Where the Devil Says Goodnight (Folk Lore 1)

But the Lord remained silent and watched Adam scramble like the tiniest bug under a microscope. He knew that Adam had sinned with Emil countless times, even if just in his mind. He knew Adam would never confess his sexuality to a priest who could in any way identify him. And maybe he also knew what Adam feared deep in his heart—that he was not fit for the priesthood.

The cassock marked him as a shepherd of souls, but how could he instruct others if his own self-control slipped so easily?

He made his way across the altar, lighting every candle in sight. And once the church was lit up with a soft glow, he was ready to face the shadows in places the illumination couldn’t reach. This was a church. Adam would be safe here, both from physical threats and those lurking in his mind.

He gave a deep exhale, staring at the central painting, at Jesus on the cross, and his hand loosened on the scourge, releasing the beaded strings while the wooden handle remained in Adam’s hand. He stood in silence while the weather outside warred against logic, but when the wind tossed raindrops at the glass, Adam remained calm. He was no longer afraid.

The moment Emil appeared in his mind again, wearing wet briefs that left little to the imagination, Adam didn’t hesitate and swung the scourge, released from his sin only when the beads hit his bare back.

All he ever wanted was to be good. To fulfill expectations and make his family proud, so why was he so mercilessly taunted by emotions he wasn’t supposed to experience? Why couldn’t he have loved women? He could have gotten married then, had a family, lived in God’s grace. But if he couldn’t channel his energy into serving the Lord, what place was left for him within the Church? What was he supposed to do?

A sob tore out of his throat as he smacked the whip harder against his back. The pain came from within, always growing, pulsing like a cancer Adam couldn’t remove, but the physical agony allowed its release, reducing the pressure Adam had to live with day to day. Breathless, he counted each strike, closing his eyes as the continuous ache took away his fantasies of Emil, his scent, and the imagined flavor Adam associated with him—fresh like the sweetest strawberries yet also somewhat meaty, strong.

“What can I do?” he uttered in a broken whisper as his knees gave way, and he stumbled to the wooden floor, trying to catch his breath while his flesh adjusted to all the new bruises. How many strokes had it been? He’d stopped counting at twenty.

He’d brought this suffering upon himself. Every day. He jogged past Emil’s home with the purpose of seeing him, even if in passing. Every day when he fell asleep, Emil’s dark hair covering both their faces was the last thing he thought of. Since he’d arrived in Dybukowo, there hadn’t been an hour when he didn’t desire Emil. And when he didn’t think about him, Emil came to him in dreams.

It wasn’t normal.

None of his previous infatuations had been anything close to the obsessive way Emil occupied Adam’s mind. It was unnatural. Infernal in nature.

Adam struck his back again and again as he pondered Emil’s past, the crows that murdered Mrs. Zofia, and today’s divination. What if there was a grain of truth to the gossip about Emil, but Adam had been too blinded by his own adoration of the man to notice the devil lurking in the shadows?

Adam believed in God. Believed in the devil. Was it really so improbable that Emil used dark magic to lure men?

“You need to listen to my voice,” someone said so faintly Adam spun around, dropping the scourge from the shock when warm breath tickled his ear. But he was alone.

Or was he?

His bruised skin pulsed as if it had been scratched by hundreds of sharp claws, and the ache spread all over his body, pulling at muscles and pushing his head into a spin. Adam glanced at the painting of Jesus. Was he dreaming? “My Lord?”

The picture didn’t move, but the voice he’d heard earlier whispered with the slightest lisp. “I know a way to rid you of this burden,” it purred, echoing as if it was a choir of several different whispers

Adam’s throat tightened, and he pressed his forehead to the cool floor as the tightening in his insides turned into agony. “Please. I can’t live like this anymore. Please, help me. Save me.”

“You shouldn’t hurt your body for what it craves. I will help.”

A slither made Adam’s skin crawl, and when he glanced at the wooden statues of Adam and Eve, something seemed amiss. He couldn’t pinpoint what, but when his gaze met the red crystal eyes of the snake, gravity grabbed him with such power he could not lift a finger. Instead of creeping behind leaves, like it had been, the beast had its whole head out, still as motionless as wood should be, even if Adam could have sworn the sculpture looked different when he’d last seen it.