Where Angels Tread (8300 words)
The silence was altogether unnerving, a quiet so complete it was a roar in the killer’s ears. Just a few more hours, just a few eternal hours and it would be over. Well, not over, the killer thought. “A new beginning,” he said, a small grin stealing over his face.
Lying on his bunk in the New York State Penitentiary, listening to the silence, he was acutely aware of his situation. In just a few more hours he would be dead; death by lethal injection. But he wasn’t worried, wasn’t even scared in fact. He had, in fact, requested it. He wanted to get it over with quickly. He had better places to be than trapped in this life, in this body. God was waiting for him, and was no doubt as anxious as the killer was for the face-to-face meeting. The mere thought of facing God sent thrills racing throughout his body, and he involuntarily began to rub his index finger and thumb together, as he always did when he was deep in thought.
“Just imagine.” he told the only other occupant of his prison cell, which happened to be a fly buzzing around the dim light hanging from a frayed electrical cord, “God chose to reveal Himself to me. And in such a strange way.”
The killer stopped talking to the fly as his thoughts drifted into the past, a past that had landed him in this prison cell, only a few hours from death. No one had understood why he had killed all those people, not even his mother. And how could he explain it to them? They wouldn’t ever understand, none of them would. He wanted so much to make them see that it wasn’t murder, not really, because he had done it for God, to understand death, because he had no choice. And besides, what were a few lives in the big scheme of things, anyway?
Suddenly the silence wasn’t so complete, so total. He sat up on his bunk as he heard the faint echoes of footsteps coming down the long corridor – coming to his cell, because it was the only thing down here, the one where you ate your last meal.
As the footsteps became louder and closer, he could make out two distinct footfalls: the first was a heavy, stomping sound, which surely meant it was a prison guard. Over the past few weeks he had become intimately familiar with the stomp-stomp trod of the guards.
And the second person? He could think of no one who would come to see him at this late hour of his life. Even his mother had refused to visit him in prison, had even stopped calling him. She never understood him, anyway.
So who was this second person then? He had no idea, but if it was another reporter he would make sure they got one more quote from him, one that he was sure wouldn’t be printed in the morning papers. He had refused to answer any questions at all, save one: Yes, he had told the judge, he did kill those seventeen people, and he had enjoyed most of it immensly.
Surely they would grant him his last wish, which was that no reporters be allowed near him until he was securely strapped to the goumey, on his way to death, on his way to God. He would not, absolutely would not talk to a reporter this late in the game. The nerve of those people! He could hardly believe that he had once worked so closely with them. But oh, he would give them one last quote all right, oh yes he would, and he would do it right now, just as the insensitive jerks walked up to his cell. He opened his mouth, and –
– and almost choked on his tongue. “A priest?” He could hardly believe his eyes, and so he said it again. “A priest?” This was just too much. He had to choke back the laughter that swelled within him. Well, he thought, it had all started with a priest; it’s only fair that it end with one too.
The hate was totally clear in the eyes of the barrel-chested guard, and when he spoke, if there was any doubt still lingering around anywhere, it was swiftly removed. “Yeah, Rhodes, a priest. Don’t know why, though. Even the religious folks wanna see the poison goin’ int’ yer veins. Whole city’s outside right now, pushing the gates down tryin’ t’git in to see you die. No protestin’ this time. Ever’body wants t’ see ya dead, even yer momma. You sick ba-” The guard suddenly remembered the silent priest standing beside him, and he turned his attention to him with slightly reddened cheeks. A worried look came over the guard’s face, and he lowered his voice until it was barely above a whisper. “Father Branham, are y’sure y’want to go in there? I mean, we all know what he did to those other priests, an’ those babies, an’, well, all of it.” Turning back to the prisoner, the hate showing even brighter now, he spat the words “Even God don’t got no use for this’un, Father.”
The old priest just smiled, shook his head and said yes, he really wanted to go into the cell with the killer, David Rhodes. It was, after all, his duty to give all people in this prison a chance to confess their sins, and accept the mercy of the Lord God. “Judge not, that ye be not judged, Officer Gordon. The Lord is merciful to all who call on His name.”
His shoulders sagging noticeably, the guard unlocked the cell door, watched the priest amble inside without hesitation, and locked it behind him.
“Father, just give us a yell if y’need us. I know y’ like t’ spend time alone with these heathens, so we’ll be just down the hall there, waitin’ on y’ t’ finish.” The guard’s eyes shifted to the killer, and he spat on the dirty cement floor. “Shouldn’t take too long, even God knows this’un ain’t worth y’wastin’ y’time on.” He turned, and his hard, echoing steps retreated down the corridor.
