Purgatory

The Great War was ended, but the nightmares persisted. In my pursuit of peace, a greater nightmare crossed my path. Upon arrival home in Ireland, I was rewarded greatly for my services as a medic and granted a scholarship for a university of my choosing. Haunted by the four previous years, I chose to follow psychology and theology. If I could’ve understood the nightmares, it may have helped, and if not, I at least would have the Lord. My study of psychology factors little in this tale. What I saw on that day should illustrate the reasoning for the abandonment of my studies.

​

Naturally the theology lessons were taught by clergymen, in this case; Father Adrian McMallock, and Father Gerard Finn. Father McMallock was a small, frail Irishman who was cold in every sense of the word. If it weren’t for his sunken features, one could have mistaken him for a boy of middling youth. Though in truth he had passed forty at the least. He was never sent to the front lines on account of his perpetual and apparently idiopathic shaking. Recruiting officers suspected it was part of a further illness, and politely recommended he remain in his parish. Whether his sour demeanour existed prior to this embarrassment, none of my colleagues could say. Though this slight certainly worsened it, as he treated other veterans and I to scolding and sarcasm at any given opportunity. Every class and lecture would have some sort of underlying insult about how we had killed other men woven into McMallock’s lessons. I took particular offence to this. I had been a medic in the war and saved far more lives than I had taken.

​

Conversely, Father Finn was a strong, confident Scottish orator with a thunderous voice. He lectured us on histories of Christendom and its allies, enemies, victories, and defeats. He spoke unfavourably on near every figure in history that had opposed the will of the Church, but he seemed to like his students well enough.

​

In the second year of my education, aspects of McMallock’s person and personality worsened greatly. The gaunt features of his face were exaggerated in ways that remind one of a caricature. His shaking was constant and furious, and seemed now to be beyond a nervous tick. This idea was strengthened by the fact that he became increasingly panophobic, fearing anything from dropping his chalk, which occurred repeatedly due to the shaking, to his own footsteps. There were many times teachers and students alike were chastised for speaking when McMallock did not entirely expect it. Needless to say, the year was difficult to endure, I held strong in the hope it would bring me answers to my hag-ridden nights.

​

The winter months in the university that year were unnaturally cold. The hearths were stoked permanently, to the point where donations were gathered for the firewood. The one characteristic of McMallock that hadn’t changed was his distaste for veterans, and it burned as fierce as any hearth that winter. His accusations were as wild as they were unjust. The worst of his offences came on November 11th, 1921, the third anniversary of the Great War’s end. During a sermon in honour of those fallen, McMallock shoved his way to the altar, nearly knocking the visiting Bishop to the floor.

 

‘We stand here today to mourn fools!’ he claimed, pupils wide with madness. ‘These men forgot their God and marched to their death! And for what? The so-called tyrant from whom they beg independence day after day, week after week!’ His fist hammered relentlessly on the altar as he spoke. ‘Never mind those who were not penitent enough to die!’ He pointed a trembling, spidery finger at each of us veterans, eyes narrowed in contempt. ‘You shan’t find God again, traitors! Only Hell awaits you.’

 

As his last echoes escaped the cavernous chapel, the other clergymen helped him down from the altar. His shaking was more rampant than we had ever seen; he was knock-kneed, and he struggled to stand at all. His insane ramblings had drowned out the snap of bone. But as he was dragged limp from the room, we saw the off-white protruding from his wrist, and we smelled iron on the air.

 

In the days of his absence, the more pious of my colleagues deduced McMallock’s preachings had been a result of possession, citing some Hellish prince as the source of his madness. I thought that thinking rather gave the Devil too much credit.

 

Others believed his rhetoric had been mere lies fuelled by jealousy, that much I was inclined to agree with. Serving in the war, as horrid as it was, was an honour. An honour McMallock had been denied. To make fools of those who had fought would lessen the impact on the man’s ego. Physicians of the college cited hypothermic mania; a supposed maddening caused by the cold. I am positive to this day that no such illness exists. McMallock was simply a spiteful, angry man, at least until he returned, just under a fortnight later.

 

An assembly was called in the master chapel. We all filed into the pews as instructed and looked to the chancel, where McMallock stood shakily by the altar. He looked miserable and broken, and he rubbed and massaged his broken arm through its sling for the length of the assembly. Father Finn introduced him with a smile, the authenticity of which was questionable. McMallock stepped up to speak.

 

‘I would like to apologise for the words I spoke on the eleventh of this month. Doctors have since informed me I was struck ill with hypothermic mania. While I was not in control of my actions, I must repent for them nonetheless.’ McMallock turned to Father Finn and accepted the Eucharist. ‘Father Finn will be taking my classes once again today, while I perform my penance. Tomorrow, classes will continue as normal.’

 

Father Finn spoke with his usual booming confidence afterward, ‘I trust you will all accept Father McMallock back into the college with open minds and hearts. Just as I trust we all wish him a speedy recovery.’

