The Ghost of Brother Patrick

A look of patient surprise crept across Diving Hawks bronze face. "No, I did not. Why do you ask such?"

Brother Fred had come to trust Diving Hawk over the past several weeks. Although from a completely different world, and certainly not university educated, Diving Hawk possessed an innate human intelligence that made his an excellent judge of character. Brother Fred believed him at his word. "Last night, my crucifix was turned upside down on the wall."

"What is a crucifix?" asked Diving Hawk, rubbing his chin.

Brother Fred pressed his lips tightly together as he saw the mirth in the man's eyes. "I believe you already know."

"Yes, it is coming back to me. Do you like my picture?" he asked motioning to the deer skin stretched between to large posts.

For the first time, Brother Fred noticed the painting. Depicted on the hide was a likeness of a large owl sitting atop a totem pole. "What does it represent?"

"Nothing in particular," said Diving Hawk with a smile. "So you say your holy object was turned over?"

"Not only that, it was nailed to the wall," said Brother Fred.

"And this happened when?"

"Last night while I slept."

Diving Hawk turned his head and watched a couple of children run by chasing a dog. "And the noise did not wake you?"

"There was no noise," replied Brother Fred.

Diving Hawk's face grew stony. "That sounds like a visit from the other world."

"There is no other world," said Brother Fred shaking his head condescendingly. "Only the Kingdom of God."

"Oh really? And where is that?" said Diving Hawk without missing a beat.

Brother Fred turned a shallow crimson and stomped away. Diving Hawk returned to his work.

As Brother Fred knelt by his bed in prayer, he began to smell smoke. The odor grew stronger and the cleric was sure the building was on fire. He ran out into the passage and all was normal; no smoke, no fire. He went back in his room, and resumed his prayer when the smell once again permeated the air. This time it was stifling, suffocating. His eyes watered and his head felt like it was in a press. Groping, he stammered to the hall where once again, the house was no burning. Now badly shaken, he cautiously re-entered his room. The air was clear and clean, and a gentle breeze blew in through the open window. He searched the room, and went to bed convinced it was all in his head. Soon after he fell asleep, his subconscious started to hear a sound, like a mute trying to scream. The grunting grew louder and louder until he started to slowly open his eyes. The figure standing before him was a burnt, festering human, smoke still sizzling off his fried flesh. He was grabbing at Brother Fred's shoulders making that terrible muted scream. The pain in its eyes scorched into to the cleric's whose own screams were only interrupted by Brother Ezra shaking him into reality.

Brother Fred sat in a state of trembling hysterics as the older monk poured bourbon into a small metal cup.

"Drink this," he said handing the cup top Brother Fred.

"He? it was real? the man was burnt?I could smell?" he said babbling incoherently, trying to grasp the cup with terrified shaking hands. When Brother Ezra let go, the cup tumbled to the flood, but Brother Fred barely noticed. Brother Ezra patiently poured some more liquor, and this time helped Brother Fred drink it down.

"That room has been doing that for a long time," said Brother Ezra as he lowered his heft into the chair across from Brother Fred. "We usually get someone new about once every year or so, but they never last. They come to us, start doing their missionary work, and then just go crazy. The last friar hanged himself."