AND GOD WAS WATCHING

Many years ago, when I was much younger and less wise to the things of this world and the next one, I was introduced to the idea of the supernatural in a completely random manner. A taxi strike in Rome caused me to miss an early morning flight, which led to a last-second train ride to Milan to try to catch a late afternoon plane across the Atlantic.

The best they could do was get me to Frankfurt, where I spent a day waiting on an Aer Lingus connection to Boston, where I could hop to Chicago and catch the final leg home to Los Angeles. None of this panned out as an east coast storm diverted our craft to Toronto, which was snowed in for the night.

The travel logistics are neither here nor there as far as the tale I am about to recount except to underscore that I was in a harried condition, trying to sleep on a terrazzo terminal floor, when a spritely old man began telling me a story from his youth. The following is a word-for-word repetition from the account that was seared into my memory from that frosty evening stranded in a Canadian airport:

The Halls

The masters in our school were very hard, very hard, indeed. Brother Kelly, he was the spitting image of the grim reaper, if ever I did see one. He had a tall, bony physique, with a ratty, faded, old, black cassock hanging down to the floor. His eyes were sunk so deep into his head that no one could tell what color they were. Amongst us boys, the word was they were fiery red.

Brother Kelly was the enforcer of hall discipline, which he upheld with an iron fist, or more accurately put, with iron knuckles. As the boys were all bent over scrambling to root out books and supplies from their lockers, old Brother Kelly would glide down the tiles and rap random pupils on the back of the head. That ancient devil had his knuckle roll perfected to such a fearsome degree that you could feel his sharp thwack from your skull all the way down to your toes.

Now, this academy was an athletic powerhouse, mind you. None other than one of the legendary Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse from the University of Notre Dame’s football team played there. The building was stacked full of strong, athletic boys who mostly spent their nights tilling fields, mending fences, or pulling some weekend hours in factories making a little extra for their families. No shrinking violets were they. But as Brother Kelly inspected the line in the hall, all these brawny boys ducked and dodged in desperate attempts to evade those fierce knuckles. Few succeeded, as howls rang through the air into town.

“Ow, ow! Brother Kelly, Brother Kelly, what’d I do? What’d I do?”

The hissed response was always the same.

“You did something wrong. You know what it was – and God was watching.”

His long, bony finger pointing menacingly in your face left absolutely no room to question that he was right.

I was a quiet one, you see, and rather bookish. For the most part, I stayed out of Brother Kelly’s target range. I had exemplary marks in Latin, which helped, and he knew my mother had died shortly before I enrolled at the academy, and I suspected he had sympathy for that because he had lost his family in the famine, way back when. Now don’t go telling any of the other Brother Aengus Academy boys that I said the Grim Reaper had a secret heart of gold ‘cause, to this day, they’d beat me worse than he ever did to anyone for making such a claim.

But anywhoo, one could only avoid the iron knuckles for so long, and eventually my number came up. It was bound to happen at some point, and to my great fortune, my oversight happened to fall on an important feast day. I had gotten to school shortly before the first bell rang so was rushing to grab a trigonometry book and slide rule out of my locker, splayed on the floor rooting around frantically, when the blow came.

CRAAACKK!!

The smack was so loud that anyone unfamiliar with this brutal academic environment would have assumed thunder struck or a forklift dropped a heavy crate onto concrete. I was too dazed to hear much of anything as I clutched my throbbin’ noggin.

“Brother Kelly, Brother Kelly, what’d I do? What’d I do?” yelped I, with not much originality.

His deathly pointer finger jabbed repeatedly at my chest.

“Your socks, Mister McMannon, your socks. What color are they?” said he.

Now, I won’t repeat precisely what words went through my mind for the sake of propriety, but let’s just say I knew instantly he had me busted, dead to rights.

“Uh…” gulped I, and looked down, not wanting to admit the transgression. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what color your socks are, boy?” said he. “Are you colorblind? Just look at them and tell me,” yelled he, rotating his knuckles menacingly as if he were warming up for a second swing.

“White, Brother Kelly, my socks are white,” stammered I.

“White, Mr. McMannon says. His socks are white. And what does the dress code say about a gentleman’s hosiery, Mr. McMannon?” said he.

“Statute 13b of the dress code stipulates that dark dress socks only can be worn with the academy uniform, Brother. I am sorry,” said I.

In those days, we had to memorize the student handbook for occasions such as this, you see. The last thing anyone needed was to be sent to the dean’s office. It was like a medieval dungeon in there, with assorted devices of torture hanging on the wall to beat incorrigible boys.

“Yes, 13b, Mr. McMannon. What do you have to say for yourself?” said he.

“I am sorry, Brother. I was running late milking the cows this morning, and by the time I realized my dress socks were soiled, it was too late to do anything about it,” said I.

“I see,” said he, and thought for a moment. “How do you recommend that I address this transgression of the dress code, Mr. McMannon? The dress code is in place for a vital reason, you understand. The second that we allow every young hoodlum to dress however he sees fit, it is anarchy. Total bedlam. And we can’t have that, can we, Mr. McMannon?”

