Divine Visions

Jonathan Brittleby was a man of god. Just ask his parishioners. He could often be seen out ministering to the sick, downtrodden, and needy, seeking to bring them into the fold of God. Any given night might find him out on the streets of Ravenford, talking quietly with anyone who cared to stop and listen. And in his spare time, Father Brittleby helped organize and maintain the First Street Mission's soup kitchen, feeding the community's poor. Father Jonathan Brittleby was a real pillar of the Ravenford religious community all right.

One of his favorite projects was ministering to Meg Saunders. He spent at least three nights a week working with her, more if he could manage it. Meg was his refuge from the trials of saintly perfection. And then she had to go and get religion, ruining everything. The minute Meg found God, she began questioning her all-too-physical relationship with the good brother. And then, adding insult to injury, she threatened to "tell all" in one public confession of sin.

So he did the only thing a righteous man could. He killed her. Drowned her actually. Couldn't have the little bitch blabbering things the public didn't need to know. He did it one night when they were together, soaking in that old claw-footed bathtub. Meg brought the subject up again and he'd just shoved her under, holding her there while dispassionately watching her struggle.

Afterwards, Brittleby’d wrapped the body in a tarp and tossed it in the trunk with some cement blocks and rope. He headed out to Lenore State Park and dumped poor Meg in Pym Lake. Suitably weighted down, she'd make excellent fish food and take forever to find. The holy man grinned to himself and patted the wrapped corpse's rump, "Consider it your baptism, Meg." He continued, laughing at his private humor, "Hell, I'll even say a few words as I send you off." And thus was Meg buried.
  

Days later, good Jonathan was performing his usual street ministry. A well-dressed businessman had paused to talk. Brittleby was expounding the need for more gentlemen to become involved in what was happening around them, on the human level. "The Word of God isn't only for the poor." That's when he noticed her, standing across the street watching him.

As Brittleby’s face drained of color and his chest tightened, the businessman asked if he needed assistance. An ambulance, perhaps? He waved the man off, claiming he'd not eaten yet that day, and withdrew to the coffee shop behind them.

Once seated, with a strong, dark cup before him, he chanced looking across the street again. There stood Meg all right - long blonde hair, voluptuous body. He felt his blood stir again at the sight of her, before he caught himself. Chastisingly he muttered to himself, " Meg’s dead. Remember? You killed her. Drowned her in the bathtub." He raised his head to stare defiantly back at her vision. She was gone.

As the month passed, Brittleby got used to seeing Meg’s face staring at him from off the street. He usually responded, after the initial paleness passed, but simply turning his head and looking elsewhere. Seems this wasn't the appropriate method for dealing with the problem. Meg Saunders had no intention of simply disappearing from Jonathan's life. She started showing up at the soup kitchen as well.

The first night it happened, our good Father was busy handing out bread to the indigent. He looked up, and there she was, only three people back in the line. Dropping the platter to the floor with a loud clatter, Brittleby joined it. Collapsing on the spot. While someone ran off to call 911, another helped him to a nearby chair, loosening the top buttons of his shirt collar as well. Eventually recovering his composure, he looked around for her, only to see a toothless old man standing where she'd been just a moment ago. Where had the man come from? Brittleby was sure he'd not been there earlier....

The volunteer staff insisted he go to the emergency room "just in case." While an EKG showed some elevated heart activity, the doctor on duty assured him all was fine. However, he might want to get a routine physical just in case and especially if the good preacher was suffering these weak spells on a regular basis. The community would suffer terribly if something happened to a man like Jonathan Brittleby.

Apparently, she'd learned the value of the shock-factor, for her next appearance was in his home. In the john to be exact. Meg stood behind him as he relieved himself, effortlessly watching over his shoulder. And he was sure she had been smirking.

Finishing up, he sank down onto the toilet, crossing himself. He was being haunted! The silly tart actually thought she could haunt him. He began giggling at the notion. The giggles progressed to a hearty chuckle and the next thing he knew, tears were streaming down his face as his laughter flew out of control.

Over the next few days, Brittleby convinced himself that he was merely suffering from an over-active imagination fueled by too much stress. After all, he'd confessed his sin, to himself -- even if he didn't look at it that way -- and done his required "Hail, Mary's". Hell, he'd even tossed in some fasting days for good measure. But then, he still wasn't sure he'd actually done wrong. Surely God hadn't been referring to harlots like Meg when he'd laid down those commandments.

