The Sender of Names: Prologue

The Sender of Names 1



Prologue



The first cut was the deepest.

The blade seemed to slice effortlessly into the skin
of the dead priest. Michael smiled, nervous, but pleased
that he was at last alone.

He cast a wary eye about the room. The dull light of a
vapor lamp threw shadows across the wall. This was the prep
room: the place where the dead were made up before the
family would see them. It would have been easy to switch
on the high intensity overhead lighting above the table,
but Michael felt more comfortable in the shadows.

This was his time.

The second cut in the armpit of the priest was more shallow.
A swath of dark hair hid the incision. Michael brushed it
aside, careful not to trim around the area. He pushed the
rigid skin apart, expecting to see some fluid seep from the
wound, but nothing flowed.

For what seemed to be an endless flight of moments, he
balanced between trepidation and the overwhelming compulsion
to make one more cut.

-2-

The shadows seemed to be closing in around him as he looked
up from the table. He saw strange shapes gathering strength
in the pall of the dimly lit room. Trying not to weaken
against the onslaught of his mind’s creations, he let the
scalpel rest against the pallid remains of the Priest.

He had visitors.

They were taunting him there in the confines of this place
where he had spent so many hours; they toyed with him much
as his dreams did in the deep of night.

The monsters stirring across the wall were all a part of him
and he knew it as he went about the business of desecrating
the dead as they watched.

Whatever had been borne in his earlier years had left him.
Michael now existed as a manipulative cunning teen, excited
by the forbidden, enjoying the company of his legions of stray
demons that grew in his mind daily. His world was theirs
as they stealthily moved into his consciousness, let their
madness flow into his palatable mind.

He paused to consider his creations; the stirrings which
fluttered in the shadows in lifelike projection, the bad part
of him that wanted out-quietly watching him. These were his
soldiers in the world beneath his conscious state. They were
his friends; guardians of the other Michael-the one he had
to hide. Here, they were free.

-3-

He looked around, counted, checked each shadow as the
soothing breeze of the room ventilation whisked past him;
its soft currents exciting his senses. There was the
adrenaline of these moments as he shed the all too fragile
shell of his outer self in favor of the madness that existed
with his friends.

When he had finished counting, Michael turned back to the
body of the young priest. He had never known him, but
certainly was aware of his age from the records. He looked
closer at the details of his face, inspecting each feature.
Soon, some of it would change as the magic of a talented
make-up artist transformed each stress line and imperfection.

Normally the diocese left the work of preparing its own to
the expert skills of his uncle, with little comment or
direction; however, this young priest had come with specific
instructions-details on his final appearance.

Michael couldn’t help but notice that a great pain had
injected itself into the last expression before death.
As he looked at him, he felt a tinge of sorrow rise from
within his normally sterile soul. The Priest’s calling had
obviously left him depleted, robbed of the serenity of death.

Michael saw fear: a telling signature etched into his features.
The stress points had taken a toll on an otherwise beautiful
face. The young priest looked worn, debilitated in those last
moments as though he had cried out in anguish. Definitely,
something not so nice had worn into him, showered its force
into his being, left him bereft and pained as death settled in.

-4-

This moment of reflection was temporary. Whatever had come
over the otherwise healthy priest and caused his death was not
his concern. He had one more cut. The hour was drawing to a
close and Michael had to return his friends to their place until
the next time. His uncle would soon return. Naturally, there
would be no evidence of his mutilation.

After one last quick survey of the dead priest, Michael chose
the inner thigh as the place for his last incision. Carefully
and with the deliberate issuance of a surgeon, he moved around
the table into position.

He slowly moved the scalpel to the site. Carefully, he brought
the blade down.

Then, he felt it!

An arm had swiftly reached out, stopping his approach, gripping
him with such strength that Michael wanted to cry out. Terrified,
he felt his pleas fall back, lost to the moment.

In the next moment the young Priest sat upright. His eyes
opened as Michael was forced to watch, compelled by the
unrelenting grip. In that same moment he saw the blue
suffuse through those eyes, purse deep within, spike and
radiate out.

He knew that he couldn’t move even if he was able. He felt
paralyzed, glued to the floor. As he watched in real time
horror, the young priest opened his mouth, forcefully drew
Michael close and let the power flow into him.