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And now, for this week’s installment of #10WeeksOfHorror, something a little different.


 

A CD of hymns played softly, but loud enough to penetrate the confessional door. Sister Margaret was pressing her luck, though, having reduced the man on the other side of the screen to panting, near panic. If anyone had entered the church in the last few minutes, they could very well have walked down the long isle between sixty rows of pews and all the way to the back of the church. They could be standing just outside the door, waiting to speak to Father Emmanuel. They may hear John’s heavy breathing. They might guess what she was doing to him.

Sister Margaret shook her head at her own foolish thoughts. John, the distraught soul still struggling to regain his composure, had worn off on her. It happened.

His own brand of fear was paranoia. Of course, if he wouldn’t spend his time fondling his secretary, random waitresses, and any other woman he was within arms reach of, he wouldn’t have to worry about losing his job, his wife, and every ounce of respect he’d worked for so long to gain. But sin was not her forte. Though she’s always lured them in with promises of washing away their sins, that was something she simply could not do. Neither could the priest, for that matter, but he meant well.

No, John would keep his sin. Margaret had no use for it.

“John, I want you to take a deep breath. Listen to me. You are a man, a vile sinner, as is every man. And Jesus died for you all. God sacrificed his only son so that he could wash away your sins with the blood of Christ. Repent, John, and you will be forgiven. God loves all his children. Tonight, pray four Our Fathers and eight Hail Marys.”

Thank you, Sister Margaret.” His breathing had finally come under control, and she watched the shadows move across the screen as he crossed himself.

John,” she admonished, savoring the sharp stench of the surprised kind of fear he now gave off.

He froze with his hand still above his left shoulder. “Y-yes, Sister Margaret?”

Do try to keep your hands to yourself.” Now she was satisfied, her need fulfilled for another day.

Yes, Sister Margaret. Thank you.” John finished the sign, and crossed himself again for good measure, then left the confessional and the church. Free to sin another day.

Sister Margaret left the CD of hymns playing softly in the rear foyer and scanned the pews for any late night visitors. There was one, a familiar head with a bob of honey-brown hair in the first pew. Though Margaret was sated, this woman held a thicker, richer type of fear; the kind Margaret simply could not resist.

The first time she’d come was just a few days after her baby was born. Eileen came once a week, at first. Then as the weeks went by, she found she needed to come more often. Her beautiful, healthy boy was now almost two years old.

Eileen came nearly every day.

Margaret approached the young mother the same as she always did, no longer having to work so hard to gain her trust. Most people went into the confessional with her without a second thought, even though they knew confessions were typically given to the priest only. These sinners lived with sins and fears the likes of which would make even a demon child giggle. John with his roaming hands who feared divorce, homelessness and shame. The local bartender who watered down drinks to patrons too drunk to notice who feared getting shot for his trickery. The pansies. But this woman – this slight, fragile creature – sinned and feared on an entirely different level.

With the customary greeting and patient reassurance from Margaret, Eileen followed her into the confessional.

Eileen’s tears flowed freely the second she closed the door, and she lowered the simple latch with trembling fingers. As she knelt, she prayed, “Forgive me, Sister, for I have sinned. I have had the most revolting thoughts.”

Sister Margaret let the waves of sheer terror wash over her and through her, shuddering with pleasure as the woman’s fear manifested as gentle caresses across every pleasurable inch of her body. Clearing her throat when the strongest pulse faded, she played the part as was expected of her.

“Confess your sins, my child, and you shall be forgiven.”

Eileen’s disgust with herself smelled like burnt roast, a burst of thick, smokey heat slamming into Margaret. She nearly retched, but just managed to control the urge.

Sister, how could I possibly be forgiven such thoughts?” She reverted to tears again, great, heaving sobs of grief that smelled of overpowering musk and prickled against the skin like a cat’s tongue.

Sister Margaret struggled mightily to keep from rubbing her arms and demanding Eileen stop this nonsense instantly. But she knew this needed to pass first, before the seed of the problem could once again sprout and bloom. The climax Eileen’s confession would give her would be well worth having endured this unpleasant business. There was but one final line Margaret needed to deliver to push Eileen, once more, to confront her worst fear.

But you would never actually carry out these thoughts, my child. Confess.”

Sister Margaret’s lips tingled in anticipation.

Eileen’s thoughts manifested – pure black tentacles, smooth and perfectly rounded at the tips – and reached out to stroke Margaret as Eileen’s fears sprang forth from the soil in her mind.

Eileen confessed, her fear blooming full and vibrant, and the tentacles born of the darkest thoughts drove the demonic nun over the edge of passion and pleasure.

Today, while washing dishes, I envisioned drowning him in the tub.”

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