He'd almost managed to convince himself it was all in his mind when she appeared again, sitting calmly on his sofa, legs crossed and hands placed primly in her lap. Pausing in his dinner preparations, Jonathan stared at the apparition in morbid fascination. Her mouth began moving silently, distinctly forming each soundless word, "You...murdered....me!" She wore the same look of shocked surprise that had been on her face when he'd first shoved it under the water.

Jonathan glanced down to the knife in his hand. Enraged, he launched himself at her. "Why..." the knife slashed down through Meg, into the sofa. "can't..." Again the blade came down. "you..." Twice more it cut into the sofa as Meg sat untouched. "stay..." He drew the knife across her chest, slicing open the sofa’s back. "...dead?" Panting, Brittleby stepped back to stare down at her. Slowly Meg faded away, a questioning look on her face. Only then did he notice the tattered sofa.

Rubbing his eyes wearily, he sat down. How could he make her go away? Maybe an exorcism would work, he thought with a heavy sigh. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd perform the ceremony. Right now he needed rest.

Dawn found a tired Brittleby preparing his living room for exorcism. He'd slept fitfully, dreaming of Meg Saunders wandering through his home. "This'll fix you, you tramp," he kept muttering under his breath. "This'll keep you where you belong. Out in Pym Lake."

Lit candles were placed around the room. The end table served as altar, holding all he'd need: holy water, the sacrament, vestments he needed to don just beforehand. The Bible was opened to a suitable passage from the Old Testament, scraps of paper marking other readings.

By the time he was finished, the candles were merely guttering flickers in their holders. He'd read, prayed, and commanded himself hoarse and was on the verge of collapse from exhaustion. However, there was still an air of triumph in the room. Jonathan was sure Meg would trouble him no more.

The passing days seemed to prove him right. Two weeks went by without a sighting. The cleric kept congratulating himself on a job well done. His nights were troubled, though. He was never sure of exactly what he'd dreamed about, but mornings always found him ill-rested and foul-tempered. He'd toss and turn continually, trying to find that one elusive comfortable spot that would give him peace and a restful sleep. It always eluded him. He even took to burning votives constantly in the bedroom whenever he was home and a plaque of the Blessed Virgin now hung above his bed. He clutched a rosary as he drifted off each night. These were protections he'd not needed since childhood and it troubled him to use them now. Such things were the mark of a superstitious mind. And while a man of God, Brittleby was far from superstitious. Or so he told himself.

Then one Sunday, while delivering mass at the soup kitchen, he saw her again. Brittleby desperately tried to ignore the familiar, accusing form sitting in the congregation. He desperately tried to pretend everything was as it should be. And until he got to the Prayer of Forgiveness, he succeeded admirably. Standing there, head bowed penitently, he could feel her accusing stare upon him, boring into his body.

Simply put, Father Jonathan Brittleby snapped. Perhaps it was all those restless nights that brought him too it. Too little sleep can do that to one. Whatever it was, he attacked the homeless bag lady in the third row. "You filthy, conniving bitch! Why won't you stay dead?" He beat her with his fists about the face before wrapping them around her wrinkly neck. "Why did you have to change?" he screamed. "Why won't you stay out in the lake? You're _not_ getting the better of me, Meg Saunders!"

Once they'd recovered their wits, several men tried to pull him off the poor, bewildered woman. A couple women fainted, and one stout heart ran for the phone. By the time the police and ambulance arrived, Brittleby was on the floor, five men sitting on him to hold him down. He was, by this time, ranting incoherently. His unconscious victim was bundled up and taken off to Ravenford General. Paramedics assured those present that she'd survive easily.

Ah, but what of Father Brittleby? He was taken out by straightjacket, sedated to the local asylum, still muttering profanities and nonsense to himself. He was later deemed unfit to be released as several folks came forward, telling tales of his odd behavior before the attack. Also, Church authorities feared he might harm himself were he set free. He's still there today, sitting in a little cell, heavily medicated, still muttering. Usually the hospital has him tended by male nurses and orderlies. He occasionally gets somewhat violent towards the ladies.

Several people present at the assault got curious about some of Jonathan Brittleby’s comments and applied sufficient pressure to the local police to investigate. Asking around, they discovered Meg Saunders missing. And so, Pym Lake was searched for any bodies. As is to be expected by any long term Ravenford resident, several were found, including Meg’s. As she was zipped into the body bag, the coroner noticed she was smiling....

This page composed and copywrited by: Melinda M. Fulk, 25 May, 1998. Comments? Email me!
Last revised and updated, 30 May 2005.