Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Bless Me Father For I Have Sinned | 4 Part Series

Episode Date: September 23, 2021

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Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I joined the clergy to help people to make a difference. For the most part, I like to think that's true. When someone came to me and poured out his soul, it is my obligation to take that confession with me to the grave. There are no exceptions. And those who dig up the details are often excommunicated from the church. You might imagine that there are instances

where this proves to be a crisis of conscience for the pastor involved. I'm here to relate one of those instances to you. Most of you might think by doing so, I am breaking the pastor penitent privilege. But there are certain loopholes which protect me. I will explain them first before we get started. The confessionary will never be named. The events have long passed, and most parties involved are dead. Only God may be their judge now for their actions.

Certain aspects of the account will require a specific time or place. Those portions of the story I will be using public records that do not break the seal of confession. I joined the priesthood at the insistence of my father. He was a priest himself for well over 30 years. There can be no higher calling for a man, he told me, beaming with pride as I announced I had been appointed over a local youth ministry. I felt confident that I could make a difference helping troubled teens since I was one myself. But as soon as I finished my vows, the devil saw to it that I would be tested.

The morning in question was a quiet one. I had just finished cleaning the pews and unlocking the door to our house. chapel when I saw a young man standing not far from me. He was shaking like a leaf. Are you all right? It's nearly 30 degrees outside. You could catch a horrible cold. I called out to him. The boy didn't reply and seemed emotionless. I tried coaxing the boy inside, but he ignored all my efforts. I went back inside the church to finish setting things up for morning worship. After finishing my tasks, I went back outside to see if the boy was still there. To my shock, the young man was still standing out there even though snow began to fall. I went across the chapel to grab a warm blanket

and called out to him from the doorway again. Come in from the cold, my child, I urged him. At first, it seemed like he was going to ignore my offer, but something inside him convinced him to accept. Once inside, I guided him toward the mess hall and remarked, You look like you haven't eaten in days. We have a surplus of food here we save for the homeless. What can I get you? The young man said nothing, tugging at the edge of his blanket and shivering uncontrollably as I took a better look at his appearance. It was no stretch of the imagination to assume that this boy had likely been living on the streets for years. I went to the pantry to grab something for the boy to eat. As I was walking out of the storeroom, he surprised me,

blocking my way. Do you believe in God, Father? He whispered. I smiled softly as I placed my hand on his right shoulder. I think I would be in the wrong profession if I did not believe, my child. I tried to go around, but his feet were planted squarely on the ground, refusing to budge. Something was troubling this boy, and I felt obligated to continue our conversation. If God exists, why does evil exist? Is God evil? The boy asked, as he grabbed my hand. He looked confused and heartbroken, as if someone had taken away his entire world.

Let's sit and break bread. Maybe then I can help you find comfort for your soul, I suggested. reluctantly he agreed and we walked together back to the table where I prepared the meal. Tell me what is troubling you. He fidgeted as he watched me and muttered. I think evil people outnumber good. And that no one protects the good. No one cares.

Not even God. Has something happened in your life recently that has led to this crisis of faith? I asked. He bit his lip and I saw a twitch in his hands. I was right. He was hiding something. My child, you are in the house of God. You can lay your sins bare.

I told him as I pushed the plate of food toward his outstretched hands. I'm not a bad person, he insisted as he started to scarf down the food. We have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. If you come to him in repentance, he can help you, I replied. I've learned over the years that there are certain ways that you can make a person talk, to unburden whatever guilt they have. I could tell that the boy was going to tell me what was on his mind. It was just a matter of coaxing him,

to make him feel at ease. I haven't done anything wrong, the boy answered, getting more upset. Have you ever considered doing something bad? I countered. That questioned seemed to make him more uncomfortable. I didn't want him to completely close off to me, so I changed the topic and discussed our upcoming worship services. You can feel free to attend any of these, I said.

I've thought about hurting people before. Is that a sin? He blurted out. I had to choose my words carefully. I didn't want him to think. that he couldn't open up further to me. I think that God understands we all have sinful inclinations. But it's when we act upon them that it can be detrimental, I responded.

How is something considered a sin and something not? I paused, a bit perplexed by that. Even after all my years as a pastor, it wasn't exactly an easy thing to pin down. God gave us a conscience, my son. If it feels wrong, if you are consumed with guilt, then you know it is a sin, I told him. He mulled over that a moment,

before remarking. So if you don't feel bad it isn't a sin? I sighed. It's a bit more complicated than that, I'm afraid. How are we to decide what we should feel bad about or not? As I explained, our God-given conscience can guide us. It seemed like he was hiding something, but he continued to warm up to me. It was simply a matter of getting him to talk.

