Short Stories

© Wendy Noble 2003

At first Roy wasn’t sure if he had dreamt the voice or if someone was actually calling him.  He was sleeping alone that night, so he thought he must have been dreaming. Just as he was drifting off, it came again.

“Roy! Wake up, Roy!”

He sat up and scratched his head.

“What?”

The voice was insistent. “Put the light on, Roy.”

He switched on the bedside lamp. A grim stranger stood at the foot of his bed. Roy’s breath caught in his throat as he gaped at the broad shoulders and the muscles straining the sleeves of the man’s black overcoat, buttoned at the neck. Roy was a small man, short in stature and fine-boned. He clutched the bed-clothes to his throat.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Good evening,”  said the man, dipping his head in greeting. “I am Michael.”

For a fleeting moment Roy thought this was a friend’s idea of a practical joke. However, the stony visage of the stranger convinced him it was deadly serious.  “If this is a burglary, you’re wasting your time.”

Michael shook his head.  “Oh no, I am here on business.”

Business?  What kind of person breaks into your house in the middle of the night to conduct business?  Small as he was, Roy wasn’t afraid to assert himself.

“Look, you get out of my house or I’ll call the police.”

Michael smiled.  “I am not leaving, Roy, until I have done what I came to do.”

Roy’s mind raced.  How did this person know his name?  What had he come to do? He couldn’t see any weapon but that didn’t mean the fellow wasn’t carrying one. He forced his shaky legs out of bed, but in the process stubbed his toe on something hard. “Bloody hell!” Clutching his foot, he sat down heavily. On the floor, at the side of his bed, was a large round stone object attached to a length of chain.  “What the blazes is that?”

 “It is a millstone, Roy; of Middle Eastern origin; for domestic use.”

The intruder was obviously deranged. Considering the size of him, Roy could be in serious trouble. He looked Michael straight in the eye and said,  “I don’t know what your game is but I’m calling the police.  You walk into my house in the middle of the night…  What the hell are you playing at?”

Michael sighed.  “I am here because of the children, Roy.”

Children?  Roy didn’t have any children. This had gone on long enough.  He reached for the telephone on the bedside table.  “Right! I’m calling the police now.” The stranger made no move to stop Roy, nor did he make any attempt to leave. He just folded his arms and said, “Proceed.  I will wait until you have finished.”

There was no dial tone.  Roy frowned.  As he hesitated a tempest of shrieking, howling voices burst out of the earpiece.  He dropped the phone, letting it bang against the table.  Michael tipped his head on one side and asked, “Is something the matter, Roy?”

Roy sat shaking his head.  His heart hammering, he looked up at the man. “There’s something wrong with my phone.”

Michael’s lips twitched as he moved closer to Roy. “No, there is nothing wrong.”

Still shaking his head and trying to catch his breath, Roy argued, “There’s a noise -- a dreadful noise.”

“It does not come from your phone, Roy.  Listen!”

 A thundering wave of the same ghoulish sound broke over him.  It was as if the room was full of moaning, weeping, shouting people. The raw pain of their clamour overwhelmed him. He clamped his hands over his ears and bent his head to his knees screaming, “Make it stop! Please, make it stop!”

Silence. Roy hauled himself back up and looking at the stranger in disbelief whispered, “Who are you?”

“I am Michael. I am a messenger.”

“A messenger?  Who for?”

“I am sure I do not have to tell you that.”

Roy shook his head in confusion. “What was that sound?"

“It is the children, Roy.”

 “Look, I don’t have any children. Just tell me how you made that sound.”

Michael unfolded his arms and pointed at Roy. “I did not make the sound. You caused it.”

Roy’s head was swimming. None of this made any sense. He glanced at the clock. Three in the morning!  No wonder he was feeling light-headed.  The bottle of whiskey in the living room was calling his name.  He looked longingly at his bedroom door, calculating the distance.  “I don’t know what your game is, mate, but you’ve had your fun, now clear off.”

Michael didn’t budge.  “I am here because of the children, Roy.”

“I told you, there are no children!”

“But Roy, you have just heard them.  That noise was the sound of their suffering souls, the wailing of despair.  You made that happen. Of course, they are not your children. You are not their father, but you know what I mean.”

The pit of Roy’s stomach crawled.  “No, I don’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I’ve never hurt any children. I love children.”

