Written by Regan Chern
Content Warning: Mentions of Blood
At a stop light, I stare into the steering wheel: four spokes form the cross. Hands curl around it. Thumbs drum Morse code—a nonsensical prayer. Deep breath.
The digital clock on the dashboard turns over the hour. 15:00. Calligraphy in red glow.
Further on, I see the sign. St Agnes Catholic School. 7-12. Beneath that—Scientia Omnia Vincit (knowledge conquers all) and then “ENJOY SUMMER BREAK”.
I pull into the empty parking lot and find myself a space. Look in the mirror. Wipe sweat from brow. Refamiliarize myself with the file—new pastor. New art teacher. New investigation— what makes me qualified, I ask no one.
Pull out the bag from the boot. Bury the file in the bag. 15:15.
Enjoy the last bit of aircon. Turn off the car. Pocket my keys—dinosaur key-charm imprint. Approach structure with new, black leather shoes; squeaking with every step. Embarrassed. Head falls. Go back to the vehicle and put the older pair of loafers on.
I close the car door and turn back to the building. Two people stand still, straddling the curb. One quite dark and the other, bright.
‘Good afternoon,’ I call out.
They wait for me to near before they respond.
‘Father Taylor, I presume,’ the brighter one smirks—she says this to the darker one.
The darker one answers: ‘He’s late,’ then to me, ‘you’re late.’
The brighter one, I realise, is wearing a chartreuse one-piece swimsuit and a red coverup —the combination is vaguely Post-Modern (Swimsuit?). The darker one, I assess, must be a teacher or administrator—button-up cardigan, nylon stockings, and fine glossy lines of sweat.
In turn, they assess me: a man teetering on middle-aged. Fortunately, a full head of hair. Two brown leather duffels held in wrought hands.
I wait on their word only to break the waiting.
‘Apologies. Your patience is greatly appreciated.’
‘Hm. I’m Morgan Harper—the student representative,’ says the brighter one, ‘and this is Ms Elias Drew. Nice to meet you,’ she extends a hand. I drop my bag and grab her sudden friendliness like a buoy. Cold, electric hands. I retreat.
I turn to Ms Drew. Her hands remain clasped. Eyes me—up and down.
‘Terrible circumstances meeting like this—Father McKenna was well loved, I hear.’ I say. It appears that this is untrue—their faces momentarily contorted. I should note this, I think, for the investigation.
‘Yes. Terrible,’ Ms Drew repeats.
They turn to walk and I grab my bags.
So, it begins.
‘The school was a convent until 1986,’ Morgan clears her throat, ‘there are some new additions—like the science block—but the façade is very faithful. The inside, however…’
The building’s base is composed of crimson brick. I follow my gaze up to the black windows and white shiplap walls along the second level. Large glass walls follow smaller panes—half-shut eyes staring down.
Morgan saunters to the oversized front door—it is pushed back, exposing the innards. We go in. I follow their shadows, shaped by the distant, dark stained-glass haze.
Ms Drew closes the heavy door. Inserts the key. Locks us in.
Morgan’s feet reverberate in the darkness. She opens a panel. Flips a switch. Lights blink to life, cascading from the narthex all the way to the altar.
‘The reception slash entrance is here,’ she indicates the ground, ‘and that’s the church slash formal auditorium,’ she says, ‘basically this place is everything. We expect that you’ll run weekend services for the community.’
‘Of course,’ I respond, nodding.
The light switch sounds. Darkness. I turn to see Ms Drew’s black form—eyes fixed and shiny in the low light.
‘The Parochial Administrator is out sick. So, another time,’ Ms Drew says, ‘come along.’
She enters an adjacent corridor. Morgan runs behind. I follow them, blinking.
‘What’s your role here?’ I ask. Feet echoing off stones.
‘Former teacher. History. Admin, now—I’m many things for St Agnes.’
‘What do you like about this place?’ I ask. My voice is brittle in the hall.
Morgan turns her head and grins at Ms Drew—a smile Goya might’ve painted.
‘The… the students, of course.’
Morgan laughs. Head thrown back. Teeth bare.
I meet a low ledge. Feet give in. Fall forward onto the floor. Head meets stone.
All I hear is Morgan’s laughter—hard and chesty.
Dazed, shaky fingers meet the sharp wound. Wet. Hot.
I right myself slightly and look up. My duffel broke. The contents lay bare.
‘Clumsy and tardy,’ Ms Drew tuts, ‘do clean up yourself. Or do you need assistance?’
I don’t answer—all I see is the corner of the file. I see them see me spot the file. I throw myself forwards and start stuffing the bag.
This compels them.
‘Oh, Father Taylor. Morgan, take him to the nurse’s office.’
‘No. You do it,’ she calls back.
Both reach for my bag. I clutch it to my chest.
