Three Days of Darkness

By Gary Griffith

Ethel has just returned from somewhere — oh yes, a farewell party — that’s it, put on by the Altar Society. She is moving from Page back to North Carolina. She can no longer make it alone. She will stay with her only surviving daughter. Everything is gone. Walt is gone. Jamie, her youngest, gone. 

She manages to get out of the backseat of the Uber. Her red heels pinning to the sidewalk. She is dressed for the occasion, white hair stacked and whipped into that beehive. And what about that dress! A printed empire that tucks beneath breasts. 

She clamps one hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh. “That fahther,” she says in her Yonkers’ accent. He’s such a crahck-up.” Such a young charismatic priest. Designer this, designer that. And can he ever cook! Homemade fresh baked bread for Eucharist, tearing pieces off as you approach the altar. 

She had attended all of his classes. “Today I want to talk about centreing and kything.” You should have seen the look on Dixie’s face. She was the only holdout, still clinging to the old ways. It was like an iron bar prying open the rusty door of centuries. No more rosaries or chaplets. Out with the old. The Chastisement, The Great Sign, and The Three Days of Darkness. Gone. People were returning to the Church in droves. 

***

She dumps her purse on the walkway outside the front door, sending quarters, dollar bills, lipstick, and rouge kits in all directions. Where is that key? She couldn’t find anything anymore. She gets down on her hands and knees and begins pawing through the remains for the key. 

Her neighbour, Debbie from across the street, is yelling something at her. Wasn’t there always somebody yelling or doing something to disturb your peace?

Ethel manages to get to her feet. She yells something at Debbie and jabs the key at her. Debbie isn’t looking at her. Something else has her attention — she is pointing toward the sky. Ethel cannot suppress her laugh. The sky has turned a cold sapphire blue. A cold wind has come up suddenly, sending garbage cans and tumbleweeds flying. Debbie keeps yelling at her. It is so annoying. She has her hands cupped around her mouth but can’t be heard because of hail clattering off her awning and the thunder. One of those sudden Arizona storms. What do they call them? 

The door to her apartment swings open. The note she posted on the mirror is still there. Put chicken in oven. Finish packing.

She puts the tea on. She must warm her bones. 

Almost done. Just a few things in the living room. All of the old pictures are gone. Just a few remain, Walt’s favorites. A statue of the Virgin and a framed picture of Divine Mercy — the youthful Christ standing with his finger to his breast, where pink and blue rays emanate forth. 

She stands up on the Ottoman and reaches for the statue. It is situated in the corner. If she could just…get…a hold of it…She feels the Ottoman going and knows what is about to happen. She sees herself struggling to maintain her balance and grasping at the lone lamp, which goes down with her. Her softy, spongy head slams against the hard tiled floor and the statue of the Virgin clunks her on the head. Her feet are tangled up in the air, enmeshed with the cords.

She touches her forehead and feels the pasty texture of blood. She reaches out for something, anything to take a hold of, and can only find the statue.   

The phone begins to ring in an odd, persistent pattern, three longs, three shorts. She manages to stand and hobbles toward the phone. Bright light pours in through the windows, yet the temperature remains cold and heavy like a meat locker. She finally gets to the phone and yells over the thunder. “Hello!” 

There is a high-pitched screeching buzz sound and then Dixie’s distorted voice. “Ethel, it’s happening, just like we thought.” 

“What’s happening, Dixie? What?” 

The phone seems to grow hot in her hand. She drops it and lets it swing back and forth against the wall. 

“Ethel, don’t let anybody in.” More screeching. 

“Mama, it’s me, Jamie.” 

“Jamie?” 

“Yes, Mama. Jamie. I’m better now. I’ve been healed. Your Rosaries have been answered. I’m better now. The miracle has happened and I’m coming to take you home. So please let me in.” 

Ethel looks at the door. “But that’s impossible,” she says. “I haven’t said a Rosary for years.” 

She limps toward the door and stumbles out into the driveway. The sky is indigo. Everything is glazed with ice. Others are outside too, standing in the street and pointing. A siren sounds in the distance. 

There in the centre of the sky, visible to all, just as she had imagined is a red cross branded against the dark clouds.

***

The Great Sign. Hurry inside.

No, no, no. I am so sorry. 

She fumbles across the room to close the blinds. Everything must be blocked out until it passes. A face presses against the window in a ghoulish manner from the outside. Thin black snakes coil around his neck and in his hair. They are entering his nose, throat, and ears. He is choking and trying to talk. 

Walter! 

Let no one in. 

She drops the statue. The smoke of Satan whistles around her. 

She must light the Mercy Candle. Again and again, she strikes the match, one after the other until the last. Then it is lit. She touches the candle and feels the calm. 

They enter her room, dressed falsely in white, like angels, false prophets. She smiles serenely.

About the Author

Gary Griffith lives with his wife in Prescott Valley, Arizona, USA, where he spends his time writing, playing drums in a rock band, and volunteering to help the needy and underserved.

He has a collection of linked stories, "A House of Stone is Forever" (available on Amazon), based upon his childhood in Northern Michigan.

His poetry has appeared in The Minison Project <@MinisonProject> and The Black Box from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University.

His fiction has appeared in Storyglossia.

"Heart of Lightness" has been excerpted from his novel-in-progress, "The S Virus".

He has fiction forthcoming at <433 Magazine>.

You can follow him <@GaryLGriffith> on Twitter, and also at <GLGriffith.com>.