Chapter Text
L'appel du vide; literally the call of the void is a French phrase used to refer to intellectual suicidal thoughts, or the urge to engage in self-destructive behavior during everyday life.
It was one of those quiet mornings in Denver, sleepy like in a much smaller town, and Miles, in a fit of surprising good-will, had bought Waylon his favourite coffee at their favourite coffee house.
He'd barely even gotten a sip in before Miles slid a newspaper across the table so Waylon could take a look at the front page.
"Heard about this?"
Waylon glanced at the headline and grimaced at the picture. He made an affirmative sound, and slid the newspaper back. Of course he had heard about the ritualistic murders just a few hours away from his own hometown. It would have been hard to miss it, as it was plastered across all major newspapers in the country. Nothing sold newspapers like cultists, after all.
"I need you to go over there for me."
“What?” Waylon almost choked on the cup of coffee Miles had thrust in his hands just moments before. An obvious bribe, in lights of what he’d just suggested. “But how? I’m not even a journalist!”
“That’s why it’s perfect.” Miles patted Waylon’s hand and offered him a napkin, which Waylon begrudgingly accepted. “They all know my face, hell, they know it and shun it. I need someone fresh.”
“But-” Waylon started, fiddling with the coffee cup to the point where he finally just put it down. ”Like I said, I’m not a journalist. I have no idea what to do.”
Miles grasped Waylon’s hands in his, cocking his head the way he always did when he tried to convince Waylon to do something.
Which he always somehow managed to do. Fuck.
“That’s the beauty of it,” he explained slowly, blinking innocently at Waylon. “I’ll be with you every step of the way, and you just act like you would’ve normally.”
“Normally I wouldn’t go at all,” Waylon sniffed, and in front of him Miles lit up, already knowing he had won.
The motel, despite its cheerful name, bore more resemblance to a prison ward than a motel, and Waylon stared up at it through his windshield as he pulled up in the parking lot. On his drive there he had driven past a stately looking Victorian hotel, and in comparison the motel in front of him felt distinctly lacking.
He shut the engine off with a sigh, thrumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He was a little apprehensive about this mission Miles had sent him on, truth be told, and the initial impression of Leadville was less than stellar. Sure, it was just a little under two hours away from Denver, but it felt like another world. He felt transported back to the 50s, or some bizarre gold mining movie where the details weren’t quite right.
With another, deeper, sigh, he decided to stop being a child, and shrugged out of his safety belt. The bag he had packed was sparse, most of the weight being contributed by a small laptop and the surveillance equipment Miles had squeezed into the too-small bag.
The air here felt crisp, he’d give it that, and he breathed it in for a few seconds before he pulled the bag over his shoulder and headed into the motel vestibule.
It was worn down like the rest of the motel, the wood paneling of the plastic variety with framed photographs of happier times.
Miles had already reserved a room for him, so all he had to do was to show his passport to the cheerful, middle aged woman sitting behind the desk, who promptly handed him a key -not a key-card- and pointed to the outside in a general direction of the room.
The rooms were located along the confines of the parking lot, and Waylon quickly found the right door and locked himself in. Well inside he dropped his bag a little too hard on the floor, turned the lights on, and took a quick overview of the room.
Well. It was reasonably clean, but that was the best thing he could say about it.
The room was worn down, covered floor-to-ceiling with yellowed pine and all the decor felt like it belonged at least a few decades back in time. If nothing else it had a small kitchenette in one corner, and a small desk in front of the window.
“Silver linings, Lisa,” he mumbled to himself, most of all to ease some of the melancholia that had seeped into his gut, but also to make some noise in the suddenly too quiet room.
He quickly got his laptop up and running, logging onto the less-than-secure motel wi-fi, and called Miles. Miles answered the phone quickly, too quickly, like he had been waiting by the phone all this time.
“Waylon? You there yet?”
“Yeah.” Waylon put his bag next to the bed and wandered off towards the kitchenette. “This motel is a dump.”
He wrinkled his nose as he opened a few of the cabinets, finding old crumbs and something small and black he hoped wasn’t mouse droppings.
“Think I can afford five stars?” Miles scoffed. “No, you’re getting the full-on undercover journalist experience; shitty motels and a stomach rotted by even shittier coffee.”