 

At that, McMallock glanced nervously at his arm. Although, McMallock looked at everything with such nervousness. There were no other announcements to be made. McMallock and Father Finn retired to their quarters as we retired to ours.

​

As promised, relative normality returned the following day. I say ‘relative’ as McMallock seemed rather less vindictive. He certainly still held hatred for the veterans and I, but such hatred interrupted his teaching far less. No longer were we ‘wretched filth, condemned to hell’. However, we were not destined for the Kingdom of God quite yet. McMallock’s teaching had been significantly reworked. Each class spoke of Purgatory, the wretched space between Hades and Paradise where one awaits judgement, and how we were surely destined to visit the ‘Great Liminality’ as McMallock had taken to calling it. The class was thankful to have climbed the proverbial ladder, at least until McMallock taught us why we should fear Purgatory.

​

‘This last month, I taught you what Purgatory is. Now I will teach you why Purgatory is,’ he said. People straightened in their seats at that. Such an abstract sentence had, perhaps for the first time, gripped the attention of McMallock’s students. He allowed himself a small grin before continuing.

 

‘Purgatory is imagined by some to be a great and endless expanse. It is not as heaven or hell, where you are surrounded by those of similar nature. Each man is alone in Purgatory. You cannot eat, or sleep, or breathe, for there is no need to. You simply wait. Time does not pass in Purgatory, yet you will spend thousands of eternities there. Whether you had plans to think of something else or not, you will only think of one thing. From the moment the light and spirit leave your body, you will think of one thing.’ He walked to the chalkboard and spoke as he scratched onto the slate.

 

‘Where will I go?’ The chalk snapped as he finished writing, he let it fall to the floor, turning back to his audience. ‘The unending wait will not trouble you. You will quickly realise time is inconsequential. The true question. Where will I go? Will you ascend or descend? Will eternity’s wait be in vain? Who shall accept you, Our Lord and Father, or the princes of Hell? How far have the angels that greet you fallen? The pain of Purgatory does not come from the wait. It is the fear of what comes next.’

 

The classroom was silent, and rightly so. Every last individual in that room was in awe. Later, I found that none of them knew why his words had taken such an effect. I had noticed what they hadn’t. McMallock had stopped shaking. His voice had no tremble to it. He had spoken with sheer confidence. I could not and have yet to find a religious text, across any of the Abrahamic religions that give such a description of Purgatory. At that moment, I believed McMallock had seen Purgatory.

 

After that seminar, I immediately made for the library. I sought to prove my theory before accusing McMallock of something as absurd as this. I estimate I spent upward of ten hours in that room, dissecting religious texts and journals for any sort of hint at Purgatory that aligned with McMallock’s description. I, of course, had no such luck.

 

The following day, another event worthy of suspicion occurred. Graciously, there was a far less unnerving nature to this occasion. Father Finn had been teaching us of the First Crusade. My fellow students and I noticed a striking parallel between Father Finn's lesson and McMallock’s.

 

‘A rather notable individual to take part in the First Crusade was Bohemond, the disinherited son of Robert Guiscard. What makes Bohemond interesting is the intent of his role in the First Crusade. He fought his way to the city of Antioch and stopped. Bohemond chose to take part in the Crusade until it suited him to stop. He reclaimed part of the Holy Land, yes. But he did so for personal gain, not in the name of God. Bohemond was undoubtedly condemned to Purgatory for his...’

 

A chill ran down my spine at the sound of that word. It was too much of a coincidence that it be mentioned again a day after McMallock's lecture, by a different clergyman no less. At the end of the class, I decided to ask why Purgatory was becoming so central to our studies. Father Finn's reply ensured there was no doubt in my mind. Something sinister was brewing on this campus.

​

‘I have never mentioned Purgatory in class. Has Father McMallock?’ It was beyond doubt that something strange was afoot. I reminded Father Finn of his comments on Bohemond. He looked rather confused. ‘Did I? I don’t recall... An offhanded comment anyway. It won’t appear on any tests if that is what you’re worried about.’

He finished packing his notes into the worn leather case that never left his side. He made for the door, rubbing his brow in apparent confusion. I bade him farewell, but he gave no reply. The old door to the lecture hall whined closed, in desperate need of oiling. When it closed, I was alone. I stayed for a while, trying to discern what could possibly be taking place around me. I could not make head nor tail of it. It had been entirely possible that Father Finn's mention of Purgatory had been coincidental, but I had been made a puppet of doubt, a loyal servitor of curiosity.

​

I continued to plot a course of action for the next few days. Only one solution seemed viable to me. I would compile my suspicions and present them to Father Finn. If he did not take my report seriously, he was kind enough that he might explain, rather than ridicule me.

​

Across the following two days, I prepared my evidence at each and every spare moment. I wanted to be sure my argument was infallible. I converted lecture notes on Purgatory into essay form, highlighting the suspicious recurrence of the theme. I had detailed the lack of McMallock’s usual nervous ticks during his recent speech.

