Chapter 3: A Lesson in Screaming
The scent of old wood and damp wool hung in the rectory hallway the next day, a quiet that felt different after the shared laughter over Dexys Midnight Runners. Jud found himself humming the tune, a private, silly smile on his face as he navigated the gloom. He’d seen Paul only in passing, a shadow at the end of a corridor, a murmured greeting before a funeral meeting. The memory of Paul’s unguarded face, soft in the cassette player’s glow, was a small, warm stone in Jud’s pocket.
Evening bled into the kitchen through a single grimy window. Jud attacked the tower of dirty dishes, the rhythmic scrub and rinse a kind of penance he didn’t mind. The only sounds were the squeak of porcelain, the gurgle of the drain, and the hollow whir of the ancient refrigerator.
Then the air split.
It wasn’t a sound from this world. It was a guttural, wet roar—a BLEGH—that ripped through the quiet from the adjoining church hall. It was followed immediately by a shriek so demonic and layered it seemed to have multiple throats.
Jud shrieked himself, a high, thin sound. The plate in his hands plunged into the soapy abyss. Suds splashed his cassock. He stood frozen, heart hammering against his ribs, water dripping from his trembling fingers.
Another roar echoed, lower this time, a seismic growl that vibrated in the floorboards. It was coming from just beyond the kitchen door.
Possession. The word, a ghost from his old, fire-and-brimstone upbringing, flickered in his mind. He saw a shattered stained-glass window, a frothing mouth. His hand went to the crude cross around his neck.
He crept forward, every nerve alight. He pushed the swinging door open a crack.
The vast, dark church hall was empty. The noise had stopped. Then, a different sound: a faint, tinny guitar riff, cut off abruptly. A click.
Silence, thick and heavy.
The kitchen door swung the other way and Paul walked in, looking flushed and harried, an old smartphone in his hand. He saw Jud, pale and wide-eyed by the sink, and stopped dead.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Paul’s expression cycled through alarm, understanding, and then profound, mortified embarrassment. His pale skin, usually so stark, blotched with a deep, human red.
“Jud,” he began, his voice strangely hoarse. “Did you… hear any of that? The, ah… the screaming?”
Jud nodded slowly, unable to form words.
Paul closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I am so sorry. That is… not a sound typically associated with spiritual guidance.”
“Was that… you?” Jud managed, his own voice a croak.
A wry, pained smile touched Paul’s lips. He held up the phone. “A demo. From a lifetime ago. Before the collar.” He took a breath, that ancient sadness swimming up behind his eyes. “I was in a band. A metal band. A bad one. Sometimes… sometimes the urge to make the fun noises just wins. I thought the hall was empty.”
The tension shattered. A laugh bubbled out of Jud, unexpected and loud, cracking the last of his fear. “A metal band?”
“You’re looking at the former vocalist and lyricist for Golgotha’s Grin,” Paul said, the blush deepening. “Our biggest gig was a Tuesday night at a truck stop near Scranton.”
Jud laughed harder, leaning against the counter for support. The image was too perfect, too beautifully absurd. Father Paul, with his gentle hands and weary eyes, once screaming into a microphone for bored truckers. Jud tried to imitate the sound he’d heard, pushing air from his throat. What came out was a strained, raspy wheeze, like a bicycle tire deflating.
Paul’s face transformed. The embarrassment melted into genuine, crinkle-eyed amusement. He laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled the dingy kitchen. “Oh no. That’s a surefire way to shred your vocal cords for a week.”
“Teach me,” Jud said, the request out before he could stop it.
Paul hesitated, the laughter fading into something more tender, more dangerous. He looked at Jud’s open, expectant face. “Okay. But not from the throat. You’ll ruin yourself.” He stepped closer. Jud could smell the faint, always-present scent of old books and frost, but underneath it, something like ozone after a storm.
Paul placed his own hand low on his abdomen. “It’s from here. The diaphragm. It’s a controlled push.” He took a deep, slow breath, his body stilling. Then he let out a short, sharp ‘Blegh!’ It was compact, powerful, and oddly crisp. No demonic possession, just technique.
“Your turn,” Paul said. “Hand here.” He gestured to his own stomach again.
Jud mimicked the placement, his fingers pressing into the rough fabric of his cassock. He took a breath, pushed.
A pathetic, airy cough.
Paul shook his head, still smiling. “May I?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped into Jud’s space, his cool, elegant hand coming to rest flat on Jud’s diaphragm, just below his sternum. The touch, even through the layers of wool and cotton, was electric. Jud stopped breathing.
“Here,” Paul said softly, his voice close to Jud’s ear. “Feel it when I do it.” He took another breath, and Jud felt the muscle beneath Paul’s hand tense and release with another practiced, guttural bark.
The intimacy of it was staggering. The guidance, the physical contact in the dim light—it wasn’t like the fumbled, grabbing touches Jud was used to. This was focused, patient. A shared secret.
“Now you,” Paul murmured, his hand still a steady, cool weight.
Jud inhaled, trying to focus on the pressure under Paul’s palm. He pushed, aiming for the vibration.
A rough, ragged, but unmistakable growl tore from him. It was quiet, but it was real.
Paul’s eyes lit up. “Yes! That’s it!”
They spent the next hour like that. The dishes got done, scrub and rinse accompanied by attempts at pig squeals and death growls. Paul pulled up songs on his phone, playing snippets at low volume—cascading guitar solos, relentless double-kick drums. He talked about time signatures and lyrical themes of existential dread with the same earnest intensity he used for Sunday homilies. Jud listened, mesmerized, shouting along badly to choruses, his throat growing sore.
They cleaned the entire kitchen. Every surface gleamed, the sink empty, the floor mopped. It was the most fun Jud could remember having.
As they wiped down the counters side by side, a calm settled over Jud. This wasn’t a hyper-religious zealot hiding a monster, or a perfect saint. This was a dorky guy who loved God and loved music where men screamed about hell. A man with room for both. The contradiction made him feel real, safe in a way Jud hadn’t known was possible.
They didn’t talk about faith. They didn’t need to. That was the bedrock, the given. This was everything else—the messy, human, noise-filled everything else that built a life on top of it.
Finally, Paul stretched, his joints letting out faint pops. “I’ve tortured your ears enough. And your vocal cords. Drink some tea with honey.”
“Yeah,” Jud said, his voice raspy. “Thanks, Paul. For the lesson.”
Paul looked at him, the candlelight from the hall catching the dark pools of his eyes. For a second, something raw and hungry flickered there, a shadow of the demonic shriek. It was gone instantly, replaced by a gentle warmth. “Anytime, Jud.”
Jud went to his room, the ghosts of growls still echoing in his chest. He closed the door and leaned against it. His body was alive with a humming tension. The place where Paul’s hand had rested felt branded, a cool imprint that had somehow seared through to his core. He slid down the door to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest.
In the quiet dark, the old familiar shame began to whisper. It mingled with the new, terrifying warmth. His body, his confusing, unwanted body that had only ever been a site of violence or transaction, had been touched with something like reverence. Not for what it could give, but for a sound it could make. A stupid, fun noise.
He touched his own diaphragm, over his cassock, trying to find the echo of that touch. A sharp, sweet ache bloomed beneath his breastbone, so profound it stole his breath. It felt like both a sin and the only true prayer he’d ever spoken. He stayed there on the floor, in the dark, listening to the quiet rectory settle around him, cradling the new, fragile knowledge that Father Paul Hill was just a man. And that was the most miraculous, and the most dangerous, thing of all.