Chapter 2: The Fever Breaks

2.

I told Natalie to lay the baby on the faded prayer rug by the altar. I scooped up some ash from candles burned in prayer for the sick—greasy and black, smelling faintly of old wax—and gently dabbed it across the child’s forehead, temples, and just behind his tiny ears.

Standing just to the side, I raised my hand and made the sign of the cross, reciting silent prayers learned from the Mad Pastor and the old nuns who sometimes stopped by.

As the prayers went on, the baby’s breathing eased. The sharp, pained cries faded to quiet whimpers, and then, blessedly, silence. The waxy ash left smudges on my fingers, and the whole chapel seemed to hold its breath as I whispered the old prayers.

When I finished, I pressed my hand to his forehead. The heat was gone—skin cool and damp. For the first time in weeks, the child was at peace.

He’d been attacked by something dark—bad energy, maybe, or something even more sinister. He was young, body and soul barely anchored, so he’d been easy prey. Even an adult would have struggled against it.

But he had faith’s spark. Some people are born with it. For him, it was enough.

I unclasped my old rosary, slipped off a single bead, threaded it onto a red string, and tied it loosely around his neck. Something to protect him, even if just a little.

Natalie had stayed kneeling the entire two hours since arriving. You could see in her eyes: she’d have waited all night for a sign her brother was safe. For a second, Natalie just stared, like she didn’t dare believe it. Then her shoulders sagged and she let out a shaky, half-sob, half-laugh that sounded like hope finally breaking through.

“Stand up now. Let the baby rest on the rug a bit.”

“He was under the influence of something evil. I’ve cleared it out. His fever’s broken. A few days’ rest and he’ll be fine. Try not to worry.”

Natalie stared at me, hope and disbelief warring in her face, then looked at her brother, her eyes shining. She wanted to sob out loud but bit it back, bowing again in gratitude.

“No need for that. The child’s blessed. Come, sit.”

I gently pulled a chair over for her. She tried to stand, but her knees were so stiff she could barely manage.

“Thank you.”

She took the tissue I offered, dabbing her eyes, and poured out her story—two months of struggle, nights awake, the sense of drowning in fear. I listened, nodding as she talked, offering half an orange to help steady her hands.

“Did your family bring home anything unusual recently? Any odd gifts, or make strange offerings?” I asked, voice soft, peeling the orange and handing her a wedge.

“My mom’s Christian—she kept a Virgin Mary statue by her bed, read the Bible every day. After we lost the house, she gave the statue away. As for strange things… I don’t know. Maybe something followed us home from the hospital. People say those places are full of restless souls.”

With her burdens shared, Natalie seemed lighter, as if she could finally breathe.

I thought a moment, then bundled up some candle ash in a ziplock bag, added a plain wooden cross the Mad Pastor carved one summer from a lightning-struck tree out back, and handed her a battered prayer book.

“Mix the candle ash with water for your parents to drink. Hang the cross over your front door. Read the prayers, morning and night.”

“Tonight, open up all the windows, let some sunshine in, get your folks to step outside if they can. That’s important—sunlight chases the darkness out.”

“Do this for three days. That should clear out anything ordinary.”

“If things don’t get better, you know where to find me.”

Natalie blinked. “What do I owe you, Pastor? I can pay, honest.”

“No charge. If it works, just bring some fruit and candles next time you come by.”

Natalie’s eyes filled with tears again.

She explained they’d already paid thousands for visiting preachers and so-called miracle workers, none of whom did a lick of good. She tried to kneel to thank me, but I stopped her.

“Careful who you trust. There’s a lot of folks out there selling hope and nothing more. No need to kneel to me; I’m just doing my job.”

After a few more reminders, I sent her home with her brother in her arms, the streetlights flickering as she disappeared into the night.

It was late—past midnight by the time I closed up the chapel and checked on Listener, who was curled up on the altar like he’d always been there.

The next couple days were quiet. The marshal, now chastened, redid every ritual by the book—drums, bells, candle smoke, the whole works, even calling in the old choir ladies to sing hymns. But the saint still wouldn’t budge from the hill. Three times they tried; three times, nothing.

Eventually, the marshal gave up—knelt right there in the grass, burned the fake saint statue, handed the marshal’s baton to his son, and moved into the chapel for round-the-clock prayers, hoping for forgiveness.

I figured Natalie’s troubles were behind her. But sometimes, trouble circles back when you least expect it.

At dawn on the third day, my phone buzzed. Natalie’s name flashed on the screen. Her voice was hollow: her father was dead.

He had drowned—inside their house, in the family fish tank.