Chapter 1

The wind blown rain beat against the intricate stained glass windows of the ancient, crumbling Gothic cathedral. It was another balmy summer evening, just like so many others Father Jean-Paul had experienced in his 20 years of service to the church.

Father Jean-Paul was a stout man, with a caring face. His deep graying hair showed his age, but he was still youthful enough to work his favorite shift: The graveyard shift.

This particular night, Jean-Paul spent the evening in the confessional booth. When he wasn't listening to confessions, he spent his time reading the book upon which his very faith was founded. 

His hands led him to the story of his beloved Savior, Jesus Christ, as he died on the symbol of his faith, the cross, for all of humanity. He knew the verses well, and mumbled them out loud as he read:

"But when they came to Jesus, and saw that he was dead already, they brake not his legs: But one of   the soldiers with a spear pierced his side, and forthwith came there out blood and water."

At that moment, he felt the humid wind from the outside, saw the light flicker from the prayer candles, and heard the familiar sound of footsteps. 

"I am in the Confessional, my child," he said in his tenor voice.

The footsteps grew louder and louder, until he heard the thick black cloth at the entrance to the booth open. The creak of the bench on the other side of the intricately carved oak barrier signaled the arrival of the stranger. 

He felt chills run down his spine, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up as the stranger spoke.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," the stranger said in a heavy accent.

Father Jean-Paul could not place the accent, it sounded Italian, yet Arabic at the same time. 

"How long has it been since your last confession, my son," Jean-Paul asked.

"I am not Catholic, Father," the stranger replied. "I have never had a confession, but I felt the need to come to this place and confess my sins."

Father Jean-Paul's hands were shaking. He was suddenly very cold. The stranger before him seemed almost supernatural to him. Spellbinding, yet frightful at the same time. He found it difficult to breathe, much less speak.

The last time he felt this sensation when speaking to someone, was a young girl who was possessed by some sort of demon. This was many years ago, and he had all but forgotten the experience of battling the supernatural being.

It was all coming back to him now. 

"I murdered a man." 

The stranger's words snapped Jean-Paul from his trance.

"I killed a man who was condemned to die for being who he was. He committed no crime, yet my commanders were instructed to put him to death."

"So you are in the military, my son?" Jean Paul's words were unsteady, yet calm.

"I was." The stranger replied. "A long time ago."

"What was this man accused of?" Jean Paul questioned. "What did he do to deserve the punishment he received? God forgives even the most heinous crimes."

"He taught his faith. The local priests did not believe him," the man quickly replied.

Jean-Paul was uncomfortable with speaking to this man he could not see, this man who made him so uneasy.

"Why don't we go to my office and discuss this in depth," he said. "I would like to know more about this situation".

The stranger agreed, and stepped out of the confessional. Jean-Paul stood up, and opened the door behind him, exited, and walked around the confessional to greet the man.

The stranger was very thin and pale. Jean-Paul guessed him to be in his mid to late twenties. He was dressed in black jeans, a black turtleneck shirt, and a thick, lined black trench coat. The lower legs of his jeans were tucked into a pair of old, scuffed, army issue combat boots. His eyes shot a cold but needy gaze at Jean-Paul.

"Now then," Jean-Paul started. "Shall we go to my office?"

The stranger nodded and Jean-Paul turned and led him to his small office in the corner of the cathedral. 

Chapter 2

Jean-Paul's office was filled with artifacts from his travels. He had bibles on a shelf in the original Hebrew, Latin bibles dating from the 12th century. An ancient crucifix hung from the ceiling behind his small, cluttered desk.

He offered the stranger a seat in a plush, black patent leather chair. He scrambled around the desk, and sat in an identical one.

"Now, " he said, "what is your name?"

"I have had many names over the years, but you may call me Mark," the stranger said, bowing his head.

"My name is Fath.."

"Your name is Father Jean-Paul de Glenns. I know." He cut him off. "I want to tell you my story, but I know it is unbelievable. I would not believe myself if I were you. But the story must be told."