“Father,” the killer said, almost whispering. “Father, I appreciate you coming here, but as the guard so politely said, you are wasting your time.”
“My son, you have confessed to the brutal murdering of seventeen innocent people, and you are going to die in just two hours. All you have to do is confess your sins to God, and He will forgive you of them all. Just call out for the mercy of God.” It was almost a ritual, this saying. The priest had said it so many times to so many prisoners, countless of them in this same room. Some would burst into tears, some would beg forgiveness, and some would curse him for a fool. He thought he had heard it all, and wasn’t at all prepared for the answer he got from the prisoner facing him now.
“Father, I am chosen of God, special. If I were to kill you, God wouldn’t even hold that against me. You see, Father, I know about Hecclei Erondomini.”
At the sound of these words being spoken, the old priest knew that it was hopeless, nothing he could say would do any good, and once again he wondered why, why of all the ways he could serve his God had he chosen prison ministry? Hecclei Erondomini – a phrase not ever meant to be spoken, not even known, outside of the Clergy, and then only to a very select few. How, how could this prisoner have found out about Hecclei Erondomini?
“My son, you don’t understand,” said the tired, weak priest, knowing it would do no good, but trying any way. “There is no power in those words, no saving grace. Its just an illusion, a-“
“No, Father, not an illusion. I have seen it, Father, I have seen it thirteen times, and tonight I will see it again.”
The killer’s expression turned into one of complete rapture, and when he spoke again it was so low the worn out priest could barely make out the words. “I will tell you, Father,” the killer said. “I will tell you what I have refused to tell anyone else. I will tell you the whole story, the reason I killed all those people, and then you’ll understand. You will see, Father, that I am special, chosen. Tonight, Father, His angel will come and take me to Him, just as I have seem him take my so-called ‘victims’ to Him.”
Tired, his joints aching from arthritis, and completely uninterested, the old priest sat on the edge of the bed, and listened to the story of the killer.
The first death was an accident, as you already know. It was a cool October night, not a cloud in the sky. I had been skydiving earlier that day, and was now just wandering around the city, looking in this window, then at that one, nothing really to do, nowhere that I needed to be.
When I first heard the gunshots, I thought about just running – after all, Father, I have lived here my whole life, and getting involved is something that most of us don’t do very well, eh? Anyway, I had started to just turn the other way and just high-tail it out of there when I turned and tripped over something – most likely my own shoe laces. By the time I got back to my feet, the two men who had robbed the little convenience market there on Seventh Street were almost on top of me, so I just fell back down, trying to avoid them, hoping to God they would just keep running, and ignore me too.
The first one did just that, but the second one was crazy, a total goner, Father. I saw it in his eyes. There was no soul there, nothing but emptiness and hatred. Still gives me the chills thinking about those eyes. Anyway, he stops right above me, looks down at me like I was a dog that just needed a good beating, and then he kicked me. Hard. Right to the side of my head, over and over again. He must have kicked me seven or eight times, maybe more, his partner screaming the whole time to “Come on, you idiot, come on!” He just stood there, kicking me, laughing like someone had told him the funniest joke of his life.
Just when I thought I was surely going to pass out, I see this black thing, this huge black figure smash into the laughing, kicking demon, and he went sprawling down beside me on the pavement.
I think it startled him as much as it did me, but he hesitate at all; he was up on his feet within half a second, and then he froze. The look that stole over his face just then was, well, it was surely the same hate-filled, surprised look that Lucifer had just before God tossed him from the golden city of Heaven. Once I was able to tear my eyes away from my attacker, I understood why. Standing above me and next to my tormentor was the biggest, darkest priest I have ever seen. He was dressed all in black, from the robe he was wearing to his shoes. It was hard to make out the features of his face; he was so dark. The bright red rosary around his neck was swaying back and forth, and his chest heaved massively as he drew in great gusts of air.
“Enough of this, Charles!” At any other time a voice such as this would have sent the devil himself running for cover. The priest was shaking with rage, but his voice carried far and wide, crystal clear and full of demanding power. “Enough!”
I was having a hard time staying alert by this time, but it seemed that my would-be savior the priest knew this criminal, this sadistic, hate-filled man that was beating me to death. At least, he knew his name. Charles. Charles the Great, Charles the Sinner?
