Free The Dark Sacrament by David Kiely Page A

there.”
    â€œOh, my God. What’s got into you?”
    â€œExciting, isn’t it? They’re telling me now when you’re going to die.” She said it with a smile—a wide, ugly grin. Yet the rest of the face remained immobile; the forehead and cheeks were drawn taut, the eyes wide open and staring.
    â€œWouldn’t you like to know?” she continued. The voice was challenging. It did not belong to Heather.
    Joe was stunned. He tried to speak, but the words would not come.
    â€œShall I tell you?” she said tauntingly. The mouth twisted into a contemptuous smirk. “When you’re going to die?”
    Still he could not speak. His jaw seemed paralyzed.
    Jesus, help me! The phrase rose out of nowhere in his consciousness. Jesus, help me. He struggled to free his voice. He succeeded.
    â€œJesus, help me! ” he cried, pressing his temples and shutting his eyes tight against the nightmare that was not a nightmare.
    It was as though a spell had been broken. Rip stopped whining. There was a deathly silence. Joe opened his eyes. He was afraid—afraid to clap eyes on who it might be in the passenger seat.
    â€œHeather,” he ventured, hoping that the sound of her name might bring about her “return.” Slowly, carefully he allowed himself to look her way.
    She was sitting bolt upright, staring through the windshield at the dark, wet hedge.
    â€œThe bitch is back now,” she said, half to herself, “so we can go.”
    With that, she left the car. Joe heard a heavy thud at the rear and felt the vehicle lurch. He buried his face in his hands and began to weep. Wild thoughts were assailing him.
    â€œI think I believed at that moment that Heather was going to kill me,” Joe recalls. “She’d just told me that she knew when I was going to die. If someone was going to kill you, wouldn’t they know that—the moment of your death?”
    He desperately wanted to flee from the car, but sheer terror had drained him of all energy. He could not move. There was no escape. He could only wait and pray.
    â€œJesus, help me!” he sobbed over and over. “Jesus, help me!”
    He heard the passenger door open.
    Someone was climbing in beside him. A hand shook his shoulder. “What happened? Joe, why have we stopped?”
    He looked into Heather’s concerned face. The real Heather had returned. The car was no longer wedged in the ditch. Miraculously, it had righted itself and was now on the grass shoulder, facing in the right direction.
    â€œWhat happened?” Heather asked again, growing anxious.
    Joe stared at her in disbelief. She seemed totally unaware of the havoc she had just caused.
    â€œJoe, you’re scaring me.” She started to cry. “What on earth happened?”
    â€œI—I don’t know,” he managed to say. “I think…we…skidded.” His mouth was dry. His head ached. He was drenched in sweat.
    â€œI must have blacked out. Did I?” Heather asked. “I don’t remember a thing.”
    â€œYes…yes, you did.”
    He got the engine running. He had barely the strength to maneuver the car back onto the road again.
    They drove the rest of the way in silence. When, at last, they arrived at his aunt’s house, Joe prayed that he would find her at home, watching television or something. He wanted so desperately for her to be there. Don’t let me hear you took the bus, he thought, over and over; anything but the bus.
    He rang the doorbell. Breda answered; she was wearing her hat and overcoat. Joe’s heart sank.
    â€œGosh, you’re in luck,” she said. “I’ve just come in from Mass.”
    He knew that her parish church was a ten-minute walk away. No bus needed.
    Joe wondered if they might stay with her again for a few days. She seemed to take it in stride. She made them coffee. She could see how upset her nephew was. She made small