Madison Esshaki

I kneel shakily before the large crucifix in the center of the dark cathedral, and let out a long, quivering sigh. My limbs ache mercilessly and a cough quakes my body. I dwell in the echo and offer up the pain.

It is my third year taking refuge in the abandoned church of Corpus Christi— an old cathedral on the outskirts of a small, seaside town. A seaside town where there is hardly ever any sun, and hardly anyone happy enough to smile.

I am alone, as always, in the confines of the grand, eerie basilica.

A solitary parishioner.

No one ever comes to visit. Everyone avoids the church for fear it is haunted. Haunted by the saints, by the souls of people buried in the graveyard out back, by the Devil himself. People are afraid of what they might encounter here. Perhaps now they’re afraid of the girl who lives inside, with a never-ending cough and dark, dark, eyebags. A living, pained ghost.

I begin praying my fourth rosary of the day, knelt before the altar, as bells in the distance mark the eighth hour of the night. It’s therapeutic to me, running my fingers along each rosary bead as I pray. Pray for the neverending pain to dull. For the sun to rise in the morning. For a friend to somehow find me. My eyes remain on the crucifix; on Jesus’ bleeding, crimson wounds.

Did God understand my pain in that moment on the cross?

I’ve known since I was a little girl that I am not like most people. Most people don’t have a constant, piercing ache in their bones that leaves them brittle, even in youth. Most people don’t have coughs that linger for years. And most people, as I harshly learned when I first moved to this town, are not welcoming of  “different” folk.

It was impossible for me to make friends when I first arrived here on my own, hoping for a new life. Some people were afraid my symptoms were contagious. Some said my weakness would be a burden, and that I’d never make a living and shouldn’t even try. Some even called me unclean, or possessed. I was avoided like I had the plague. No one stopped to think that, perhaps, my sickness would worsen with the loneliness in my soul.

So I was forced to retreat to the sanctuary of this abandoned church, tucked into the dark woods just northeast of the seabank. It’s become my home, as only God Himself is willing to shelter me. I feed on stale bread reserves and crops from the garden outside. I sleep on the hard, wooden pews. I live here like a sad, unintentional hermit, praying night and day and wishing for the company of another human who would understand me.

As rain begins to beat upon the stained glass windows, I make the sign of the cross and stand from the kneeler.  A chilling draft runs through the church, bringing my attention to the last wavering votive candle in the corner of my eye.

Limping slowly, I feel my way towards the candlestand in the shadowed corner and light a match, reigniting the dozens of small flames that surround a statue of Our Lady. I then pace up and down the aisles of the church as I do every night, lighting every candle that lines the walls.

Icons of martyrs become illuminated. Faces of past Christians become bathed in dim, gold light, and they glance at me with their piercing eyes. Some may call it haunting, but to me, it is familiar. The saints are my only friends. The Virgin Mary, my mother. I have no family other than God’s own. 

By the time I am finished, my legs are threatening to give out. The rain beats harder against the roof as I extinguish the last match, and the air inside Corpus Christi grows colder. I hear the whistling of the wind outside and the lapsing of angry waves in the distance.

Pain eats away at my body until even my fingertips throb. I collapse onto a nearby pew and take a deep, shaky breath. As I always do to distract my mind from the agony, I skim the cathedral for remnants of color.

Colors have always managed to bring me comfort. Bright, vibrant hues of every shade remind me of the world beyond these cathedral walls. They remind me of better times; of my life before the pain became unbearable, when perhaps I would smile occasionally.

I glance around now, though, and like I’ve noticed in days past, there isn’t much color left.

Dark wood floors, nearly black in the shadows. Decaying flowers in vases beneath statues; buds I used to replenish on occasion with wildflowers from the woods. It hurts me too much to venture now, so they’ve withered into dry, brown bulbs. Paint on the icons and statues continues to chip and fade with each passing day, and even the stained glass windows appear lifeless when there is no sun to shine through them.

As I deteriorate more each day, the colors of the church do, as well. Even in the candlelight, the cathedral is colorless. It becomes more so every night. The tabernacle is empty. The place has lost its soul.

Thunder roars outside, and I shut my eyes.

As I fade to sleep, I pray that the sun will rise tomorrow.

– 

I awake in freezing darkness to the sound of the front door handle turning. All the candles have been extinguished.

With a gasp, I throw myself off the pew and crawl into the shadowed corner.

No one ever visits.

I glance towards the cathedral door. My hands tremble as it creaks open.

In the lightless nave, I see only the silhouette of the person walking through. By his build, I conclude it’s a man. A young and strong one.

He doesn’t seem to notice me at all. I watch as he glances around the cathedral for a long moment before finally making his way to the candle-surrounded statue of Mother Mary. Thankfully, I am in the opposite corner. The floor creaks as he walks, and when he finds my box of matches, he lights a few of the votives.

