My Lanky One

1

March 27

Father Moritz, a kind old man, sat on a worn wooden bench in the peaceful surroundings of Statue Park. He had a penchant for admiring spots that commanded respect and reverence. The hulking bronze statue of Finbar Kelly, an American Civil War General, depicted him on horseback, with its front hooves raised.

Four soldiers closed in on him, their rifles and bayonets gleaming in the sunlight as they prepared to charge. The General held his sword high, its gleaming blade reflecting the sunlight, while his mouth contorted in a fierce battle cry, "Faugh a Ballagh, you bastards." As per the commemorative display, that was the reported fact.

The breathtaking scene before him filled him with profound admiration, and he realized the immense courage and selflessness displayed by people who'd fight and die for those they never met.

With his heroic actions, General Kelly earned the admiration and respect of the good priest.

As he sat taking in the first sunshine of the morning, he felt the warmth of the rays on his face. It was an honor to include one more, yet he couldn't help but yearn for a more suitable way to safeguard and nurture them as he laid them to rest in the depths of the five fathoms they had given him charge of.

While contemplating the burrowing dilemma and musing about the relation between the great Finbar Kelly and the corporal he had encountered weeks prior, a young woman unexpectedly joined him on the bench.

"Good morning, Father," she said.

He watched as she put the brakes on her baby stroller, holding a toddler, wearing a pink knit hat, fluffy pink jacket, and tan and white boots.

His smile was radiant, and it infected the young mother, who welcomed his presence.

"She's a wonderful little girl," said Father Moritz. "So precious and delicate. May I ask her name?"

"Of course, Father," she said and smiled. "This little cutie here is Trinity."

His eyes sparkled, and cheeks raised to show his teeth with delight.

"A Beautiful name for such a handsome little girl," he said. He was ready to converse with the young mother on a lovely sunny morning, but her cell phone rang. And almost as quickly as it rang, she picked it up and put it straight to her ear.

Father Moritz heard bits and pieces of another woman raging on the other line. The vulgarity and words used by today's women still shocked his old-world sensibilities.

"I freaking know, right... It's awful, yes—" said the young mother. He strained to listen as the woman on the phone seemed frantic. She said something about a concrete factory and a baseball field.

"X-4," said the young mother. "They're calling him X-4."

Father Moritz shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Besides the chaotic burrowing, Father Moritz methodically crafts and executes his work with utmost precision. It is nonsensical to be referred to by such a name. It's a shame because his work remains undiscovered, along with his immense power in giving his litter their freedom.

"I heard he is a Satanist and that he kills for the demons who possess him." The young mom crossed her legs and turned her back toward Father Moritz.

"Well," he said, his tone betraying a mix of surprise and uncertainty. His abruptness was palpable as he stood tall and cleared his throat. "Demons. So much rubbish, as if they only knew."

He looked at Trinity, who was peacefully cooing in the stroller. She was at that stage where she could manage her sippy cup and keep herself entertained. While her mother chattered away, she laced her words with foolishness and vulgarity.

Perhaps I'll visit you tonight just to emphasize how your foolish exuberance overestimates the size of demons.

While he stood there, Father Moritz scowled at her nonchalant attitude, ignoring the sanctity of Trinity.

Truthfully, that approach wouldn't be effective. I wouldn't want you in my litter, disturbing the peace, and I'm not a mindless killer.

2

That evening, after confessions and a long day pondering the improvement of his skill in the final touch, Father Moritz retreated to his bedroom. It was odd that he should feel so empty after his excitement for his Lanky One.

Perhaps his knowledge of the happenings within the Heights, which far exceeded the police, was weighing on him.

It's not the glory I seek nor the recognition.

Father Moritz dressed down in his bare skin and paced throughout the room. Every time he passed the drafty stained glass window, he'd stop. He'd stroke himself for a minute, maybe two, and then continue what seemed to be an endless cycle of steps and masturbation.

It had been five years since he completed the act of self-ejaculation with his own hand. And when he stopped at the window, felt the breeze, and remembered a primal encounter with a special visitor to the abbey. And that was all it took for him to finish.

Well, it's better than I remembered, but not like your touch, my witch.

He cleaned himself up with the water from his basin and took a fresh pair of boxers from his drawer. After he slid them on, he sat on the edge of the bed.

What was her name? The Abbess, Martha? No, no... It was a Gaelic name... Mere, Mure... no. Murron, yes, her name was Murren, and oh, that red hair and those moist lips. If there could have been one, a wife, perhaps, then it would have been Murron, a reformed spell caster seeking penance and asylum from her wicked path.

He laid back on the bed, allowing his imagination a moment to see into the future of what could have been.

Oh Murron. If only you stayed an abbess. I would have taken you away and made you mine. Instead, I had to kill you because you weren't a genuine believer.

He looked toward his end table and saw his writing parchment and pen. The thoughts came together as he sat up and thought of his dearest Maxine.

His energy surged as he leaped from the bed, fully understanding why he'd been so down. And now he would reach out to his new friend, hoping to find catharsis as he exposed his innermost thoughts and feelings.

My dearest Maxine,

Foremost, I must express how honored I am to witness your growth and maturity as a police officer in today's society. You and your partner, Corporal Kelly, wholeheartedly embrace the task at hand, eagerly working together to identify and capture the monstrous entity behind these heinous and unnecessary acts of violence.

Yet, I've found myself increasingly disturbed by the articles and stories in your newspaper and periodicals. My name, for one, X-4, has a quaint feeling, as though they painted it with watercolors and crayons. It is a title that paled compared to the glory of my anointing.

And, from what I've gathered, there is a prevailing notion I am infatuated with the devil. Being compared to those mindless buffoons who kill without reason was not only preposterous but also deeply insulting. It was like equating a lion to a house cat. They breed young children, their innocent souls destined for sacrifice to Molech, with hearts as dark as night and minds twisted by corruption. I am not without thought. I am constantly engaged in deep thinking and introspection. My search is meticulous, guided by my November witch.

Consequently, I regret that I can only provide a glimpse of my adventures and the experiences that have sparked profound changes within me.

Throughout history, the Holy Roman Church's extensive body of work has explored the dark realms of demonology, delving into bone-chilling tales of witchcraft's horrors. And their conclusions are usually true, based on years of observation and analysis.

I could easily recount the tale of a witch who presented herself to me, her enchanting beauty masking her true nature. In a gesture of compassion, she extended her hand. She offered me a spoonful of her indulgent molasses, assuring me it would unleash the beast within and enhance my hunting prowess as Le loup-garou de Dole.

You see, my predecessor was a fool. An inept peasant who couldn't satisfy his mate, only to be caught by the huntsman. He had no rhyme or reason, nor was there a calling. He was an ordinary illiterate who didn't understand the gift.

Allow this story to guide you on a journey of discovery as you uncover the essence of my transformation.

You are no doubt intelligent. Far more than giving credit for. And I can easily leave small intimations that only you can understand.

But, all aside, may I tell you of my newest pride? She is my Lanky One. Growing up too fast, she grappled with the awkwardness of her body during her yearly growth spurt. I felt a mix of sadness and anger as I witnessed her innocence fade away, unaware of what her life would become. This Lanky One, who showed more of herself than she should, was called by the sweet smells of my November Witch. Amid a snowy tempest, she was crisp and invigorating and, dare I say, delicious.

Here, my dearest Maxine, I must bring this letter to a close, filled with bittersweet emotions. Thoughts of you frequently cross my mind, and I long for a chance to share a cup of tea.

I am, dear lady, most affectionately yours,