I think God punishing the wicked is a sin, he whispered. Because you think it is not always a case of black and white? I guessed. He nodded slowly. God works in mysterious ways. We cannot decide how he perceives sin. Why does God get a free pass? The boy muttered in frustration.

His ways are higher than our ways, I counseled the child. Then I want to be like God, knowing good and bad. He spat out and then looked at me squarely in the eye. Would it be such a sin if I was trying to be like God? I think that if we follow in his footsteps, that's the closest to perfection we can ever come, I told him. The storm thundered loudly outside. The boy finished his meal before thanking me.

You've been very kind, father, he said as he tossed his utensils away. There's no need to leave now. Not in this weather, I advised him. Something told me we should stay here, but the boy wasn't compelled to listen. His desire for vengeance and his quest to write whatever personal wrongs sounded like it had the potential to spill over and cause all kinds of problems if he acted on it. It must be hard being God, he whispered as he stood at the door. Then he left.

I watched him go, concerned by the ominous message of his words, but knew little of what to do about them. Later that same week, I found in the newspaper a good reason for my concern. School shooting renders eight in critical condition at hospital, three more dead, including the shooter, it said. All the Hail Marys at my disposal felt hollow that day. I was certain that by letting him unburdened his soul, I had given that young boy the tools to feel like God. I wonder then, if that made me the devil. Helping people find peace can be a tricky business. Over the years I've come to realize a lot of times people don't know what's the best for them.

When they tell me their deepest secrets, it reveals a part of human nature that I think a lot of us are trying to suppress. That being said, most people don't believe in God. The reason I say this with such certainty is because of an experience I had some time ago. I was taking the last rights of an inmate on death row. It wasn't the first time I had done something like this. done something like this, nor would it be the last. There's something intimate about knowing you are about to die. Suddenly, all the sins you've tried to hide are rushing to the surface. You are desperate to gain salvation no matter what, as though a few moments of truth could overturn a life of lies.

I would be lying to myself if I said that I had pity for this particular prisoner. They had reveled in wickedness to a great degree. So when the warden first contacted me, it told me that they were requesting last rights. I considered denying them. I'd had enough of false piety. But still, that little voice inside told me I needed to go. I think it was God working out his purpose for me. He knew I needed to be there. When I arrived, the warden told me that the execution was scheduled for the next morning. It was not much time to lay bare all the wrongs this prisoner had done. Father, you came. I had started to lose faith, he admitted. As the cell doors opened, I saw that the the prisoner was already shackled to a table to prevent them from doing any harm to me.

The warden has only given us one hour to speak, my child. So if there is something more pertinent on your mind, I recommend that you start with that. I said as I laid my King James Bible down in front of him, I've come to terms with all the evil I have done. Make no mistake, I don't believe that by telling you my demons that I can be free of them, the prisoner told me. His words baffled me. Are you saying you brought me here for simply no reason?

asked in irritation. No, forgive me, Father. It's hard to explain, because I feel it is imperative that I properly reveal to you what has been happening here in this hell, he said. And who are you to decide what is evil or not? I countered. Because all my life, I have slept with it. I have breathed it and experienced the dark. Those who serve the devil can't hide from one another. It's like staring into the midday sun. There is one man here claiming to serve out justice. But in reality, He has subverted the word of God, the killer told me. And who do you claim is subverting the word of God? I asked. The warden. I have seen him sneak into the women's ward and then return reeking of sex.

When I see the women, they are covered in scars. He brands them too, with a mark like this. He paused and showed me a burn he had on his left leg. It resembled the Holy Trinity, and I felt immediately sickened by the implication of this perversion. How can I be sure you are telling the truth? It's not like he will openly confess to any of this, I pointed out. I already told you, I have nothing left to lose. It's not like I expect them to overturn my sentence. In fact, I know that I am getting exactly what I deserve, he argued.

I felt a crisis of conscience. What this cold-blooded monster said made sense. I had seen too many times that being at death's door brought out the truth. The question thus became how to verify what he said. I stood up and tapped on the bars excitedly. attempting to get the attention of the guard. What do you hope to do? He will never admit to any of this, prisoner stated.

I have my ways. I responded as the warden arrived. What's all this, then? He asked, stepping inside the cell. Apologies. This prisoner has made some serious accusations against you that must be dealt with immediately, I said calmly.