"Go on." Jean-Paul squirmed in his seat.

"I" He paused. "I don't know how to begin."

"I am here to listen, Mark. Don't worry. I am a vessel of God, not God himself. I do not judge men for what they have done," Jean Paul said. "Why not begin at the beginning."

"I know you won't believe this, but I have been alive for nearly 2,000 years, and I killed your Son of God."

Mark looked up at the priest, as he stared back in disbelief.

"My name is Marcus Antaurius," he said. "I am a spearman from the 3rd Roman Legion garrisoned in what we now know as Israel. My job was to break the legs of anyone surviving a crucifixion. Your Jesus Christ did not survive. I speared him in the side to make sure he was dead."

Jean-Paul could not speak. He merely stared in disbelief, his mouth open.

"I was cursed for my role in the death of that man by your uncaring God," he continued. "He gave me eternal life in this form as punishment. So now, I walk the earth as an abomination. Not really living, not really dying."

Jean Paul finally mustered enough energy to speak.

"I believe you," he said. "Somehow, I find all of this possible. Somehow I can see this happening, but why you? Why did God punish you? You were merely carrying out your orders. Why not punish those who ordered the crucifixion?"

"I was a pawn," Mark said. "I was merely a pawn in the prophecy this man was to fulfill. I don't understand how your God works, but I believe what you is said about His working in strange ways."

Jean-Paul reached in his top drawer and pulled out a set of sterling silver rosary beads. His mind reeled in the thoughts of having the devil, or some form of abomination in his office, his inner sanctum of sorts. He thought about the Church and how this man could desecrate all that was holy there.

Mark grinned and laughed. 

"I am not a vampire, Father. I am simply a man who has lived a very long time. 
The rosary beads will have no effect on me. Furthermore, my mere presence will not desecrate this hollow ground."

"How did you know what I was thinking?!" Jean-Paul said, now feeling very naked. 

"It's all part of the curse, Father," Mark replied. "I can never die, and I gain some powers, such as reading your mind. I also don't need nourishment, nor do I need sleep."

"Fascinating," Jean-Paul whispered. "So you are immortal, just for killing Christ? You are invincible? Why did you come here? Why me?"

Mark opened his mouth to speak, then paused, as if to rethink what he was about to say.

"I..I want you to remove this curse, so I may rest," Mark sighed. "I am old, and tired. I have tried killing myself before, but I only heal and scar. To prove this, I will show you what happens when I try to die."

Before Jean-Paul could object, Mark had his trench coat off, and a small knife unsheathed from his side. As Mark put the knife to his arms, Jean-Paul could see the skin of his arms riddled with scars from previous suicide attempts. Several scars ran up his wrists and into his shirt, along a thick purple vein.

As Mark cut into himself, a few drops of clear fluid fell to the ground. He cut himself along the vein quickly and deeply, but the wounds merely expelled a quick stream of the fluid, then closed up behind the knife.

"Your blood. It's pale," Jean Paul said hoarsely.

"Yes, I know. It is part of the curse. I can not die, I told you that," Mark replied.

"Then what can I do to lift the curse? I am merely a humble priest. I can not help you, my child," Jean-Paul said with a grave look on his face.

Mark stood up and leaned over the desk. 

"You must crucify me, as my people did your Savior. Then, I will be able to finally go to rest. John turned and paced, speaking softly. "You must retrace the path Jesus took for me. You must beat me, flog me, put a crown of thorns upon my head, nail me to a cross, and then spear me with the spear I killed Christ with. The curse will then be broken, and I may die."

"This is crazy. I can't do that. I have taken an oath to harm no one under any circumstances." Jean-Paul's words were hurried and direct. "I can not do this! I can't! God will strike me down.."

"God will NOT strike you down," Mark interrupted. "God has allowed us to meet. You are a descendant of Joseph of Nazareth-Jesus' father. Your destiny is to destroy me."

Jean-Paul knew he was right. Something told him that he had to help Mark in any way he can. After a moment of silence, Jean-Paul spoke.

