Notifications
Clear all
Topic starter
25/02/2026 8:23 pm
Poster for Father Callahan
This takes place during the weeks after Ida has been brought in….
The Arrival at Murray Hill
The Chapel of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary stood tucked among the brownstones of Murray Hill, its mid 50s façade pressing up against the night with a humility that belied its age. The carved statue of Mother Mary stood a lone vigil in the small entryway garden. The words “Source of all Consolation” were emblazoned on the brick façade.
Father Liam Callahan called upon the blush of life while stepping through the glass doors and into the cool hush of the nave. The scent of incense clung faintly to the air, mingled with candle wax and air conditioning. Rows of polished pews gleamed under the warm glow of modern chandelier lights. The refurbished Roosevelt organ tucked into the corner broke the almost perfect symmetry of the worship area. The backlit crucifix, above the altar, cast a shadow long and solemn across the marble floor.
Waiting near the altar was a nun. Sister Cielita Rojas. Her habit was pressed, her posture perfect, hands laced at the small of her back. Her dark hair, streaked lightly with gray, was braided and looped into a bun with the efficiency of a woman who valued order above vanity. Her brown eyes assessed him as much as they welcomed him… warmth – tempered with discipline.
She stepped forward with brisk composure, proffering her hand.
“Father Callahan. Welcome to Sacred Hearts. I am Sister Cielita Rojas, Prioress of this parish.”
“Sister Rojas.” The priest greeted her, taking her hand with a deliberate, steady clasp. “The pleasure is mine. This house of God feels… ripe for renewal. I trust it has been waiting patiently.”
Her lips curved into the faintest smile.
“Waiting, perhaps. But not idle. We’ve weathered years of dwindling attendance. Families move away. The young are distracted. What we need is direction, Father.”
Father Callahan nodded, letting his voice slip into the rich cadence of a homilist. “And that is why I have come, Sister. Renewal demands vision. But vision alone is barren without sacrifice. It is our charge to stir the faithful. To draw from them what must be given. Prayer alone does not sustain the body of the devoted – it endures only by what is offered into our care.”
Her brow furrowed slightly, intrigued.
“By sacrifice… you mean donations. Attendance. Commitment?”
Father Callahan’s smile was faint, enigmatic. “Yes. That, and more.”
Sister Rojas led him from the nave through the side corridors. The chapel was much smaller than Saint Paul the Apostle, but it had an air of intimacy about it. Stained glass windows lined the halls, saints and martyrs lit in fractured jewel tones. The parish offices hummed faintly with the sound of late-night filing and the buzz of fluorescent lights. She pointed out the staff with the efficiency of a commander introducing her troops.
“Monsignor Herrera is the Pastoral Administrator,…” She began. “…but he is aging—his health is not steady. Father Montrose is the Parochial Vicar. He also teaches catechism. He is young but enthusiastic… though somewhat distractible. We have three sisters, one sexton, and a part-time organist. The condominiums across the street feed into us, although – even that has dwindled over time, Father.”
They descended into the basement. The stairs, narrow, and concrete, framed them until the corridor opened into a broad space of rough concrete and caged lightbulbs overhead. Here, dust still clung to the corners and pipes groaned softly.
“This is the old storage level. I am told this is where your… Blood Bank and Donation Center will be constructed.” She says it carefully, testing the words for his reaction.
Father Callahan smiles thinly “Yes. An endeavor new to the Church… and, yet ancient in meaning. Life… is in the blood, Sister. We must steward it. Preserve it. Here, we can provide both charity – and necessity. A gift for the faithful, and a safeguard for the future.”
Her eyes searched his, calculating. She was impressed, perhaps even moved, though her instincts still demanded caution.
“It is ambitious. But, you know ambition can burn a parish as easily as it can elevate it, Father. I would like assurances that you will not use Sacred Hearts as a stepping stone. Forgive my bluntness, but we have been… overlooked… too often here in our little chapel.”
Callahan turned his gaze fully on her now. His dark eyes held weight, an intensity that pressed just enough to unnerve without spilling into menace.