​

Disaster struck on the morning of the third day. As I was preparing a lengthy explanation of how no man could have retained composure while breaking his own arm, my dormitory mate entered suddenly. He was red-faced and flustered, as though he had run across the campus and back.

​

‘Father Finn collapsed in the courtyard!’ he panted exhaustedly.

​

I jumped to my feet and bolted out the door. My exhausted roommate fell behind fast. It was strange how quickly I had leapt into action; it was as though I were sprinting through the trenches in France once again. As if I were rushing to save another soldier crawling half-dead across no man’s land. I had not felt such energy since the war, I felt I might faint. I burst through the front door of the hall of residence. I could not see Father Finn, but I saw a large crowd of individuals surrounding something. Logic suggested I would find Father Finn in the middle of them.

​

I pushed through the crowd with urgency, shouting my qualifications as a medic so they might make room faster. As I reached the centre, I saw Father Finn sprawled on the floor, eyes open but unmoving. Another student was crouched by him already, his middle and forefinger pressed against the priest’s neck. After a few seconds, he took them away reluctantly. He looked around to the crowd before he spoke.

​

'He’s dead,’ he said solemnly.

​

The crowd soon dispersed. However, I and a few others waited until the authorities came to retrieve the body. In the interim, we covered the body of Father Finn with a bedsheet out of respect. My roommate and some other witnesses recounted the event to the coroners and with that, Father Finn was taken away.

​

Afterwards, I retired to my dormitory until classes began. I was disappointed to find my notes destroyed on my return. It appeared I had knocked over my ink when I had darted out of the room. It was not much of a loss, with the death of Father Finn, there was no one to present to.

 

We returned to our normal day as best we could. Naturally however, there was an air of sorrow about myself and my classmates. Father Finn’s classes were cancelled that day, as were most classes in fact. Though we were unsurprised when McMallock insisted on continuing anyway.

 

He was his usual shaky self, nothing at all like how he had been when describing Purgatory. I was relieved to see him as normal, or at least his version of normal. But normalcy did little to forgive that McMallock made no mention of Father Finn’s passing, and overall seemed rather unaffected by it. As though I were some sort of detective, I kept a close eye on his nervous ticks, movements, and mannerisms. As far as my eye, untrained as it was, could tell, he was not upset about the loss of his colleague. McMallock was known to be rather calloused and cold, but to be this absent of emotion after a death? It was unnerving, and I was not the only one who noticed it. The discomfort in the room became near tangible as McMallock remorselessly rambled on about his ‘Great Liminality’ ad nauseam.

​

The day afterward, McMallock began teaching in Father Finn’s stead. Although the History of Christendom was rather absent from his teachings. He took the additional classes as opportunity to speak about Purgatory once again. I might have been impressed at the amount of learning material he was producing from such an abstract concept if it had not been so dull.

​

Father Finn’s passing had spelled the end for many people’s education. Many simply couldn’t bear the over-saturation of Purgatorial information. My colleagues abandoned their studies steadily over the course of two months. There were only seven people remaining in the course afterwards, and I was the only soldier among them. I was jealous of their escape from the priest’s anti-veteran belligerence, but I remained determined to decipher the source of McMallock’s knowledge. As a result, I became increasingly engaged with the class. I repeatedly challenged his teachings or inquired about further reading after class. Initially, McMallock regarded me with confusion and surprise, which he naturally converted into abrasive hostility. I believe he thought it some sort of joke or trick. After a fortnight of nothing less than pestering, McMallock began to crack.

After one class in mid-January, McMallock finally advised me on further reading. However, I surprised McMallock by having read the book he had suggested.

​

‘Perhaps you should try Crawford’s A Study on the Abrahamic Afterlives then,’ he had suggested impatiently.

​

I had read it already.

​

‘I suppose you’ve read Carter’s Christian Catechism: The Kingdom of God too?’ he spurned.

 

I again said I had read it, along with every book that mentioned Purgatory available in the library. McMallock was rather frustrated at this point, with his shaking becoming more and more obvious. I proceeded to mention that none of those texts give a description matching that which he gave us in class. It was at this that I realised McMallock’s shaking was not in anger but worry. He was shaking to such a degree that he could not close the clasps on his briefcase, which had been packing up for the duration of this conversation. ‘I’m sorry, I have another class to attend. Ensure you finish your assignments for next week. Two thousand words, no more, no less,’ he demanded in a desperate bid to change the conversation.

​

He fumbled with them for a few moments further, before conceding and trying to hold the case closed with his thumb before storming off. He did not make it far, and the case fell open before he could even reach for the doorknob. Papers and books fell everywhere, and I naturally moved to help pick them up. McMallock was already on his knees, frantically scooping them up with little care for how crumpled or torn they became.

I took a knee to begin picking up some more, making sure not to damage them. All the while McMallock stuffed what he could grab back into his case. As he scooped up outliers that had fluttered away from the bulk of the mess, I was struck by the contents of the loose papers.

