Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Peter sat in the dimly lit Archive, the timeworn second scroll of the Testament of the Resurrection manuscript before him. His fingertip traced along the parchment, the cool texture grounding him as his attention drifted back to the moments after Communion.

The Rector had banished James to a work camp. “Sacrificing for Christ will save the lad’s soul,” the elder had said, but Peter couldn’t shake the memory of the boy’s wild eyes. 

Was the young man’s soul already gone? A chill ran through him.

Although the Rector hadn’t said where, he had assigned Christian to a new parish. Peter couldn’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction; well-earned consequences for the priest’s reckless actions. He frowned, chiding himself for the unkind thought. Justice wasn’t his to decide—only God and the Rector.

His gaze returned to the ancient writing. 

He had promised—he would return the precious scrolls. His resolve had been firm, preparing to do as the Rector commanded. But now, when he touched the fragile manuscripts, an urge to know stirred deep within him. 

Peter pressed his palms to his face, trying to quell the rising pressure. He prayed, God, please, help me resist this temptation. Give me strength … clarity. 

A strange peace settled over him, unfamiliar yet undeniable, allowing his thoughts to sharpen. The sensation drowned out the echo of the Rector’s orders. Was this the Lord’s presence—or simply the intensity of his own desires clouding his judgment? 

He didn’t want to—he knew this was wrong, but something greater urged him on. His fingers shook, tracing the faded ink. 

At first, the text blurred, the meaning just out of reach. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the fog. A sense of calm descended, clarity sweeping over him. He whispered the ancient words, unable to stop himself.

On the third day, we beheld the miracle of His risen form. His eyes shone as if the heavens burned within them, and His touch cold, yet carried the burden of eternal life. 

He hungered, as we all must hunger, yet His hunger was unlike ours. We fed him the faithful and those needing salvation. He welcomed them with open arms. We bore witness, with trembling hands and solemn prayers, for who among us can question the will of God made manifest?

The passage felt familiar. He read on, but a strange unease swirled within him.

He spoke in whispers we dared not question, asking for death to come. Blasphemy aimed at the Lord in Heaven worried us that His trials were driving him to Satan’s path.

Apostle Peter’s prayers to the heavenly Father for guidance were answered after many nights. 

The Lord said, “Partake of His eternal blessing. He has sacrificed to save his followers and their eternal souls.”

The words beckoned him to see beyond the surface, but the meaning eluded him. He pressed harder as he continued. 

Apostle Peter took from Him the cup of salvation, and we watched as the disciples followed, becoming a vessel like Him, but less touched by the Lord. We knew then his gifts could only be given in small doses to the flock.

Peter thought, This isn’t quite right. Potērion … Cup … Maybe it should be gift of salvation, not cup. And the next part—Αἰώνιον Χρέος—what did that mean? Eternal debt? Duty?

He closed his eyelids. Oh Father, grant me clarity for the scripture You called me to. 

A distant screech echoed through the thick walls, followed by a muffled bang. Peter glanced up, not sure if he imagined the sound. Then another sharp cry erupted, as if someone was in pain.

He stood, his legs stiff from the hours of reading. He looked toward the door once more, listening. The noise had stopped. The silence felt thicker now, oppressive. 

He reached for the handle, his pulse quickening. Was one of the Brethren injured?

He stepped into the hall, the chill seeping through his robes. His lantern light flickered, painting shadows around him. When he reached the main corridor, he stopped to listen, not sure if the sound came from the direction of the torch-lit exit or the forbidden path straight ahead.

The muted voice rose, strained and desperate, the words indistinguishable but layered with panic. Something heavy collided with metal, reverberating through the stone and the darkness in front of him. 

He strode forward, a sense of urgency filling him. An inhuman scream rang out, and he froze in his tracks.

He rushed back for the sword he’d left behind in the Archive. He had dismissed the weapon as ritual nonsense, but now, with its sharp blade glinting, he felt a strange comfort having the weapon by his side.

