Arrival at Black Hollow
They stood beneath the chapel’s awning as the last mourners vanished into mist. Rain beaded upon Thaddeus’s shoulders, running in slow lines down the curve of his neck where the collar gaped. Isaiah kept his distance, one gloved hand resting atop the handle of his modest trunk.
It was worn leather, stained at the corners, and light enough to carry alone. He had packed little. A few shirts. A pair of boots. A journal half-filled with unsent letters. But nestled in the side pocket, wrapped in linen like a relic, was the only thing he’d kept from his father all these years: A small wooden crucifix, carved by hand, rough-edged and uneven. Given to him when he was eight. Thaddeus had pressed it into his palm after a fever dream, whispering that it would protect him when he couldn’t be near.
Isaiah had nearly thrown it away countless times.
But somehow, he never could.
“You don’t have to come with me,” the priest said at last. His voice was low, uneven, as though something inside him resisted the offer even as he gave it. “I offer only shelter. Quiet. A place to grieve… or forget.”
Isaiah studied him. “You think I can forget?”
“No,” Thaddeus replied. “I pray you cannot. Grief is the wound we carry to remember love.”
Isaiah let out a quiet breath. “You sound like a priest.”
“I am a priest.”
“You weren’t always.”
That landed. Thaddeus’s mouth twitched. Whether in guilt, or something else, Isaiah could not say. The man shifted, and the soaked fabric of his cassock pulled tight across the broad frame beneath. His fingers, still bare despite the cold, drummed once against his thigh before falling still.
Isaiah stepped forward, just slightly. “Why now?”
Thaddeus met his gaze. “Because she’s gone. And you’re not. And I would not lose you both.”
The words struck too close. Isaiah looked away, jaw tightening.
“Do you believe in second chances, Father?” he asked bitterly.
“I believe in penance,” Thaddeus answered. “And I believe in mercy.”
A silence hung between them.
Then the clatter of hooves echoed through the fog as the carriage emerged from the lane.
Isaiah turned his face toward it.
“I’ll come,” he said.
Thaddeus looked at him, eyes unreadable. He did not smile. He only nodded once, slowly.
The door was opened. Isaiah stepped inside first. The crucifix in his coat pressed against his ribs like a forgotten wound. And as Thaddeus followed, ducking low to enter, Isaiah could feel the space between them shift.
Heavy. Quiet. Inevitable.
—
The road into the hills wound like a serpent, narrow and steep, vanishing into the mouths of birch woods so dense they swallowed the morning light. The carriage rocked unevenly along the stones, wheels churning through mud and wet leaves, its creaking form the only sound besides the rhythmic breath of horses and the slow tick of Isaiah’s heartbeat.
He sat stiffly within, coat buttoned to the throat, gloved hands resting upon his lap. Across from him sat the man he had once knew.
Thaddeus Vale, now forty-three, bore the years not with age but with a kind of brutal refinement. His body, forged by solitude and sacrament, had filled out into something formidable. His black cassock tailored not for vanity but necessity, clinging to the lines of thick arms folded across his broad chest. His thighs stretched the fabric of his trousers with every subtle shift, and where the shirt opened beneath the collar, the skin was tanned, scarred, and tight across muscle.
He sat in silence, eyes half-lowered, as though in prayer.
Isaiah dared to glance up from time to time, studying him in fragments: the way the veins curled around his thick hands, the shadow of a bruise high on his collarbone, the motionless set of his square jaw.
The man hardly breathed. He simply existed. Heavy, composed, and unnerving.
At last, unable to bear the silence, Isaiah spoke.
“How far is it yet?”
Thaddeus’s eyes lifted. Pale grey. The color of winter sky before snow.
“Three hours more,” he said. His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “The road grows worse once we cross the river.”
“And the town…?”
“Small. Quiet.” His gaze lingered. “Not unlike yourself.”
Isaiah’s mouth twitched. “You speak as though you’ve known me all these years.”
“I know the silence you carry,” Thaddeus replied softly. “I know its weight.”
The carriage shuddered, tilting as a wheel struck something beneath the mud. Thaddeus reached out, his hand large and hot, grasping Isaiah’s shoulder with practiced ease. The boy stiffened under the sudden contact. He could feel the pressure of each finger through his coat, the strength that lay behind such restraint.
Thaddeus pulled away the moment the carriage righted itself, jaw clenched.
“Forgive me.”
Isaiah said nothing.
