It was Christmas Eve service. Every year I’m forced by my grandmother to sing in the men’s choir, projecting above all the heavily ordained members on the second-floor balcony. This Christmas Eve didn’t feel the same this year however, there was a feeling in the air I’ve never felt before. It definitely didn’t feel happy; but I blame it on getting older. I race through the church a half hour before service and hop up the stairs to watch people of all sorts slowly settle into their seats. Some young, some old, some in need of Christmas cheer, some forced to come with their parents. I slump down against the balcony, hearing Janice starting to play Christmas hymns on the organ. Growing up in the same town all your life causes you to unknowingly learn about the people who live around you. And living with a grandmother who can’t keep a secret, I happen to know all the drama surrounding the church members.

There’s Ellen, settling into the third row pew. I’m surprised she came with her husband, his Thanksgiving Las Vegas trip-with-the-boys resulted in a drunken marriage to the bartender. Maybe he’s here for forgiveness.

There’s Patrick, handing out the bulletins at the side door. That man has been handing out bulletins every weekend and holiday service for the past five years. He’s actually Jewish, but you didn’t hear that from me.

There’s Pastor John, he frequently “supervises” (or so he says) the alcohol support group that happens in the dining hall every Thursday, even though we all know he attends the meetings himself. At least he’s getting help.

It’s not like I go and spill everyone’s secrets either, during dinner time all those drama talks between my grandparents go in one ear and out the other, at least on my end. I try hard not to judge, everyone has their secrets.

Getting bored, I turn away from the balcony and begin my way down the stairs. I hope grandma saved me a few cookies from the kitchen, I know she’s in there getting a to-go cup of coffee. On my way down the stairs, I notice a bright, freshly attempted to be cleaned, blood red stain on the second-to-last stair. It was quite odd, the staircase is hidden from the front doors and no one was upstairs with me. How did a fresh stain get on the second stair? Not to mention the gut-wrenching color, it sends a chill up my spine.

Nonetheless, I carry on to the kitchen. There’s a quick shortcut through the children’s music room, I open the door and pass by all the Fisher-Price toys and mini-bibles stacked up on the lower shelves. I’m almost to the other side when something catches my eye. Another blood-red stain on the carpet by the door. Another chill up my spine. Where are these stains coming from? It almost felt like it stared at me as I walked past it. It hadn’t been touched either, the brightness of the color left me unknown about its contents. Shaking my head, I knew there was no time to investigate, service started soon.

After my performance with the choir, I worriedly rushed back to the pews. I sat wide-eyed while Pastor read the gospel. I couldn’t stop thinking of those stains. It’s a church, what could’ve possibly happened? My mental analysis made the service fly by fast, thank God.

After service, it’s always my grandparents’ tradition to help clean up once the masses have left. At this point, it was just people who had leadership positions, families who had carried on conversations too long with other families, and kids who were running around eager for their parents to finish said conversations. Janice, after covering up the altar, hands me a box of candles.

“Can you run these down to the basement for me dear? I would have John do it but I can’t find him anywhere.” She asks as she hands me the key with the only free finger I have left.

“Sure, I’ll be right back,” I say quietly. My head is clouded with thoughts.

I make my way down the stairs and to that ominous brown door. The second I touched that doorknob, that feeling I had floats right back to me. It knew it wasn’t just a lack of young Christmas spirit. I open the door to find the basement pitch black and thick with humid air. I walk a few steps and notice the sound of my footsteps, something feels off. I reach for my phone in my back pocket and turn on my flashlight. I am walking right through a blood-red puddle.

I gasp and drop the box of candles as something scuffs the floor ahead of me. Fearless, I walk past the spilled box and investigate the sound. I can hear my heart pounding louder with every step. Another scuff of the floor.

“Hello?” I shout as I turn the corner of the stacked Vacation Bible School boxes. I shine my light through the darkness to find Pastor John, sitting in a broken pew, lighting up a large candle and chugging a bottle of blood-red church wine. Our eyes locked. His face began to grow pale and his eyes widened as if he saw a ghost.

I observe the scene and crack a smirk. “Drinking again, John?”