The Church Mouse

              The scratch, scratch, scratch had been going on for over an hour. She’d concluded it had to be coming from inside the walls somewhere. After all, a church built in 1602 was bound to house its fair share of mice. She added mouse traps to the church shopping list and resumed drafting the order of service.

              Marla Pease had been a devout member of the Holy Redeemer church since her baptism in 1976, exactly two weeks following her birth. She’d never married, choosing instead to devote her life to serving her parish. Her role as church secretary ran far deeper than answering phone calls and doing paperwork. She served as an assistant to Father Peters, cleaned the church and rectory, did all of the accounting, and maintained the church calendar. She oversaw volunteer positions and the member directory, and spent countless hours doing whatever it took to make sure the operation ran smoothly.

              She removed her reading glasses with a sigh, setting them neatly on the desk beside a photo of her on a mission trip to Central America some years back. She smiled fondly at the photo; it felt like a lifetime ago. She now considered herself too old for traveling the earth and chose instead to spend her time spreading the word of God’s love right here at home.

              She picked up the shopping list, intending to complete the task first thing the following morning. Everyone else had already gone home, the ladies’ group meeting wrapped up, and the youth choir finished with their weekly practice. She enjoyed listening to the sounds of the children singing God’s praise, and it made her heart swell to think of the next generation of devout Christians carrying on such an important mission.

              Turning off the computer, she pulled on her sweater and pushed in her office chair. Locking the door behind her, she exited and locked the main door to the Holy Redeemer church and walked to her car. The October air was brisk, the sky clouded over and hiding any remnants of a sunset. The drive home was short, as Marla lived only three blocks away. The streets were sleepy this time of evening, with families sitting down to dinner and homework, the busyness of the day waning.

              When Marla arrived home, she hung her sweater on the carved coat tree by the front door and set her shoes neatly on the rug. A cup of tea was calling her name, and she set the kettle to heating on the stovetop as she searched the refrigerator for leftovers. The kettle began to sing, and she poured the boiling water over a bag of herbal tea in her favorite mug. Back in the entryway of her home, she rifled through her bag for her new romance novel, excited to settle in with her tea and a new story. The novel was nowhere to be found.

              In her mind’s eye, Marla could clearly see the novel sitting beside the freshly folded stack of church bulletins. Her mind ping-ponged back and forth about whether to retrieve the book. She glanced longingly at her tea steeping on the counter. Frustrated, she clucked her tongue and quickly pulled her sweater back on, slipping into her clogs.

              The wind had picked up a notch, and she pulled her sweater tightly around herself as she strode quickly to her car. Again, the drive back to the Holy Redeemer Church was short, and she unlocked the door and let herself inside. The church, normally so full of life, was eerily quiet.

              In the office, Marla located her book exactly where she’d expected it to be. She silently chided herself for being so forgetful. As she turned to leave, she heard the sound again—scratch, scratch, scratch.

              Whether it was her frustration at her forgetfulness or if she’d really just had it with these mice, she turned, instead of to the front door of the church, to the door that led to the basement. She flicked the light switch and looked down the old staircase.

              The basement smelled musty and old, and it housed Holy Redeemer’s archived church records. The countless filing cabinets held the history of births, deaths, marriages, congregations long past, and prayer requests. There were meeting minutes, articles noting staff changes, and important documents about the history of the Holy Redeemer Church. Marla tended to avoid the basement, as she feared walking down the old wooden stairs and getting accidentally locked down there with all that history.

              She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for. She spotted a discarded flashlight perched on a filing cabinet and grabbed it. Flicking the switch, she was pleased to see that the batteries worked. Scratch, scratch, scratch. She turned quickly toward the sound, shining the flashlight beam toward the source. Taking a few steps forward, she nearly jumped out of her skin as a great creaking sound filled the room. Above Marla, the old pipes groaned in protest as the church’s heat kicked on. After all, she remembered, it was October. The chill was going nowhere anytime soon. Marla chuckled to herself, shaking her head at her jumpiness.

              Scratch, scratch, scratch.

              She turned back to the task at hand. An old utility closet on the far side of the room held a crudely scribbled label that read “Cleaning and Maintenance.” Perhaps that closet housed some mouse traps, or even some poison. Her heart felt a bit sad at the thought of poisoning the creatures; at least the traps ensured a swift death without suffering.

              Marla opened the closet and scanned the contents. She found a can of spray paint, a roll of duct tape, a few tubes of caulking, some WD-40, a small tool chest with various wrenches, screwdrivers, and other hand tools, a single lightbulb, and a canister of rusty old nails. There were cleaning supplies like bleach, a pile of dirty rags, furniture polish, floor wax, and some soap for a mop bucket.