​

Among his amassed notes, there seemed not a modicum of coherence. The pages were rife with poor handwriting, several magnitudes larger than the lines provided by the paper. Others depicted ink drawings, equally nonsensical and removed from reality. In my efforts to help, I picked up a particularly strange one. A jagged sketch of something vaguely humanoid was drawn atop a page that once belonged to a book. The print underneath made the drawing difficult to visualise, and the drawing made reading the print impossible.

​

As I tried to focus on and decipher what either could mean, it was suddenly snatched out of my hands. McMallock was glaring at me with a rage I had not seen since that cold November night, when he had entered such a frenzy that he had broken bones without so much as wincing. He stuffed the papers I had neatly gathered into his briefcase with just as little care as the others. His anger had steadied his hand it seemed, as he closed the case without issue this time. As I made to stand again, he pushed me back down. I was shocked, off kilter, and soon after on my back.

​

With a stern, fiery voice, he told me, ‘The only book you should concern yourself with is the Bible, Private. Maybe there you can find some semblance of repentance for the lives you took in those trenches. Cross me again and I’ll ensure you never step in the same county as this college again!’

​

McMallock then thundered out of the room, slamming the door behind him. His short, frail stature giving the impression of a child throwing a tantrum. Nonetheless, I found myself somewhat frozen with fear. It was clear that I had destroyed any favour I had earned with McMallock in a matter of seconds. He had not called any of us ‘Private’ in over a year. It had been a derogatory term for us veterans, as he knew full well that we were all at least a rank above the position.

​

More alarming than that, however, was the scribblings I had seen. Those were his notes, the documents he read from as he lectured. Or at least I had thought they were, all of it was quite illegible. And that sketch. It had been hard to make out, but it was undeniably shaped like a man. It had been skinny, emaciated almost. Any information McMallock had hoped to include beyond that was obfuscated by both the text, and his uncontrollably tremble.

 

I found myself rather unable to sleep that night. My mind repeatedly leapt from absurd conclusion to absurd conclusion. What was that drawing? Why did it turn his mood so suddenly? Where did his bizarre knowledge come from to begin with? My confusion increasingly turned to fear. By some gross turn of luck, the fear that was building up brought back memories from that wretched war. I began to see faces in the dark, dead comrades, friends scarred by gas, amputees writhing with phantom pains. I heard artillery firing. Bullet after bullet, shell after shell. My chest tightened; the room began to spin. Flashes, hot and cold, hot and cold. Shell shock, it had been nearly a year since it had struck. I believe this was the worst bout I ever faced. The flashbacks, coupled with the looming fear of something unknown, made it near impossible for me to function.

 

Convinced that I needed fresh air, I dragged myself off of my bed. With an anxious shake that rivalled McMallock's, I managed to pull my boots on. There was no time to tie them. After a few stumbling moments down the stairwell, I made it outside. I collapsed into a nearby bench, illuminated by a solitary lamppost. I must have looked mad, dressed only in my nightclothes and unlaced boots. My appearance was the least of my concern at that time, however. I was primarily focused on regulating my breathing, and I found myself slouched over, staring mindlessly at the ground.

 

After what may have been some fifteen minutes, I felt myself relaxing at last. My breathing returned to its regular calm pattern. My heart no longer felt like it would suddenly burst through my chest. But it soon after skipped a beat. I jumped at the sudden sound of a door opening. I saw none other than McMallock slipping out a door across the courtyard. He closed the door slowly, looking warily left and right before returning assumably to his own quarters. I sat completely still for fear of being spotted.

 

As soon as his footsteps were out of earshot, I crept across the courtyard. I had always ignored the door he had exited from. I did not know where it led, and in my first effort to find out, I found it locked. McMallock must have locked it while still checking his surroundings. At last, I had a lead of sorts. I would solve the riddle of McMallock’s mysterious knowledge, but not on that night. I returned to my quarters soon after. Ironically, I drifted off rather quickly. I suspect it was owed to the fact that for the first time since Father Finn’s passing, I had a plan of action.

 

The next day I attended my classes as normal, quietly biding my time until the night came. I had planned to keep up appearances by challenging and asking about McMallock’s teachings, as I had for the last fortnight. However, I remembered the threat McMallock had made against me the day before. I instead quietly waited for my classes to end.

​

At some time around five o'clock I was free to go about my day without fear of missing class. My plan could not unfold until it was dark out, so I busied myself by going to town. I purchased some cheese and crackers, followed by coffee. It was not a great culinary mix, and it took up an awkward chunk of my spending money for the week, but I would need to keep my energy up for the night. I then returned to the campus for evening tea, which by luck was a generous roast dinner. I ate it with haste, garnering a few curious looks from surrounding students. I quickly told them I hadn’t eaten lunch, which dispelled any suspicion.

