The Confession: Chapter 3
Westbury takes a picture down from the wall. He gives it to Romero. It is a black and white photograph from World War 2. There are three men in the photograph. All of them wear U.S. pilot uniforms. They all look to be in their early twenties.
“You served in the war?”
“I am the one on the right.” At first Westbury seems proud but then he shakes his head. “Such a senseless tragedy. All of those deaths.”
“You believed in the cause.”
“Young men always believe in causes. There are always reasons to fight. One war leads to the next leads to the next. This is what you realize when you live a very long time.”
Romero hands the picture back to Westbury who carefully places it back on the wall.
Westbury takes off his robe and sits down in a high-backed leather chair. He gestures to Romero to sit in a matching chair across from him. Romero sits down and lets out a little cough.
“Grace can bring some water.”
“No.” Romero is a little too emphatic with this. He is happy to be out of the dining room and under Grace’s command. “We should continue, as before.”
“Yes, we should continue.”
“Did you kill other soldiers during the war?”
“Many men.” Westbury pauses, as if he is deciding whether to finish the sentence. “And women and children, too.”
The last part surprises Romero. He tries to make sense of it.
“Was this part of the bombings?”
“At the time, you are doing what you can to survive, what you are told you have to do to survive, most don’t even think about it, I suppose I was aware, even from the beginning.”
“What happens in wartime is monstrous. What young soldiers must do is beyond tragic. God forgives those who ask for forgiveness. God understands the sacrifices we make.”
“Does he?”
“Yes, he does.”
Westbury gives a sad knowing smile. He does not seem to agree with the young priest. He stands up and walks back over to the wall with the black and white photographs.
“Do you know how old I am?” Westbury does not look at Romero as he asks this question.
“The war was a very long time ago. I could not guess.”
“I was born August 1st…” Like a very old man Westbury searches for the year in his mind. After a second, it comes to him. He says it very slowly. “August 1st in the year 1581.”
Romero squints when he hears the year. It would not be the first time a very old man had told him the wrong year. Westbury seemed more lucid than most, but he clearly is mistaken.
Westbury turns back to look at Romero as he continues. “I am 442 years old.”
Romero adjusts uncomfortably in his chair, wondering if he should correct the senile old man.
“I have carried these sins with me for centuries.”
Romero realizes this has gone far enough, he needs to say something to dissuade this old man of his delusions.
“I think you may be mistaken. Your parents. What year did they pass?”
Westbury smiles at the thought of his long-lost parents.
“I hardly knew them, really, it was such a long time ago. They were so young when they were taken from this world.”
Westbury goes over to an antique bureau and takes out some more black and white photographs. These are not in frames. He tries to sort them with his old fragile hands. He mishandles them and they drop to the floor.
“These damn hands. Could you help?”
Romero quickly goes over to pick up the fallen photos. He looks at them as he picks them up from the floor and stacks them on top of each other. There are many pictures of the same young Westbury as from the World War 2 pilot photograph.
“These are more pictures of you in the war?”
“Yes.” Westbury hands Romero a photo that did not fall. “And other wars.”
It is clearly a photograph from World War 1. The same young man from the World War 2 photograph is in this one. This time he wears a German uniform.
“Who is this? He looks a lot like you.”
Westbury hands Romero another photograph, an even older photograph. It is labeled with the year 1900. It is from the Boer War. It looks like the same young man again. This time in a different uniform again.
“Is this a relative?”
Westbury only smiles in response to Romero’s question.
Romero flips through the other photographs in his hands. He finds one dated 1854. It is from the Crimean War. It is clearly a picture of the same young man, looking exactly the same age as in all of the other photos, in yet a different uniform from the other photos.
“I don’t understand. Why are you showing me this? Are these people relatives of yours?”
“No.”
Romero thinks some trick is being played. Westbury points to the picture on the wall.
“That one is me.”
He points to the World War 1 photo in Romero’s hands.
“That one is me.”
He points to the other pictures of other wars, other times in Romero’s hands.
“That one is me, that one is me and that one is me. I would show you more, but unfortunately, photography is a somewhat new invention.”
Romero recoils. He looks at the photos again. They all certainly look like the same person.
“These can’t be real.”
“I assure you they are.”
“With technology, it is easy to trick..”
“I am not a trick of technology, Father.”
Romero takes a step back away from Westbury.
“You believe in spiritual things, you believe in miracles, in many things that are not part of the known world.”
Westbury opens his arms. “Why can’t you believe in me.”
Romero falls back in his chair.
“You’re not well. You need a doctor.”
“Doctors do nothing for the soul. Your God is the only one who can help me.”
“What?”
“I will properly introduce myself. My name, my original name, was Wilhem Bakosz. I was born and baptized in Gyor, Hungary in the year 1581. I lived for three decades as a normal human being until a devil found me and transformed me into…, well, something else.”
“You need help.”
“Yes, I do. That is why I called for you.”
Westbury takes a deliberate step towards Romero. Romero flinches, putting his arms up to protect himself.
“I know a psychiatrist. He can help you.”
“No. He cannot.”
Westbury takes another step. Romero reaches into his pocket. He fumbles for his phone, frantically, trying to get it out and make a call to someone, anyone.
Behind Romero, there is movement in the darkness once again. A slow-moving figure crawling towards Romero. Romero cannot see this. The creature is hidden from his sight by the high-backed chair. It creeps closer and closer. It looks like it is on all fours. Romero is still focused on his phone. Trying to unlock it with his damn password. He mistypes and tries again.
Westbury takes another step towards Romero. Romero can’t help but to look up and sees something utterly remarkable. With a single step, Westbury has transformed from a frail 100 year old man to the young handsome man in the photographs.
The smile is still on Westbury’s face. He has proven his point to the young priest, who in astonishment accidentally drops his phone to the floor.
The movement behind Romero has now risen above him, the monster, the creature, rising high on its hind legs, Romero unaware, transfixed on the image of a now young Westbury standing before him. Westbury takes another step. He transforms back again, to the frail old man, the smile still on his face.
Romero desperately reaches down to his phone to call 911, but it is too late the figure from the darkness behind is now on top of him. It is Grace, transformed into a six-armed monster. She wraps Romero with all of her arms. He looks up. His world turns to black.
Next Chapter: Chapter 4
Previous Chapter: Chapter 2