2025 Horror Showdown - Short story entry

The man entered the century-old church. The wooden door with stained-glass windows shut with a thud behind him.

He held tightly to the pews as he fought his way down the aisle. Each one creaked under the pressure and force of the

man’s ever-shifting weight.

The lights above were dim, humming softly, as he neared his destination. He wavered, one step back, then forward again.

He entered the confessional booth, lifted his hand to make the sign of the cross, but stopped short. The

old wooden door whined shut behind him, sealing in a heavy perfume of old incense and wax. Dust

clung to the air, catching faint light that bled through the tiny carved screen. 

On the other side of the screen, a first-year priest was seated patiently. Bringing nothing with him inside the booth except a mindset of grace. He tried to bring his seminary training to the top of his mind, nervous that he would mess this up and negatively impact another person’s faith. He struggled in his seat as other thoughts intruded. Grocery lists, unanswered emails, and that smell. That was new. 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been… well, near forever since my last confession.”

The priest nodded, eager but uncertain. Dressed for the moment, head-to-toe in black cloth, with the

stark white collar. He wrung his fists tightly. 

“I need help with this, Father.”

“Of course. Why don’t you begin with some of your venial sins?”

“Venial?”

“Less serious ones.”

“Right. Well… I’ve been having trouble with anger.”

The priest began to feel more comfortable. A classic confession, one he could speak to by the book. 

“Can you give an example?”

“I get so frustrated when my body won’t do what I want—and does what I don’t want.”

“That is very common. Even Saint Paul wrote of the same in Romans 7. He said he hated the things he

did.”

“Exactly,” the man said. “That’s how it feels.”

“What sort of things are you doing that you hate?” The priest asked. He hadn’t been doing confessional

for long, but he was used to similar sets of answers to this type of questioning. 

“My body does things I despise all the time. It’s like I’m fighting for control with someone else.”

The priest thought that was an odd way to explain it. He wondered for a moment if the man was all there. 

“You feel of two minds?”

“Yes. I just want full control. Is that so much to ask?”

He needed to have something specific to offer forgiveness for. The man seemed to be dodging the purpose

there. 

“Can you confess a specific example?”

“I don’t want to look at another person with lust, but…” The man stopped short. Sounding almost embarrassed.

“You find yourself doing it anyway?”

“Yes. And it’s a waste of time.”

The priest tilted his head and leaned in closer to the privacy-grated window. “A waste of time?”

“Why spend eternity on such impulses?” the man muttered. 

A sudden twitch ran through the man’s shoulder. The shadow warped against the lattice, neck bent at an

angle that made the priest’s stomach sink. It sounded like cartilage grinding itself down against the bone. 

Crack.

The elbow strike against the wall wasn’t just clumsy—it carried too much force, as if his bones didn’t

quite know where they belonged. The priest imagined a puppet jerking on strings, the hand behind it

unseen. 

Was this man drunk? Mentally ill? 

The priest hesitated, unsettled by the man’s state of mind. He leaned closer to the lattice, watching the

blurred shadow on the other side. The man’s profile shifted oddly, as if his shoulders bent at the wrong

angle. A bead of sweat crept down the priest’s temple. 

“Any more venial sins?”

“Not really. Mostly, it’s the constant battle for control. Like… I’m new here, but—dude—let me have the

remote sometimes.”

The priest stiffened at the casual tone and checked his watch. Silence pressed between them. 

“Am I done?” the man asked. 

“First, are there any mortal sins you’d like to confess? Serious sins. Breaking the commandments.”

Another random jerk of the arm sent the man’s elbow clear through the wood to the priest’s side. The

priest started to calculate how much it might cost to fix and how he would bring it up to the bishop. 

The man regained focus and thought for a long moment. 

“That first commandment is the hardest,” he said at last.

“How so?” The priest asked, surprised. He hadn’t heard anyone admit to struggling with having no gods

above the Christian God. 

“I just really don’t like the guy.”

The priest blinked. “God?”

“Yeah. I don’t like him. Have you ever met him?”

The priest faltered. “I… know Him, yes. But meet? Not exactly.” He regretted the words instantly.

It wasn’t that his answer wasn’t true; it’s just that it wasn’t very holy.

“How can a priest never meet him? Jesus.” The man cursed the name, catching his slip too late. “Sorry,

Father.”

“I see you struggle with the second commandment as well,” the priest said gently. He had heard the

curse before, but it never stopped offending him. 