 

I hoped that the dinner would tide me over, but only time would tell. I left the dining hall without cleaning my table behind myself and rushed to my dormitory. A cursory glance out the window told me it was near dark. I quickly prepared the coffee I had bought earlier and filled my thermal. I then locked the door to ensure no intrusion and pulled a trunk out from beneath the bed. This had contained most of the clothes I had brought to the university at the start of the year, but it contained something else. At the bottom, wrapped in a large handkerchief, was a pistol. A German one, with its distinctive square magazine and long, thin barrel. Just touching it reawakened the memory.

 

The war was nearing its end. Our troop had finally broken through no man’s land and advanced on a German trench, the third advance that week. Our commanding officer told us to double back through the trench to check for any survivors before we moved on. I found one survivor. He was wounded, a bullet in his side. He looked even more terrified than I was. Foolishly, I hadn’t had my weapon ready. As I fumbled to take it off of my back, he fumbled equally with his belt. I nearly had my gun ready when he drew his on me. Having lost the deadly race, I let my rifle fall to my side. I stared down the instrument of my death bravely, or at least I tried. My adversary had a small picture pinched between his thumb and forefinger. I paused and looked closer. The picture, although damaged and stained, clearly depicted two children, girls by the look of it. They could have been no older than ten.

 

‘Meine Kinder,’ he stammered, still clutching his side. ‘Bitte.’

 

I never made much of an effort to learn German, but I understood that much. I pointed to the man’s pistol and gestured for him to throw it away. He nodded, before tossing it out of his reach. At that I approached and put my finger to my lips.

 

He nodded again, before whispering ‘Danke.’

 

I didn’t have my full medic gear with me, but I did the best I could. He was lucky to have been shot, as I ensured I carried the means to remove a bullet at all times. I gave him a piece of wood to bite down on as I extracted the bullet. Thankfully he stifled any pained yelps or cries. After that, it was all I could do to suture the wound. He repeatedly thanked me as I worked through his wincing. In what I assume was an attempt to distract himself from the pain, he told me about his children. I didn’t understand much, but the more he talked, the surer I became that I was doing the right thing.

 

When I was finished, I signed that he ought to play dead, as well as explaining verbally in the hope he understood some English. He seemed to understand and lay still as I made to leave. However, he quickly called me back before I had moved out of his sight. When I looked back, he was pointing to the pistol he had thrown away.

 

‘Es bringt viel Glück!’ he whispered.

 

I didn’t understand. He furrowed his brow, trying to recall any English he might have known. His face relaxed as realisation dawned on him.

 

‘Lucky! Es ist eine “lucky" Pistole,’ he said, nodding to his weapon.

 

I picked up the pistol and cautiously handed it to him, my other hand ready to fire my rifle. I wasn’t sure what he was up to, until he suddenly gestured the pistol back to me.

 

‘Für dich, für dich!’ he insisted. ‘Ein Geschenk.’

 

I looked at him confused and made to hook the pistol onto my belt. The German nodded, before thanking me one last time, and returning to his act as a corpse. I returned to my commanding officer and reported I had found no survivors. I still hope that was a lie.

 

I shook my head and blinked hard. I might have fallen asleep, or at least come close to it. I stood hurriedly and looked to the clock tower through the window. I had lost an hour in my daydreaming. I quickly moved to my window for a better view. I couldn’t see McMallock’s locked door from here. He may well have entered already. I scooped the pistol up from beside my bed and tucked it into my jacket’s inner pocket. I opened my flask briefly to ensure my coffee had remained warm and carelessly stuffed my cheese and crackers into my pocket.

 

I descended the stairs encountering a fellow student. I remarked that it was a fine night for a walk to lessen suspicion and he thankfully questioned me no further. Once outside, I returned to the bench I had rested on the night before. Instead of sitting under the partial illumination of a half-moon, I set myself behind a nearby bush. I was enveloped almost entirely in darkness with a sight-line on the door.

 

All I could do from then was wait. I silently made my way through my coffee and cheese, abandoning the crackers on the realisation they made too much noise. A foolish if minor oversight on my part. I did not find my position particularly displeasing, even when a light rain rolled in. I had been quite desensitised by the trenches. As the grass beneath my feet grew muddier, a comforting familiarity began to set in. That was until I dropped my only food into the mud. It was only a small loss anyway; coffee and cheese were not exactly a palatable mix.

​

The growl of my stomach did begin to set in over time, however. According to the clock tower I had been staking out the door for four hours. I had not heard any noise from behind it, although I was some distance from it. A handful of people had walked by; none of them McMallock, and none of them in the last hour. My generous evening meal seemed to have failed me and with my cheese ruined, I decided to risk eating a cracker. It almost felt laughable that I should have such apprehension as regards to eating food, yet I was as tense as ever.

​

I reached into my pocket and silently took a cracker from its packet. I expected it would be best to eat it quickly, before anyone could walk by. And so, with an absurd amount of apprehension, I bit into the cracker.

 

‘Who's there?’ called a shaky voice.

