Chapter 5: The Confessional

Liam's eyes snapped open to suffocating darkness.

Gone was the van's familiar interior, the reassuring presence of his friends, the cold night air seeping through cracked windows. Instead, he found himself pressed against rough wooden walls that seemed to breathe with the rhythm of something vast and patient. The space was impossibly small—barely wide enough for his shoulders, forcing him to sit with his knees drawn up to his chest.

A confessional.

The realization hit him like ice water. He could feel the partition beside him, the ornate screen that separated penitent from priest. But when he pressed his face against the carved wood, he saw only darkness beyond—a void so complete it seemed to swallow light itself.

"Hello?" His voice came out as a croak, barely audible in the cramped space. "Is anyone there?"

The silence stretched, heavy with expectation. Then, from everywhere and nowhere, a voice responded—not heard through his ears but resonating directly inside his skull, grinding against his thoughts like millstones.

You have come to confess.

The words weren't spoken so much as carved into his consciousness, each syllable leaving wounds that bled understanding. This wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the certainty of natural law.

"I don't want to confess anything," Liam said, his voice stronger now, though his hands shook as he pressed them against the walls. "I want to get out of here. I want to find my friends."

Your friends are safe. They are learning, as you will learn. But first, you must confess.

The voice carried undertones of vast age, of patience measured in centuries rather than moments. It spoke with the authority of something that had heard every sin, every shameful secret, every buried guilt that humanity had ever carried.

"I haven't done anything wrong," Liam insisted, but even as he spoke, he felt something cold and unwelcome stirring in the depths of his memory. "I'm not religious. I don't believe in confession."

Belief is irrelevant. The weight exists regardless of acknowledgment. You carry it still, after all these years. The small girl who trusted you. The water that filled her lungs. The silence that followed.

"No." The word came out as a whisper, barely disturbing the air. "That's not... I don't know what you're talking about."

But he did know. God help him, he knew exactly what the voice meant.

The confessional seemed to shrink around him, the walls pressing closer until he could barely breathe. The darkness beyond the screen began to shift, taking on shapes that his mind refused to process fully. Water. Splashing. A summer day that had turned to nightmare.

Tell me about Sarah.

The name hit him like a physical blow. Sarah. Sweet, trusting Sarah with her gap-toothed smile and her absolute faith in her older cousin who knew everything about everything. Sarah who had begged him to teach her to swim that day at the community pool.

"I won't," Liam said, but his voice lacked conviction. The memory was surfacing now, rising from the depths where he'd buried it twelve years ago. "That was an accident. It wasn't my fault."

Was it?

The voice didn't press, didn't argue. It simply waited, patient as stone, as the truth began to claw its way to the surface of Liam's consciousness. The confessional filled with the phantom sound of splashing water, of a child's laughter turning to panic.

Sarah had been eight years old. He'd been eleven—old enough to know better, old enough to understand consequences. But he'd been angry that day, frustrated that his parents had forced him to babysit instead of letting him hang out with his friends.

"She was annoying me," he whispered, the words torn from his throat. "She kept asking questions, kept wanting attention. I just wanted her to leave me alone."

Continue.

The memory played out in vivid detail now, unstoppable as a film reel. The public pool crowded with families enjoying the summer heat. Sarah in her bright yellow swimsuit, bouncing excitedly as she begged him to help her learn to swim. The way she'd trusted him completely when he'd led her to the deep end.

"I told her it would be fun," Liam continued, his voice hollow. "I said I'd catch her if she jumped in. But when she went under..."

You let her sink.

"I was going to help her! I was going to pull her out!" The words came out in a rush, desperate and raw. "But she looked so scared, and I thought... I thought maybe if she got really frightened, she'd stop bothering me so much. Just for a few seconds. Just to teach her a lesson."

How many seconds?

The question hung in the air like a blade. Liam closed his eyes, but the memory continued to play behind his lids. Sarah's small form disappearing beneath the surface. The panic in her eyes as she realized he wasn't going to catch her. The way she'd thrashed and struggled while he stood there, counting.

"Ten seconds," he whispered. "Maybe fifteen. Then I jumped in, but..."

But it was too late.

The confessional filled with the sound of his own childhood voice, screaming for help, claiming he'd tried to save her. The lifeguards rushing over. The desperate CPR attempts. The ambulance sirens. The way Sarah's parents had looked at him with such gratitude, calling him a hero for trying to save their daughter.

The funeral had been closed casket. They'd told everyone it was a tragic accident, a reminder of how dangerous water could be. Liam had stood at the grave site, accepting condolences and sympathy while the truth burned like acid in his chest.

"I was just a kid," he said now, but the words felt hollow even to him. "I didn't mean for her to die. I just wanted to scare her a little."

You wanted to hurt her. You wanted to punish her for the sin of loving you.

The voice was right, and that knowledge cut deeper than any blade. He had wanted to hurt Sarah, to make her pay for disrupting his plans, for being young and needy and trusting. For just a moment, he'd wanted to teach her that the world was cruel and that even the people who claimed to love you could abandon you when it mattered most.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, tears streaming down his face. "I'm so sorry. I've been sorry every day for twelve years."

Sorrow is not confession. Truth is confession. Say the words.

The wooden walls seemed to pulse around him, alive with expectation. The darkness beyond the screen rippled like disturbed water, and for a moment, Liam thought he saw Sarah's face looking back at him—not the eight-year-old he'd killed, but the woman she might have become, reproachful and eternally disappointed.

"I killed her," he said, the words coming out in a language he didn't recognize, syllables that felt ancient and weighted with power. "I murdered my cousin because she annoyed me. I let her drown and then I lied about it. I've been lying about it for twelve years."

The confession poured out of him in that strange, fluid language, each word cutting his throat like broken glass. He spoke of the nightmares, the guilt, the way he'd thrown himself into horror stories and paranormal investigation as a way to punish himself, to surround himself with the darkness he felt he deserved.

As he spoke, he felt something terrible happening inside him—not relief, as confession was supposed to bring, but a hollowing out, as if the truth was carving away pieces of his soul with each word. The darkness beyond the screen seemed to drink in his words, growing fuller and more substantial with each revelation.

When he finally fell silent, the confessional had grown so small he could barely move. The voice returned, satisfied and somehow more solid than before.

You have confessed. You have spoken truth. The weight is lifted.

But Liam felt heavier, not lighter. The guilt that had driven him for twelve years was gone, but in its place was something far worse—a yawning emptiness that seemed to stretch on forever.

"What happens now?" he asked, though part of him already knew the answer.

Now you are forgiven.

The words should have brought comfort, but they carried the weight of a death sentence. The confessional began to dissolve around him, the wooden walls fading like mist, and Liam found himself falling through darkness toward a light he didn't want to reach.

As consciousness fled once again, he heard the voice one last time, soft and almost gentle:

Welcome home, my child. Welcome to the congregation.