Father Wayland never much cared for Halloween. He couldn't fathom why parents would allow their children to run amok through town every year impersonating hideous creatures while begging for handouts from strangers. And the sugar! Nothing rots a child's brain quite like a bucket of sugar. A truly deplorable holiday, if it can even be called a holiday at all.
The forty-eight-year-old priest swiftly parked his car along a curb swarmed with crispened leaves and exited with a heavy sigh. The two nuns who usually assisted him with these appointments exited as well.
Father Wayland inspected the suburban neighborhood with obvious judgement. He rolled his eyes at the tacky Halloween decorations up and down the street. Skeletons littered across underwatered lawns. Pumpkins left on porches to rot. Plastic limbs protruding from the ground in an attempt to escape their graves. A mockery, all of it.
Father Wayland nearly jumped out of his polished dress shoes as he passed what must have been a motion-sensor figure designed to cackle loudly at unsuspecting pedestrians. He took the gray-haired, crooked-nosed, wart-riddled figure to be a witch -- a poor imitation of one at that. The obnoxious laughter followed him for the next two blocks.
He hoped to be done with this mess before trick-or-treating commenced. He had no intention of leaving his house at all today, but all plans for prayer and solitude were interrupted when he received a call from a fretful married couple in his congregation. Tom and Linda Miller shared with him their deep concerns for their eighteen-year-old daughter, Rachel. She's been dressing herself in dark clothing and black makeup and calling herself a vampire. The Halloween holiday has only emboldened this behavior. Any other set of parents might think this is simply a teenager going through a goth phase. Thank goodness Tom and Linda had the sense to see the situation for what it truly is: a young girl being tempted by the devil.
"Is our daughter a devil worshipper?" Tom had asked Father Wayland on the phone earlier that morning.
Father Wayland was an honest priest. "She very well might be. It's clear that the devil has penetrated her young and impressionable mind. You needn't worry much longer -- I've much experience with matters such as these."
Surely, the three of them looked very ominous walking down that street, a priest and two nuns dressed all in black, wearing solemn expressions at odds with the cheerful holiday. Father Wayland carried his bible while Sister Esther and Sister Ruth carried a small trunk between them.
He arrived at the Millers' house with a job to do.
Father Wayland surveyed Tom and Linda's modest, two-story house with a sense of pride. The pair were a good, church-going couple who didn't concern themselves with such nonsense as Halloween decorations or trick-or-treating, the only level-headed people left in this neighborhood.
Mr. Miller opened the door before Father Wayland's knock could land, clearly having been watching from behind the curtains. He quickly ushered the three of them inside.
"Is this an exorcism?" Linda's fear was prevalent in her shaky voice, the word 'exorcism' barely more than a whisper on the woman's tongue.
"It's really more of a 'cleansing', Mrs. Miller. I'll need the two of you to stay downstairs while my assistants and I examine your daughter. Don't be alarmed by any sounds you might hear -- that's to be expected during the cleansing process. I'll also need to lock the door in order to prevent her from escaping. Do I have your permission to proceed?"
Tom Miller shifted on his feet. "Anything you need, Father. We know that you'll take good care of Rachel. Thank you again for coming on such short notice."
"Of course, Tom. It's my sacred duty to care for members of my congregation."
The girl sat unsuspecting in the center of her bed, her face heavy with black-and-white paint, studiously focused on an unmarked volume clutched between her hands. Black nail polish glistened at her fingertips. She didn't notice the priest standing in her doorway until he knocked softly, the sound seeming to wake her from a stupor. She looked up from her book and frowned.
Rachel Miller used to be pretty. She was a rather petite girl with a heart-shaped face and big doe eyes, a set of features that surely allowed her to escape punishment throughout her childhood and adolescent years. Her previously golden locks had been dyed pitch-black, save for an attention-seeking purple streak on the left side of her head.
Father Wayland knew just how to handle this one.
Recognition surfaced in Rachel's eyes. "Father Wayland? What are you doing here?"
"Your parents are worried about you, Rachel. They're concerned about your recent behavior. The makeup, the clothes, ditching school. Surely, you know that you're causing them a great deal of stress?"
She tossed her book on the bed and folded her arms across her chest. "So, what, they asked you to have a talk with me? Nothing you say is going to change me, you know. It's not a phase." The protruding of her lower lip and the hard set of her jaw suggested the girl intended to be difficult. Good. "I'm a vampire!"
"I believe you," said Father Wayland, rather agreeably. He strode into the room and sat calmly on the edge of her bed. "I have to tell you: real vampires don't go walking around dressed like goth teenagers. They are discreet creatures who go unnoticed during the day and stalk their prey at night."