I saw the expression of the inmate's sour, thinking I had ratted him out, but my intentions were as pure as snow. There is a lot we are taught to determine in the inner spirit of a person, watching body language, listening to the tone of their voice. In order to provide solace for their soul, a priest must be certain that they are able to read a person properly. Everything that happened in the next minute told me that this warding was in fact a false angel. First he laughed. Then he moved toward the prisoner and yanked him by the hair and commented,

this one has added in for me since day one. What story did he spin for you, father? Maybe the one where I forced him to eat shit? He'll say anything he has to if he thinks it will give him a leg up against me one last time. He spat in the man's face, and I found my hands beginning to twitch. Do you think that if the rules were reversed, you would do the same? Try and take advantage of my empathy, I asked. I was careful with my words, but I anticipated the answer. Of course I would. If I had such a dark heart, I wouldn't stop trying to cause pain just because it was my last stay on God's green earth, he sneered. His back was turned to me,

and with the confirmation of his own desire for evil, I made a choice as well. With one swift movement, I grabbed the shackles of the prisoner and wrapped them around the warden's throat. The vile man didn't hesitate and started to tuck at the chains. Instantly, the warden struggled to breathe.

I grabbed him and stared into his eyes. You have but one chance to make things right with God. Tell me, do you seek forgiveness? He nodded as he kept losing life force, gasping and gagging as the prisoner tugged harder. Then I shook my head and realized a deeper truth. You may want to be absolved, but you do not deserve it. I decided as I stepped out of the cell.

I could hear him and tried to scream for mercy as I walked away. A few of the guards were starting to run toward the cell, but it was too late. After I left, the prison came under investigation, and it was found that several guards were equally active in their unyielding wickedness. It actually made me admire what that sinner had the courage to do, Although he was already facing damnation, he faced down a greater evil. I wondered if I could ever gain such courage. There are a lot of different opinions about men who join the clergy.

Most of them are negative, and for good reason. All you have to do is turn on the news to see just how bad things have gotten for children out there. Perverts who hide behind the veil of authority are the worst. I actually joined the priesthood to change all of that. I figured if I could help teach others to let God into their hearts, that healing would ensue. But that doesn't always work. Sometimes evil still exists. Sometimes there is no help for some people. This is about one such person. Do you think we could talk, Father? The man in question was dressed like a lawyer with a suit, tie, and a badge that told me he came from a

private academy a few miles away. I didn't normally take confessions after Sunday service, simply because I have to help with the meals and the other routine activities. But there was something about the man's voice that told me he was a troubled soul. I told my deacon I would be a little late to the meal and gestured for the young educator to come into my private study. Is the weekend finding you well, father? He asked as he closed the door, as well as can be expected. But come now. I know you didn't visit me merely to discuss my weekend. Something is weighing on your mind, I told him. You've been here quite a while, father. I suppose there is no pulling the wool over your eyes, he said. I smirked and said nothing, allowing him to continue. You have likely noticed that our school

has expanded now to include programs for both boys and girls. We had an increase in attendance by 65%. That sounds like the Lord has blessed you and your other teachers in a large way, I told him. I wish I could say that was something to smile about, but it isn't. There have been several instances lately that have left me disturbed, Father, and I'm uncertain what I should do. My heart is torn between what I know to be wrong and selfish desires, the teacher said. His words made me curious. I could tell he was struggling to explain what was going on. I am not the judge of your actions. You can speak your mind freely, I said, preparing myself for what I could only fathom would come next. The girls, father, I can't help but to look at them. The school makes them wear these

short uniforms and he paused and stumbled as he saw my eyes widen. I had anticipated something shocking, but this was far worse, terrifying, mortifying. Have you? Have you ever? I asked, trying to find the words. No, no, I couldn't. At least, I haven't yet. But the thoughts plagued me, Father. Can you sin because of having impure thoughts? Am I an evil person for this? He asked. I did my best to clear my throat. Like I said before, I know that bad exists in the world. I'm not a fool to say otherwise, But it was difficult to determine if this person was fully turned towards sin or merely struggling with the inclination. Tell me truthfully. Are there any children you are more drawn to? I asked carefully. He gave me a name without hesitation and added, I've done all I can to keep from being near her.

Damn her! She entices me in ways that no one ever could. Father, it should be a sin for any lady no matter the age to look so good, he complained. His tongue betrayed him. I could tell that he had a corrupt desire, and he had a corrupt desire. He was searching for an excuse to act it out. That infuriated me. He didn't come here for confession, but to be given permission to continue these impure thoughts. And you've struggled with this for how long? I asked.

Months. Is it the devil? Have I become possessed? Can I stop this from happening? Or is it fate? He asked. His tone further indicated, he was trying to find something to give him a reason as to why he was so twisted in his thinking.

