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The Comeback Protocol Episode 6: Attack on St. Jerome's

Writer's picture: M.P. KiddM.P. Kidd

Timmault looked at the frail old woman standing before him in the foyer of the rectory. Her thin lips quivered under her nose. She was afraid, he knew. And confused. He should try to calm her, but he didn’t have the patience for it.

“Ruth, who’s the monsignor here?”

She fumbled over her words. “Duane - erm, Father Alderman.”

Something flashed across the window behind her. Timmault put his hand on her shoulder and guided her down the hallway with a gentler touch than before.

“Could you get him for me? I can explain everything to him.”

“I’m afraid he’s on a house call,” she said, halting. “I could let him know you stopped by.” There was hope in her voice, like she thought she had rid of him.

Before Timmault could respond, a soft tap came from the front door. Ruth turned to have a look, but Timmault nudged her forward.

“That won’t do,” Timmault said. “Can you call him? Tell him not to come back.”

Ruth jerked her head toward him. “Not to . . . but isn’t he why you’re here?”

Timmault shook his head impatiently. “No, no. I told you: I’m meeting someone here. Alderman could have just helped -”

Another tap at the front door. This one was louder and was followed by a woman’s voice. “Timmy?” She sounded concerned. Timmault knew better. Ruth didn’t.

She pulled away from him and motioned for the door. Timmault grabbed her by her elbow and yanked the old woman back, almost knocking her off balance.

“Ruth, I told you not to answer the goddamn door!”

His anger stunned her for a moment, and she clearly didn’t like his choice of language.

“Young man, that must be your mother at the door. She sounds worried.”

“She’s not,” Timmault said with another yank on her elbow.

Ruth’s voice cracked. “Wha- what’s going on?”

“Ruth,” he said sternly. “Call Alderman and tell him not to come home. Do that, and I will explain everything.

She studied him as she weighed her options. Finally, she decided to go along. “The phone’s in the kitchen.” She looked down at his hand gripped tightly around her elbow and back to him.

Timmault let go, and she walked down the hall.

Another tap. This one came from the window in the sitting area to the right of the foyer. Timmault followed the sound. The window that looked out front started just above the couch and stretched to the ceiling. It was transparent at first, but as Timmault crossed into the sitting area, the glass started to fog from the bottom left corner. As he approached the couch, a hand pressed against the glass from the outside. His heart skipped a beat. It had been a small lifetime since he had been so close to one.

Slowly, the silhouette of a woman appeared from the corner. She pressed her head against the glass to see through. Timmault could make out the faint curves of her cheekbones and brow. Her hair clung to her head and poured onto her shoulders. The woman cupped her hands around her eyes and peered inside. Timmault couldn’t see her eyes through the fog, but her head jerked in his direction when she caught sight of him.

Again his heart skipped a beat.

Her hands tried to wipe the fog from the window, but it formed on the inside.

“Timmy?” the woman called out. “Timmy, you had me worried sick. Come on, let’s get you home.”

Timmault stopped in front of the couch and didn’t move. He quietly watched the woman from three short feet away. Her soft tone sent a chill down his spine. He knew that violence hid under her motherly voice - a syren’s song meant to send him to his doom. But he knew the rules. He was safe inside. Outside, he was dead. He wouldn’t fall for it. But then again, the woman’s call wasn’t meant for him to hear.

Ruth stepped into the sitting area. “My God. Timmault, is that your mother? This is silly. I’m letting her inside.”

“No!” Timmault leaped across the room and stood between Ruth and the foyer. “That is not my mother.”

Ruth looked around him at the door. “But she -”

“Ruth!”

Ruth flinched. She held her Rosary against her heart and closed her eyes.

Timmault cleared his throat. “Did you get ahold of the Monsignor?”

Her eyes still squeezed shut, she mumbled something that Timmault couldn’t hear.

“What?” Timmault insisted.

“Voicemail,” she said. “He turns his cell phone off when he’s on a house call.”

Shit. Timmault scanned the first floor. There were windows everywhere. “We’re going upstairs.”

Ruth bowed her head. Her lips mouthed a prayer. He grabbed her by the elbow once more, gingerly this time, and turned her toward the staircase. As he guided her up the twelve steps to the second floor, another tap came from the door. This time it was a man’s voice. “Tim? Are you in there? Your mother is worried sick.”

“Just go,” Timmault pushed past past any hesitation Ruth had left. At the top of the staircase was a long hallway that wrapped back toward the front of the house. Four dark oak doors lined the wall. “Is there a guest bedroom?”

Ruth opened the second door. Inside was a single bed with a nightstand next to it. Timmault hadn’t crossed one foot through the doorway before they heard a man scream in agony from downstairs. 

Timmault shoved past Ruth and whipped around the banister. As he planted his foot on the top step, he heard the old wood of the front door crack and splinter below. In two quick bounds, he cleared the twelve stairs, landing in front of the foyer. The front door was broken open, and an elderly man lay on his stomach, clawing at the carpet to pull himself inside.

Timmault looked in horror at the two gaunt, feral figures pulling at the man’s legs just outside the door.

The man dressed in all black looked up at Timmault with pleading eyes, the white collar under his chin choking his neck. “Help,” he cried as flecks of blood smattered the air in front of his lips.

The creatures pulled frantically at the priest’s legs with impossibly strong, frail arms. 

Timmault stood frozen. What could he do? The vampires were using the priest as bait. If he reached for the old man to pull him inside, they would yank him out into the street and tear him to pieces. 

Ruth yelled from the top of the stairs. “Duane!” Her voice rattled Timmault, and before he knew what he was doing, he reached for the old man. He grabbed his hand with his right arm and wrapped his left arm around the doorway into the sitting area.

“I got you,” Timmault yelled through a clenched jaw. “Come on. Pull!”

The priest pulled himself inside inch by inch. For a moment, Timmault thought the priest might have a chance. And then he locked eyes with one of the monsters. It was the one he had seen on the roof across the street. Its face was freckled with blood and dirt. It stopped pulling at the priest's leg long enough to smile satisfactorily at the boy in the foyer.

Finally, it yanked on the priest with ease, pulling Timmault out onto the street.

Timmault tumbled across the concrete, landing on his back. The vampires let go of the priest and turned their sights on the boy.

Timmault looked up in fear, unable to move in time. The vampires’s faces looked down at him. Their voracious smiles glowed in the light of oncoming traffic. All Timmault could do was close his eyes. But not before he saw an old tan and rusted Chevy pickup truck plow over the two vampires in the street, just missing the priest’s feet.

Timmault pulled himself to his feet. “Dad?” he gasped. 


To Be Continued . . .


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