When he replied, he did so softly, and with sincerity. “I understand your concerns, sister. I will tell you that I do not step into any sanctuary lightly. A priest must plant himself in the soil he is given, and tend it until it yields fruit. I would see Sacred Hearts become a beacon. A beacon of light, amid this city’s storm. No… you will find no half-hearted shepherd here, I can assure you that.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Relief. Admiration. Perhaps even something more dangerous: trust. She drew a slow breath, hands tightening briefly at her back before she nodded.
“Then you will have my support, Father. Whatever help you need to realize this vision, I will provide. But I expect transparency. Order. And faith.”
Callahan let the smallest smile curl at the corner of his mouth.
“And you shall have them, Sister Cielita. You shall have them. And in abundance.”
Callahan smiled, inwardly, as he thinks to himself: “We’re going to get along fine, Sister. Just fine.”
She offered him a genuine smile and bowed before she moved ahead of him toward the stairs. She began explaining the schedules of the parish staff and the dwindling ledger of donations, Callahan’s gaze lingered on her. She was composed, intelligent, and loyal. Exactly the kind of foundation he required. Her warmth – could be weaponized. Her faith – redirected. Her devotion – harnessed.
The thought flickered in his mind: how much easier if his vitae coursed through her veins. Her loyalty, sealed in a crimson covenant. Would she drink willingly, he wondered, if presented as a holy mystery? Or would she resist… and force his hand?
As she turned back to him with that faint, professional smile, he imagined – but for the briefest, intoxicating moment – the communion chalice wine being laced redder than the faithful could ever guess.
Topic starter
25/02/2026 8:25 pm
Nights 2-14
Night Two: The Ledger Room
The parish office smelled faintly of paper and polish. A single lamp glowed over the oak desk where Sister Cielita bent over the ledger books. The numbers didn’t flatter the parish. Columns of red ink, years of both declining attendance and donations.
Father Callahan leaned against the doorframe, the silhouette of his cassock cutting dark against the lamplight.
“You work late, Sister. Too late. You know… the Gospel of Mark says… in Chapter 6, I believe, that even those doing holy work are permitted rest.”
Cielita, without looking up, her pen scratching across the page, responded, “Those doing holy work die of exhaustion more often than the wicked. But if we don’t face these numbers honestly, we’ll bleed out before we even begin construction.”
She turned then, adjusting her glasses. His eyes caught hers, steady, unyielding.
Father Callahan approached the desk slowly. Hands clasped. Fingers interlaced. “Numbers can frighten, Sister. They can chain us. But the stories of faith are not written in the ledgers. I have seen parishes rise from ashes. Do not mistake the ink for the truth.”
Her lips softened at that. She sat back, folding her hands in her lap.
“You are persuasive, Father. I suppose that is why they sent you.”
Father Callahan wore a ghost of a smile. “No, Sister. They sent me because the faithful deserve a shepherd who does not despair.”
Something flickered between them then, a silence charged like incense smoke in still air. She looked away first, clearing her throat, her hands tightening faintly in her lap. His words were nearly too inspiring to be believed, yet she did.
“Then we find ourselves in better hands than I have seen in many years, Father.”
Night Four: The Empty Nave
The chapel was silent save for the echo of her heels against the marble. Sister Cielita walked the length of the pews, checking the kneelers, adjusting hymnals.
She hadn’t heard him enter, but she felt him – an almost physical presence – before his voice rang softly through the dimly-lit shadows.
“The house of God is most honest when it is empty, sister.” Callahan entered the nave, walking slowly toward her. “Can you hear them, sister? Can you hear the lingering refrains of every prayer ever whispered here? You can just make them out if you stand still and open your heart.”
She turned, startled, though her face betrayed more intrigue than alarm.
“You have a poet’s tongue, Father. Most men of the cloth speak only of budgets and baptisms.”
Father Callahan stepped closer, his voice resonant in the nave’s hollow. “Faith without mystery is bureaucracy, Prioress. And bureaucracy… never saves souls.”
He stopped near the altar, watching her. For a moment, she seemed caught-up, studying him in the dim backlighting of the chapel.
Cielita replied softly. “You sound as though you believe this parish was chosen for something greater.”
Father Callahan stood with quiet conviction.
“I do. And so were you, Sister.” He finally answered.
The words landed heavily. She looked away, as if to shake off the weight of them, though a faint flush touched her cheeks.
Night Six: The Refectory Dinner
The other sisters had gone to their quarters. Only two places were set at the long wooden table: a modest meal, bread and stew, a bottle of wine open between them.