When he reached the main hall again, he slowed, but his pulse still raced. 

Should I get the Rector? That was his command, after all.

A desperate cry echoed again, a shriek of pure terror seeping through the granite. No time for that. Besides, the Rector might not take kindly to another interruption, and after the last time—what if he lost access to the Archive? 

Peter took a deep breath and continued forward. After several turns, he came to a single door with Ego Sum Via etched above it. I Am the Way.

He placed his ear to the wood. Violent crashes and shouts mixed with sobs carried through. He stood trembling.

 Just a test from the Lord, he whispered, trying to gain the courage to enter.

With shaky fingers, he grasped the handle, but the locked door didn’t budge. He pulled out his key ring, hoping none would work. He tried the first silver one. It slid in, but wouldn’t turn. He tried again with another and another. The tight knot in his stomach relaxed a bit. Then the fourth key swiveled and the click of the lock resounded.

Holding the blade out in front of him, Peter inched the door open, the creak of the hinges groaning in a rusty protest. All sounds from inside abruptly stopped. He pressed the opening farther, the dread of anticipation prickling his skin.

As the light spilled into the room, two doors stood before him. Across the top of each, words were carved into the surface. To the left, Per Spiritum Sanctum—Through the Holy Spirit. To the right, Agnus Dei—Lamb of God.

Without the clue of the noises to guide him, Peter took a guess, opening the right, and stepping inside. He held the lantern out, revealing no living creatures.

What is this place? A heavy foreboding descended onto Peter’s shoulders.

The sharp tang of lye hit his nose, stinging his eyes. It mingled with the burn of incense, masking an underlying decay. He gagged, covering his mouth as the thick air clawed at his throat.

In the center of the room, a thick chain, scarred from years of use, ran through a circular link bolted to the stone floor. On each end, heavy iron cuffs waited to clasp around a person’s wrists, forcing them to remain anchored to the middle of the space. Peter couldn’t imagine the purpose of restraining someone like this.

As he stepped further into the room, his lantern’s glow revealed an eerie arrangement. Towards the wall on his right, two wooden platforms loomed in the opposite corners, each attached to the wall about five feet high, accessible by rickety stairs. After someone climbed on top, they could pull up the stairs, sealing them inside, fully enclosed and unreachable as they looked down on whatever fate awaited those below.

Straight ahead on the wall opposite where he entered, ancient symbols marred the surface, faded from centuries of exposure to the damp and darkness. They spiraled and twisted in unnatural patterns, as if mocking the sanctity of the place with their cryptic meanings. 

Peter’s breath quickened as his eyes scanned the room, but he couldn’t make sense of it. He tried to focus, to understand the function of the strange, twisted space. It felt as though he had stepped into something ancient, beyond comprehension.

A violent thud rattled the wall to the left of him. He jumped, his heart nearly flying out of his ribcage. 

His gaze snapped toward six rusted panels set in the left wall opposite the platforms. Thick ropes attached at the top of each panel, their worn fibers still intact, led up to pulleys in the ceiling. The cords twisted through loops and crossed above the room. Three hung down over one platform, three to the other.

The bangs from behind the panels grew more frantic, louder, as though something—or someone—was desperately trying to break free. A wail pierced the air, raw and tortured, sending chills racing down Peter’s spine.

With his heart pounding, the purpose of the pulley system became clear, settling over him like a heavy blanket. The person on the platform could pull the ropes to raise the panels, releasing whatever was behind them—securing themselves above, safe from whatever horrors they unleashed below.

The crashes grew faster, more violent. Low growls swelled from the other side, a sound that rattled Peter’s core. He took a step back, throat dry with fear. The room seemed to close in on him, its purpose clear and horrifying.

Time to get the Rector, Peter thought. 

“Help me!” A fist slammed against the first panel, while the other panels continued to vibrate with collisions. “Please!” the familiar voice begged, tearing at Peter’s soul.

“Brother Christian?” Peter asked, hoping he was wrong. 

“Peter, get me out of here.”