When the skeleton fell through the door into the sanctuary, the minister was not nearly as surprised as Sharla.
In fact, he slumped in his chair and let out a sigh, then arose and reached into a pocket for some holy water. A practiced twist led to a sprinkle of dampness along with a shooing motion that spoke of weary exhaustion.
The skeleton ambled back out the door, joints clacking.
No matter how much Sharla reran the scene in her head, she couldn’t quite understand how the skeleton managed to hold together into an animated, perambulating figure. Wearing a cloak, no less. And no more, for that matter.
“Um,” she offered, unsure how to phrase the question.
“Well, now you know why we’re hiring a housekeeper and groundskeeper,” Patrick Brandywine wheezed the last word into a higher syllable as he plopped into the worn velour chair. Pale blue, with patches worn to sheer white, it must have long predated his tenure with the church; it was certainly far older than he was and the seat showed signs of wear from a larger man. She noted the dust. The chair might not have been moved in several decades either.
“The skeletons keep wandering through, and I’m the only one they’ll listen to.” An overly long lock of sandy brown hair halfheartedly flopped toward his eyes. “Given that this is a church, this job isn’t necessarily what you might be expecting. Cerise there was supposed to be part of the later tour, but sometimes they get anxious.”
She noted the plural, then took her time to study the man, in his early 30s, and clearly exhausted. Late twenties, perhaps, if he got some rest. He seemed honest, which was more than she could say about her last employer. “How do they work?” she blurted, then felt her face redden. “I mean…how do they stay together?”
“Well,” the minister said slowly, leaning on one hand. The chair lurched alarmingly, although he didn’t seem to notice. “How do you feel about curses?”
***