—
They crossed the river by an old timber bridge, its supports groaning with every wheel turn. Mist curled along the banks, rising in pale fingers. Beyond, the trees grew closer together, and light fled the earth.
There were no waystones. No signs of life.
Only trees. And silence.
—
By the time the village emerged from the fog, the sun had vanished behind iron clouds. Black Hollow was no more than a handful of crooked houses strung along a dirt road, their shutters drawn, chimneys weeping slow tendrils of smoke. The people, what few there were, watched from behind curtains.
A woman drew her child away from the window as the carriage passed.
Another crossed herself.
And then, at the far end of the lane, the chapel appeared.
It rose from the earth like a wound. Grey stone darkened by rain, its crooked steeple listing to one side. Iron vines coiled the fence that surrounded it, twisted into sigils Isaiah could not recognize. The door was made of oak gone nearly black with age. Above it, a weatherworn carving of Saint Michael loomed, but his face had been worn away, and the sword he held pointed downward.
The rectory stood just behind. A two-story structure of timber and stone, its windows narrow, its roof slick with moss. A single lantern burned within.
The horses snorted as the carriage rolled to a halt. Thaddeus opened the door and stepped out first, his boots thudding heavy upon the path.
Isaiah followed, glancing back as the carriage turned and retreated into the mist.
They were alone now.
The rectory door opened without a sound. The air inside was warm, but stale, like parchment, damp wool, and old incense.
The entry hall was narrow. Dark wood paneling rose to meet a vaulted ceiling hung with a rusted candelabra. A crucifix hung askew on the far wall.
“Your room is above,” Thaddeus said, lighting a taper and ascending the stairs. His gait was slow, but each step echoed through the timbers. “There is water for washing, though it must be heated. Meals are at dawn and dusk. The chapel remains locked outside of prayer.”
“Why?”
Thaddeus paused upon the stair, glancing back over the broad shelf of his shoulder.
“It is not always wise to go where one is not welcome.”
Isaiah stared at him. “Am I unwelcome?”
Thaddeus’s jaw clenched again, then loosened. He looked away.
“No,” he said quietly. “Not you.”
—
The room was sparse but clean. A narrow bed. A small washstand. A wardrobe of cedar and iron. A single window, overlooking the crooked steeple.
Isaiah removed his coat and stood by the window, watching the fog slide down from the hills. He could see no people. No birds. Only the chapel, hunched in the mist like something waiting.
Behind him, the Father cleared his throat.
“I shall give you time to rest. There will be supper at the hour of six.”
Isaiah turned. “You live here alone?”
“I do.”
“No housekeeper? No acolyte?”
“I need little,” the priest replied, voice clipped. “And there are no others willing to stay.”
He lingered a moment more. His gaze drifted across Isaiah’s form, though quickly withdrawn.
Then he turned, and Isaiah watched the play of shadow across his shoulders as he descended the stairs, muscle shifting beneath the dark cloth like something alive.
—
That night, as the fog thickened, Isaiah lay awake in his bed, the rectory breathing and shifting around him like an old man in restless sleep. Floorboards creaked in distant rooms. Pipes whispered behind the walls. Somewhere below, wood settled with a groan like a voice too tired to speak.
He turned beneath the blankets, restless, then rose.
The window’s glass was cold against his palm as he leaned forward to peer into the night. The hills were lost in mist, the village a collection of faint outlines and chimney smoke. Only the chapel remained distinct, rising from the fog like a drowned cathedral, its crooked steeple reaching heavenward in silent defiance.
Though the hour was well past dark, light flickered behind the stained-glass windows.
Isaiah narrowed his eyes.
Shadows moved within, slow and deliberate. One stood apart from the rest, tall and still, a figure bowed in the apse where the altar lay. The candlelight cast him in silhouette: a broad back hunched in prayer, head lowered beneath the vaulted arch, robes clinging damply to the curve of muscle beneath.
Even distorted by colored panes, Isaiah knew the shape of him.
He stepped back from the window, pulse loud in his ears.
—
Below, in the chapel’s hollow nave, Thaddeus knelt alone before the altar. The sanctuary was lit only by a ring of guttering candles, their flames casting long shadows that danced along stone and statue alike. His hands were clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
His voice, when it came, was scarcely more than breath.
“Forgive me, Lord… for I am not strong enough.”
The crucifix above him loomed.
And behind the altar, something ancient shifted in the dark. Something listening.
