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

Chapter Seven

“Jesus?” he choked. “How … how can this be?”

Jesus sighed, his shoulders sagging. “A question I stopped asking centuries ago. I know not why our Father has abandoned me to this living grave.”

Peter knew there had to be a different explanation, despite the terrifying creatures clawing towards him. Neither God nor the Rector would allow something so sacrilege. 

Why is this man captive? I’ve never seen him in all my years here. Jesus …Christ … The words seemed impossible.

Peter trembled as he hung the lantern on the wall. The room closed in on him, and he pressed himself against the cold stone in the corner, a few feet away. The monsters reached their arms out, but their moans grew weaker, an eerie silence enveloping them.

“I welcome the quiet,” Jesus murmured, his voice hoarse, as if the weight of time had stolen the sound of his words. “It always comes after the young ones …” His brow tightened with pain. “After we’ve fed, and they’ve drained us for the Eucharist.”

Peter’s breath hitched. The young ones—the orphans? A sickening realization clawed at the edges of his mind, but he pushed the thought away, unwilling to believe.

“You mean these … abominations are a source, too?” 

A grimace twisted the man’s face. His gaze grew distant, his voice tinged with sorrow. “They say the children of Christ carry the blood of Christ.” 

Peter’s heart pounded. This was all too much. His thoughts swirled with questions, but his voice faltered.

Jesus studied him for a long moment. Peter felt the intensity of his gaze, awe and revulsion flowing through him under the scrutiny. Soft weeping drifted from Christian’s cage.

“It’s been many years since I’ve spoken much.” Jesus cleared his voice. “They used to bring me books, and we would talk for long hours. Over time, I became a relic, hidden in the dark except when they come for the blood.”

He sighed. “What year is this?”

“Nineteen hundred and one,” Peter replied.

A wry chuckle escaped Jesus’s lips. “Two thousand years of torture, sacrifice and death. A cruel jes t… the disciples’ potion was supposed to ease my suffering.”

Peter’s heart thudded. This is impossible. Christ’s resurrection had been a triumph of life over death, of hope over despair. This … this was something else entirely. His gut tightened as his memories jumped to the scrolls. 

“I should have died that day.” Jesus spat the words like a curse, his fingers clenching the edge of the table. “Instead, I’ve lingered in this nightmare.”

“You are not the one I know,” Peter whispered, his voice cracking. “The scriptures … they speak of a risen Christ, not this ….” 

Jesus’s eyes softened, his lips curling into a sad, resigned smile. “The truth is not the story you were taught.”

Peter’s eyes drifted to the monstrous figures in the cages, to the decayed hands reaching through the bars. If this is real, if He is real … He swallowed hard. He wanted to run, wanted to turn his back and leave this place behind, but the sheer gravity of the knowledge he had uncovered kept him rooted in place.

“You must set us free from our suffering.” Jesus’s words pierced through him. “Take up the sword and grant us passage to our Father’s embrace.”

“Th-the R-rector will know.”

“No Peter. John the Beloved has been my jailer from the beginning. He and the original Sacred Rite learned to consume just enough not to turn.” 

“Do not speak such blasphemy.” Peter’s heart stuttered as the words crashed into him. “No … no, that can’t be true.” 

He shook his head, disbelief tightening his insides. The image of the Rector and his many years of devoted leadership swam through his memory—a man of righteous faith, guided by God’s will and the tenets of faith. John the Beloved? Peter’s mind reeled, but the pieces wouldn’t fit. It was impossible. The Rector was the shepherd of their flock … maybe a bit dramatic, but a living example of holiness, not the source of these horrors.

A chill swept over him. The Testament of the Resurrection written by John, the one who witnessed, and the last part he read—Αἰώνιον Χρέος, eternal duty. His stomach clenched at the memory of the Rector’s quick, angry reaction at Peter’s inquiry of the text. His mind cleared, zeroing in on the message written in the scrawled handwriting: For in this act, we too bore the cross.

Peter pressed his palms against his eyes to clear the spell cast by this caged man. The bars must be needed to keep this vessel of the devil from spreading such lies.

Jesus’s voice, heavy with weariness, broke the silence. “Have you seen him or the Brethren age? They believe in their own divinity.”

Peter bowed his head, the heaviness of the words crushing his spirit. A cold realization cut through him, sharp as the blade in his hand. The Rector had never changed—not in the way others did. He had remained as steadfast as the stone walls of the rectory since Peter’s youth, his body untouched by time. The Brethren too—none of them had withered. The benefits of devotion, he had thought.

They spoke as if they were divinely untouchable, but he had attributed this to pride and unwarranted self-importance. Could there be some truth here from this forked-tongue stranger?

Lord, what is your command? A peaceful resolve descended over him. His soul knew what he must do. 

He picked up the sword, steeling himself against the desperate faces in the cages. How this happened didn’t matter. He needed to put an end to these unholy creatures.

“How do I avoid getting bit?”