Charles was quick, I’ll have to give him that much. His look of surprise was gone as quick as it appeared, and he drew back and smashed the big priest in the mouth with the side of his pistol.
Incredibly, the black-clad priest didn’t fall, and I am quite sure he never even flinched. My eyes were going in and out of focus, but I’d swear he never even flinched. Anyway, when the priest didn’t show any signs of moving out of the way, of howling with pain, of doing anything but staring hard at him, Charlie was infuriated that much more, and that’s when I clearly heard the hammer on the pistol click back. I wanted to close my eyes, oh God, I wanted to just close my eyes, but I couldn’t do it, they just wouldn’t close. Instead, I looked up just in time to see a blue flame spout from the end of the pistol, and the left side of the priest’s face vanishes into a red, smoking mess.
The priest’s dear friend Charles wasn’t finished yet though, because the next thing I knew I was looking right into eternity myself. I could see that Charlie’s grin was even bigger now, his eyes were far beyond crazy, and I knew, knew without a doubt that I was going to die after all. The hammer snapped back – there’s nothing more eerie than hearing a pistol being cocked while you’re staring down the barrel, I assure you – and then the strangest thing of all happened: Charlie puckered his lips like he was going to kiss the prom queen, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.
I swear it, Father, I saw the blue flame coming towards me, and I finally managed to close my eyes, thinking this is it, I’m dead, I’m dead. Except I didn’t feel any pain at all, nothing but a sudden massive weight on my legs. I kept my eyes shut for what seemed like forever, waiting to see what would happen to me now that I was dead. I wondered if I would see that bright light people sometimes talk about when they are dying. After a while, I realized that I could hear someone whispering something, and in the background the wail of distant sirens getting closer and closer. Finally, I opened my eyes, hoping with all the hope I could find in me that I wouldn’t see half my face lying somewhere to the side of me, like the priest’s was.
What I saw was even worse: the big priest was lying across my legs, face up – well, what was left of his face anyway – staring into the dark, starry sky, whispering something over and over. His hands were around his throat like he was trying to choke himself, except blood was gushing out from between his fingers, gushing like a dam had cracked wide open, a red dam somewhere in his neck. I looked down at myself, trying to find the place I had been shot, but I couldn’t find anything wrong with me other that I had a massive headache, and my legs were on fire and going numb at the same time.
It was suddenly clear to me, too clear, what had happened. The priest had jumped in front of the gun just as good ol’ Charlie fired. The bullet had struck him in the neck, and he fell across my legs. I looked around quickly, and almost blacked out from the pain that shot through my head. When the world stopped spinning, or had at least slowed down, and the dazzling light display had faded back into my eyes, I looked around more slowly, praying, hoping, and willing Charlie and his buddy to be gone, just be gone.
“Help me, oh God, oh sweet Jesus, help me, help him, god, somebody help us!” I was in a blind panic now that I realized Charlie-the-Pain-Bringer was finally gone. I tried to roll the bleeding, whispering priest off me, but he must have weighed at least three hundred pounds, and I am willing to bet not more than a few of them were fat. I didn’t have the strength to roll him off, and I couldn’t pull my legs out from under him either, so for the time I was stuck, screaming uncontrollably for someone, anyone to help me, just get this bleeding, dying thing off me.
And you know something, Father? No one did. People just made a wide circle around us, looking at us if we were the black plague in ajar, totally fascinating, but deadly to touch. How many of that crowd, I wonder, was part of the priest’s congregation? Either way, they didn’t bother to help either of us.
I could hear the sirens getting close now, really close, and finally I could see the red and blue lights flashing on the faces of the onlookers. I had mostly calmed down now, had at least stopped screaming, and when the sirens stopped screaming in my head, I felt the icy, steel grip of the dying priest around my wrist. He looked into me, Father, into me. I felt a chill run through me; no, that isn’t right. It was more like someone took a knife of ice and rammed it from the inside of my stomach all the way up to the top of my skull.
Those eyes, those eyes. Even Rebecca didn’t have that look when the Traveler came to take her with him. It was–
What’s that, Father? Oh, the Traveler. Well, he’s the angel that comes to take the souls of the dead to Heaven. He shows them the way. I don’t know the official term for him, but I just call him the Traveler.