​

I looked up. In the time it had taken me to reach into my pocket, McMallock had appeared. I held my breath and remained as motionless as I could. It seemed my luck had run out. McMallock paced up and down a section of the courtyard briefly. Once or twice, he looked right at me. I narrowed my eyes at him, for fear that my eyes might reflect some small light back to him. After what felt like eons, perhaps a minute in reality, he conceded and returned to his door. Yet I dared not breathe until he was inside. With a final cursory glance left and right, he produced a key and quickly slipped inside.

 

I waited a few moments more before exhaling at last. I quickly drank the remainder of my coffee and placed the lid back onto the thermal. I then stood, stretched quickly, and approached the door. I was filled with a sort of excitement as I crept across the courtyard. I hoped beyond hope that my questions would at last be answered. Once at the door, I tried the lock. I turned the door handle imperceptibly slow, but the old mechanism was not completely silent. I met no resistance as I twisted it, and I heard no reaction from McMallock on the other side. The door creaked slightly as I pulled it open. I paused immediately, waiting for a shaky yell from McMallock, but I heard nothing. I entered much as McMallock had, glancing around and slipping through the door, rather than opening it fully. I took as much care closing the door as I had opening it.

 

Turning around, I saw a narrow, old corridor that turned off to the right some thirty feet away. The walls were undecorated, revealing the old stonework that probably lay behind every wallpaper in the college. There were a series of pipes and valves running up, down, and along the wall. The faint sounds of hissing and creaking emanating from them, as well as below me. This appeared to be the boiler room.

 

Suddenly, I heard a door close. It was not slammed but was loud enough to startle me. Almost instinctively, I drew the pistol from my belt. It was time to see if it truly was lucky. I began creeping toward the turn in the corridor, a relatively easy task with the pipes hissing incessantly. I rounded the corner to find a staircase that opened into a wide, grey room. I descended with a little less care, as the grumbling of the boilers below was even louder now. The room contained four such boilers. They were being pushed to their limits. Pipes were oscillating and rattling at worrying speeds, and the bolts appeared to be worming their way free.

 

A strange sensation struck me. Despite four boilers working to breaking point, and the dangerous amount of steam occasionally spitting out of the old pipes, the air was freezing. By all rights, I should have been sweating before I even reached the base of the stairs, but instead, I could see my breath whenever I exhaled.

 

Between the boilers was the door I presumed had been closed moments ago, and I expected to find McMallock on the other side. I approached with as much care as ever. I placed my ear to the door and covered the other. It did little to mask the sound of the boilers behind me. I was sure I heard McMallock’s voice. I could not tell what he was saying though. Then an idea struck me. I got down on my knees, noticing the floor was just as cold as the air, if not worse, and peeked through the keyhole. I saw McMallock, facing away from me, shaking even more than usual. I thought for a moment it was caused by the mysterious cold, until I saw what he was talking to.

 

My body was not my own as I screamed and stumbled backward. McMallock had surely heard me, but I had no say in the matter. Fear had taken control of my body. As soon as I regained some control, I groped around, looking for the pistol. Though my eyes were transfixed on the door, and fearful delirium snuffed out the idea of righting myself. Soon the door swung open and McMallock prepared to unleash a torrent of abuse on whoever had followed him. He spotted my gun instead. He scooped it up and pointed it at me, trembling uncontrollably. I raised my hands in surrender. McMallock barked at me to get up.

 

I managed to stand up. I could again see McMallock’s secret, the subject of his drawing. I wish it had been as obfuscated as its depiction. My knees felt weak. My lip trembled. A monster lay before me. It was attached to the wall at the waist, as though it had been climbing through it and become stuck. As it had been with McMallock’s drawing, it had the frame of someone starved by famine. The right side of the monster appeared to have human skin, although it had been stretched and moulded as though it were unset clay. In places, the skin was lumped up like sickening tumours, in others, it was stretched so thin it was near transparent, with the suggestion of bone pushing through. The left side might have been flesh at one stage. It was now a mess of open wounds, all appearing in sets of three. It was like some great beast had clawed only the right side of its prey. Some of the wounds leaked a black ooze, too dark to be blood. The beast had no facial features, and yet I could still feel its eyes on me. It supported itself on two arms, both of which were sickeningly narrow. The bloodied half’s hand had a set of long vicious claws, while the other had squashed lumps that might have been fingers once.

 

When I found my voice, I stammered, ‘What is that thing?’ much in the fashion of McMallock.

 

McMallock tightened his grip on the gun, brow furrowed in a conflicted anger. ‘You couldn’t just keep your nose out, could you? All your damn questions, look where they got you now!’ His shaking was as bad as ever, but his voice was surprisingly strong. McMallock had been anticipating this exact meeting.

 

The wretched creature released a horrid sound, and its tar-like blood was squeezed from its wounds. McMallock turned back to it briefly, but not long enough for me to reclaim my weapon. He began to back up, insisting I follow, ‘He wants to see you. Come in, now.’

 

My arms remained in the air as I reluctantly followed McMallock into the featureless stone room. Again, I asked, ‘What is it, McMallock?’