“No, Brother, we cannot,” said I lamely. “Anarchy is bad.”

“So, what should I do with you?”

“Send me to the dean?” I winced, envisioning the hickory cane, cricket stick, and old shillelagh hanging on the dungeon wall to take care of crimes such as this.

“The dean, you say?” said he. “Of course, you are correct. Brother MacIntyre would definitely beat the recalcitrance out of you, but a different tact may be suitable today. Do you know what today is, boy?”

“Um, yeah, um, today is Monday, Brother.”

“No, not the day – the date…”

“Uh, the fifth, the sixth, I’m not sure,” said I, and instinctively flinched, feeling that I was pushing my luck with such flagrant obtuseness on top of a criminal dress code violation.

“Today is Sept. 8, Mr. McMannon, and you know what Sept. 8 is, surely,” said he.

“Sept. 8 is Our Lady’s birthday,” whispered I.

“Yes, it is Our Lady’s birthday, and I do not think the Blessed Virgin would want me to send you to Brother MacIntyre this morning,” said he. “Instead, after third hour, go to the chapel and recite the Sorrowful Mysteries for the repose of the soul of Brother Aemon. He passed onto his reward a while back. You may not know of him, but he was the hall monitor of this academy when I was a student here.”

“Brother Aemon… Yes, Brother, I will do that.”

“You soft boys today think this discipline is harsh, but we were just off the boat in those days. Times were tough, and the punishments reflected the times. Do you understand, Mr. McMannon?”

“Yes, I understand, Brother Kelly,” I lied.

I had no idea what he meant, but I had just been granted a rare reprieve from the Angel of Death so dared not inquire further into a philosophical fine point about corporal punishment.

The Chapel

Calculus, chemistry and theology classes flew by in the blink of a fairy’s eye, and before you knew it, the break after third hour had arrived. I slinked to the gothic chapel, shadowy with no lights on save for a few flickering votive candles along the walls, and knelt before the statue of Our Lady of Knock. I rattled off the Credo, the Pater, a few Aves and Glorias when I heard soft weeping echoing from somewhere in the cavernous structure.

Someone didn’t avoid MacIntyre’s wrath today, I thought, and continued tolling my Rosary beads.

When I got to the Scourging at the Pillar, the second of the Sorrowful Mysteries, the wailing got so loud that I could not think straight enough to repeat memorized prayers I had said a million times before. Scanning around the arches and columns, I spied a faint figure laying prostrate on the stone floor in front of the white, marble statue of Brother Edmund Aengus, the founder of the Congregation of Celtic Christian Friars that ran the academy and countless more schools in the Americas, Australia, and mostly Ireland. As we were constantly reminded, Brother Aengus and his confreres formed timid boys into the tough men who wrestled away Irish independence from the British.

I could barely make out the wretched creature at the other end of the chapel, but he seemed to be in great distress, so I hobbled over there, careful to genuflect before the Blessed Sacrament in the sanctuary as I crossed the center aisle. As I got closer, it appeared to be an old friar, but he became difficult to see in the darkness. I could make out the general contours of a flowing black cassock, but the crying cleric was translucent in the dimly lit space. Looking back all these years later, I am surprised I wasn’t startled by this spectral presence, but I suppose his pathetic countenance clearly posed no threat.

“Excuse me, Brother, are you alright? Can I help you?” said I, softly.

His sobs halted, but he did not look up.

“May I bring you something?” I asked and went to put my hand gently on his shoulder, but it passed straight through him.

“What’s your name, lad?” croaked he.

“McMannon, Brother. Sean McMannon, at your service, Brother,” said I.

“Thank you, Mr. McMannon, but you shall not want to have anything to do with this poor, condemned soul,” said he.

“Why is that, Brother?” said I.

“Many, many years ago, I was the Dean of Discipline at this academy. It was a hard, hard time. Hordes of boys flooded these halls, many parentless, with their families dead or stuck back in the old country. The boys were lax. We had to be strict, or they would not have stood a chance to survive in this unwelcoming new land, you see. Well, that is what I told myself anyway. It seemed to justify the beatings by giving it all a purpose.”

“I don’t understand, Brother,” said I. “Without discipline, there is anarchy. Anarchy is bad. Chaos comes from the Devil. Why are you so upset?”

“Enrollment at this academy always has stood at about 500 young men. I was the Dean of Discipline for forty years. How many boys do you imagine I harmed over forty years, Mr. McMannon?”

“I couldn’t say, Brother,” said I. “But I have no doubt if you struck a boy, you had cause. Without discipline and order, there is anarchy.”

“Yes, yes, you do know your lines well, I will say that for you, Mr. McMannon,” said he. “Now, run along.”

“I would, Brother, but I’m not done saying the Sorrowful Mysteries yet, but after that, I will rush to Latin IV,” said I. “That is Brother Kelly’s class, and I dare not be late for it.”

“Now which Brother Kelly is that?” asked he. “There are always so many Brother Kellys.”