Anyway, I was telling you about the eyes of the priest. It was rapture, pure and complete rapture I saw in his eyes, and he was looking just above my head. “Chosen one, the Love of Jehovah,” he whispered. And then, with awe, love, admiration, and well yeah, even a bit of surprise, he said what he had been whispering over and over: “Hecclei Erondomini!” He said this with such strength that I thought the wounds to his neck and face must not be as bad as it had seemed. “Hecclei Erondomini! Hecclei Erondomini!” He kept saying it over and over, each time with a little more strength, a little more power.
“It’s okay, Father, just lie still, the ambulance is here, you’re going to be okay, just be still, shh, just lie still now, they’re here,” I tried to comfort him. I made the mistake of twisting my head around too fast again, wanting to see where the ambulance was. It seemed like it had been hours since I’d heard the sirens shut off somewhere close behind me. Again, the blinding light and a pain so deep that my knees ached from it. I didn’t dare turn my head back around, just closed my eyes and waited for the torment to ease a little.
When the pain had started to subside, I opened my eyes and instantly forgot about all of it: all the pain, the ambulance, Charlie, the dying priest, everything. What I saw was –
– my God, how should I describe it? How can I? It was God Himself standing there, it had to be! Until now, I never really believed in God, but there he was, right there, standing right behind me! He was at least eight feet tall, with hair so white it was surely mistaken for a blinding light when you’re dying. Beautiful, my God, so beautiful, and glowing, Father, glowing! Never have I seen anything that could compare to that light, that beautiful glowing light, and all of a sudden I knew that I was dying, really dying, because here was God, just standing there beside me, big as life and twice as bright. I wanted to speak, to say something, anything, but I couldn’t. My mouth just forgot how to work, I guess. My mind was running on hyper drive though – my God oh Jesus its You its You You’re real oh my God my sweet gracious God You’re real! I tried again to make my mouth speak, but it wouldn’t, not a single word. What can I say to make you see what it was like, Father? I guess I can’t; not really, there is just no way to describe it. It was like being in the presence of, well, of God Himself.
Suddenly, the priest let go of my wrist, and I turned to see him fall down against the pavement, clearly dead, but – but – oh God, he was still sitting up, he was sitting up, but I had just seen him fall down dead, but, but he was reaching, oh God, he was reaching for the God-thing, the Traveler, but he was dead, he was lying there dead…
I saw two huge arms, white, beautiful, silken arms reach around me and oh, so gently take the priest by the hands and lift him to his feet. If I thought I had witnessed rapture and love on the face of the priest a few minutes or a few seconds earlier (time had no meaning now) then it was a lie; the look on his face, his alive face, was something that I could not then, nor cannot now, describe. It was beyond beautiful.
I saw the priest step out of his dead body, literally step out of it like it was a dirty pair of wet pants, and into the arms of the glowing, silken being. I witnessed the simple, loving kiss that the Traveler so tenderly placed on the priest’s now-whole cheek, and quite clearly heard him say “Its over now, Brian. Welcome home.” I can’t say for sure what was better, the look of the Traveler, or his voice. It was like listening to flowers growing in a soft, gentle summer rain.
Awestruck, I watched as the priest and the glowing giant looked into the sky together, and began to quickly ascend. Just before the two of them were out of sight, someone shoved a needle into my arm, and the world went black.
The next thing I became aware of was a very bitter taste in my mouth, and a headache so painful it hurt to breathe. The world went gray, I heard a thousand unusually loud voices all around me, and finally, mercifully, there was just blackness again…
When I awoke some hours later, a jumble of policemen, doctors, nurses, and others I couldn’t identify surrounded me. The doctors were shouting at the nurses, who in turn shouted back at the doctors, while the policemen were shouting at anyone who would listen, and about everyone who wasn’t. When it became clear that I was conscious, all the attention was focused on me. Three or four policemen began asking me questions all at once, while a nurse tried to stick me with another needle. A doctor pressed his face close to mine, stared into my eyes, breathing mint-flavored breath into my face and mouth.
It was immediately clear to me that the priest who had died was someone of importance; otherwise all this fuss wouldn’t be happening over a simple robbery and murder. As it turns out, as you know, Father, the priest who died lying across my legs was the famous Father Brian Arnett. I should have recognized him, I suppose. God knows I have seen his picture in the papers enough, but considering the circumstances, well, I guess its safe to say I had other things on my mind just then, like trying not to get shot, or have my brains smashed out by some crazed lunatic wearing cowboy boots.
I can’t tell you anything that the policemen were asking me, and I have no memory of answering anything they asked, anyway; all I can remember is looking around the room, trying to find the Traveler, the Soultaker, for surely he was coming back for me. I wanted to die, would have willingly given my life right then, as I am about to have it taken from me, just to see that beautiful, purely lovely face coming to me, taking me away from all the pain and confusion, taking me with him, listening to him tell me that it was over, all over, welcome home.
