Dark Yule ...Finale

A man vows, and yet will not cast away the means of breaking his vow. Is it that he distinctly means to break it? Not at all; but the desires which tend to break it are at work in him dimly, and make their way into his imagination, and relax his muscles in the very moments when he is telling himself over again the reasons for his vow.”
― George Eliot

Victoria Woods

It turns out the ghost haunting my belfry is a suffering spirit seeking refuge in the church to avoid the torments of Purgatory.

Why he chose the Christmas season to oppress my parishioners is beyond me—he needs to bear the responsibility of atoning for past sins.

But I also sympathize with him—I’m conflicted myself, flirting with temptation in the person of Victoria Woods and tempted to break my vow of celibacy.

We’re both sinners it seems and I’m wondering how our dark souls can possibly conspire to produce one good deed.

“What do you want with me?” I demand, choosing to take the direct approach.

“I want you to confess and absolve me. Do that, and I’ll be gone.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re dead. The scripture says it’s appointed unto man to die once, and then the judgment.”

The spirit eyes me suspiciously. “Really?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Well then, how do you explain the fact I’m still here?”

“I have no explanation for that,” I moan.

“Exactly! So, go ahead and confess me and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“I told you, I can’t.”

He senses my frustration and tries to leverage it to his advantage.

“Yes, but you also told me you have no explanation for why I’m still here. Obviously, God has allowed me to persist on this plane, so I have unfinished business.”

“And what business is that?”

“I amassed a sizeable fortune but died before I could bequeath it to charity. I had no living relatives and meant to do something good with my wealth.”

“So now, why don’t you just walk into a bank and sign it all over to charity? You have no problem making your will known to me.”

I figure I scored a good point, but I’m obviously out beyond my depth, venturing into murky nether regions of demonology.

“Ah, but that’s the problem, Father. I didn’t trust banks—not since they failed during The Great Depression. I hid my money in caches all over town and have been using an angel to deliver gifts and cash donations for me.”

“An angel?”

“Yes, a messenger. Well actually, Angelo—your custodian. I appeared to him and made him an offer he couldn’t resist. I’m afraid I scared him half to death though. Hence, my need to confess my sin.”

I try to wrap my mind around this latest disclosure.

“So, you think giving your money away will atone for your sins?”

“No—not at all. I just want to do something useful with it—but now, I’ve committed a sin by blackmailing poor Angelo into helping me.”

I try another tack. “Why don’t you just donate your money to the church—save St. Angelus from being torn down, or worse—turned into a restaurant?”

“A restaurant? That would be a horrid outcome. Yes, of course, I will help the church—but if I do, will you help me?”

I weigh the cost of giving a dead man absolution, but in the end, decide to do so as a charity to the living—and no, I’m still not sure of the theology.

I used to think I was a man of principles—now I think I’m just a man.

It’s funny how life changes you—circumstances bend you, or maybe you realize all the time it was you who was bending trying to fit a template that wouldn’t bend for you.

The vows you swear at twenty, don’t serve you well at thirty, and in the end you grudgingly conclude, you shouldn’t swear vows at all.

I don’t know where this leaves me—maybe bewildered, definitely enchanted, and perhaps a little in awe.

As for the details of what transpired, I suppose looking back it wasn’t really unexpected at all. In a way it was Fate, or God’s sovereign design—at the very least, His permissive will.

Oliver Morton went to his deserved rest a happy man. St. Angelus was saved from the wrecking ball or worse, being at the mercy of Barbarians.

I resigned as pastor, although Bishop Wierton considered my departure a temporary retirement.

As we stood in the rectory office he shook my hand and reminded me. “You’re a priest forever, Tom, according to Hebrews 7.”

He also offered to marry me to Victoria Woods.

“I see it more as an annunciation, than a renunciation,” he told me, and I ruefully smiled and agreed.

And that Christmas was the whitest, brightest feast the town had ever known, and it was all because of a repentant ghost and two lost souls finding love.

© 2019, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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