‘I’m fine,’ I respond. I smile hard at their faces. ‘Just a little wound—I’ll manage.’
I go back to collecting my clothes and papers.
‘Clumsy, tardy, and prideful,’ Morgan whispers with spittle.
I notice the rise in the floor. A hard clay line extends wall to wall. It’s a few centimetres tall. I grip it, roughly.
‘The seams,’ Morgan notes, ‘where the old architecture used to be. They’re everywhere—most people just forget that they’re there.’
‘Uh-huh. Maybe some lights would… never mind,’ I take my pocketed handkerchief and dab my cut, ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
‘Past this corridor then beside the courtyard.’
I try to go there alone, but they follow behind mirroring every step. I support myself; my hand against the cold, smooth faces of lockers.
My ears pulsate the echoes of feet. It’s orchestral, funerary—each foot drums the same solemn steps.
‘You’ve missed the turn.’
‘Oh,’ I step back and correct my course, ‘are there any lights in this place?’
‘They’re only to be used when necessary.’
I throw a glance back at Ms Drew.
‘How was I supposed to kn…’
‘Wrath,’ Morgan whispers—I know she’s smiling. I quieten.
Ms Drew unlocks the male bathroom for me. Key rattles in the rusted mechanism. It gives way.
‘We can hold your bags if you’d like?’
Sideways glance. I walk in.
Summer abandon has been unkind—residual ammonia rises from the drains to meet me. I place my bags under the sink. Water runs hot and grease brown. Suddenly clear. Dab wet cloth. Clear the red. Blood cells drunk by the drain.
I pull out the file, now crumpled. Remember receiving it:
‘You want me to investigate?’
‘Yes.’
I hold up the paper request again. My studio lights scrutinise its opacity.
‘How does this have anything to do with art history or authentication? My work—my life—is right here. I-I’ve got my own investigations. I’ve got two doctorates.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘I’m not an educator. Haven’t led a parish in seventeen years. I just don’t underst—’
‘Because there’s no one else, Taylor,’ then slower, ‘There’s no one left.’
I watch him.
‘It’s a few months investigating for the Church and then you can come right back here. I’m sorry—this isn’t up for discussion.’
Above me, the bathroom pipes moan as though coming out of hibernation. I trace the sound up and find more seams—stolen bones leave scars.
I return to the file. Stare at it as if it’s the bishop’s face. Flick it open—little black marks are inscrutable, à la Twombly.
‘How’re you doing?’ Morgan calls.
‘Be out soon.’
Wash hands. Wash handkerchief. Wring dry. What’s the time? 16:45—I blink at my watch (where’d the time go?).
The mirror follows my thoughts. Wipe sweat from brow. Exhale. Exit.
They stand together as they did in the parking lot. Waiting like watchful birds on a bough.
‘I’m just not one hundred percent right now—would you bring me to my quarters and maybe we could do this another day?’ I ask.
‘But there’s more to go.’
‘And we’ve made afternoon tea. So…’
‘Okay, fine. Afternoon tea and then my quarters,’ I answer.
‘Ungrateful,’ Drew whispers.
I stare her down. She smiles.
We continue through the unending corridors. The space suddenly opens as we enter through the cafeteria door. Shockingly bright—sky lights trapping heat.
Air sweet with rot.
Every table contains a silver tray. Food offerings—pork stew or something beefy—next to broken bread pieces and glasses of milk. Black flies hop between morsels. Reverberated buzz.
A door opposite us swings open. Girl—carbon-copy of Morgan—comes from the kitchen with another tray. Waves at us.
She’s only wearing an old apron. Nothing else. I cover my eyes.
‘Oh, come on, Taylor. She’s not going to bite,’ Morgan grabs my hand and drags me across the room.
‘Stop!’ I plead.
Sweat drips down my shirt and legs.
Morgan pulls out a chair. Sits me down.
‘Hi, I’m Morgan Harper—the student representative,’ the other girl says.
Brow furrows. Peek through the gaps between my fingers. I realise that under her apron she’s wearing a swimsuit identical to the other Morgan’s. I drop my hand—it’s covered in blood from my wound.
I sit there staring at the two girls’ faces.
‘But isn’t she Morgan Harper?’ I point to Original-Morgan. Original-Morgan laughs in her familiar way.
‘That is my twin sister. Andi,’ then to Andi, quieter, ‘did you impersonate me and lie to the pastor?’
‘Oh God, I couldn’t resist. And Ms Drew said it was fine, so…’
Ms Drew smiles for half a moment. Glee gone before I can name it.
I propel myself up from my chair, knocking the table.
‘I’m done. I—I’m not feeling great and I’m sure you’re a lovely person Morgan, but I just want to go to bed. You’ll show me, yes? Just you, please because, so, Mor—Andi sorry—and Ms Drew can sit and enjoy your delicious cooking.’
