He woke breathless. A great weight crushed his chest, and he thought of his last heart attack. The graveyard stench of rot and damp earth filled the attic room.
Then the weight shifted and Father Brendan knew he was not alone. The thing leaned forward—Father Brendan felt its scabrous lips at his ear—and in a sepulchral tone whispered, “The last priest was a drunkard, but at least he was no fool. You may bury your dead in hallowed ground, but we will have our way.”