Story #146 - Church

Church

“Oi!” Said Church, “You're not 'uppose to be doin' that!”

Moving across the room, the big man tried to smack my hands away from the keyboard I was using, but I shot him a dark look. “Sit down, Church.”

That tone almost always worked on him, and fortunately he wasn't worked up enough for it to go right over his head. Dropping his massive shoulders, he turned and headed back to the couch where he'd come from.

“Church jus' trying to help,” he said sadly.

“I know, big guy, I know.” There was no point in getting mad at him – if you asked, he probably wouldn't be able to say why he'd tried to get my hands off of the keyboard in the first place. He had urges sometimes, strange and every so often downright creepy, but they had no root in the rational world. It was no surprise that someone had left him on the chapel's doorstep, but it was still incredibly cruel.

Three families had taken him in since his arrival, but he'd finally worked his way back to me. I'd been the one to find him that night outside the door as I was locking up, and he'd named himself by the only word he could speak. Unmarried and with no prospects, I wasn't a good candidate for fatherhood, but it seemed that none of the generous families in our community could deal with Church for more than six months. He'd grown like a weed, and while his disposition was generally sweet, he had a habit of breaking things by accident. That, combined with his urges and sheer size, had led him back to my care.

The good Lord wasn't about to let me turn him away, and I don't think I could have lived with myself if I'd just taken him to a shelter. He didn't have the skills to cope on his own, and there was a certain security in having the gigantic, hairless man nearby. I lived outside of town, and while there was little to bother me, some long nights did get frightening. Nothing seemed to scare Church, and I was always glad he was here with me when those nights came along.

I'd taken him to several doctors since he'd come to stay, and they always said the same things: that he was as healthy as could be, and that they couldn't explain why he had no hair. They couldn't tell me why he was so huge, either, but they did say his mental development was essentially complete. He wouldn't be getting any smarter, and while his physical age came in at around twenty-two, he was stuck, mentally, ten years younger. It gave him a certain boyish charm, but could also make discipline an issue.

I said a small prayer of thanks every night for the fact that Chruch didn't seem to have hit puberty, and likely never would. Having to deal with irate fathers after the giant had come on to their daughters – possibly breaking bones – was not something I would handle well. Enough of my younger parishioners already swooned over the giant Church that fathers and mothers alike cast suspicious glances in my direction. The only thing that kept them from openly voicing their concerns was my role as their pastor and the supposed biblical conventions they held to. I had no doubt they were gossiping about both Church and I in private, no matter how many sermons I delivered on the ills of such talk.

“Church worried,” he said from his seat on the couch. I'd never been able to convince him to speak in the first person. It was cute to hear himself use his own name – at least for the first thousand times or so.

“Why's that, little buddy?” I said, and he laughed. It was our joke that I called him that, and he called me “big man”. We'd had some good times together, but I still felt hopelessly out of my depth. I'd found my calling and was happy where I was, but I had no idea how to help Church make the most his life.

“They comin',” he said, and I stopped typing to look over at him.

“Who's coming?” I used my “patient voice”, and tried to focus in on what Church was saying. He didn't talk about his feelings very much, and I wanted to give any emotional maturity from him the respect it deserved.

“Bad. Very bad. Dark. Shapes.” Church had never been good with words. He could carry on a conversation well enough to get by, but when he got stressed or didn't know how to explain something, he'd revert to using just single words at a time.

“OK,” I said, “let me see if I follow. Dark shapes are coming, and they're bad?” He nodded. “Are you talking about shadows? We're getting into winter again, remember? That means less light outside and more shadows.”

Church shook his head quickly. “Not shadows. Dark. Bad shapes. Here. Here now!” He was getting worked up. This was exactly what I didn't need. I stood up.

“Church, listen to me,” I said firmly, “I need you to not think about the bad shapes, alright? I've got a sermon to finish, and -”

He was up and moving before I had a chance to react, coming at me with a snarl. His face was twisted into a mask of anger that I'd never seen, and the corded muscles in his arms were tight. He swung, and I froze, waiting for the impact I knew was coming.

Church's fist smashed into something above my head, and a tearing screech filled the room. There was a solid thump as whatever it was hit the wall to my right, and I turned to see what Church had struck.

At first, I saw nothing, though the wail in the room went on. Then, light at the bottom of the wall seemed to warp, and a dark, writing shape was revealed. It looked like a cross between a bat and a spider, with pointed ears and wings but too many limbs by half.

“There, big man. You see,” Church said, pointing, “Bad shape!”

“I see it, Church,” I said slowly, “I see it.” But what the hell was it?

- D