“Remind me?” The man asked innocently. 

“Using the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Oh, no, I don’t struggle with that.”

The priest frowned. “But you just did.”

“Whoa. I thought you were here to forgive me, not accuse me.”

The priest, though seated, felt pushed back on his heels. He never wanted to sit in the seat of the accuser. 

“You must acknowledge sin before it can be absolved.”

“I’ll own it if it’s true,” the man said. “But that commandment? Do you know Hebrew?”

Do I know Hebrew? The priest laughed to himself. How did this confessor know Hebrew? Duolingo?

His lack of confidence was taking over his thoughts. He always struggled with theological debates. He

would freeze up at the worst moments.  

“I will be studying it soon. I had to master Latin first.” He managed to share. 

“Well then, let me give you your first lesson,” the man said arrogantly. 

“Can you please change your tone?” The young priest begged for respect. He felt like he was losing

control and was trying to rein it in before the water got too high over his head. 

“Sorry, Father. I apologize. You can forgive that later, too. In Hebrew, taking the Lord’s name in vain

is more about doing evil in God’s name. Claiming His will for your own ends. That’s worse than what

I just said.”

The priest faltered. “…I’ve never thought of it that way.” 

“Wouldn’t you agree more harm is done when people wage wars or push politics in God’s name than

by me cursing?”

“Yes,” the priest admitted. “Is that why you struggle with the first commandment? Because of people

misrepresenting Him?”

“No. It’s personal. I just don’t like Him.”

The priest’s throat felt dry. He had never experienced a session like this before. He only regretted that

he couldn’t tell anyone about it afterward. “Why come to confession at all?”

“I was curious.”

“Curious about what?”

“If I opened up about my sins, would the priest open up too? You know—thank you for being honest; let

me be honest with you.”

The priest hesitated. It was unorthodox. Dangerous even. But the man’s candor tugged at him. If a priest

had done this for him when he was younger, it might have saved him some early doubts about the faith. 

“You promise not to tell?”

“It’s between you men and your God,” the man replied.

Again, the priest was taken aback by the casual nature that the man demonstrated towards God. 

Clutching the rosary, he offered a prayer of protection for his own confession. He lowered his voice.

“I struggle with coveting. With wanting. I know it’s a sin, maybe mortal, but it is the truth.”

“Thank you for sharing,” the man said warmly. “That was… really cool of you.”

The priest almost smiled. “Why was that so important to you?”

“Because you opened up to me.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Then I accept your invitation.”

The priest frowned. “Invitation?”

Cracking wood and sounds of physical altercation began coming from the man’s side of the booth. His

body convulsed, breath rattling like wind in a furnace, every muscle straining, his back bending away

from the back of the seat.

Suddenly, a cloud of black erupted from his gaping mouth, thick and choking. It didn’t take much for the

scent to reach the priest's side, thanks to the new hole. It smelled to him like scorched iron and spoiled

meat. A smell he had been warned about by the bishops. 

The smoke seemed to shriek in the tongues of a hundred different languages as the pale shaft of light

gave way to oily darkness and the cloud consumed every inch of air.

Heartbeating audibly and sweat pouring down his forehead, the priest clawed at the latch. It wouldn’t

give. His sweaty palm slipped off. He scrambled from his seat to try with both hands. As he gripped tight,

his eyesight went dark, but he was sure his eyes remained open. 

Coughing the cloud into his lungs seared as if he were inhaling fire. The smoke clung like tar, coiling up

his arms, forcing its way into his mouth with the taste of blood and ash. His eyes streamed, and his

stomach convulsed as bile rose. 

“Our Father, who art… “

More coughing. 

He thought of his childhood bedroom, his mother’s sweet bedtime lullabies, anything that might

anchor him—the bedroom's walls closed in like coffins, the lullabies warped into screams as old

memories curdled into static.

Up was down, and down was up. 

Orientation lost.

His body shook violently as he was overwhelmed by the black tide.

And across from him, the man blinked awake, wide-eyed, staring at the claustrophobic booth as if

seeing it for the first time. He stood up and gathered his thoughts. How had he gotten there?

“Father? What am I doing here?”

A smile curled on the priest’s lips. He stretched out his new arms and flexed. Easy control. He was

finally free. 

He leaned over and looked up at the man through the elbow hole with an iris pulsing orange—though

the voice was no longer his.

“Sorry. The Father isn’t in.”