Waylon looked at the small collection of tea and coffee laid out by the water boiler and nodded his head in agreement. “Seems that way, yeah.”
“I’d ask you to go over to the church tonight, but I suppose that would be a little strange.”
“Yeah, no, I’m not doing that. I’ll go over first thing in the morning.” Waylon peered into the water boiler, happy to find it reasonably clean-looking, and filled it up with water. “So what am I saying, exactly?”
“Just… Just act like your normal tourist with a mid-life crisis and a search for God.”
“Mid-life cri- Miles, I’m thirty! Same as you!”
“Fine, fine, but quarter-life crisis just doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Miles chuckled. “I’ll be up there in a week’s time and see what you got. And hey. at least the church is a short walk from the motel, right?”
Waylon could almost hear the smug contentment that was surely plastered across Miles’ face.
“The fancy hotel down the street would have made for a shorter walk,” Waylon sniffed, and on the other end of the line Miles just laughed.
Leadville seemed nicer in the morning, Waylon decided, taking a turn down the historical district. At least once he got away from the peeling paint and graffiti of the area he was lodging. The red brick, Victorian molding and green trees closer to the center made for a peaceful backdrop, and locals greeted him as he walked past. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be such a disaster anyway.
Still though, when he moved out of the main street and towards his destination, he couldn’t help but feel that the shoddy one-story buildings had something almost depressing about them, like this city was long past its prime.
At least he didn’t have a hard time finding the church, because it had a peculiar roof; tall, white and tapered like a knife towards the sky. It seemed like a strange choice for a place of worship, but what did Waylon know. The closest he had ever come to religion was the half-hearted attempts of his mother during childhood, attempts that had later died down completely, and now the only thing he could remember of church was his father being bored and his mother rolling her eyes.
Up close the church seemed more welcoming, with the same red brick as most of the main street, and he walked up the steps with a strange sort of nervousness. Maybe it was the excess of horror movies Miles had forced him to watch, but he suddenly had this vague fear that he’d burst into flames as soon as he touched the white double-doors.
He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Instead the doors opened soundlessly into a small vestibule, with a slightly wider set of double doors leading into the actual nave of the church. Waylon took a deep breath and stepped through them.
The congregation were, for the most part, seated up front, so Waylon quietly sank down in one of the pews near the back. It was a cheerful room, if you could say that about a church, the walls a pale yellow contrasting against the white altar and large wooden frames with painted saints. Very far removed from the dimly lit churches from his past.
Thankfully the people up front didn’t seem to notice him, or at last, they didn’t pay him no mind, and his hands felt slightly less clammy when he reached for one of the two leather bond books on the back of the pew in front of him.
At least the worm leather felt the same, and the comforting sense of familiarity calmed him down further. He could do this. And for the first time he kind of felt he really could.
The muted murmuring of the people quieted down as a bald priest entered the church from a room behind the altar. He was an impressive sight, an intricate ornate stole hanging around his neck, and another, younger and simpler clad, priest followed him, carrying a book. When the latter placed the book upon the altar, another two men who looked like twins entered the room with incense and a crucifix.
At the sight of them, the congregation all stood up, and Waylon scrambled to his feet as well, clutching the leather bound book a little harder when they started singing a hymn. Waylon felt his hands go clammy again. He definitely didn’t know of any hymns, and even if he did he wasn’t so sure he’d want to expose the rest of the church-goers to that. Lisa - his heart clenched a little - had always told him that he had the singing voice of something that belonged below ground, and he found himself smiling wistfully at the memory.
The singing finally stopped and the priest stood in front of them, large hands clasped together and an impressive booming voice as he said “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
The congregation followed with an equally enthusiastic “Amen.” before they sat down, Waylon awkwardly following suit. The priest then started talking about something Waylon couldn’t quite follow along with, and his gaze started drifting around the room and the people instead.
Most of the church-goers seemed to be in their early fifties, but there were also younger people present, some holding round-faced toddlers. Waylon looked back up at the priest, at the long black tunic and his ceremonious face. Next to him the younger priest stood silently.
He wore a stole similar to the older priest, but simpler, and tied around his wide chest and down his waist like a sash rather than around his neck. He was tall and looked strong, like he belonged doing something physical and dangerous, not standing quietly with his head bowed in silent worship.
Waylon found his gaze returning to him even when he tried not to.
