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I shut the curtain, then turned.

The blood on the floor looked a grotesque black in the dim light, scattered from the side doors to where I stood. A trail. An accusation. A map for the wolves to follow.

I crossed to the altar and snatched the white cloth from the side table. It was used for the holiest of things. The body and blood of Christ.

I dropped to one knee and dragged it across the stone. The first smear only widened the stain. “Damn it,” I breathed. The curse sounded louder, somehow harsher in the church. I couldn’t stop to cross myself for cursing.

I scrubbed harder.

The cloth drank the blood greedily, white becoming red, then rust, ugly and useless. I wiped the largest marks first. The ones near the aisle. The ones by the altar. The ones under the mouth of the confessional.

Outside, footsteps splashed through the puddles.

I heard the front doors rattle as someone tried the handles. Then came the silence when they refused to give.

I knew, with a cold certainty, that they would try another door next.

I folded the stained altar cloth once and pushed it into my pocket.

I rose, crossed to the first candle, and pinched out the flame.

Then the next. And the rest. One by one, I killed the light.

The church sank into shadow.

Only the sanctuary lamp remained, red and flat in the dark, flickering like the last weak pulse of a night that refused to end.

I had just turned from the final candle when the side doors opened again.

Someone pushed them open carefully.

Three men stepped inside, bringing the storm with them. Rain blew across the threshold. The wind stirred the old incense trapped in the stone and carried in the scent of the night.

They stopped when they saw me. For one perfect second, shame moved across all three faces.

It was almost beautiful.

The tallest crossed himself first. Then the man beside him. The third, younger and broader through the shoulders, hesitated before dragging two fingers from forehead to chest, left shoulder to right.

His knuckles were split.

I noticed the bulge beneath the tall man’s jacket. He had a right side shoulder holster.

“Father,” the tall one greeted me.

His voice was rough, but he tried to soften it.

I let my face settle into confusion. The harmless expression people expected from a priest disturbed at night.

“Can I help you, my sons?”

My sons.

Let God put His hand on the back of their necks for a moment. Let them remember where they were so they could feel watched by something larger than me.

The tall man glanced past me, scanning the pews, the altar and the shadows. “Forgive us for entering so late.”

“There is no hour at which a church refuses the troubled.”