"Mark, I will help you. I will break this curse, so you may go to Heaven, God willing."

Mark handed him a folded piece of paper. 

"I don't think that's where I am going. These are directions to an abandoned building. I will meet you there tomorrow evening at dusk. "

" I will soon be free of this hell I live," Mark's were teeth grinding against each other.

Mark turned, and walked out of the office, leaving Jean-Paul to ponder the things to come.

Chapter 3

Jean-Paul hurried to the building as outlined in Mark's note. The forgotten, boarded up building had an eerie look to it in the setting sun. He looked the structure up and down, trying to take in every detail of the shell that stood before him. 

He gingerly walked up the crumbling steps to the large, carved oak doors. On the stoop was a broken padlock and chain. 

He pushed on the door. It slowly creaked open. 

Inside, he found that the building was, in fact, simply a shell. All the guts and the roof of the building had been removed, leaving literally four walls and a floor. In the center of the room was a deep hole, apparently left from when the demolition crew was drilling probe holes for blasting the building.

"Mark? Are you here? It's Father Jean-Paul" he whispered.

A slight echo and the sound of rats scurrying in the debris on the floor answered him.

"Mark?" He spoke louder this time.

"I'm here, Father," Mark answered from behind him.

Jean-Paul spun around to find Mark standing behind him.

"Well," Jean-Paul said awkwardly, "where do we begin?"

"Why, my good priest, we begin at the beginning," he replied.

Mark raised his hands to the darkening sky, whispered some incoherent words, and the room came alive with torchlight.

"In the beginning, there was nothing. God said 'Let there be light', and there was light", he hissed.

Jean-Paul looked around the room in amazement. The room was filled with the things he would need to perform his task. To the far side on the wall, a large leather flail was hanging next to a small wreath of thorns. 

"God created the heaven and the earth. He put man on this earth as his servant." Mark continued.

Below, on an old table, he could see 4 dull, iron railroad spikes. Propped up against the table was a huge wooden cross. It stood about 10 feet tall, and had a cross span of about five feet, so he guessed. Draped over the cross were 3 lengths of rope, and next to the cross, there was a 6-foot pole spear.

"..but the servant betrayed the master, and now, the master has betrayed himself."

To the side of the table, he could see a pot. Next to it was a rag and a long dowel rod. Under the table, a hydraulic lift.

Mark walked over to the flail and took it off it's hook. Jean-Paul knew what he was about to do. He thought to himself about how he got himself into this-what he was thinking to even fathom the idea of this spectacle he was about to put on.

"You must flog me, as Jesus was flogged." Mark said, handing him the flail.

Jean-Paul looked down at the black leather instrument of pain. The studded leather grip spouted a hundred small strips of leather. Small pieces of metal and sharpened stone were knotted on the ends of each strip.

Mark grabbed Jean-Paul's hand and led him to a pair of steel shackles attached to the wall by a short chain. Mark hurriedly removed his clothing to his underwear, and locked himself into the restraints.

"Flog me! Do it! Let us end this TONIGHT!" he said, grinding his teeth.

Jean-Pain looked down at the flail, looked up at the now dark sky above him, then looked at Mark's bare back.

"Forgive me, my son, but I am doing this for the good of your soul." He said.

The whip came down hard on Mark's back. He could feel the coolness of the metal as it split open his skin, then the sting of his wounds. 

"AGAIN!" he howled.

Jean Paul pulled the whip back, freeing the bits of metal from Mark's back. He could see the red track the flail left, as well as the deep puncture wounds left by the flail's gruesome companions.

He brought the whip down again. He heard Mark whimper as the flog again sank into his back. 

"AGAIN! Don't stop until there is no skin left on my back!" Mark cried.

Jean-Paul proceeded to flail him faster, watching blood spatter off Mark's back with each blow. Soon, Mark's back was completely covered in blood. He had long trails of it flowing down his bare legs, and onto the floor where he stood. 

"Release me from the shackles," Mark said, weak from the beating.