Cielita poured for him first, then herself. She was more relaxed here, the starch of formality softened into something warmer.
“I can’t understand why, Father, but it seems you’ve unsettled some of the staff. For some reason they find you… intimidating.”
Father Callahan chuckled low, lifting his glass. “If we have learned anything from the Old Testament… It is that fear is kin to reverence. In time, it becomes respect. And respect becomes loyalty.”
She tilted her head, studying him as she sipped.
“And what of affection, Father? Can that grow from fear as well?”
He met her gaze over the rim of his chalice. His smile was slow, deliberate, designed to hold her there.
“Affection, sister, is the rarest of gifts. One cannot demand affection. One has to earn it. Night by night. Through constancy. Through suffering and sacrifice, as our Lord demonstrated in the gospels.”
Her fingers lingered around the stem of her glass. The candlelight painted her face in amber and shadow, and she seemed, for once, unsure of her footing. It was a harsh truth he had drawn from the scripture. Still she admired him for it.
Night Eight: The Garden Cloister
The small cloister garden was quiet, despite the noises produced by the ‘city that never sleeps’. The roses were closed against the night. She walked there with him after a parish meeting, her hands clasped behind her back, her steps slowing as if reluctant to part ways.
“You know, Father… I’ve devoted my life to the Lord. To the church. For thirty years.”
Turning toward him, to catch his gaze, “Before coming here, to New York City, I spent over twenty years working in parishes… basilicas… and even for the Archdiocese in my native Peru. I came to Los Estados Unidos… to my new home, here… in New York, over ten years ago now. I tell you this because administrators, priests, bishops… I have seen them come-and-go. Then you come along and you speak of permanence. But, I wonder to myself, how long do you truly intend to stay?”
Father Callahan stopped under the iron cross at the garden’s center. He turned toward her, his voice lowering into something intimate, magnetic.
“Until the work is done, Sister. Until Sacred Hearts becomes the jewel of this city. Until you no longer doubt me or require me.”
The last words hung in the air. She inhaled slowly, her composure faltering for just a moment as if she’d forgotten how close he stood. Her lips parted… an almost-question, an almost-confession – before she caught herself, retreating a half step.
“Then I pray you keep your word, Father.”, she all-but stammered quickly.
He did not move toward her, though he could have. Instead, he let the tension coil between them, a leash of his own making.
Night Ten: The Confessional
The chapel was hushed, and the chandelier lights were turned low. Cielita had lingered late again, going over volunteer rosters. She preferred the night time peace-and-quiet to do some of her more intellectual work. Callahan found her near the confessional, closing the booth door after checking the hinges.
Father Callahan’s words resonated low, amused. “It has been some years since I’ve seen anyone test the doors of the confessional, let alone a Prioress.”
Sister Cielita was half-smiling. “I believe in the tools of our work, Father. If the seal of confession is to protect souls, the doors must first close.”
She didn’t move away. They stood there, between the booths. Callahan tilted his head.
“And when was your last confession, Sister?”
Cielita answered, her tone steady, but softer. “Long enough that the question feels like an invitation.”
Father Callahan’s voice was velvet-dark. “Perhaps it is.”
Her breath caught. The faintest shift, but she didn’t step back. Instead, she gave him a level, appraising look, and murmured: “Would you absolve me, Father, if I admitted to doubt?”
Father Callahan answered without hesitation. His gaze – unbroken. “I would absolve you of everything but your disbelief in me, Sister Cielita.”
The silence-after carried weight. She turned away, breaking it herself.
Night Twelve: The Records Vault
In the basement, she showed him the locked vault. Metal shelves stacked with boxes of chapel records, baptism and marriage books that smelled of dust and old ink.
She handed him a set of keys.
“If you mean to run this place, you’ll need these. But guard them. The vault is our memory. Lose it, and we lose everything.”
He accepted the keys slowly, fingers brushing hers. Longer than needed.
“Memories… are fragile. Indeed… too fragile to be trusted to just paper alone. Sometimes… sometimes memories must be written in the heart.” He espoused, touching his heart with his hand, gently.
Her expression softened – unexpectedly touched.
“Father… you speak as though hearts are more reliable than books.”
“No, Cielita. Hearts are simply more costly to betray.”