“I call upon you all to pray,” the elder said, making a gesture to the room and smiled. “Let us pray in silence to become one with our Lord.”
Well, I can do that, Waylon thought, folding his hands on the pew in front of him and bowing his head.
Dear God, he started, suddenly feeling more than a little foolish. I don’t… I don’t know if I believe in you. He licked his lips. Maybe that wasn’t the right way to speak to God.
It felt like the truth though. He had been curious, about the existence of a God, but after the accident he wasn’t so sure he’d even want to know.
I don’t know how this works, and it’s not like you answered my prayers before. Waylon’s mind blanked for a second before he knew what he wanted to say. Please let this be different, he almost mumbled out loud. Even if things don’t work out as planned, please let it be different.
He was so caught up in his own mind that he didn’t even notice when the rest of the people started singing again, and he did another awkward scramble to catch up.
The simple clad priest was looking at him when Waylon finally got the book out, his lips slightly tugged in faint amusement, and Waylon found himself reddening. It wasn’t quite the first impression he had aimed for, but hopefully it wouldn’t put a damper on his investigation. He kept his gaze firmly plastered on the yellowing pages of the book, moving his lips in what he hoped was a convincing manner.
After the singing, the others didn’t sit down like before, but remained standing. Waylon lifted his gaze to find the younger priest still looking his way, before breaking eye contact and stepping up to the altar. The older priest had his head bowed and Waylon could see his lips moving in silent prayer, while the other held what looked like a golden lamp with a metal chain extended from the top, from which incense was being burned. Once in his hands, he started swinging it gently back and forth with one hand, crossing himself with the other.
Waylon followed his movement with interest. He might not understand religion, but he’d always found himself somewhat mesmerized by the traditions and rituals.
Once the priest was done swinging the incense, he handed it back to the twins and stepped up to the altar. He paused for a second there, looking out at the room. Then he cleared his throat and started reading the Gospel, which was about the only part of the Bible Waylon actually knew.
His voice was deep and calm, not booming like the other priest, but he seemed to hold the congregation's attention as well as the first.
“Shine forth within our hearts the incorruptible light of Thy knowledge, O Master, Lover of mankind,” he started, looking out on them before continuing. “-and open the eyes of our mind to the understanding of the preaching of Thy Gospel; instill in us also the fear of Thy blessed commandments, that, trampling down all lusts of the flesh.” At those words his eyes flicked slightly Waylon’s way before he continued.
The rest of the sermon was a blur to Waylon, too focused on the oddity of observing something as private as this and the somersaults his stomach was doing at the prospects of doing what Miles wanted. He didn’t even notice the shift in the room as linen was placed on the altar, along with wine and small, round crackers.
Oh. Oh. Waylon paled. That meant…
People started moving up in a tight line up to the altar, and Waylon wondered for a second if he should just dash wildly out of the room. He was pretty sure that they wouldn’t take too kindly on a non-believer accepting the holy communion, and he wasn’t sure if they liked him observing either.
See, this was why Miles should have been the one to come here. He’d probably stroll right up and accept the bread and wine without a thought. Not to mention that he’d also be able to prove his status as a seemingly devout Catholic, while Waylon wasn’t even baptized.
The priest started talking again, and Waylon chose that moment to retreat back outside. The church wasn’t stuffy per-se, but the air outside still felt blessfully cool. He gulped it down, cursing Miles for being so insistent and himself for accepting. Maybe he should just come back another day, he still had a week to do this. Well, six days, but who was keeping count? Waylon sighed and sat down on the church steps, watching the sun trail lazily over the sky. Miles would most definitely keep count.
Waylon did as well, in his own way. At first he kept track of the movements of the sun, then the small weeds by his feet, then finally by counting the shingles of the roof across for him.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the doors opened behind him, and the whole congregation poured out the doors at the same time. He stood up as they did, standing stiffly by the side of the small staircase. A few of them nodded their heads at him and smiled, others too busy talking among themselves. Behind them trailed the elderly priest, who patted a few shoulders and kissed the heads of the small children in their parents arms. There was something so peaceful and wholesome about the whole thing, making that piece inside of Waylon clench again.
He waited for the people who start walking down the street before addressing the priest.
“Excuse me, uh, Father,” he started, and the priest turned to him with a smile. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few question about joining this church?”
