“It’s been five years since my last confession.”

Laura waited to be scolded for her long absence.

“Welcome back,” a kindly voice replied from behind the curtain. According to the sign outside the confessional, the voice belonged to Fr. Michael Aubert, who also spoke French. Laura never met him, hadn’t been to church since her last confession.

“What brings you here today?” Fr. Aubert asked.

“I’ve been away from the church. For the past five years, I’ve been moonlighting as an erotica writer.”

“Uh huh.”

Uh huh? Is this a common confession in a small-town parish?

“You see, I got into it more out of greed than lust. I have a good-paying job at the water department, but it’s boring as hell. Oh, I better add swearing to my confession too—a lot of it.”

“Uh huh.”

I might as well get this over with. “In the past five years, I’ve easily published about three hundred pornographic short stories, regularly contributed to an online erotica forum, taken the Lord’s name in vain pretty much every day, got drunk twice, watched pornography once a week, and masturbated a lot, like daily. But I stopped all that because, lately, I’ve been seeing shadows in my bedroom that don’t have a logical explanation. And there was a white wisp that darted across the ceiling last night. It might’ve been an optical illusion, but I’m not sure. So, this morning, I prayed the Rosary, said goodbye to all my online friends and Tina—my publisher—deleted all my old smut files and works-in-progress, sprayed holy water all over the apartment, and brought myself here.”

“Uh huh.”

Wow, nothing shocks this guy, huh? “For these and all the sins I can’t remember, I’m heartily sorry.”

Fr. Aubert praised the Lord for Laura’s return, said something about ninety-nine and one sheep, granted absolution for her sins, gave her a penance that wasn’t too bad—just one Our Father and three Hail Marys—and then said, “As for the shadows and the white wisp you mentioned, there may be a soul in purgatory asking for your prayers. Now that you’re in a state of grace, your prayers can help someone on the journey to heaven. And you can always have a mass said on their behalf.”

Pray for possible ghosts; got it.

“Now, say the Act of Contrition.”

Laura said the prayer and then left the confessional to do her penance. As she knelt in one of the pews, she saw a young man in a short-sleeved leather jacket kneeling at the other side of the church. The distinctive peacock tattoo on his left arm made Laura’s heart race. That can’t be Kyle Zamora, Laura thought as she scooted toward the other end of the pew on her knees to get a better look. He died two years ago.

Unsettled, she did her penance and then rose to investigate. As she approached the man, sunlight streamed through the stained glass, blinding her. When her vision cleared, the man had vanished.

Must have been a lookalike, Laura thought as she left church. But, other than Kyle, who else has a peacock tattoo and wears short-sleeved leather shirts?

While running errands, Laura allowed the bizarre incident to recede to the back of her mind. Back at home, she thought about it again over dinner.

“That couldn’t’ve been Kyle even if he were still alive,” Laura said to the empty room. “The submissive boyfriends of femdom publishers don’t get on their knees for religion.”

Something creaked, probably a window. Laura ignored it.

Tina had been devastated when her boyfriend died from an accidental drug overdose, almost shut down her small press over it. Laura sent her condolences but didn’t go to the funeral. Neither did Tina. Attending would have meant sitting through a Catholic mass.

Something whooshed, maybe the wind.

Scraping her plate after dinner, Laura thought she heard someone whisper, “Pray.”

She looked around, wondering if the sound came from the gutters. Nothing.

Later that evening, while knitting, Laura heard another whisper: “Pray for me.”

That definitely wasn’t the wind, Laura thought, her chest tightening. She shoved her project aside and retrieved the Rosary from her nightstand, the one Fr. Kipper blessed on her First Communion.

As Laura touched the metal crucifix, that white wisp appeared on the ceiling again. She froze, staring. Instead of fleeing, the tendril morphed into the shape of a hand and touched the wall. Then, it disappeared, leaving behind burn marks resembling fingerprints.

Please, God, Laura prayed, don’t let this be a bad ghost. She rubbed the crucifix, letting the sharp edges of Jesus’s form press into her fingertips. Starting with the sign of the cross, she recited the entire fifteen-decade Rosary with a trembling voice and heart. For good measure, she finished with the Luminous Mysteries. Peace overwhelmed her.

Every night for the next week, Laura prayed the traditional fifteen-decade Rosary. Afterwards, she tried to remove the mysterious fingerprints but gave up when nothing worked. On the eighth day, the wisp returned. This time, it had a discernable face—Kyle’s face.

Don’t talk to him, Laura warned herself, remembering what Fr. Kipper used to say in religion class. “If someone contacts you from the dead, just pray.”

Laura continued praying the Sorrowful Mysteries, watching Kyle the whole time. With every Hail Mary, his face became a little clearer. Then, little by little, more of him became visible. By the time she finished the Glorious Mysteries, Kyle resembled the ghosts from paranormal movies—humanoid but white and transparent.

“Keep praying,” Kyle whispered.

Laura started over again with the Joyful Mysteries. By the end of the fifth decade, Kyle glowed.

“Thank you,” he said.

Laura nodded in acknowledgment, still gripping the Rosary. Skirting Fr. Kipper’s rules, she said, “God bless you, Kyle. I pray you get home soon.”

With a grin and a wink, Kyle disappeared. His fingerprints remained.

Tomorrow, Laura would ask Fr. Aubert to give a mass in his honor—just in case.

E. J. LeRoy is a freelance writer, poet, and aspiring novelist whose work has appeared at Submittable Content for Creatives, Transmundane Press Blog, and in several speculative fiction anthologies. LeRoy has a serialized speculative story on Kindle Vella titled “An Android’s Prayer.”