She was quiet at that, and when she turned to leave, her steps were slower. More thoughtful.
Night Fourteen: The Choir Loft
Cielita had gone up to check the hymnals. When she descended, she found him waiting at the bottom of the spiral stairs.
“Do you know, Sister… your absence is always felt? The chapel feels emptier when you’re not within it.”
It startled her more than she let on. She adjusted her shawl, trying for composure.
“That sounds dangerously close to flattery, Father.”
Father Callahan smiled faintly. “It was not flattery. Merely an observation. I have seen the weight you have carried here. Your work here is noted, as it should be even when it is offered in shadow.”
She hesitated – then descended the last steps. But she didn’t quite move past him. For a heartbeat, they stood close, her shoulder nearly brushing his cassock.
“Observation can still be dangerous.” She offered.
“That can be true, yes. But only if one fears hearing, or knowing, the truth.” He answered.
She stepped away then, but she didn’t meet his eyes as she left.
Topic starter
25/02/2026 8:27 pm
Nights 17-25
Night Seventeen: The Garden Cloister, Again
They walked the garden after a long parish meeting, both tired. The night was warm, the air heavy with roses.
Cielita began speaking with a rare candidness.
“I think the others expect me to keep you in line. To soften your edge. To ensure you don’t burn out like the rest.”
He looked at her quickly, before letting the silence stretch out longer than necessary.
Father Callahan asked very softly, “And is that what you intend, Sister? To keep me in line?”
Cielita met his gaze “I intend to see this parish live again. If that means tempering you, I’ll do it.” She answered with a calm confidence that he found subtly intoxicating.
He smiled, slow and predatory.
“I do so look forward to seeing you try.”
The words weren’t a threat—but they weren’t safe either. And she knew it.
Night Twenty: The Refectory, Late
She was there again, this time waiting with the bottle of wine already open. Her posture was still proper, her braid immaculate, but the invitation was clear.
When she poured his glass, her fingers brushed his hand without accident.
“We’ll have the installation dinner soon. You’ll be expected to speak.”
Callahan took the glass, He spoke with a low voice. “And will you sit beside me?”
Cielita answered, measured, but warmer than she meant to be. “If you want me there.”
Callahan leaned back in his chair, studying her like prey he could already taste. “That is exactly where I want you.”
Her breath hitched again. She drank quickly to cover it.
Night Twenty-Three: The Vestry After Hours
The church was dark save for the small pools of light left on in the vestry, the faint scent of incense still clinging to the air from the earlier mass. Father Callahan lingered, reviewing papers for the installation dinner, when he heard the soft click of heels.
Sister Cielita entered, still in her habit, shawl pulled close, hair braided into its usual precise bun. She was carrying a folder of staff notes, but when she saw him, she didn’t immediately speak.
Callahan called out to her without looking up, his voice smooth. “Sister. You should be asleep.”
Cielita set the folder down carefully on the table, voice quieter than usual. “I couldn’t. My thoughts were restless. So I came here.”
Lowering his papers to the desk, he lifted his eyes to her, studying her, in silence, for a long moment. She felt it, and for once, didn’t break away.
“And what is it that keeps you from peace, child?”
Cielita answered with measured honesty. “You. This project. This parish. All of it… tied to you now.”
The words slipped out, and her lips pressed together after, as if she regretted the admission.
Callahan slowly, and deliberately, rose from his chair. Stepping around the desk, his cassock almost whispered against the stone floor, his shadow stretching across her where she stood.
Callahan spoke softly, but with gravity. “Be careful, Sister. You do know that some truths, once they are spoken, cannot be recalled.”
Cielita, her chin lifted, defiant in her vulnerability, responded “And would you rather I lie, Father? Pretend I don’t notice that I… I rely on your presence?”
The silence that followed was thick, and electric. She had crossed the line! Not a flirtation – disguised as banter. Not a professional concession… but, rather, an admission of dependency.
Callahan’s smile was small, dangerous.
“Rely… or need?”
Her breath caught. Her fingers laced behind her back – her old gesture of control – but her voice betrayed the tremor.
“Perhaps both.”
He stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head slightly upward to keep his gaze.
Callahan spoke a velvet whisper, half-sermon, half-promise. “Then let me take that burden. Let me be your bedrock, your certainty. But once you grant me that place, Sister… there is no turning back.”
