The rain lashed against the windows of St. Matthew’s Church, creating a melody that blended uneasily with the sound of thunder rumbling like distant artillery. Inside, the flickering candles cast elongated shadows that danced ominously across the stone walls, while the scent of damp wood and candle wax mingled in the air. A handful of parishioners huddled in the pews, some lost in prayer, others merely seeking refuge from the storm.
Father Malcolm Collins, an ageing priest with a troubled past, stood at the altar, his hands clasped tightly together. He had been the parish priest for nearly two decades, a beacon of stability in a town riddled with secrets. Yet tonight, he felt the weight of something sinister lurking beyond the church’s weathered walls.
As the clock tolled midnight, a thunderclap shattered the silence, reverberating through the church. The candles flickered, and for a moment, Father Malcolm thought he saw a figure standing at the back of the nave—a tall, shadowy silhouette that seemed to glisten with an otherworldly glow. When he blinked, it was gone, leaving him questioning his own eyes.
He shook his head, attempting to dispel the haunting image. Perhaps it was merely fatigue. He had spent the better part of the night tending to a dying woman, her tormented cries still echoing in his mind. Gertrude Simmons had been a staple of the community, but her last days had been plagued by visions—terrible visions of retribution, of a malevolent force hunting her with relentless fervour. As Father Malcolm had held her hand in those final moments, she had whispered a warning. “They come for us all, Malcolm. The Judgment is near.”
Just as Father Malcolm was about to dismiss her words as the ravings of a fevered mind, the church doors swung open with a slow, creaking groan. A gust of wind swept through the nave, extinguishing the candles in a swirling torrent of darkness. The flickering emergency light offered only the faintest hint of illumination, casting eerie shadows that warped the church into a haunting labyrinth.
Heart racing, Father Malcolm took a step toward the entrance, bracing himself against the howling wind. “Is anyone there?” he called out, his voice cracking slightly. The silence that followed was profound, disturbed only by the distant rumble of thunder.
Then, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was a young woman, drenched from the rain, her clothes clinging to her pale frame. Her hair, dark and matted, framed a face that was both ethereal and sorrowful. With wide, frightened eyes, she searched the dimness for something—or someone.
“Help me!” she cried, the urgency in her voice sending a jolt through Father Malcolm’s chest. He noticed that her trembling hands were stained red. “Please, you must help me! They’re coming!”
“What’s happened?” he asked, stepping forward to grasp her shoulders gently but firmly. “Where are you hurt?”
“I’m not,” she gasped, her breath hitching. “It’s—oh God, it’s not me! It’s them! They’re after me because they think I know!”
“Know what?” Father Malcolm was increasingly baffled, but he sensed desperation in her words.
“About the Judgment,” she stammered, her voice lower now, almost a whisper. “I saw it. I saw them!”
The light flickered once more, and Father Malcolm noticed the blood on her hands—it wasn’t her own but seemed to dry in the corners, almost as if it were years old. “Sit down,” he urged, leading her to a nearby pew where she sank down heavily, trembling. He called for the parishioners, urging them to help, but the ordered chaos of the moment made them wary and confused.
“They’ll come for you, too,” she insisted, her eyes wide as she gripped the edges of the pew. “They’re not just after me! They’ve been awakened!”
Father Malcolm felt the same chill of dread that had descended upon him the night Gertrude had died. “Who are ‘they’?” he pressed, kneeling before her, trying to capture her focus.
“Souls lost to sin,” she said, her voice trembling. “They don’t rest. I saw their faces; a horde of the damned seeking the living.”
Father Malcolm had read enough scripture to understand that dark forces existed beyond the living realm, but he had dismissed such conversations as mere folklore—the ravings of the obsessed or mad. Yet, as lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the church momentarily, he couldn’t deny the intensity of the truth she conveyed.
“How do I fight them?” he asked resolutely, his instinct as a protector surging to the fore.
“We can’t fight through violence; it’s their domain.” She leaned closer, her eyes widening. “You must seek them out—the reflection of their sins. You’ll have to confront that which binds them to your world.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “What do you mean?”
“They want you to judge them, to see the truth of their misery,” she pleaded. “You’re a priest.”
Before he could respond, a deafening crash echoed from outside, making the church tremble. The wind howled like a banshee, tossing the door wide open. And then they came—a mass of spectral forms, swirling and gliding into the church, their faces gaunt and twisted, mouths gaping in silent screams.
Father Malcolm’s heart raced as he stumbled back, eyes wide with panic. He could feel the bitterness emanating from the wraiths, a palpable energy of despair and regret. The girl had been right; they were here—not for her, but for him.
“Father! You must see their sins! Don’t let them take control!” the girl cried. She was shaking, but her focus remained on the phantoms advancing towards them.
“Leave this place!” Father Malcolm shouted. But the wraiths moved like smoke, slithering through the air, surrounding him with a cacophony of whispered accusations.
“They judge us,” Father Malcolm heard one of them hiss. “They claim to know salvation but wallow in their own sin.”
“No!” he yelled, stumbling backward against the altar. “You’re wrong!”
As if in response, the wraiths lunged, and Father Malcolm suddenly found himself engulfed in a cold fog that leached his very spirit. He could feel their histories pressing against him—the murders, the betrayals, the acts of unspeakable horror committed against the innocent. Memories, his own and theirs, fused together in a whirlwind of guilt.
“See us!” a voice echoed. “Judge us!”
And then he saw it—a vision of his past, the moment he had turned away from a dying man in a dark alley, preferring the safety of ignorance over the morality of intervention. For every sin he had witnessed and failed to combat, the tides of the damned rose, pushing him further toward the brink of despair.
Rubbing his eyes, Father Malcolm gasped and refocused on the girl. She stood resolute, a beacon in the tempest of spirits, her hands raised as if invoking protection.
“Forgive them their sins!” she yelled. “It’s the only path to release.”
Father Malcolm felt the voices crescendo, each confession a blade in his chest. But her voice pierced through like a ray of light, urging him towards clarity. “I forgive!” he shouted, his voice battling the storm. “I forgive!”
The wraiths paused as if struck, their haunting forms flickering. Then, their anguish coiled back and snaked toward him, but instead of rancour, there was something else—relief mingled with despair. “Forgive us,” they wailed, and as their cries intermingled, the pain evaporated into the ether, lifting from the church.
A white light engulfed the room. The girl stood at its centre, now luminous and ethereal, her face serene. As the phantoms merged with the brightness, Father Malcolm felt warmth wash over him, expunging the shadows of his past.
When the light faded and the church grew quiet once more, the girl was gone, leaving only the faint smell of rain and earth. The wraiths had vanished, their voices silenced, finally free to roam the heavens or fall in peace.
As he knelt at the altar, Father Malcolm felt restored, as if the burdens of a lifetime had been lifted. The storm outside began to subside, leaving behind a soft drizzle, washing the world anew. He understood now; it wasn’t merely about punishment or retribution—it was about absolution, the essence of salvation often overlooked.
He had faced Heaven’s Judgment that night, but rather than collapse beneath its weight, he had found the strength to forgive. And in that act, however far from grace he had strayed, he had embraced redemption and found grace within himself.
