OTSEGO LAKE

The crying wind whipped off of Otsego Lake, flapping the overcoat of Father Michael in the midnight hours. Gaylord, a beautiful postcard town nestled in the quietude of northern Michigan among the sparkling lakes. He loved its quiet charm, its sense of community. He loved his flock, their trusting faces upturned to him during Sunday mass. They saw him as a shepherd, a guiding light in their often-turbulent lives. And he was, by day.

By night, however, Father Michael became something else entirely.

He stood on the shore, the black wool of his coat billowing around him like a shroud. The moon, a skeletal fingernail in the inky sky, cast long, distorted shadows that danced across the frozen sand. He’d come to the lake to cleanse himself, not physically, but spiritually.

His hands, gnarled from years of holding the chalice and offering blessings, throbbed. They tingled with a lingering energy, a dark current that hummed beneath his skin. He clenched them into fists, fighting the urge to repeat the act.

This is Father Michael, a creature that stirs with the setting sun, a predator lurking beneath the pious facade. He is the one who feels the darkness encroaching, not as a threat, but as a siren’s call. He is the one who understands the subtle shift in the air, the tang of primal fear that hangs heavy before the storm. He is the one who hunts.

It started subtly, almost imperceptibly. A stray cat, mangled and left in the woods behind the rectory. A neighbor’s dog, found dismembered near Otsego Lake. He told himself it was wild animals, the harsh realities of nature playing out unseen by civilized eyes. But deep down, he knew. The satisfaction that bloomed within him, the almost unbearable tension that eased with each discovery, it was his.

The transformation wasn’t physical, not in the monstrous, werewolf-on-a-full-moon sense. It was a mental metamorphosis, a shedding of the carefully constructed persona of Father Michael and the emergence of something else. His thoughts became sharper, colder, devoid of the empathy and compassion that defined his daylight existence. The world around him seemed to slow, smells and sounds amplified to an almost unbearable degree.

The first victim, a transient call girl who frequented the local bars, had been a test. A proof of concept. He’d convinced himself that he was ridding the town of a blight, a source of moral decay. But the justification had grown thinner with each subsequent transgression, wearing away like the shoreline under the relentless assault of the waves. The second, a teenage boy who’d been dealing drugs, had been about protecting the youth of his parish. The third, a particularly vicious husband who had been terrorizing his family.

The guilt was immense, crushing. He knelt in the church for hours, begging for forgiveness, praying for deliverance from this demon that had taken root in his soul. But the prayers felt hollow, the words bouncing off the vaulted ceiling, unanswered. The darkness remained, a constant hum beneath the surface of his being.

And with each subsequent act, the guilt diminished, replaced by a terrifying sense of detachment. He began to see his victims not as individuals, but as vessels. Vessels of fear, of pain, of fleeting life. He studied them, learned their routines, their vulnerabilities. He became a ghost in the shadows, a silent observer waiting for the opportune moment. The truth was far more disturbing. The truth was that he enjoyed it. The thrill of the hunt, the meticulous planning, the final release. It was a forbidden sacrament, twisted and perverse, but intoxicating. He was a monster cloaked in piety, a wolf in shepherd’s clothing. And the weight of his secret threatened to crush him.

He developed a ritual. Before each hunt, he would kneel before the altar, not to pray, but to steel himself. In his twisted mind, he was performing a sacrifice of his own, offering up these wretched souls to what? To the darkness? To himself? He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

The town remained blissfully unaware. How could they suspect their beloved Father Michael? He was the embodiment of everything they held sacred, the very antithesis of the evil that plagued the outside world. And that, he realized, was the perfect disguise. The police, led by Sheriff Brody, were baffled. They called the killer “The Gaylord Ghoul,” fueling the town’s collective fear. The news reports, the candlelight vigils, the whispers in the grocery store, it all fueled his dark intent. He thrived on the tension, the chaos, the fear.

Back in his modest rectory, attached to the imposing St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, Father Michael busied himself with the mundane tasks of his position. He answered emails, reviewed the upcoming schedule of events, and prepared his sermon for Sunday. He forced himself to focus, to push the darkness back into the shadowy corners of his mind.

Mrs. Higgins, a sweet, elderly woman who volunteered at the church, popped her head into his office. “Father Michael, dear, are you feeling alright? You look a bit pale.”

He forced a reassuring smile. “Just a bit tired, Mrs. Higgins. The Lord keeps me busy. But thank you for your concern. I’m perfectly fine.”

She beamed. “That’s good to hear. Everyone depends on you so much. You’re a blessing to this community.”

Her words were like daggers. A blessing? He was a curse. He was a viper hidden beneath the altar, poisoning the well of faith.

That night, the darkness returned with a vengeance. He tossed and turned in his bed, tormented by visions. Images of his victims flickered behind his eyelids, their silent screams echoing in his ears. The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils.

He rose, a puppet controlled by an invisible string, and dressed in his black clothes. His target this time was different. A respected businessman, Mr. Harrison, is known for his philanthropy and his involvement in local politics. He was also, unknown to most, a man with a dark secret of his own. Father Michael had learned of it through a hushed confession, a tremor in a man’s voice revealing the depths of his depravity. He told himself that this wasn’t about pleasure; this was about justice. He was cleansing the town of another evil, protecting the innocent from a predator lurking in plain sight.

He stalked Mr. Harrison to his secluded cabin on the far side of the lake. The night was still and silent, the only sound the crunch of snow beneath his boots. He watched from the treeline as Mr. Harrison, a portly figure silhouetted against the cabin window, poured himself a drink.

Then, driven by a force he couldn’t resist, Father Michael moved. He crept silently to the back of the cabin, his heart pounding in his chest. He found a loose floorboard, revealing a crawl space beneath the building. He knew Mr. Harrison wouldn’t expect him there.