The gold light illuminates his features. I can see the colors even from here; his hair is a dusty sort of brown, his eyes a sky blue, and his cheeks a flushed red.

I envy the color in his face and the strength in his step.

The man makes his way to the kneeler beneath the grand crucifix, where I spend most of my waking hours, and immediately sinks into prayer. For several minutes he remains near motionless, with a bowed head, intertwined hands, and no idea of the ghostly girl watching him from the shadows.

Abruptly, I feel the urgent itch of a brutal cough in my lungs, and before I can stifle it, it is echoing throughout the almost empty church.

I flinch and sink deeper into the shadows, watching the boy from behind a pillar. He immediately jumps up, eyes widened.

“Hello?” he calls, his voice surprisingly steady for one who probably thinks he’s just encountered a spirit.

I don’t dare answer, and instead, watch intently as he rushedly makes the sign of the cross and hurries towards the cathedral doors. I stand up, leaning against the pillar for support, and observe. 

 Just before the man exits, he stops in his tracks and turns again towards the altar.

Towards me.

Perhaps I am seeing things in the dimness, or perhaps my soul is so desperate for human connection that it is imagining it. But I swear the boy meets my eye. 

In an instant, though, he is gone. 

The door slams. A cold wind rushes in from outside.

I am alone again in Corpus Christi church.

As I crumble back onto the pew, I let out a pained breath and wallow in the deafening silence.

Was the man real, or a ghost?

Have I been dreaming? Is my illness leading me to insanity, my loneliness to delirium?

The endless questions, and the lurking image of the boy’s silhouette, eventually lull my mind to sleep.

—

I kneel before the altar, reciting the Apostles’ Creed as I begin my morning rosary.

The rain outside has stopped, and I hear in the distance a bell chime six times. It is dawn, yet the stained glass remains colorless while the sun remains behind the clouds.

I repeat my prayers as I do every day. I hobble through the aisles of the church, lighting my candles and speaking to myself… or to any saints who may be listening. I fervently search the church for any remnants of color.

By midday, I am hurting immensely. I sit down in a pew, close my eyes, and let my mind wander.

Nothing is out of the ordinary… until a knock on the door startles me to my feet.

I shakily inch my way down the aisle to the cathedral entrance. Another knock echoes through the nave, and I swallow hard.

“Happy Easter!” a low voice calls from the other side of the door.

I hadn’t even realized it was Holy Week— seclusion has a way of messing with your perception of time— but the coming of the holiday isn’t what shocks me. What shocks me is the familiarity of the voice.

The boy from last night.

“He is risen,” I call back, cautious. Testing if he will respond.

“He is risen indeed!”

His answer is my sanction. I grab onto the handle, bracing myself as I pull open the door.

I nearly fall back at the sight of another human, so close to me. He is smiling, the blue in his eyes brilliant and kind.

He is very much real. 

“Hello,” the young man says. “I mean no harm. I came here to pray last night and… I couldn’t help but notice the flowers around the statues were dying. I thought, perhaps, the church could use some color, since Easter is a time of rebirth.”
I swallow hard, as he reaches into a large satchel across his chest and pulls out a glorious bouquet of roses. My breath catches in my throat. I look at him, and then at the brilliance in his hands. I haven’t seen such beauty in years. Magnificent roses of every warm shade existent; vibrant pink, crimson red, fiery orange.

 He picks a pink one out of the bunch and hands it to me. “Perhaps you could use some color, too.”

My hands shake as I take it from him. I breathe in its sweet aroma, letting it make its way into my veins. For the first time in three years, despite the ache in my limbs, I smile.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

The boy smiles back, dimples forming on his pink cheeks. “My pleasure. May I come in and help you arrange these?”

I can’t seem to wipe away my grin as I nod. Has God answered my prayer for a friend?

As the boy and I make our way through Corpus Christi and to the statue of Our Lady, I witness, I believe, an Easter miracle.

The sun comes out from behind the clouds. I first notice a small crack of light in the upper corner of the stained glass, and I nearly gasp with joy.

Please, God.

Within moments, sunlight penetrates through every stained glass window on the right side of the church, and colors paint my vision.

Brilliant blues, wonderful yellows, hopeful greens. I limp through the nave, feeling as if I’m walking through a kaleidoscope.

I let out a single, relieved laugh.

The young man finishes placing the new roses in the vases, removing the dead ones, and refilling the water. I make my way towards him, placing my one rose in with the rest.

He smiles at me, and shakes my hand.

 Joy— a feeling I haven’t felt in forever— surges through my veins. It is electric.

The pain still throbs in my bones, but now, it isn’t so crippling.

God has sent me colors, and a friendly face. He has revealed the sun.

He has answered me.

—

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”
-Les Miserables