The Confession

Father Matthews stood at the entrance of the Church of the Holy Ghost, bidding farewell to the congregation with a warm, practiced smile. He dutifully shook hands and thanked them, always wishing them well. The last lingering members would slowly work their way down the paved stone stairs.

The church had a more Gothic style, which Father Matthews always admired. Stained glass windows, tall and narrow, would cast crystallized saints and martyrs across the warped and wooden floor, smoothed over from time. Gouges and scratches cut deep, with varnish worn thin from years of foot traffic. Each plank creaked with whispered stories of confessions, prayers, and gossip, echoing the lives from time past.

As some of the congregation filtered out, Father Matthews turned toward the confessional. It sat halfway down the church, nestled in an alcove partially hidden behind a stone column. Its dark wooden frame stood out against the aged stone, and on its exterior hung a weathered cross, older than Father Matthews himself. A few parishioners lingered in the pews, waiting in silence to confess what weighed on their hearts. This part of his calling often left him burdened; some confessions were sorrowful, others left his heart aching long after the words were spoken.

He knew he needed to make some confessions of his own. It had been a few weeks, and like splinters that you can’t remove, he couldn’t confess; he wasn’t ready.

The confessional door creaked open, and Father Matthews stepped inside, settling onto the narrow, timeworn bench. Beyond the screen, candlelight flickered, casting a soft yellow glow that danced like a restless spirit. He folded his hands in silence, waiting for the first brave soul to enter and unburden their sins.

One by one, they came—two, maybe three. Each entered in silence, murmured their confessions, and slipped back into the pews with heads bowed. Father Matthews listened, offered gentle counsel, and spoke the words of absolution, his voice steady through each exchange. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that lingered. Until the final soul entered, and with them, something that felt… different.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been 7 days since my last confession,” the man said. Father Matthews shifted slightly on the bench. “Go on, my child,” he says.

“I hurt someone.”

Silence filled the air, heavy and unsure.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I didn’t mean to. They… they made me do it.”, the man said, then paused, saying nothing more.

Father Matthews let the seconds stretch into the stillness before he spoke. “Do you truly seek forgiveness?”

The man hesitated, “I… I think so.”

“God’s mercy is endless, but you must be willing to step into it. Come back when you are ready to speak fully.”

He remained seated long after the man had gone, listening to the quiet chapel, the distant creak of the old doors. Something about that voice, that pause—it unsettled him. He had heard confessions of every kind, but this one didn’t sit right. Not yet.

The days moved slowly, but Sunday came all the same. The pews filled with familiar faces, the congregation arriving dutifully, just as they always did. But Father Matthews couldn’t shake the memory of last week’s final confession. Something about that man lingered—his voice, his hesitation, the silence between his words. As Father Matthews delivered his sermon, his eyes drifted from the pulpit, scanning the crowd, searching for a face he couldn’t quite remember. A man without a name. A presence without a form.

With the sermon finished, Father Matthews made his way to the confessional. After the final parishioner left, having received absolution, he remained seated—a little eager to see if the mystery man would return seeking forgiveness.

Minutes passed. Father Matthews sighed and began to prepare to leave when he finally heard the faint creak of the door on the other side.

Eagerly, he slid open the screen and waited. He knew the man he had been waiting for was there.

After a few tense seconds, the silence was broken. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession,” the man said.

Without hesitation, “Are you ready to receive forgiveness?” Father Matthews asked.

“You waited for me,” the man replied.

“You left questions unanswered,” the priest said.

The man paused. “And you want answers?”

“Only if they’re the truth.”

The man’s voice grew quieter. “Truth is complicated, Father. Sometimes it looks different depending on where you’re standing.”

“God’s truth does not change.”

Silence again—longer this time. Then, finally, “I did more than hurt them. They shouldn’t have pushed me, it didn’t need to go that far.”

Father Matthews spoke gently, “But you made a choice.”

“You say I chose this… but you weren’t the one carrying it.”

Another pause, the tension built like a freight train.

“You sit there and pass judgment on others—but have you ever been pushed to the edge? Do you even know what it feels like to lose control? I mean… really lose control. To feel something inside you snap—and know you can’t stop what’s coming?” the man said, voice tight with raw emotion.

“No. I bet you don’t, do you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Father Matthews heard the door creak—and he was gone.

For a long moment, the priest remained still, his hand slowly rising to his chest, pressing against it as if something there ached.

He couldn’t explain why, but he suddenly felt out of breath.

For the next week, all Father Matthews could think about was the man in the confessional. Time seemed to crawl, each day stretching longer as he waited for another chance to learn more about the mystery man—if he returned. And deep down, he felt certain he would.

Who had he hurt? What had happened? The possibilities twisted through his thoughts like smoke. Even if it was a serious crime, Father Matthews knew he couldn’t go to the authorities, not without breaking the Seal of Confession. To do so would mean excommunication. A grave sin of his own. One he wasn’t ready to even consider.

He replayed their conversation again and again, turning the man’s words over in his mind. The voice was wrong, off somehow. Not just troubled. There was something else beneath it. Something that felt familiar, but not in any way he could explain.

With mass finished for the day, Father Matthews made his way toward the confessional. As he passed the pews, he noticed they were already empty, no one lingering, no quiet prayers reaching off into the heavens.

Normally, he wouldn’t have entered the booth at all. But today felt different. He didn’t know why, only that he was certain someone would come.

He didn’t have to wait long. The faint creak of the door excited his ears. He slid open the screen.

“Tell me what burdens you, what have you done?” Father Matthews said, his voice steady, no hesitation.

“We are past etiquette, I see,” the mystery man replied.

He paused, then with deliberate calm.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession.”

“Who did you hurt?”

“You already know, it’s been inside you the entire time.”

Father Matthews froze. Both fell into an entangled silence.

The voice was familiar now, too familiar. Not just the cadence, but the inflection. It felt like reliving a memory that had been sealed away, buried under years of denial.

“Inside me?” he said.

No reply.

And then, slowly, Father Matthews realized he didn’t hear the door creak, not this time.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

The reply came like it was whispered directly into his ears.

“You know my sins, because they are your sins.”

Father Matthews yanked the screen open, and no one was there.

Panic surged through him. He threw open the booth and stepped out, scanning the church, but saw nothing. No movement. No sign of another soul.

He stumbled backward, falling against the confessional. The wooden cross above him shook loose and fell, splintering in half as it hit the stone floor.

And then… the memories returned.

The blood. The body. The burial.

He didn’t mean to do it. He promised himself he’d never drink again.

But that night…

That night, everything broke.

Father Matthews fell to the ground, landing hard on his knees. His hands came together in a trembling prayer.

“Oh God… please forgive me. I didn’t mean to do it. I swear—I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. I just… I just wanted it to stop. I was weak. I was lost. I know I don’t deserve it, but please… forgive me. Please have mercy on my soul…”