Today marks the end of this Wednesday feature. I've been using it for quite a while, but it's time for me to actually blog. Next week, I'll do just that. In the meantime, enjoy the first page of The Locket.
Sheila Townsend hauled open the heavy cathedral door and slipped inside. She scurried up the long aisle into the safety of the confessional and collapsed. Panting, she creaked open the little sliding door. The priest’s outline loomed on the other side.
Sheila Townsend hauled open the heavy cathedral door and slipped inside. She scurried up the long aisle into the safety of the confessional and collapsed. Panting, she creaked open the little sliding door. The priest’s outline loomed on the other side.
"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.” She swiped at her bangs, wet from the fog outside.
“How long has it been since your last confession?” The priest’s voice filtered through the mesh between them.
“Six months, Father.”
“Tell me of your sins, my child.”
“I-I’ve had evil thoughts and fear I’ve done something horrid.”
“What have you done?”
“I might have killed someone because of the curse.”
“Curse?” The deep voice rose an octave.
“The one that plagues this locket.” She dangled a necklace close to the screen. “I must leave it here with you and stop this madness.”
Sheila rose, dropped the pendant onto the shelf separating parishioner from priest, and fled without another word. She paused at the door long enough to secure her scarf over her head and pull her coat collar higher. The stained-glass window, an image of the Holy Mother, looked far less impressive at night than when the sun shone through the tinted panes.
Sheila pressed her weight against the door, allowing the breeze to flicker the candles at the altar. The gripping hatred that had consumed her for the last month melted away like snow in springtime. Her need to hurt someone had only intensified when she put a picture in the locket. But now she was free—free from everything but the guilt and memories of plunging the knife into her boyfriend’s back.
Stepping back into the misty night, she headed toward the river. She hadn’t actually been honest with the priest. The police were sure to soon find the body in her living room, and she no longer had a will to live. She’d made peace with the Lord; now she needed to find peace with herself and what she’d done.
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