Hard, ancient eyes watched from on high. A crying acolyte, a boy of no more than twelve summers, ran from the cathedral. Wrinkled, white shirt tails flapped over black trousers. Innocence would never return to the church.

Tears of stone. An answered prayer.

So much had changed since he had walked the isles of the cathedral. The living stone floors had been covered with terrazzo, which was warm against his ancient feet. On the south side of the nave, a maple box confessional the size of two horse carts had replaced simple kneelers and screens. The ornately carved box had two doors. Above each were two bare light bulbs, one red and one green. Both red bulbs were lit.

He lumbered toward the confessional, passing through beams of multi-colored sunlight cast through stained glass windows, each depicting a station of the cross.

In the two pews opposite the confessional, dark-clothed men and women, mostly women, heads covered by hand-tatted shawls, knelt in prayer, waiting their turn with Father Guido Guerra.

As patient as he was ancient, he stood outside the confessional. As it had always been, one-by-one the parishioners looked up at him, gasped, stood, and slipped away.

At last, the red light dimmed. The green light lit. The confessional door opened. He held the door for the departing woman. She too looked at him then, crossing herself, quickly made her way from the nave.

He folded himself into the cramped booth. He was not used to closed spaces, dusty air, and starless darkness.

In one wall of the booth a panel slid aside. Through a thin linen curtain, he made out the silhouette of Fr. Guerra.

Finally, I confess. Finally, I set things right.

Father Guerra opened the panel. The parishioner in the booth smelled like cut granite. Perhaps a mason from the hillside quarries. More likely he was a sculptor, maybe a self-important American come to study the masters. "Go ahead, my son," he said.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

Italian. Old and formal Italian. Fr. Guerra did not recognize the voice.

"How long has it been since your last confession, my son?"

"It has been seven hundred years since my last confession."

Italian or not, Fr. Guerra would not be mocked. "People are waiting for real blessings."

"You think seven hundred years was not long enough?"

"My son, I think starting a confession with a lie--"

"If I lie, then I need absolution for my lie. If not, then you need to confess your arrogance. Either way, your vow is to hear my words."

"This is my confessional, and I'm not going to tolerate the insolence of a man who disrespects me and the sacraments."

"This is God's confessional, and no priest should disrespect the sacrament by judging the confessing soul."

"There's a security guards in the sacristy. It would be best if you left."

"A lot has changed since I arrived. After seven hundred years, I have no intention of leaving. I am going to confess."

Father Guerra took a deep breath. He stood, smoothed his cassock, and opened the maple door of the confessional. He stepped out into the cool, darkness of the cathedral nave. The red bulb was still lit over the parishioner's booth of the confessional. "Come out, my son," he said. "We can do this peacefully, or not."

The armed guard in the sacristy heard the father's loud voice and came running, leather belts and chrome buckles creaked and clanked in the cavernous silence. He unsnapped his holster as he ran.

Father Guerra was relieved that there were no parishioners in the pews. Normally, Saturday afternoon confession was the most popular. He wondered what had kept them away.

The confessional door opened. The thing that unfolded itself from within was gray as stone and nearly half again as tall as the guard. Its face was long, with a snout and pointed teeth that protruded from granite-colored lips. Coal black pupils surrounded by red irises glowed in the dim light of the nave.

"Satan," Fr. Guerra said.

The guard pulled his gun and trained it on the monster.

The monster spread gray, bat-like wings outward and upward until they cupped the air above the heads of monster, priest, and guard.

"The Devil," Fr. Guerra said.

"Judging again," the thing said. Its voice shook dust loose from the stone vaults of the nave ceiling. "I was put on the roof of this Cathedral seven hundred years ago to protect it from dark spirits. I have failed God. I want to confess."

The gargoyle swept a huge hand outward with preternatural speed. It grasped Fr. Guerra by the cassock. Gathering fabric in its taloned hand, it lifted the kicking, pissing priest from the floor.

Gunshots echoed in the nave.

The gargoyle's other hand swept down and outward. It backhanded the guard and sent him flying backward through the air. He landed on the pews. Wood splintered. The guard groaned, and lay still.

"I want to confess, priest. Will you hear my confession or not?"

"What. . ." Fr. Guerra said. He clawed at the merciless grip of the gargoyle. "What are your sins?"

"I was set by the Lord to stand watch over his cathedral and keep dark souls from entering. I failed."

"I'm sure he will forgive--"

"I was set there, among my brothers, on the Northeast corner, to watch the sun rise and consider my sins. I murdered the faithful and faithless alike. I ate nuns. I burned villages. And when Christ came to me and showed me his light, I repented."

"I'm sorry. . ."

"No. You are not. Now, I have returned to my former form. I am given new life, and I can only assume the sins of my old life are forgiven." The gargoyle lifted Fr. Guerra high and shook him. The father's teeth cracked against one another. He spit out fragments of tooth.

"For seven hundred years, I watched the day renew itself, a mirror of the mystery of faith and resurrection. Now, I am one of the faithful. Now, I know what it is to sit so still that you are an inward extension of the consciousness of God, that you become a thing inside of time and space, that you are, was, and ever shall be."

"Are you baptized?" the father managed.

The Gargoyle laughed. The vaults shook. The red bulb shattered. The glass fell, clattering and tinkling against terrazzo. "I was baptized, and with my anointment I turned to stone. Now, I am turned to stony flesh once more. Now, I right the wrongs and expel dark souls from this sacred place!"

Fr. Guerra screamed.

His hard heart warmed as he lifted the corruption wearing a cassock and surplus over his head. With the ease of a child tossing a doll, he launched Fr. Guerra through the stained glass window at the twelfth station of the cross.

Pure, white sunlight poured into the nave. The gargoyle knelt in the sun and folded its wings. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven hundred years since my last confession."

The confessional door opened.

The End

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