The young man had begun appearing a month and a half ago. He would be there every Sunday, hovering just outside the churchyard with his hands deep in the pockets of a tatty old windbreaker, watching like a bleak ghost as the Lord's flock came and went, mostly oblivious to his presence. Beverly Keene had noticed, though, because when it came to protecting the image of St. Patrick (or perhaps, mostly, herself) she always noticed. She was a perfectionist like that. And this stranger was a potential blemish on the church's lenin that needed washing out. After all, as she told Monsignor Pruitt one evening, You just never know the intentions of people nowadays.
But each time anyone rose to catch him, he would be gone. One glance away, one moment of distraction, and the man would vanish as if he had never been there at all. This of course did nothing for Ms. Keene's nerves. The longer it went on, the surer she was that this newcomer was up to no good. She'd even pestered the sheriff about it once or twice, and learned that his name was, apparently, BJ. Fitting, she'd thought with a sour taste coming up into her mouth, considering that Hassan had admitted to catching the young man attempting to solicit local fishermen at the docks. Hassan had also insisted that he believed BJ was harmless, but Hassan, sheriff or no, did not hold the same principles that many of the good folk of the island held. Different cultures, different ideas of harmless. Wellâ according to Beverly, anyway.
It wasn't until John was working one especially late night in the rectory that BJ finally came out of hiding. He stood outside in his black leather jacket with the white shoulders, white shoulders that glowed in the orange porchlight like tiny, clipped wings. He felt sick. Looked sick. Cheeks pale, eyes sunken and dark, full of ghosts and fears that undoubtedly had dragged him finally to St. Patrick's hallowed ground.
Haltingly, he knocked against the old pine door.
"Father...?" When no answer immediately came, he tapped his knuckles softly but insistently again, as if simultaneously urgent to be answered and privately hoping he might be ignored. Then, more timid still: "...Is it true you can perform miracles?"
// This was meant to be exposition leading up to a meme but then I realized BJ wouldn't just enter a church for this so. It's just the exposition that might eventually lead to the meme LOL.
Dark eyes were fixed on his modest wooden desk, old postage stamps were littered across its surface in an organized chaos. A pile of Canadian wildlife here, a pile of U.S.A airmail there. He had recently been given a collection belonging to the grandfather of one of his parishioners. Once his hobby was made public, islanders just couldn't wait to hand over what they had in way of philately.
Barry's footsteps came into earshot before he reached the porchâ ââ all thanks to John's heightened hearingâ ââ so when the first knock came, he took the time to tidy away some of the mess before answering the door.
In one quick turn, the large, arched door softly creaked open and the boy was greeted with a smile despite the question stirring mixed feelings within the priest.
Yes is the simplest answer, but in reality, he wasn't the one performing these miracles. It was the angel's blood. He just so happened to be the one administering it to his congregants with communion. He had good intentions, sure, but ultimately, what he was doing was evil.
"Good evening," he chirped, surprised, upon checking his wristwatch. Time had gotten away from him.
His grin quickly faded into a look of concern. The boy looked very, very sick. So, John extended an arm, inviting him inside while seamlessly guiding him to the couch.
"Please, sit down. Can I get you a glass of water?"
