Sanctuary
J. A. Cerullo

          “I’m so sorry, Chris.”
          “She was a good woman.”
         “She’s in a better place now.”
         “If there’s anything you need, please call us.”
         “God has a plan.”
         The string of clichés had been running constantly since eight that morning. They brought Chris little comfort then, and now began to grate on his nerves. He did not blame those who spoke them; Lord knows he had said the same things many times before to others in his situation. What else can one say? He vowed that, after experiencing this first hand, he would find a better way to express condolence, perhaps with a silent nod or smile. Anything but the empty words that felt more like obligations than sympathy. At a time like this, it would take a poet of some renown to express in words that which could lift a man’s spirits.
         Chris knew no such poets.
         No such poets were present at Teri’s funeral.
         Behind him, the sound of the large church doors shutting signaled the end of a long and unrewarding day. The priest, who had known Chris and Teri since both were in grade school, had stayed for a while after the memorial service. He did his best to comfort Chris, but was no better than anyone else. He tried to play to Chris’ spirituality; a lost cause on a day like this. In the end he had left Chris to mourn alone in the church where he and Teri had met.
         Chris now sat alone in the second pew from the front, staring up at the giant golden cross that hung above the altar. His glare had no symbolism, no deep and meaningful grudge against God. Looking at this symbol of Christ brought no questions of why things had happened as they had. Chris stared mindlessly in a state that could be called shock, but in reality was born from the strong desire to not think at all. His mind reverted to infancy, seeking not to understand, his gaze merely drawn to the biggest and shiniest object in the sanctuary…which happened to be the cross.
         His mind was blank. He saw nothing but the cross. He thought about nothing but the cross. He heard nothing at all. Not the slight howl of wind through the stained-glass windows, nor the gentle creak of the church settling into its foundation, nor even the creaking of the doors as they opened. Oblivious to it all, he did not hear the footsteps approaching. Light and carefree as they were, he may not have heard them even if he were at his most alert. They fell with ease and grace, and seemed to blend into the ambiance of the cathedral as though they were made by the angels themselves.
         Chris’ thoughts returned to normal when he noticed a woman sit down next to him. He found it odd that with all the pews available she would choose to sit to his immediate right. He did not recognize her, but felt as though she was not entirely unknown to him either. She was young, possibly in her early thirties, elegant and tall, with dark blue eyes and long, blond hair that fell straight to the small of her back. She wore a simple black dress cut high around the neck and long enough to cover her knees; a style befitting a funeral. She wore no jewelry.
         “I’m glad there’s someone else here,” she said without looking at him. “I didn’t want to pay my respects alone.”
         Chris, slightly taken aback by this stranger, nodded but said nothing.
         “’Tis a shame,” the woman continued, “when someone so young dies of such an elderly disease. I haven’t attended a funeral in a long time. You forget how heavy the air becomes.”
         Chris’ eyes remained fixed straight ahead. He couldn’t help but notice, however, that the woman’s perfume was very familiar.
         “I’m so sorry, Chris,” she said. “Teri was a good woman.”
         Chris’ gaze moved down. “Yes, she was,” he said, “but she’s in a better place now. I suppose God has a plan for all of us.”
         The woman smiled. “You sound like someone who has heard that a lot today,” she said, giving a short and airy laugh. “Do you truly believe it?”
         Chris again went silent.
         “I’m sorry,” she added, “I guess this isn’t really the place.”
         “Did you know Teri?” Chris asked, the current small talk quickly losing its appeal to him.
         “Only casually,” replied the woman.
         Chris, about to inquire further, was interrupted by a mild chill that sent a shiver up his spine. He noticed the woman shifting uncomfortably in her seat and wondered if she had felt it, too. He thought it nothing more than a breeze, a draft felt all too often in a church as old as this one. The woman seemed not to give it a second thought, and so neither did Chris.          Yet, he maintained a sense of uneasiness that was slow to pass. Something about this woman wasn’t right.
         “I’m sorry,” he said to her, “I don’t think I caught your name.”
         “Camille,” she said, and they shook hands.
         “Well, Camille,” said Chris, “thank you for coming tonight. I know Teri would have appreciated it, regardless of how casually you knew her. But I think I had best head home.”
         She made no response, but that didn’t bother Chris at all. He wanted to leave now, and couldn’t care less what Camille did thereafter. He stood and climbed over her to the center aisle. He turned to walk to the doors.
         “Don’t go outside,” Camille spoke calmly, eyes fixed on the cross.
         Chris halted. “What?”
         “Don’t go outside,” she repeated, still not looking at him. “There are demons outside.”
         Chris stared at her for a moment, wondering if he had heard her correctly. “I’m not sure I follow you,” he said.
         Her gaze moved to him now, and he saw in her eyes a glimmer he had not noticed before. An odd strength was evident there, a display of knowledge, but with it a flicker of terror and concern that lasted but a split second. Chris felt his insides churn a bit. His stomach tied itself into a knot and an irrational fear crept behind his neck. He forced himself to settle.
         “There are demons outside of the church,” Camille said once more. “If you leave the church they will find you.”
          The knot returned. “Demons,” he said, for no reason other than to give him time to ponder this woman’s intentions.
         “Do not leave the church,” she said again.
         Chris tried hard to gather himself together but his chest was tightening and his head began to ache. When he spoke, he could not hide the quiver in his voice. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Camille, but--”
         “It’s not a game, Chris,” she interjected, her voice and visage both unwavering, “I came to warn you. Do not be afraid.”
         “I’m not afraid.”
          Camille smiled. “You don’t lie well, Chris.”