“Of course, my child,” the priest smiled wider and grabbed his hand. “My name is Father Martin, welcome to our small parish.”
“Waylon Park.”
Oh God, he wasn’t supposed to use a fake name, was he? Well, too late now, Waylon thought with a stiff smile.
“Welcome, welcome,” Father Martin said, clasping Waylon’s shoulder with a surprisingly strong grip, and steered him back into the church. “Now, I have some business to attend to, but I urge you to speak with the deacon.”
Waylon looked up in the direction the priest was pulling him, seeing the tall and somewhat gloomy looking priest peer curiously at him as he drew nearer.
“I’ll leave you to it, I’m sure he will answer any questions you might have.” He gave Waylon’s arm a final squeeze before turning to the other priest. “I trust you’ll take good care of him, my dear boy,” he said. The other priest just gave a small nod.
“What can I help you with…?” He turned to Waylon, and Waylon realized he had to crane his neck a little to look up at him.
“Waylon Park,” he said, extending his hand before thinking better of it, letting it fall limply by his side instead. “I’d like to join the church, Father.”
“Oh, no, I’m a deacon, not a priest. You may call me deacon Gluskin.” He gestured towards one of the doors near the back. “Please, come into the office and we’ll talk.”
Waylon nodded and followed deacon Gluskin down the aisle, and into a sparsely furnished room that more than made up for it with the sheer amount of leather clad books in bookcases covering the room. Gluskin gestured towards one of the leather chairs in front of a desk, before getting seated behind it.
“So,” he started, giving Waylon a short stare before getting papers out. “What brings you to us?”
Help, Waylon thought desperately, what would Miles say?
“I feel lost,” he finally said, settling on the truth. In front of him Gluskin nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer, and he started scribbling something on a piece of paper. He was somehow more baffling up close, what Waylon thought was a short cropped hairstyle turned out to be more like an slightly outgrown undercut. The contrast between the inky black hairstyle and the crisp, white tunic was a little unnerving.
Not to mention how unattainable he looked in all his haughty self-righteousness. Like something more than a man.
“Are you baptized?” Gluskin was staring at him now, scrutinizing him really, his gaze an icy blue that made Waylon squirm a little.
“Uh, no.”
“There’s quite a few steps to becoming a catholic, the first being what we call the period of inquiry,” he paused, as if to allow Waylon to catch up. “This is where you reflect upon your life and receive an introduction to the life and teachings of Jesus Christ.”
“So, do I just…?” Waylon scratched his head, feeling more lost than ever.
“Unless you have someone else in mind, I can be your sponsor, guiding you through the process.” Gluskin shifted, and broke eye contact at last, opening a drawer so he could pull out a small bible. “Here, I suggest you go home and read, and we can meet up tomorrow after mass.”
“Oh, uh, thank you.” Waylon accepted the small book, giving Gluskin a tentative smile. “Looking forward to it.”
Gluskin gave him a smile in return, breaking the severity of his face and making him seem a lot more approachable.
“Tomorrow then,” he hummed, and Waylon promptly stood up with a nod and showed himself out.
“I’m telling you, it just seems like any old church. No scary looking pit in the corner or anything.”
“Oh, Waylon,” Miles sighed and clicked his tongue. “You’re such an innocent little thing. As a professional journalist, I can tell you that most pits are kept in the basement.”
Waylon didn’t respond, just sighed through his nose with an audible huff of annoyance, to which Miles just gave a little laugh.
“Well, what did you expect? No cult in existence will show their true colors on the first day.”
Waylon supposed that made sense, but he still had a hard time picturing Father Martin convincing young people into setting themselves on fire. Then he remembered Gluskin, wide-shouldered and glaring, and he shuddered.
“I’m just not really looking forward to hours alone with that Gluskin guy. He scares me a little.”
Miles laughed. “He’s a deacon, Waylon, how dangerous can he be?”
“Weren’t you just telling me how seemingly harmless things can, in fact, be deadly cults in disguise?”
“Oh, right,” Miles snorted. “I guess I should start writing your eulogy then.”
“You’re such an ass.”
“Keep me posted,” Miles chuckled, before hanging up.
Waylon groaned and tossed his phone on the bed. This was first grade all over again. Miles with his idiotic ideas, and Waylon’s even more idiotic decisions to go along with them.