She swallowed hard, but didn’t move away.
Cielita replied quietly, almost pleadingly. “Then don’t let me fall.”
Night Twenty-Five: The Vestry, Late
Cielita arrived to the Vestry, as requested by Father Callahan; the door closing softly behind her. The Vestry was still. It was just the two of them. The only light was a soft, dancing, glow provided by the silent candle flames placed strategically throughout the room. Their shadows played across the heavily adorned wooden table, and spartan chairs, stretching long fingers toward the vestry closets, as if they, themselves, had leaned forward to listen. On the vestry table were two ornate wine glasses, and a decanter, all of which were filled, half full, with a dark-red liquid. Father Callahan motioned for her to stand near him.
He stood before the Prioress, his form partly hidden by the dim light. His voice soft, yet carrying the weight of authority that years in the pulpit had trained into him. His words were not like someone who has confessing, and neither as someone who was commanding, but – rather with the dangerous gentleness of… temptation.
“Cielita.” He started, “You have given yourself fully to God, and to the discipline of His house,” his words unfurling like incense on a breeze. “And in you, I see a devotion so rare, that it burns even me, one who walks in the shadows of eternity. You’ve seen it too, haven’t you? Those occasional faint cracks in the world. Catching glimpses of extraordinary things. You can feel it when you look at me for too long, can’t you. Knowing that I am not only a man of cloth, but of something deeper, something more powerful. Something hidden from mortal eyes.”
She nodded, almost as if she was seemingly mesmerized by the scene unfolding before her.
He moved a step closer, his gaze intent – but never harsh, letting the intimacy of the small space build between them. “You sense the veil, Sister. And I can lift that veil for you. No. Not with sermons. Not with just scripture alone… but with my very blood. A covenant beyond our vows of poverty and chastity. Something binding, something eternal. I confess to you now, Sister, that if you take what I offer, you will see wonders that even the saints could scarcely dream of. Strength beyond the flesh. You know this to be true, don’t you? Clarity that exists far beyond faith. The secret face of creation that can be revealed to you.”
His hand lingered near hers, not quite touching, as if allowing her the choice to close the space. “Now, I will not force you. Nor will I command you, as your superior. You, and you alone, must choose. You must make the decision on your own. But I tell you now, should you accept – you will belong not only to God, but to me. You will drink of me. And, by doing so, you will know me, truly. Know me wholly. As no one else ever will. Will the path that lies before you be dangerous? Yes. Yes, it will. But the path will also be honest. It will be raw. And it will be beyond the limitations of any mere mortal vows. You wish to capture what I have. What I offer. And the time for you to choose is now.”
His shadow seemed to stretch across her habit as he whispered, “Say the word, and you will walk beside me into eternity’s night. Refuse, and I will remain your priest, and nothing more. But know this… that in all your prayers, you will remember that I offered you a key to answer those mysteries. And you will know that you once stood with your hand on the lock, poised to open it, and didn’t grasp the opportunity when you had it in-hand.”
The Prioress’s breath caught, a tremor of both fear and anticipation running through her. Her eyes met his, and in that instant, the quiet tension of the vestry shifted into something sacred and irrevocable. She nodded, a silent surrender that carried with it trust. It carried curiosity. And most of all it carried the weight of her own desire. She moved toward him. She felt his presence and wanted… no… needed, to be closer.
The priest’s lips pressed into a shadowed smile of approval and quiet triumph. From the table, he lifted one of the crystal wine glasses, its surface catching a reflection of the candlelight like a pool of liquid fire. Within it, the wine glimmered. Deeper than any ordinary vintage. A subtle crimson that almost seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. “Then step across the veil with me,” he murmured, voice reverent, yet edged with power. “Drink with me, and let what I offer flow through you. You will see, feel, and know the world… the night… as it truly is. Take this willingly, and you are mine… wholly, and utterly.”
He extended the goblet, letting it hover between them, the air itself seeming to hum with expectation. Her hand rose, trembling slightly, brushing against his as she took it. The moment their fingers met, a spark of something ancient, dark, and alive ran through her. Raising the goblet to her lips, she drank, the vitae mingling with the wine, igniting warmth and clarity in her chest, and binding her in a covenant she had chosen with an almost irrational fear, as well as unwavering desire.