“Brother Declan Kelly, Brother,” said I.

“Ah, Declan. He was a pupil when I was here. I am afraid to confess that I was quite harsh with that one. Such a willful boy, always stuffing bread rolls in his pockets at the table. One time, I caught him scarfing down Communion wafers in the sacristy. Can you imagine that?”

“No, I cannot imagine even Judas Iscariot himself would do such a thing,” said I, with a genuine passion that surprised me. “What did you do, Brother?”

“I broke his arm, Mr. McMannon. That is what I did. He was struggling to get away, and I jerked his arm, and it snapped like a twig.”

“Indeed, that does sound horrid, Brother, but I am certain you didn’t mean it,” said I.

“Oh, didn’t I?” said he. “I am not so certain, lad.”

“But he was disrespecting the Body of Christ, Brother. I… I… I don’t know what anyone should expect would happen,” said I.

“That’s just it, young man. The hosts were not consecrated,” said he. “They were still just bread.”

“Oh.”

“Oh is correct, and that is why I am forsaken. I relished the violence – and God was watching.”

“Surely, there is always hope, Brother,” said I.

“Not for me,” said he.

“What do you mean by that, Brother?” said I.

“I guess I was always shooting for Purgatory, which turned out to be overly ambitious,” said he.

“I don’t understand,” said I.

“As you know, Purgatory is where a soul goes if it is not damned but needs to work off some penance to purify itself so that it is spotless enough to sit with God in heaven,” explained he.

“Yes,” said I. “But there is always time, Brother. It is never too late.”

“Bless you for thinking that, Mr. McMannon, but you had better finish your Rosary and get to Declan’s class before the bell rings.”

“Yes, Brother,” said I, and turned on a heel to return to Our Lady’s side altar.

“But first,” he interjected after my back was turned. “May I ask for what you are praying, lad? On Our Lady’s feast day, you should be saying the Joyful Mysteries and not the Sorrowful ones. Mary’s yes to God is an occasion to be celebrated.”

“Yes, Brother, I agree, but Brother Kelly gave me strict instructions to pray the Sorrowful Mysteries this morning for a very specific intention,” said I.

“And what, may I ask, is that?” said he.

“Instead of sending me to the Dean’s office for a whipping, Brother Kelly instructed me to pray the Sorrowful Mysteries and dedicate them for the repose of the soul of Brother Aemon,” said I.

“Brother Aemon, did he really say that?” said he.

“Yes, Brother. Brother Kelly said Brother Aemon had died a while back, and I should pray the Sorrowful Mysteries on Our Lady’s birthday for the repose of his soul.”

Now, that chapel was typically as silent as a church mouse, but it was even quieter than the grave at that moment. After a long period of silence, I spoke up.

“Brother, is everything alright?”

“Brother Aemon, are you certain that is what he said?”

“Yes, Brother,” said I. “I could never make a mistake about a matter such as that.”

“Pray for Brother Aemon. Declan said that?” said he.

“Yes, that is what Declan – I mean – that is what Brother Kelly said. There can be no mistakin’ it. Why?”

“Why? Yes, why?” said he. “I shall tell you why. Because I am Brother Aemon. I broke his arm. He hated me. They all hated me, those untold thousands of boys, and with good reason, I won’t deny that now. But Declan…”

Stunned speechless by staring an apparent ghost in the face, I just stood there, probably whiter than he was, before he continued.

“As I said earlier, which you no doubt took as a figure of speech, there is no room for me even in Purgatory. I was told that I spread too much misery and bred too much resentment for the Church and her institutions during my bitter life that there was almost no chance I could work off all my unforgiven sins in that space between heaven and hell that is set aside for that exact purpose.”

I gasped as he went on.

“St. Peter himself looked me in the eye and said I would wander the halls of this academy forever, stuck between two worlds, unless I could find a mere two boys to ask the Lord for my forgiveness. You see why I am so inconsolable? Thousands of boys went through these doors, but not two…”

“You have two now,” interrupted I. “Brother Declan Kelly, whose forgiveness would seem to lift a particularly heavy weight, obviously forgives you otherwise he would not have told me to pray for your soul. And for what it is worth, which seems to be no small potatoes, I forgive you too. And while I may not have known you in life, I am the class president so am extending an executive pardon on behalf of the student body.”

“God bless you, my boy,” Brother Aemon said, and he smiled with the weight of eternity taken off his shoulders.

And just like that, he disappeared. The pathetic, broken figure vanished before my eyes. I knelt alone in the chapel and finished the Rosary in thanksgiving for the mercy that is open to us all.

Brett M. Decker is a New York Times bestselling author who has written for The Wall Street Journal, New York Times, and USA Today. Currently the Endowed Chair of Leadership at Northwood University in Michigan and a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts in London, he received his doctorate from the University of Southern California and is completing a master’s degree in creative writing at Harvard. Dr. Decker’s fiction focuses on horror and individuals grappling with whether the supernatural is real or a product of the imagination. His most recent book is Crypto Witch (2024).