In this, Sal’s third entry in our thrillogy contest, he poses an interesting question: How can you be sure? One thing is for sure, our contest will soon be at an end, and then there shall be judgement…

IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE

By

Sal Buttaci

The first time he saw him was behind closed eyes, a passing shadow racing across the inside wall of his eyelids.

Reverend Townsend sprang open his eyes, catapulting himself from prayerful to confounded, then blinked to break free. For solace he turned to the King James on his desk and flipped to a random page. Revelation. “And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent called the Devil…”

He slammed shut the Good Book. Sweat beads popped from his forehead. His hands shook.

Overworked. This is why sane men––even men of God!––can close their eyes and see… Townsend grimaced, disappointed with himself. How could I be so foolish, he thought. He’d ask Reverend Bauer to give him a hand around the church. Take on some of his duties.

As a test now he shut his eyes and waited, but not for long. The shadow passed again, except this time the man stopped and turned his face to him, long enough for Townsend to think, “Devil,” and then say, horrified, “McDermott!”

The connection jolted him wide-eyed.

“And if God is with me, whom shall I fear?” ran through his head. But the shadow, the face, was still McDermott’s. “God is my fortress. I will not be afraid,” he said, then dared to close his eyes again, only to see McDermott spit words at him, bloody and raw, “We will burn your churches. Roast your babies over the fires of Hell.”

McDermott. My friend. Our fathers, both Methodist pastors. I would trust him with my life.

Long hours into the night Townsend prayed and slept hardly at all. Night after night afraid to fall into sleep where the devil would find him.

When Sunday came, riding in on a hot September sun, the congregation filed into First Methodist Church, greeting Pastor Townsend as they headed for the pews. Some whispered, “His hands tremble.” Others, “His face. Is he sick?”

Townsend felt himself floating towards the pulpit, blind to the pewed congregants, deaf to the whispers, numb to the bone. When he stopped at the altar steps he bowed, then pivoted around robotically, and searched the pews for his demon.

Paul McDermott, no less confused than the rest of them, stood there waiting but not for long. Townsend drew the pistol from his pulpit robe and fired three times.

###

No execution. No prison term. He lay on the hard cot inside his padded cell. It was night. He closed his eyes and prayed for sleep.

A passing shadow raced across the inside wall of his eyelids. Then after blinking, he shut them again and the shadow was a man turning to show his face.

“My God! My God!” screamed Townsend. “It’s me!”

-END-

Salvatore Buttaci is an obsessive-compulsive writer whose work has appeared widely. He was the 2007 recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award.

His latest collection of short-short fiction, 200 Shorts, is available at

www.amazon.com/200-Shorts-Salvatore-Buttaci/dp/0984639241/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1314991699&sr=1-1

His follow-up collection of 164 flash stories, Flashing My Shorts, also published by All things That Matter Press, is available at www.amazon.com/Flashing-My-Shorts-Salvatore-Buttaci/dp/0984259473

He lives with his wife Sharon in West Virginia.

Even the cutest creatives can carry a sting in their tale.