 

McMallock looked to the creature, seemingly for approval. The creature released a stomach-churning hiss once again, and pointed at me. The priest was wide-eyed, looking between myself and the monster.

 

‘He is the first.’ McMallock sneered, filled with that same fire once again, the same drive that had taken him back in November. His shaking was gone, save for the hand holding the pistol, with shook with such fervour I feared he may accidentally fire. The creature almost seemed to scold him before he spoke again with renewed anger. ‘You are sabotaging everything! First your meddling! Now this! You couldn’t just leave well enough alone. Could you?!’

 

‘My meddling?’ I asked, splaying my fingers to stress to my still-raised hands. I needed my gun back; I needed McMallock to think he was safe. My eyes flitted to the monster, which was still pointing to me, hissing and bleeding.

 

‘Your plans to tell Father Finn about my classes. I would surely have been caught.’

 

I was near dumbfounded. How could McMallock have known about that? My shock must have made itself clear, as the slightest grin spread across McMallock’s face. In spite of the abomination behind him, a certain air of pride seemed to well up inside him as he straightened his stance and relaxed his grip on the gun.

 

‘I thought even you could have figured that one out, Private,’ he taunted with the same old insult. McMallock made to speak again, before being cut off by the creature’s infernal hissing. McMallock looked back as it wheezed. Suddenly he seemed worried again, and the shaking began to return. ‘Private? Yes, I-’

 

The fiend cut him off with further hissing and coughing. Then McMallock became as fearful as I had ever seen him. He fell to his knees.

 

‘No, no, no!’ he begged. ‘You can’t replace me! Not with him!’

 

The creature continued to hiss amongst agitated writhing. McMallock began to beg, hands clasped together around the pistol. I had no intention of helping that beast, but McMallock did not seem to care. Fear struck me anew when I noticed a change in McMallock's manner. He was still shaking wildly and uncontrollably, but his eyes were transfixed on the gun between his hands. He slowly turned back to me, outstretching his right arm, gun in hand.

​

‘You won’t replace me,’ he warned. His hand was shaking fiercely, the bullet was as likely to hit the wall as it was my heart. When he fired, I darted right. I thought I was unscathed, but soon felt a sharp stinging in my left arm. I was shot, but it was not fatal. A fearful excitement began pumping adrenaline through my veins. With little thought, I marched to McMallock and attempted to wrench the pistol free of his frail grip. It proved a slight challenge, as I could make little use of my now injured arm. With McMallock still kneeling on the floor, I wedged my knee against his torso and pulled. The gun came free, but the momentum threw me to the floor myself. The gun flew from my grip too, clattering to the floor behind me.

 

I sat up, seeing I had kicked McMallock within the reach of the creature. The creature hissed and wailed maddeningly, and McMallock was again begging with his hands clasped together, ‘I can kill him! Let me try again. I can’t go there! I have to know!’

 

The creature was not convinced. Upsettingly, it seemed intent on having me as it’s new servant. McMallock had his head down, bowed in a desperate prayer. He never even saw the instrument of his death coming. The horror’s left hand raised up slowly. It held it’s claws above McMallock, and as some poor attempt of a warning slipped from my mouth, they plummeted effortlessly through his head. McMallock stopped shaking.

 

The creature wretched it’s claws free and turned its attention to me. Instinctively I began crawling backwards, my left arm proving useless in the effort. I suddenly felt a great pressure at the base of my skull, like something sharp was pressed against it.

 

The beast was becoming erratic, stretching out and beckoning me, twisting its body in ways that would break the bones of a man. I continued to back up, groping behind me for the gun, terrified of breaking sight on the creature. I felt the cold metal of the barrel brush off of my fingers. I felt as though the Cup of Christ itself was in my hand.

 

The monster’s cries became panicked. I felt sick as I almost started to understand its noises. Pushing through the impossible pressure on my head, I raised the gun to the creature. It began to swing for me, even with its opposite clawless stump. I was well out of its reach, but it made every effort to strike me. I squeezed the trigger, sure that I was on target, and fired. The bullet hit the creature in the exact centre of its forehead, travelling clean through and burying itself in the back wall. The beast dropped dead immediately. Black ooze spilled from the head wound.

 

I sat for a moment, processing the litany of events that had just occurred. When I recovered a degree of coherent thought, I forced myself to stand. I was too disgusted by the scene to give it even a cursory glance, and simply shambled toward the door with the intent of informing the authorities. I walked past the four rattling boilers, still working away, blissfully and inanimately unaware of how warped I now knew the world to be. However, the Great Liminality was not finished toying with my battered soul quite yet.

 

Behind me, I heard a sickening, pained screeching. I turned around and saw the creature to be completely alive once again. Its hands were pushing against the wall it was seemingly fused into. Instinctively I began firing at the beast. Most of the bullets went wide, and those that hit did not seem to affect the beast as the first bullet had. Ten rounds, this pistol held. Dear god, how many had I fired? Suddenly, the villain lurched forward, collapsing onto the cold grey floor. It had torn itself from the wall completely. An ungodly amount of obsidian blood was pouring from the bottom of its torso.