Roy loved them in a very special way, and he knew they loved him.  He stood up.  “Get out, and take this bloody stone with you!”

Roy wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Michael seemed to grow taller and even more grim.

“The millstone is for you, Roy.  You have earned it. I shall be placing it around your neck in a short while and then we will go to the ocean for your swim.”

“Swim?   I’d drown with that great thing around my neck.”

“You will, Roy, but I shall make sure it takes forever.”

“Oh god, you’re going to kill me!”

“No. I intend to give you your millstone in the appropriate manner. I will not kill you, but you will spend an eternity dying.  It is because of the children.  You cannot say he did not warn you.”

Roy’s heart leaped into his throat.  “Who?”

“Come now, you are a priest. You know who.” Michael dropped his hand on to Roy’s shoulder.  “He cannot let this go on.  The children are precious to him.”

Roy shook Michael’s hand off and leant away from him.  “What are you?”

“Is it possible you still do not know? Not all of us have wings.”

“Wings?” Roy frowned. “What, you’re some kind of giant fairy?  Well Wendy isn’t here, Peter Pan.”

“Come now, Roy.  You know who and what I am. I am Archangel Michael.”

Shaking his head in disbelief Roy said,  “No!  I don’t believe in angels.  There’s no such thing.”

With his right hand, Michael picked up the millstone as if it were a discarded sock. “You may believe what you like, Roy.  It is of little consequence now.”

“You’re crazy. You can’t fool me. I’m an intelligent man, a rational thinker.  No-one with half a brain believes in all that mythical nonsense: angels, fairies. Next thing you’ll be telling me, you flew here on a magic carpet!”

“As I said, it is of little consequence now. I am here to execute justice.”

Roy looked frantically for a way to escape.  He was trapped between his bed and the madman who threatened him. In desperation he lunged past his assailant but Michael grabbed him effortlessly with his left hand saying,  “You cannot escape your destiny.”

“I’m sorry,” gasped Roy.  “You must have me mistaken for someone else.

Did someone hurt your son? Or maybe, you’ve had a troubled childhood? Have you tried therapy?”

“Why do you persist with this foolishness? We both know what you are.”

“And what’s that?”

“You are a child’s worst nightmare: the monster in the wardrobe; a destroyer of innocence; a despoiler of love.”

“No, no. You’ve made a terrible mistake!”

“There is no mistake.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Kevin Brooks, aged 7; Colin Davis, aged 6; Simon Evans, aged 8 and 3/4…”

“Stop! You don’t understand.  They’re in the parish choir.  I give them lessons.”

“Roy, we know what happens in these lessons, here in your room.”

“I get it. One of the boys has made up some silly little story and you’ve believed it.  Who are you really?  A parent? An uncle?”

Michael’s eyes flashed. “Stop, Roy.  We know.  You have been seen by the One Who Sees All.  Just because you do not believe me, does not mean it is not so.”

Roy knew that if he screamed, no-one would hear. In the past, that very fact had meant his room was perfect.  He fell to his knees, threw his trembling arms around Michael’s legs and pleaded with him,  “Have mercy?”

“I am. Do you not remember his words? ‘If any one causes one of these little ones to stumble, it would be better for him to have a large millstone placed around his neck and be cast into the sea...’  Believe me, you do not want the alternative.  Be thankful for mercy.  You are a wicked man, Roy.”

Roy began to cry deep gut-wrenching sobs.  “But I love children.”

Michael shook his head.  “No, you do not.  It is an abomination to fill their little hearts with terror in the name of love.  It cannot go on.”

Roy pleaded, “I can’t help it.  I couldn’t stop myself.”

“That is not good enough, Roy. He has been very patient with you but no more. Now stand up.”

Roy didn’t move. With tears running down his cheeks he sat huddled at Michael’s feet. Beating his head with his hands, he whispered over and over, “Wake up! Wake up!”

The following Sunday, the parishioners of All Saints Church were bewildered to see the Archbishop leading the Mass.

“Good morning, everyone. I am sorry to say I have some grave news. Father Roy Higgins was suddenly taken from us, Friday night. He suffered a massive heart attack.”

Sorrow, dismay, bewilderment rippled through the congregation. Men and women shuffled around whispering to the person sitting next to them, or in the pew in front, trying to make sense of this shocking news.

Up in the choir loft several small boys, with shining eyes, sat rigid with hope.

THE END

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