I began to scream, oh how badly I wanted to see that face, to hear those words spoken to me! I couldn’t find him, my Savior, my beautiful silken angel, I couldn’t see him anywhere.
And then, far across the room, I caught a glimpse of him, standing in a corner near a big wooden door, his face darkened by shadows, but his whole head aglow with love, majesty, power! “My Savior!” I screamed for him as loud as I could, loud enough to bring a sudden hush over the whole mass confusion of the emergency room.
The doctors must have thought I was in severe pain or delusional, because I clearly remember yet another needle stabbing into my arm. At last the Traveler, the Soultaker, he started towards me, walking slowly, seeming to glide across the room, people parting for him, all eyes turning to see this magnificent being coming to me, coming to take me home, away from all the pain, all of the misery of this life. He was finally coming for me!
He was there, standing over me, his face still shadowed, but there, right there, bending over me, his face getting closer and closer to mine. Time was slowed down, surely an effect of the drugs being forced into me, but everything was moving very slowly.
I tried to reach up for him, but my arms wouldn’t move (I found out later that I had been strapped to the bed; the doctors said I was hysterical, screaming about traveling). I started to whimper, oh no, no, this can’t happen, I had to reach him, had to show him that I wanted to go, I was ready, please, oh Lord God, please let my arms work!
Finally his face was close to mine, and then I saw: it wasn’t the Traveler after all, even an angel. It was just a man, the doctor that had been working so hard to save my life.
He smiled at me, and placed both hands on my sore, bruised face. “Not your savior yet, my friend.” His voice sounded thick, syrupy. “But we’re trying, we’re trying, David. But you’ve got to help us, okay? You hang in there. You fight, David, you fight to live, okay? We need your help. You fight to live.” His voice was so soothing, so compassionate, but his eyes spoke the truth clearer than his voice did. Those eyes told me that I was going to die.
The doctor moved his head away from mine, and started back out of the room. He had been standing in front of a surgical lamp, which had made him seem to glow. But now the light was piercing my eyes, blinding me. I closed my eyes, sure that soon, very soon, my Savior the Traveler was coming to take me home. I smiled as I faded into the dark, dreamless sleep of a coma.
I awoke to the sound of rain beating against a window, in a dark and unfamiliar room. I could hear a steady beep-beep from somewhere behind me, and there was just enough light coming from under the door for me to realize I was in a hospital room.
I looked around slowly, searching for any memory of coming here, of what was wrong with me, anything. For a few minutes, I could remember nothing at all, and the pain pounding across my forehead and driving into my temples made thinking an almost unbearable process. Finally, I gave up, closed my eyes, and lay back on the pillow, searching for sleep and some relief from the pain in my head.
Just as I was drifting into an uneasy sleep, it hit me: I was alive, I was still here, and the Traveler hadn’t come for me!
My eyes flew open, my body jerked all over, and I raised straight up in the bed, my head spinning left, right, left again, trying to look everywhere at once, searching every corner, every dark niche for my Savior, my Soultaker. At some point I had started to scream, because the door to my room flew open, and two nurses and a doctor ran in and tried to force me to lay back down, just relax, calm down, everything was going to be okay, just relax.
“He didn’t come, he didn’t come for me,” I heard myself yelling into the face of a young, pretty nurse. “Oh God, no, no, he didn’t come and take me home!”
“No, no one has come to take you away, David, you’re okay, and we’re taking real good care of you.” Her voice was soothing, silken, and I found myself growing outwardly calmer, my voice getting quieter, my heartbeat slowing down.
I felt the hot sting of tears in my eyes, felt them slide down the sides of my head, into my ears. My heart was broken, crushed, and I thought I might die from the heartache alone. How could my Savior leave me here when he was so close, so very close that I could have went with him, if only he had allowed me to go?
The nurse kept talking to me in her smooth, practiced voice, reassuring me, calming me, while the other nurse and the doctor checked my pulse, temperature, listened to me breathe, and looked over all the medical equipment connected to me.
The doctor, a slim, black-haired man in his late forties or early fifties, leaned over me, and shined an amazingly bright light into my eyes, making the pain in my head soar to new levels of agony. After what seemed forever, the light was taken away, and the doctor mumbled a few incoherent words, patted my leg, then left with the second nurse. The other nurse continued to whisper calming words to me, sat down on the corner of the bed, and began to rub the hair out of my eyes, gently stroking my tender cheeks with the softest hands I have ever felt, wiping away my tears.