Jean-Paul hurried to remove the pins that bound the shackles. His unsteady hands fumbled with the small pins, finally freeing him from his binds. 

Mark instantly collapsed onto the dirty floor, covering his blood-moistened back in dirt. 

"Take....me..to..the.........table" he breathed. "It..is..time......for..the..crown.."

Jean-Paul attempted to lift Mark up, but to no avail.

"Give me..a..moment..I..can.......walk," Mark's words were labored and his breath was heavy.

Soon, Mark tried to stand. His uneasy legs were useless to him now, from loss of blood, and sheer fatigue. With the help of Jean-Paul, he managed to get upright and stumbled to the table.

Jean-Paul removed the thorny crown from its perch on the wall, and looked at it gravely.

He turned around to find Mark standing upright on his own.

"Part of the curse?" He said.

"Yes." Mark responded. "It seems I can't be wounded for long. We must work fast."

Jean-Paul reached for the hammer on the table. When he turned around, Mark was kneeling in front of him. He put the thorny crown upon his head, and pounded it into Mark's skull. Mark bit down hard on his lip as the thorns pierced his skin, and implanted themselves into his head.

Blood began to flow down his face. 

Mark stood and reached for the massive cross. Jean-Paul intercepted his reach, turned him around, and leaned the cross over Mark's shoulder.

"We all must bear crosses, my child," he said, gravely.

Mark walked to the center of the building and dropped the cross on the floor. He lay down upon it, stretching his arms out upon the arms of the cross. 

Jean-Paul knew what was next. With the hammer in one hand, he picked up the railroad spikes. These heavy, iron spikes measured more than 10 inches in length and, by the markings on them, he could tell that Mark had honed them to a sharpened point.

He walked over to Mark and kneeled beside him. He secured Mark's forearms and legs with the rope.

He gripped a spike in one hand and placed it just below Mark's wrist, and with the hammer in the other, he pounded the spike in through Mark's tender wrists, and then into the hard wood.

Mark was screaming.

He repeated the process on the other hand and then to each of Mark's legs.

He then used the hydraulic lift to hoist the cross up and over the blasting hole. He carefully guided the bottom of the cross into the small hole, then released it. Mark and the cross-crashed down three or four feet into the hole.

Mark was sobbing, trying to speak.

"..Things....happen...." Mark started.

"Try not to speak, Mark." Jean Paul interjected. "I know. Now comes time for the wine, correct?"

"..y..y..yes", Mark spoke.

Jean Paul scurried to the table, tied the rag onto the dowel rod, and dipped it into the red wine vinegar. He picked up the spear and hurried back to Mark. He noticed Mark's breathing becoming shallower than it was before.

"Here, my child," Jean-Paul said hoisting the rag to Mark's mouth.

Mark sucked on the rag for a second, then pulled his head away. Jean-Paul dropped the rag, and looked into Mark's blood soaked face.

"You are near death, aren't you," he said, gravely.

Mark could not speak. His breathing had become shallow and noisy, but he managed to nod his head.

Jean-Paul looked up, and saw the sky was clouding up, and looked quite ominous. The wind began picking up within the building.

"The end is near, my child, may god bless your soul", he said, his voice getting louder, his short hair blowing in the wind.

Mark's head dropped, and Jean-Paul knew it was time for the last ordeal both of them would go through. He jabbed the spear into Mark's dead side. 

The ground began to shake, and the hole below the cross began to glow. He watched in horror as Mark's body began an accelerated aging process. His twenty-something body now appeared to be 40, then 60, then 80, until there was nothing left but bones. 

He felt the ground beneath him begin to give way. He turned for the door and ran. As he reached the door, it flung open, and he dove onto the steps outside. 

He picked himself up stumbled into the abandoned street. The building collapsed behind him. He saw a bright light rise from the rubble, and disappear into the clouds.

Jean-Paul blacked out.

He awoke the next morning in a hospital. The doctor said he had a mild concussion, but there was nothing serious, but he was lucky to be alive after that earthquake that shook the city the previous night.

No one ever heard from Mark again.