He waited in the cold, damp darkness, the inner urge now overwhelming. He could hear Mr. Harrison moving around in the cabin above, humming a tuneless melody.

Finally, the floorboards creaked. Mr. Harrison was walking towards him. Father Michael tensed, his hands tightening into fists.

Then, a voice. A child’s voice.

“Daddy?”

Father Michael froze. The breath caught in his throat. He heard a small cough, then the distinct sound of a child giggling.

He peered through a crack in the floorboards. Mr. Harrison was kneeling, holding a small girl in his arms. She was about eleven years old, with bright, innocent eyes and tangled blonde hair.

“Did you have a good dream, sweetheart?” Mr. Harrison asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

The little girl nodded with a fading smile. “I…I kinda dreamed about you, Daddy!”

Mr. Harrison smiled. “Me, huh? I hope it was a good dream.”

Father Michael felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He could feel the darkness inside him recoiling, shrinking back into the shadows. He had been wrong. Terribly, horrifically wrong.

He knew in that instant, with a certainty that cut him to the bone, that he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take another life. He couldn’t stain his soul any further.

He scrambled out of the crawlspace, his legs shaking. He stumbled back through the snow, away from the cabin, away from temptation, away from the monster he had become.

He ran until he reached the edge of the lake, his lungs burning, his heart aching. He collapsed onto the frozen ground, the cold seeping into his bones.

He looked up at the moon, its cold light mocking him. He felt utterly alone, lost in a wilderness of his own making.

He knew what he had to do. He had to confess. He had to turn himself in. He had to face the consequences of his actions, no matter how severe.

He rose to his feet, his resolve wavering but unbroken. He took a deep breath, the icy air stinging his lungs.

As he turned to walk back towards town, a gunshot pierced the silence, then a scream. A high-pitched, terrified scream that echoed across the lake.

He whirled around, his blood running cold. The scream came from the direction of Mr. Harrison’s cabin.

He hesitated for a moment, torn between fleeing and investigating. Then, he remembered the little girl.

He ran back towards the cabin, his heart pounding in his chest. He pushed open the door, his eyes scanning the room.

Mr. Harrison was lying on the floor, his eyes wide with terror. He was covered in blood. Standing over him was the little girl, her face pale, her hands gripping a pistol.

She looked up at Father Michael, her eyes vacant, her voice a chilling whisper. “He wasn’t a good daddy.”

Father Michael stared at her, horrified. He finally understood. He wasn’t the only monster in Gaylord. Evil had many faces, many disguises. And sometimes, it wore the face of innocence.

He knew what he had to do. He couldn’t let her pay for this. He couldn’t condemn another soul to the darkness he knew so well.

He knelt beside her, taking the gun from her trembling hands.
Her face, usually animated with mischief, was a pale mask. Her eyes, wide and haunted, reflected the horror she had unleashed.

“It’s alright, child,” he said, his voice gentle. “I’m here now. Everything is gonna be alright now.”

His words were a lie. Nothing would ever be truly okay again. He’d heard the rumors, whispers that slithered through the hushed confessions of parishioners. Whispers of child depravity that festered behind closed doors in this very house. He had confronted Mr. Harrison more than once, only to be met with icy denials and veiled threats. Now, Mr. Harrison lay dead, a victim of the very darkness he had cultivated.

Father Michael felt a familiar stirring within him, a darkness that gnawed at the edges of his carefully constructed facade. The darkness that, under the cloak of night, had whispered to him, guided him, and stained his own hands with the blood of the unworthy. He was a paradox, a shepherd in the day, a wolf in the shadows. He preached forgiveness, yet he practiced retribution. He offered solace, yet he indulged in the most primal of impulses. Now, he faced a choice that would forever bind him to this abused child, this act of desperate vengeance.

He could call the police. Let them investigate, let them poke and prod at the festering wounds of this broken family. Lily would be protected, but she would also be exposed, dissected, and ultimately, judged. The truth would come out, and the depravity of Mr. Harrison would be laid bare. He could bury the body. Deep in the woods behind the cabin, where the soil was soft and forgiving. He could clean up, dispose of the evidence, and spirit Lily away to a new life, far from this house of horrors. The thought was a dark caress, a familiar temptation. He had done it before, after all. Many times, to be exact. Each victim, a festering wound on the face of society, a stain that needed to be scrubbed away. He justified it each time as God’s work, a necessary cleansing.

But Lily… she was different. She was innocent.

He looked at her again, her face illuminated by the dancing candlelight. He saw not just a victim, but a survivor, a child who had been pushed to the brink and found the strength to push back.

He thought of the upcoming sermon, the one about forgiveness and redemption. The irony was almost unbearable.

He closed his eyes, the weight of his conflicting identities pressing down on him. The priest, the killer, the protector. Which one would prevail?

Finally, he opened his eyes. Reaching out, he gently cupped Lily’s face in his hands.

“Lily,” he said, his voice firm, resolute. “We’re going to take care of this. Together.”

He didn’t say what “taking care of it” meant. Lily didn’t need to know. She just needed to trust him. She didn’t argue. She simply turned and walked to her room, her small footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence.

Father Michael stood alone with the dead man. He knelt, closed Mr. Harrison’s eyes, and whispered a silent prayer for his soul, a prayer he wasn’t sure he believed in.

Then, he rose.

He had a grave to dig.

And in that moment, as the candlelight flickered and danced, Father Michael knew. He would protect this child, even if it meant damning his soul. He would bury the body. He would become her shepherd, her guardian, and her accomplice. He would add another layer of dirt to the mountain of his sin.

The darkness within him purred, a silent promise of more to come. The wolf had claimed the shepherd. And in the house of God, a new horror was about to begin.