I remember squeezing her hand in mine, telling her again in my cracked and broken voice that he had left me, he didn’t take me with home, why, oh why did he leave me here. While I listened to the soft, patient voice of the nurse, my eyelids became too heavy to bear, and they finally slid closed on their own, and the world once again faded into blackness.
This time, however, it was the blackness of nightmares, nightmares where you wake up and realize you are in Hell.
It was an obsession from the moment that I woke up and realized that I was still alive. I knew long before the doctors did that I wasn’t going to die, and, though I have never feared death, for the first time in my life I actually longed for it.
I knew what I had seen, I knew it had been real, and I knew without a doubt that I would see it again, no matter what I had to do. The Traveler would be back again, and I would see him, I would see him again regardless of what I had to do.
After a few days of being restricted to my hospital bed, the doctors finally allowed me to get up and take short walks around the hospital corridors, almost always with the help of a nurse or an orderly. I didn’t talk much, and the friends that came to see me during my hospital stay said that I had changed, and my mother said that the face-to-face meeting with death had probably brought me closer to God. Ha! If she only knew how close to the truth she was. The reporters quickly moved on to the more interesting news, something new twist in the scandal about the President and a young intern, so I was finally getting some time to myself. Its amazing how many times you have to refuse to talk to the media before they finally understand that you aren’t going to say anything except “no comment” and “get out”. Even the orderlies were allowing me more and more time to myself.
I lay in my hospital room night and day wondering how I could see the Traveler again. It was surely a safe bet to say that he was some kind of spirit, something sent to escort the souls of the dead to the afterlife, since he literally took the soul right out of the dead body of the priest, right there in front of my eyes. So, all I needed was to find a dying body, and wait, I was in a hospital after all, so how hard could it be to find someone dying?
Early the next morning I got up, dressed in some sweatpants and a large sweatshirt, and went browsing around the intensive care ward. Sure enough, there were thirteen patients in there, and the duty nurse there told me that four of them were more likely to die as no, and very soon. Two of the four had been in a motorcycle accident, one was a cancer patient, and the other was an AIDS patient, slowly and painfully dying of a simple chest cold.
I dropped my head, rubbed my eyes. The duty nurse took it to mean that I was sorrowful for the persons dying in there, but in reality it was relief that was coursing through my aching head. Four! Four people were about to die right here! It was surely my lucky day!
I waited around for about an hour until the nurse was called to the emergency room, and I slipped into the door with the sick and the dying. Of the four of them, three of them had family members in the room, gathered solemnly around the beds of their dying loved ones, all talking in quiet, whispery voices. Once in a while I heard a sniffle, and every few minutes a new voice would burst into suppressed sobs.
I went to the last bed in the room, which happened to be the cancer patient. The old, bony, sunken body lying in the bed belonged to a man with a bald head, and more wrinkles than a raisin. A curtain was pulled around his bed, separating it from the other patients in the room, and with all the family members around the other beds, this old, smelly man was my only hope of seeing the Traveler today. I would wait there, wait until the old man died, I decided; it certainly wouldn’t be long now. His breathing was thing and shallow, and just when I thought he wouldn’t breathe again, he would. I must have sat there at least four hours, maybe five, waiting on him to die.
I watched as the nurses came in to check on the other patients, watched as they came and just peeked around the corner at the old man, and then they would leave again. I suppose they were just making sure he was still unconscious, out of pain. Not one visitor came to see the old man while I was there, and I almost felt sorry for him, alone, old, and dying. Almost.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I waited until the nurses had come and gone again, checked to make sure no one was coming toward this end of the room, and walked up to the old man’s bed as quietly as I could. I took one more look around, picked up one of the extra pillows lying on his bed, and put it firmly over his face. There was no electronic equipment connected to him, so I didn’t have to worry about alerting anyone with beeping equipment, thank God. Like I said, it must have been my lucky day.
After a few minutes, I removed the pillow, and sure enough he was dead. I looked around the room, expecting the Traveler to be there somewhere, coming to take this soul to Heave, Hell, or wherever it is that he takes them. I waited and waited, it seemed like hours, but the Traveler didn’t come. I checked o make sure the old man was really dead, and he was. I had killed him – well, kind of. He was going to die anyway, right, Father?