Funny, she thought, I didn’t know any of this was down here. While Marla was in charge of cleaning the church and rectory, she was accustomed to the janitor’s closet upstairs; it was modern and contained everything she needed to maintain the church’s clean, polished appearance. At the bottom of the closet, she found a single mouse trap, covered in cobwebs. She bent and picked it up. Blowing the cobwebs off, she lifted the metal bar and secured it under the armbar.

Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.

Marla turned again toward the sound. Her flashlight started to flicker, and she hit it against her leg twice to bring it back to life. Carrying the trap, she walked again toward the source of the persistent scratching sound. She wondered if there were a ledge she could place the trap on, or if she should simply place it on the floor along the wall.

As she approached the wall, she zeroed in on the source of the sound; it was coming from behind an old bookshelf that held various volumes of the Holy Bible and other religious texts. Eyeing the structure, she wondered if she was strong enough to move it. Pressing her left shoulder on the side of the unit, she put her weight into it and began to push. After a few seconds, the bookcase dislodged and began to move. She shoved it just far enough out of the way to fit the trap in behind it.

As she bent to put the mouse trap in place, she noticed a seam on the concrete wall. Standing slowly, she scanned the length of the seam, noting that it ran nearly all the way to the ceiling. Something in her gut tightened as above her the pipes began to groan again. Her intuition told her something wasn’t quite right.

Going against her better judgment, she pushed again on the bookshelf, moving it away from the wall entirely. The flashlight in her hand illuminated the seam on the wall. She didn’t quite know what to make of it.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Marla thought now that perhaps there was a whole horde of mice, or worse—rats—behind the wall. She would have to call an exterminator first thing in the morning. She now knew her one measly little trap would do no good. As she turned to leave, she heard a thud behind the wall. She whirled around, the beam of the flashlight trembling.

The wind outside whistled against the drafty hopper windows. Marla took a step toward the wall. Gently, she ran her finger along the seam. Marla didn’t know what possessed her; she was familiar with the term curiosity killed the cat, yet something urged her forward. She pressed her hand into the wall next to the seam, feeling the cold, rough concrete beneath her palm.

She turned toward the closet where she’d found the mouse trap. Shining the light into the closet, she spotted a crowbar at the bottom, leaning against an outdated fire extinguisher. Marla picked up the crowbar and turned back to the seam in the wall.

Scratch, scratch, scratch, thud.

She lay the flashlight on the ground, illuminating the space in front of her. Inserting the flat end of the crowbar into the seam, she began to push. Nothing. She pulled. Nothing. She pushed harder still, and concrete began to crumble out of the crack in the wall. She worked the crowbar back and forth, wedging it deeper still into the seam.

To her surprise, the wall opened in front of her as if it were a hinged door. Marla didn’t know what to make of this. In all her years at the Holy Redeemer church, she’d never heard of a secret room in the basement of the church. Surely this would have been something she’d have heard of.

A musty, foul odor came from the dark room in front of her. She felt a chill as cold air escaped the room, carrying the stench with it. Marla breathed a sigh of relief when a wave of rodents did not come flowing out of the darkness.

Easing the door open further, her eyes grew wide with shock as she took in the backside of the door. The aged concrete was covered in scratches. Scars in the wall that, she could plainly see, were not left by rodents.

Marla’s flashlight began to flicker again, and she bent to retrieve it. She smacked it against her leg once, twice, three times. The beam regained its strength, and she hesitantly shone its quaking beam toward the dark room in front of her.

The darkness was so thick—nearly palpable—and her flashlight so weak that it barely cut through the inky black. The hairs on Marla’s neck stood on end, and she knew that it was time for her to leave.

As she reached out to shut the concrete door, she heard something coming from the room in front of her. A scraping. A soft thud. She pulled frantically on the door as she realized with absolute certainty what the sound coming from the abyss in front of her was: footsteps.

Before she could react, Father Peters emerged from the pitch blackness, hands outstretched. His face was bloodied, nearly unrecognizable. Marla let out a scream as he moved towards her. His gait was unsteady, as though he’d been hobbled. He moaned something unintelligible as he grabbed onto Marla’s sweater, staining it with his blood. Three of his fingers were missing. She tried in vain to push him off her, struggling against his weight.

He moaned again, and, to Marla’s great horror, she could see that his tongue had been cut out. His eyes were all burst blood vessels, no whites to be found. Blood ran down from his hairline. He was missing his left ear. A gaping wound ran from his right eye to his mouth, exposing white bone beneath the flesh dangling from his face. He held onto her sweater, pleading incoherently.

Marla screamed again, trying to get away from Father Peters’s vice-like grip. If nothing else, she knew she should at least go for help, for him and for her. She finally succeeded in freeing herself, pushing him away, and he fell with a thud against the concrete wall. He let out another moan.

Marla turned on her heel and ran immediately into another man. Her blood turned to ice. She took a step back, her mouth agape but unable to produce sound.

Her flashlight went out.