 

The beast raised itself up on it’s two arms and began crawling toward me with incredible speed. Renewed adrenaline fired through me as I fired at the creature. It flinched briefly when a bullet pierced an arm, matching my own injury. Though nothing else seemed capable of stopping it. Until, in a moment of genius, an idea struck me. The creature was some ten feet from me when I turned my aim to the nearest boiler and fired.

 

I darted up the stairs, stumbling slightly at the subsequent explosions. The wall between the boiler and I offered little protection. If I had been a fraction of a second slower, I would have been crushed between the far wall, and an amalgam of shattered stone and boiler shrapnel. Yet I managed to escape the explosion of debris in one piece. I didn’t look back until I was outside the building, stood back in the courtyard. When I turned around, I tried to release a barrage of bullets on the creature, which I was sure would still be following me.

 

The pistol did not fire, instead came the clicks that told me the magazine was empty. I feared again this was not over. But as far as I could tell, the beast had not escaped the boiler room. As I saw buttery lights fill the various windows, I swiftly made my way back to my dormitory. As I skulked across the courtyard, I heard a deluge of debris fall. Turning back, I saw the rooms above the boilers give way and tumble into the newly formed pit.

 

The additional noise did little to help my escape. I narrowly avoided being spotted. Just as people were dressed enough to pursue their curiosity on foot, I got back to my room. I began to realise just how exhausted I was. I sat on the bed for a while, too tired to change into my nightwear, or even remove my boots.

 

I instead stared at the pistol for some time. I came to agree with the German I had met in that trench. This was most assuredly a lucky pistol. I had the exact number of bullets I had needed. I had escaped that wretched monstrosity unscathed. I avoided the collapse of the entire floor. And I had escaped without being seen by anyone. My only explanation was luck, for God had certainly not been by my side that night.

 

I spent a gruelling fifteen minutes extracting the bullet from my arm. I was glad I had kept at least some of my medic gear from the war. By the time I was bandaging my arm I could hear the emergency services approaching. I managed to sleep after a while, an act somewhat hindered by the sound of sirens outside. When I woke the next day the fire brigade was still working to clear the damage. I replaced the bandage on my arm and left for the courtyard. Feigning ignorance, I approached a fireman overseeing the operation.

 

‘Boiler explosion,’ he said simply. He had clearly been recounting the story all morning. ‘It’s a miracle they lasted this long. Groundskeeper says they were bound to blow eventually, haven’t been replaced in years. You may expect a chilly February anyway!’

 

I noticed an ambulance preparing to leave. I inquired as to why it was there. McMallock was surely dead, and for a moment I feared they had tried to rescue the horror I had faced last night. I was relieved to hear his answer.

​

‘We’re just after recovering a body. One of the priests by the look of it. He was dead when we found him, shredded by shrapnel, then crushed under the rubble. Horrid sight. One of the lads fainted. Ambulance was only here in case we found survivors, but they said they’d take him out of the way, thank Christ! Seems he was the only casualty.’

 

I blurted out an echo of his last words, worried that they had not found the body of the creature. The firefighter narrowed his eyes. I feigned surprise, followed by relief that no one else had been injured. It seemed to quell his suspicions. I wished him luck with clearing the debris and took my leave before I could further compromise my fictitious obliviousness.

 

The fact the body of the beast had not been found disturbed me greatly over the following week. When the college saw fit to announce McMallock had been the casualty of the explosion, I again acted clueless and surprised. The fireman had been correct, the college was colder than ever following the explosion. When we finally had a replacement lecturer, I arrived early to the freezing classroom. I took a seat in the nearest chair and stared at the black chalkboard. I imagined McMallock, scribbling madly on the board, raving about his ‘Great Liminality'. Locked in my mind too was the image of that creature.

 

As I focussed on it, trying still to understand what I had seen, a sharp pain started to press at the base of my skull. As too many pieces fell into place, as too many things began to make sense, I stopped myself. It took significant effort to press to think of something else, and as I did, a terrible trembling came over me.

 

As students were beginning to file into the class, I gathered my things, stood up, and left the room. I marched across the campus to my dormitory and stripped it of all my possessions. I never officially left the college, and to most people it would appear that I had simply disappeared.

 

I thought leaving might cure me, but the pain, and the trembling, and the fear persisted. I had an interminable fear that the creature was nearby. I expected it around every corner, behind every door, at the foot of every bed. Over some weeks, I scraped together what little money I had saved and relocated to England, the shivering only comes at night now. That was palatable for a time. Though the effect the creature had on me seems indelible. And that effect was infinitely more profound than anything I saw during the war. Shellshock has yet to strike me again, perhaps too fearful of its competition. The nightmares have changed forever.

 

In the coming days, I sail for the Raj. Perhaps the distance of all Asia will alleviate these pains totally. If not, the lucky pistol has been reloaded. One bullet should suffice.