lights inside were still on.

He pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, took a deep breath for courage, and ran across the empty road. Water burst into his shoes when he stepped into a deep puddle, but he reached the sheet metal roofing over the front of the store by the time a woman stepped out of the building.

She spun to face Adam, holding a large bundle of keys like a weapon as she scrutinized him in perfect silence. Shame sank into Adam’s muscles when he realized he must have scared her. His first day in Dybukowo, and he’d already managed to make a bad impression.

He dropped the bag and raised his hands before pushing back the hood, because he knew his face was the picture of innocence and often got him brownie points from the get-go. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to startle you. I’m looking for the church.”

The store owner’s eyes narrowed, and she put the keys into the pocket of the pink pants she wore with a matching blazer. The small lamp above the entrance softened the lines of her face, but it was impossible not to notice that even though she carried herself in a way that suggested middle age, her face was devoid of wrinkles under the thick makeup. It was the appearance Adam associated with socialites in Warsaw, not small-town businesswomen, but she still looked normal. No pentagrams. No runes. And unless her smooth features were the result of sorcery, not Botox, Mother’s stories about Dybukowo were grossly exaggerated.

When she didn’t respond right away, Adam cleared his throat. “My name’s Adam. I’m the new priest to assist Pastor Marek,” he said, eyeing the modern black SUV parked by the store. In weather as bad as this, she’d surely offer to drive him to his destination. It only made sense to honor a new shepherd and welcome him with more warmth than the pastor had so far.

She frowned and pushed back the short curls on top of her head. “I thought you were supposed to arrive on Saturday. I guess timetables aren’t as important in Warsaw.”

So she did know about him. That was a good thing. The negative comment about his big city background—not so much. He’d expected some pushback from his new parishioners, but getting slapped in the face with it at night, while a storm raged in the sky, hurt him more than it should have.

“Oh. It’s probably a misunderstanding. I guess I better arrive at the parsonage as soon as possible.” He let the words hang in the air, but when the woman hadn’t taken the bait, he offered her a wide smile. “Would you mind giving me a ride?”

Her brows lowered. “I’m sorry, but I am already late to pick up my grandson. You need to go straight down the road until you reach the church. You can’t miss it,” she said and opened an umbrella, leaving him stunned as she jogged to the car.

Where was the famous countryside hospitality? Maybe he’d need to address this issue in his first sermon? Then again, since he was an outsider, locals would surely see that as an insult. He could choose a different route—making a grand passive-aggressive thank you that just one person would understand.

He scolded himself for both ideas. That wasn’t him at all. He was friendly and didn’t hold grudges, even against a lady who drove an expensive-looking car and refused to help him out in this horrible weather. He stood still, watching her back lights disappear from sight in the darkness only lit by the windows of homes scattered over the landscape as scarcely as morsels of meat in a thin soup.