But I didn't want to even give a suggestion. All I can say for sure is that you want to do. must return to the academy immediately and get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness. I told him as I stood up and opened the door. So you think I am truly lost? The educator asked in shock. I think this is one of those cases where I can't even provide the answers, I said, trying to help him gather his things. He became angry with me. I came here for help and you turned me away. I thought the church welcomed all. He said standing over me as his fists clenched up. I immediately saw fury in his eyes. Sir, I have been.

been in this profession for many years, and I have always offered forgiveness to all those who come to me, but it has also been deserved. You have offered nothing to show me you can have the same treatment. I told him indignantly. The educator said nothing, storming out with his vile thoughts. Part of me felt grateful that I had at least made him realize the putrid frightening ideas he was lingering on could corrupt and destroy. But I soon learned it wasn't enough. It was a few weeks after that initial confession that I started to hear gossip amid the pews. People were talking about missing children from the nearby academy, two girls and a teacher. I stopped the deacon after the day's worship session to get the full scoop.

It's horrible, father. Word is that one of the educators took two of the children and ran somewhere into the woods, or so the papers say, he told me. My blood boiled. I knew immediately it had to be the same man I had spoken with. He had acted on his sinful inclinations, and I hated myself for ever thinking he would listen to reason. I said a prayer to God, trying to decide what the right course would be.

to take. I spent the next few days researching as much as I could about the school, the teacher, and the surrounding area. It took some time, but I found a place where I figured the teacher could hide for weeks without being noticed. An abandoned windmill about three miles into the woods north of the school. It would be an hour hike in good weather. I mustered up the courage the following evening to go and see for myself. It was stormy. The hills were saturated with mud and the smell of burnt wood. I closed my eyes and asked God to watch over them long enough until I arrived. But sadly, I don't think he was listening. In the windmill I found the girls, shackled and naked, treated like they were nothing. They were malnourished and hardly clinging to life and couldn't

even open their eyes when I tried to get their attention. This evil man had decided that my refusal to forgive him was his excuse to commit this desire incessantly. I used my robes to cover them and tried to help them free themselves of their bones. but I never got the chance. The sound of a gun discharged and rang through my ears and the first girl fell backwards. I turned to see the vile man enter the hut. A smile was strewn across his face. Well, well, if it isn't the Father Superior himself, come to finally forgive me, father? He sneered as he holstered his weapon. I came to stop you. To put a stop to you permanently, I responded. He laughed, thinking that I was bluffing. I tackled him to the ground and pushed him out the door into the mucky overgrowth. My fingers

wrapping around his neck as I choked him. He fought back valiantly, trying to kick and scream as he spat and clawed at me. He grabbed at a nearby stone and smashed it against my hand, but somehow I still held firm to his neck. I wanted to see the life drain from his evil eyes. Finally, his body went limp. He was gone. I tossed down his corpse into the mud and let the rain wipe the sweat off my brow. I returned to the mill to try and save the other girl, but again, I was too late. I collapsed on my knees when I realized I was too late for both of them, asking God why he allowed this to happen. I immediately contacted the police. All they did was collect the bodies and send the teacher's corpse to the morgue. Not even an examination was given. One officer said it was better that a bad

man be dead, and I realized immediately why this had happened the way it did. God had brought this evil to my doorstep, intending for me to be the one to end his days. I had failed to act quickly enough and as a result, Moore had suffered. I should have killed him the day he came to the church. From that day on, I've taken confessions on Sundays in hopes of finding more evil men like that teacher. They won't have a prayer left when I'm done with them. Fan of soccer, you could assist at a moment historic.

You could gain the bid for the final of the Cup of the World of the FIFA 2006 with Visa. It's just to have a card of credit visa BMO for participate. Inscrieve you at BMO.com bar obliques concourse. The reglements of the concourse sapplic. As I'm sure you can imagine, you have to be able to keep secrets

to become a priest. Heck, it's probably in the job requirements somewhere. We are the keepers of broken vows and troubled spirits. The ones that are supposed to take these things to our grave. I wonder often, though,

by becoming the ones to carry the load of others, are we in fact compiling our own sins more and more? Is there any kind of salvation for us? I have a lot of secrets, some that I never plan to share with you or anyone else. But since I've decided to continue with the confessions that troubled my own soul, I figure it's best to take the time to share one that I actually wanted to keep hidden from the world. It was a long time ago, back when I was young,

and didn't even fully understand what the seal of confession meant. I was practicing underneath my father and trying my best to handle some of the heavy stuff thrown at me. I was not a day over 26, straight out of a class in divinity. Most of the confessionals I had heard were the ones that my fellow classmates told to each other as idle gossip. Often I would spend the minutes before seminaries trying to determine who would make the cut, and who would likely wind up failing out of class. Anyways, there was one time after class that I went to the church where my father preached. He had just finished his sermon and was wiping down the choir seats.