I left the room, angry and confused. I had just killed a man, and the Traveler didn’t show. Why? What had I done wrong? I must have missed something somewhere, something vital. Maybe the person has to be religious, I thought, before the Traveler comes to take their souls… Hmm, Father Brian Arnett had certainly been religious, so maybe that was it.
Next time, I thought, next time I’ll make sure the person is religious.
I was discharged from the hospital the next morning, and went home unable to sleep, eat, or do anything except wonder where I would find a religious person that was about to die. I couldn’t simply hang around the hospital and ask to be directed to dying Christians, could I? Where would I find a dying religious person?
The answer came to me about a week after I had been discharged from the hospital. I wouldn’t find one anywhere. I would have to make one. I know how that sounded, but it was the only way I could hope to see the Traveler again, and oh, Father, if you could see him just once, then you would know that it was worth the risk, and the lives of the people that had to die because of all this. If you could just see him, then you would understand. You wouldn’t be looking at me in such a pathetic, ghastly manner. He’s so… so beautiful, so majestic and perfect! I can hardly wait to see him again, and tonight, tonight, Father, I will. Finally, after waiting so long, he will finally come to take me home.
Anyway, you know most of the details about the killings, how I got the priest to come to let me in his home the next night, pleading with him that I needed to confess. He didn’t want to let me in, oh no, not at first. Even God’s servants are wary of strangers knocking on their doors after dark, I guess. But anyway, I killed him with a butcher’s knife, seven quick, deep jabs to the heart and lungs, and he fell to the floor, dying. It took him about a minute or two before he was dead, and I waited patiently, even held his hand until he was clearly dead. I knew, just knew that the Traveler would come to take this man of God away, to take him home. But no, again it was not to be. I waited a whole fifteen minutes after I was sure the priest was dead before I finally left, going out the back door, just as I had entered through it. I was careful not to take my gloves off the whole time, and had worn a long coat and a hat just to make sure that no one could later identify me in case I had been seen coming or going from the priest’s house. I left him lying in his living room, the rapidly cooling blood already congealing around him.
Twice more I killed holy people, a Methodist minister who had stayed late after a Wednesday night service to pray, and a nun, both of them the same night two days after I had killed the priest in his home. The police had no motive for any of the killings, and no suspects. I was thoroughly upset now, and was beginning to wonder if maybe I had imagined it all, the whole scene with the Traveler. I started to wonder if maybe I hadn’t made a mistake by killing the old man, the nun, and the two ministers. I hadn’t thought of it as murder, not once, but now I was beginning to wonder.
I was clearly missing a lot of work by now, and the other photographers were beginning to think something was wrong, something left over from my deathly ordeal with my old pal Charles. I finally called to tell them I wouldn’t be coming back to work, and that is when Rebecca came to see me.
Oh, she was as beautiful as ever, and again I wondered why I had broken off our engagement, and had then stopped seeing her altogether. At the time, I thought she would tie me down, bring my fast-paced life to a screeching halt. But there she was, so concerned, so much in love with me.
She came in, and I crumbled. I fell into her arms, and started to cry, telling her the whole story, everything, every tiny detail. She sat in stunned silence as I poured out my dark, painful secrets to her. Finally, I asked her what she thought, expecting her to say that I should go to the police.
Quite calmly, she said: “I need a drink. Something really, really strong.” I went into the kitchen, and began pouring her a shot of rum, the strongest thing I had. I glanced up, and that’s when I saw the pills. The doctors had prescribed some high-powered painkillers for me, and some muscle relaxers, and I knew that it would only take a few of them to do what I had to do. I hated to do it, in a way, but I had to see the Traveler again.
I put enough of the pills in her drink to make sure she wouldn’t feel any pain as I strangled her, but not so much that she would notice. It hurt me to do it, but I knew that I must. I had to try just one more time, just to be sure.
I took her the drink, and watched as she drank it straight down, then, impossibly, she asked for another one. I fixed her another drink, and put about the same amount of pills in it as I had the last one. This was great! That many muscle relaxers was bound to kill her, which meant that I wouldn’t have to. It would look like she had overdosed on my pills! She had been treated for depression in the past, and, as far as I knew, she was still under doctor’s care for it. This was too perfect!
Again, she drank the polluted rum straight down, and a few minutes later she was lying on the small sofa bed, her face expressionless and serene. She started mumbling something over and over, and I couldn’t understand what she was saying. I leaned down closer to her, and heard her mumbling those strange words that the priest, Father Brian Arnett had said as he was lying across my legs, dying.
