Confirmation

                   Growing up, church was just a part of everyday life. I would dress up, scramble downstairs so my father could help put on my tie. My mother would urge us to hurry with little pats and hums. We'd pile into the car, and off we were. Summer mornings are still cold so far north, you could see your breath early enough in June. Rumbling down the road we mostly sat in silence, but sometimes talked about God, or what we were going to to do for the rest of the day.

                   When we arrived, it was the usual Minnesota affair. Greeters shook our hands as an electronic organ played an ambient hymn. We took a seat in towards the middle, but always chose to sit closer than farther away if the good seats were taken. We wanted the pastor to know we were paying attention. From there it was singing, shaking hands, and drinking the blood of Jesus (Not really of course, we weren't Catholics for heaven's sake). When it all was over; coffee and bars. All of them home-baked goods donated for the divine cause of making sure all who were needy of one would have an after church snack. I stuffed pockets liberally if the given the opportunity. My parents would then talk with their fellow churchgoers, and eventually everyone would start to make their ways home, family by family. Not my family though; we stuck around.

                   We weren't the only ones either, a few other famlilies and young couples stayed too, and after the last person who was not planning on staying left,  a fervor filled the room that used to frighten me. It was that kind of human energy you can feel in a great crowd, but here there were no more than fifteen or so people politely talking about the changing weather. I would always sit with the other children and when it was time for the adults to to go downstairs, we would all wait in the early childhood daycare care room. They couldn't always lock the door to this room, but they always locked the room going downstairs. For the longest time I never knew what they did down there, I just waited patiently and tried to have fun. There were theories among the kids, but you could only make so many assertions in a house of God. We were told to not ask too many questions, and so we didn't. There weren't always a ton of kids, sometimes I would be left almost to myself; often parents would send their kids to visit other kids after church (kid's whose parents would sometimes join our ranks.)

                   If we were not too loud, or there were not very many of us, I swore I could hear many devilish things from the basement. I had an imagination then, and my parents left my door cracked open every night. Sometimes it would be a scream, or a drum. Sometimes I thought I could hear my father's voice, or maybe even my mother's gentle humming. All in my mind of course. I never minded that sometimes up to two hours later, the adults would come back upstairs, and while many parents would come find their kids, several others would step out the back with bulging garbage bags over their shoulders. My parents never acted strangely when they returned to me. We would usually just make our way home from there, and often would stop for ice cream (by this time in the afternoon, the day would have greatly heated up.

                   All this changed though, one Sunday years ago. It was only me and few other children, and we were waiting in the daycare room, flipping through books and throwing the soft Noah's Ark plushies at each other. That morning, we all heard a sound from the basement. With it, the playing stopped, and smiles on our faces left with no intention on ever returning.

                    It was solid thump on the floor below us, followed by a muffled squeal. We froze, and a girl, the youngest among us, started to cry. I found myself unable to to set down the toy in my hand, I just stared through it as my imagination raced. It doesn't take much to scare a kid who is brought up to believe in the Devil, a tears quickly filled my eyes as well. The squealing continued, on and off, and the voices of those we loved began to pop up, yelling at one another. A squeal. A crash. And that was it; one of the other children lost it, and ran for the door. They had not locked the door to the day care this time, and after he found it unlocked he sprinted out yelling for his mom. Panicked, we quickly followed.

                   The sound was even louder outside our little room, and as we ran through the communal hall the struggle downstairs intensified; we seemed then to be right above it. When I reached the door to the stairwell (which was on a side hallway in between the pastors office and the sanctuary), I found the kid uselessly trying to twist the knob and open the door. It wouldn't budge, and neither could I as I heard the shouting now coming more through the door than the floor. I could only imagine what was going on, and my imagination brought me to very dark places. The other childs sobs were reaching a critical point, while I remained to scared to cry. I don't think he could hear sounds approaching the stairs, because if he could, I would think he would have tried to move out of the way.

                   The door burst open, and bloodied, bound figure fell out of it. His hands were tiedbehind his back, and when he tripped onto the floor, he hit it face first. I nearly fainted with shock, but willed my body conscious in my sick fascination with the horrible thing. Bandages covered the face, save one eye that I could see was darting around the hallway rapidly. He was otherwise naked, with long gashes in his arms and sides gushing blood and covering his dirty skin. He squealed horribly with pain and did his best to rock himself onto his knees. I did not see what happened to the other boy (and I feel sick to say that I never saw him again), but I was not about to the hero and find him. I sprinted down the hallway to the end, and crawled under the table where a book of guest signatures sat. A very fake but very lush potted plant weas nearby, and I dragged it towards me for cover. I could see the door, still ajar, and the body still frantically trying to right it self. He was only twenty feet or so away from me, and I could see the dark black stain spreading across the blue carpet where he lay.

                   His moans got loader, but less panicked. He seemed stricken with sorrow, and foI heard what I thought was sobbing. I heard more noises approaching the door from down the stairs, and could decide if I should make a run for the nursery or not. Before I could decide, however, a dark hooded figure slipped out of the door and stood over the moaning body. I could not make out every detail of his magnificent garment from my hiding place, but it struck a terror in me that changed me forever. The figure brought his victim upright, and holding his head back sliced his throat with a dagger I had failed to see right away. The naked man sprayed blood over the walls and floor, gurgling with every failed breath. I looked away, unable to see another thing, but too scared to do anything else yet. Eventually the man disappeared with the body down the stairwell, and once he he was out of sight, I sprinted back to the nursery.

                   I was panicked, and horrified, but otherwise unharmed. The other children were all huddling in a corner, waiting with fearful, teary eyes. I said I had seen nothing, and they believed me. After a few more minutes an adult popped their head in to check on us, and while we seemed scared they told us they left us again saying it would be time to leave soon. An hour later, my parents collected me, and it was over.

                   I didn't look them in they eyes then, and I have trouble now. I can still see the that single panicked eye, and that steady hand swipe its blade in my dreams. I felt like I saw that hand every time my father carved a pot roast. While I have kept this secret for years, I feel that my parents are tired of keeping theirs. They keep mentioning how I am growing up, and how after my confirmation in the next couple weeks, I would see the world in a very different way.