I approached him and talked about the struggles of getting along with some of my classmates. He chided me for spreading idle gossip. Sorry, father, I said sheepishly. My father felt obligated to tell me something that day. Son, I want you to know I'm proud of you for sticking to your courses. Mom would have been proud too, he said. I miss her, I admitted. My mother was a devout nun, and had actually broken her sacred oath to have me.

My father's tone drastically changed. You shouldn't miss her. You don't know half of what I saw. He warned as he sat down at the pews, and rubbed his chin tiredly. Dad, how can you say that? She loved us more than life itself, I told him. There's a lot you don't know, but maybe it's time you did.

Take a seat. It's time I told you my confession, he said, patting the wooden pew alongside him. I did as he requested and held my breath, realizing that his tone and demeanor had suddenly changed. Whatever he wanted to tell me was of grave importance. Son, your mother was many things. a capable housewife, a loving mother, but she also had problems. She resented having you and giving up the life she had at the convent. She hid this from you and often took out her frustration on me, he said.

She didn't want me? I asked in shock. It's not that at all. She thought God was against her because she disobeyed the rules of celibacy. She broke her sacred oath. The diocese she was associated with shunned her. She married me, a non-believer at the time. and experienced the full power of the church going against her. They expelled her from the congregation, Dad told me.

That's horrible. I thought we were supposed to be forgiving, I said. Some of the clergy take the views of the word to the extreme. They saw no other way for her to be saved. They sent her to the devil, and in a way. I think she became one because of her expulsion from the church, he admitted. I never saw her act violently toward me. I wouldn't allow that, of course.

That's why she died before she saw you become a man. I killed her, he said looking down at his hands. Immediately I stood up, horrified at the revelation my father had just given me. That can't be true. Why would you do that? I asked. She wanted to kill you multiple times. Do you remember as a child those times you often fell asleep and then forgot what day it was? She was drugging you, trying to find the right dosage to make it look like an accident, he exclaimed.

Why did you never tell me this? I shouted, because I was in fear of her. Your mother was not a sane woman. She often would chant bizarre omens at night when she couldn't sleep. She had sold her soul to the devil before I even knew that such evil existed. The night she died, she told me that she had gotten a vision from God. She claimed you were the Antichrist, he proclaimed. That's nonsense, I said, shaken to the core for all that he was revealing. She planned to drive a stake through your heart and watch you bleed out.

She didn't care about the consequences any longer. She was convinced God had given her the sacred command to finish you, so I did the only thing I could think to do. He paused, tears welling up in his eyes as he explained. I suffocated her. I grabbed her pillow and shoved her down to keep you from hearing the screams. I wanted her to be gone from this life. I was tired of the lies, of the shame she brought us. I felt my hands shake and my lips tremble. I wanted to thrust him to the floor and choke the life out of him. But then I realized at the weight of everything he told me, this had been consuming him with guilt for so long. You didn't want me to stop loving her, I said softly. I didn't. And you can't.

Your mother was sick. She needed help that I couldn't offer, he admitted. I told my father I forgave him, even at the time I was seething with rage and confusion. He told me that he loved me, and he went home alone. That night, I decided to visit him and make things right between us. I promised I would keep his secret and forgive my mother, too, but it was too little too late. I found him in the bedroom, dead from asphyxiation. Someone had done the same to him that happened to my mother, crushing his windpipe and suffocating him. I called authorities right away to have them search the room,

confused as to how this crime could even happen. But they found not even a trace of fingerprints anywhere. Must be suicide, one officer said. I didn't see how that could be possible. When they left, I did my own investigation, searching for any clues that they might have missed. Eventually, I pushed aside the furniture and found another secret that my father had been keeping. It was a small chest filled with memories and letters from my mother.

I had never known that she had kept all of these trinkets from my childhood. On the top of the trinkets was a note, freshly written, that sent chills down my spine. No matter what you say, no matter what you do, I am still alive. And I am going to kill you. Love Mom. Be sure to check out my new podcast called Dr. SCP for more interesting stories. It's 100% inspired by the SEP Foundation. If you'd like to check it out, just search Dr. SCP in the search bar on Spotify or Apple Podcasts.

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