“Hecclei Erondomini, Hecclei Erondomini,” she said, over and over. I had told her my whole story, repeating these words just as I remembered them, and now she was saying them too. Whether she was saying them to draw the Traveler or because she was slipping into unconsciousness I didn’t know, and didn’t care; I just wanted to make her death as painless as possible. I started to stroke her hands in mine, whispering to her that it would all be over soon, not at all sure is she could even hear me now. It was only a few minutes later that I looked around, and saw the Traveler coming straight at us.
He was there, right there, he was there in my living room, right there! Rebecca started saying those strange words louder now, and clearer. The drugs seemed to be wearing off, or so I thought. But still, the Traveler was there, and sure enough, he bent right over the limp, sweat soaked body of Rebecca, and pulled her soul right out of it. The lifeless corpse seemed to settle deeper into the mattress, but she stood right there, right in front of me beside the Traveler.
“Welcome home, Rebecca. Welcome home.” That voice, my God, that perfectly beautiful voice! Again, I watched as he ever so gently placed a kiss on the side of Rebecca’s face, and then they both looked up, and went straight through the ceiling.
Right then, I knew the key. Those words, those old, long-forgotten Latin words had to be spoken before the Traveler was visible, and I had to be in physical contact with the person as they died.
Of course, you know the rest of it, Father. You know how I killed the old woman in her house, how I stabbed her in the back repeatedly, you’ve heard my trial covered so well on CNN, you know how I admitted to kidnapping those twins and slicing their throats “just to watch them die” as the newspapers so eloquently put it. In a way, they were right, you know?
Yeah, Father, I know they were only six months old, but I had to try it on every age, don’t you see? And besides, I wanted to see if maybe two Travelers would come instead of just the one. That was so beautiful! The way the Traveler wrapped both of the little girls in his arms, kissed them! Oh, they were so happy to see him! You should have seen the way their little eyes glowed when he took them in his arms and started up. Yeah, I know the parents hate me; I suppose they have front row seats tonight, huh? But if they could have seen the joy and peace on those little faces they wouldn’t hate me; you know, they might even thank me.
Anyway, Father, my time is up. I hear the warden coming down the hall with his escort of guards. Finally, my time is come.
I only have one regret, Father, and that is that I still haven’t made you see what it was like. Murder? No, Father, it wasn’t murder. It was beauty.
(Excerpts from Father Branham’s diary)
As 1 watched, the warden came and took David Rhodes to the small room where he would be executed. I was to go with him, at his request, and stand by his side through the whole affair.
The room was eerily quiet, and I remember thinking that if this monster had killed my sons, my daughters, or my parents, I would be screaming, laughing, crying, something, but the families of his victims just sat there, sat there and watched with sadness on their faces and, I could almost swear, pity in their eyes.
Rhodes was strapped to the gourney, and the IV needles were placed into his veins. After the reading of the death sentence, at exactly one minute after midnight on December 30, 1998, the poison started to flow into his body, and he just smiled.
As he had wished, I sat down beside him, and held his hand. The poisons started to work quickly, and he was clearly dying. I heard him whisper something, but I couldn’t t hear what it was, so I leaned down close to his mouth, hoping that maybe it was a last confession, but it wasn’t. It was those words, those cursed words that had led him to murder so many people.
“Hecclei Erondomini, ” he whispered, looking into my eyes. “Hecclei Erondomini… ” He turned his head to the side, and his eyes filled with an emotion that I cannot describe. I would say it was terror, but that doesn’t quite fit. How about unbelievable terror, with total and complete disbelief mixed with it? Not it exactly, but its the best I can do to explain that horrid look of fear and surprise on his face.
He tried to scream something, it sounded like “no, come back; not him, oh god no, ” but his speech was so slurred that I cannot say for sure. I looked in the direction that he was staring at, and for just a second I thought I saw something black, something truly evil coming towards us, but I blinked, and then it was over. David Rhodes was finally dead.
I haven’t been able to sleep since the night David Rhodes was executed. I can’t get what he told me out of my mind. Could there really be something to all that nonsense he told me? He was an evil man, an evil man.
I am a good man, a holy man. If I were to just help ease the suffering of some poor, dying person by maybe putting a pillow over their face for a few minutes, then what of it? It wouldn’t be murder, not really. It would be just… helping out. And if I just sort of say those words, Hecclei Erondomini, just to see what happens…
I am a good man, a holy man. I would just be helping out.
I am a good man, a holy man.
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