I feel their heavy glares at the back of my neck. I turn to them.
The hot sting of running blood. It falls across my nose and my cheeks like tears.
Morgan passes me a small towel. I hold it, unknowing. Eyes watch eyes.
‘For the blood,’ she says.
I make a small noise and lift the towel to my head.
Ms. Drew huffs. Rustles out compact mirror from her pocket. Offers it.
‘I can hold your bags, if you’d like,’ Andi says.
The duffels are stripped from my hands. Bags replaced with the compact. I’m slow to open it. Stare at my red smeared face. Wipe. Return mirror.
‘Thanks,’ I know they expect more, ‘I’m so humbled by your graces—I’ve been such a mess,’ I attempt a small laugh. Swallow dust. Lump sets in my throat.
They watch me: Ms Drew, then Andi, and Morgan to her right and left, respectively. Unmoved faces.
Andi breaks the chair barrier. Free hand shoots up. Touches my neck.
I fall back. Knock table again. Glass tips over.
‘You missed a bit,’ she shows me her red-stained finger.
Behind me, the glass rolls and smashes. Hear the milk drip over the table’s lip.
I offer to clean it up, but they refuse—they send me away instead.
‘Morgan will take you. Andi and I will clean it up,’ Ms Drew pushes me off to the side–-turns momentarily smiling—‘we’ll bring your bags up later.’
Morgan grips my wrist before I can protest. Drags me to the door.
I look back. Andi watches the mess of milk and glass. Licks her finger. Ms Drew looks on as I disappear into the darkness once more.
‘I need my bags,’ I protest.
Her face empty. Eyes like two ghosts. No response. Maybe, I think, if they find the file, then they’d send me back. I give in to that thought.
Her hand cuffs my wrist: a dog biting down. I know not to pull away when a dog bites down.
My feet find more seams—whilst I fall, they manage to find their next step. A corridor ends. Right turn. Another end. Left turn, I think.
These halls of locker faces and empty bulletin boards transform into numbered oak doors. Portraits. Landscapes—18th century blurs. Familiar shadows.
Morgan slows—lets me go knowing I could never go back.
Summer sweat and feet drop onto linoleum; wood rings hollow beneath.
She starts to speak again: ‘It is strange—’
‘Yes?’
‘Aren’t you interested in what we’re wearing—Andi and me?’
‘Not really,’ I say.
‘We’re going swimming. You want to join us?’
‘No,’ I say. It’s said too harsh. ‘No, thanks,’ I feign a smile.
‘Oh, okay. That’s good.’ We continue walking. She halts. ‘Sorry, I meant that you not wanting to come is fine,’ another pause, ‘for you to not come.’
I purse my lips in quiet resignation. Look at my watch. 18:05—no energy to question it.
‘And we’re here.’
I look up. We’re at the end of a hallway. Yellow-green light falls from a frosted window, painting the door in the dying sun.
Morgan moves in front of me. She holds up my keys—I don’t question how.
‘I’ve added the key to your keychain. Cute dinosaur charm by the way,’ places it into my hand, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
She walks away. Disappears behind the corner.
I find my new key. Enter lock. Twist. Click.
The door falls away from the latch. I rush inside. Inside: must of books, porcelain tchotchkes line clean shelves, peach chinoiserie bedding, heavy curtains closed—there’s a sense of occupation left behind.
‘Father Taylor?’ a voice calls—Ms Drew—‘I’m here with your bags.’
I turn.
She stands in the hall. A perfect statue. Moves in. Places bags on entry table.
‘The Church forwarded this welcome gift,’ she removes a brown parcel from under her arm and hands it to me. Eyes meet eyes.
‘I look forward to getting to know you more,’ she says. Leaves, skirt swishing.
It’s a painting, I know—small wooden rectangular frame. Concave centre.
I open it on my bed. Brown scraps flung about.
14th century Virgin Mary coiled in blue and gold. Familiar—a fake. Hastily acquired by the Church, but a fake nevertheless—the lapis pigment came from Chile, not Afghanistan.
She knows she’s not real—her slit eyes confessed it under studio lights.
I know it’s not real, I think.
Author Bio:
Regan is a Brisbane/Meanjin-based writer in the final semester of his Bachelor of Fine Arts (Creative Writing) degree. You can find his work published in ScratchThat magazine, encompassing everything from poetry, memoir, fiction, audiobooks, and artworks. He is now a member of ScratchThat’s Editorial Board. He also tutors children from pre-Kindergarten up to Year 12. When he is not working, you will most likely find him with his two cats or hiding behind a mountain of plates from his favourite (and secret) sushi joint.
If you’d like to get into contact with him, please do so through his Instagram page @regancchern. He has also started a book club named the Lemon Lime Readers (@lemonlimereaders), which is currently seeking new members… please…