The words are written in old French by a man who surely educated himself in literacy. It takes you some time to transcribe what was written. 

January 13, 1802

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one day since my last confession.

Such is the line I used to hear from my post in the confessional. One would believe that, in spending increasing swathes of time alone in that box, I would be relieved by the sanctity and restraint of the people; however, the silence is disquieting and I am suspicious of the lack of attendance. At least, I tell myself, our pews remain full on Sundays.

Prior to my being at Clermont-Ferrand, I spent my priesthood at the Abbatiale Saint-Austremoine d'Issoire. During that time, I recall, I had no doubts or convictions of any kind; nay, my being was dedicated to God (though I must be clear that I remain dedicated in in soul, in thoughts, and in heart) while firmly nestled among cobblestoned streets. By all means did my naiveté decree that things would stay much the same here, that my promotion would bring reverence to these people and peace to the pews. For these past seven years, my fortitudinous psyche has deteriorated like the fine papyrus of ancient philosophy in my hands––grasping tighter only expedited the process. Now, I must write to make some sense of the blade Satan lodged between my eyes to blind me. 

Though mentioning that Abbatiale has made me reminisce on those days I spent as a boy, bright-eyed and unknowing yet as to what burden I erstwhile have carried. Like many priests of my calibre, my father was a Father to many; and so had his father been, and his father, et cetera. All have found saintly women who have borne them sons as to continue on this lineage of holy men and, for better or for worse (this idea of ‘worse,’ that gnawing idea that possesses me so, of diverting fates and the freedom of man, is what calms me when I think of my current celibacy. Though my father––who clings to life like a thread barely knit onto its garment––worries much over his sweet blood stopping in my soured veins, I think of my current predicament and become at ease. Though see here how my distress interrupts even my most pleasant of thoughts? Allow me to continue.), our family has remained in the church for this long. 

I remember most the hanging gardens surrounding the Abbatiale, like our own quiet Eden sheltering us from sin. Vines draped down from the brick siding of the holy place; they tangled with creeping plants, flowering plants, crawling over trellises and forming gateways over wooden paths; the sun shone mottled patterns through high tree branches over the entirely of the flowers and herbs; when it rained, the leaves would dance and shine with dew; even the wind blew crystalline melodies through the chimes and a storm would light up the hues in a wash of blue and platinum. How could one be miserable in such a place? Then, the stained glass of the small country church would bring the covenant into the pews, shining on smiling faces of the holy and righteous I was so pleased to be acquainted with.

Moving from that haven of security should have been difficult, but it truly was not. I met the men who would be taking my place, following after me, and knew that God needed them to experience this place for themselves. It was as if he said you must take the joy that is now implanted in your heart and bring it to another holy place so it may radiate from you and into its walls; allow these men to harvest their own so they may spread it, themselves. The dark, obsidian stone of Clermont-Ferrand has absorbed what I could provide it over these years. The men succeeding me still reside there, in Issoire.

I agonize in these walls. The black tar seeping from between every brick has bound me to this building; Christ’s eyes looking down upon me from beneath thistled brow have bound me to this building. If I were not a holy man, I would assume the entire city was wrought with miasma, what with the deepest of the clouds that assault the sky every day; the despondency of the people who regard their own shining toe caps when they move around the city, whose flaming oil lamps scarcely glow in their own weakness; the sanctimonious of whom I have never seen their teeth lest they grip my arm and tell me in solace that they cannot be here next week, Father, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, the pillars of my own holy place so dark they blend in with the night, providing no refuge nor solace to those wandering the pallid midnights, those who need me most. 

I fear it might be my own bias, as my eyes––as mentioned, briefly, before; any creature who places his eyes on these words must forgive my eternal soul for the movement of thought across these pages––have been deceiving me as of late. Yea, have I been partial to being mistaken. Just one week ago, I frightened by lights within the church from my rectory. I roused one of my men, Ambrosio, to come and shut them posthaste. But he informed me that no such light was on! Indeed, and when I gathered every one, they all communicated the same effect. I could not be tamed, so I still went within the church to see. Good, dear Ambrosio came with me and saw how, when I unlocked the side door and pushed it open, no light poured out to greet me; it was a void, like the night. He brought me back to my quarters and placed a damp cloth on my head, staying with me until I was asleep, like I was a sickly babe and he a doting nurse. 

Eternally embarrassed by such a show of delirium, I swore to him the next morning that I would record any further incident in this notebook. There have been many of which, yes, I admit, have indeed flashed before mine eyes. Winds dancing and rustling though there is no breeze about me; the glint of fire in the eye of a stranger as if a torch shone upon them, when there is none; hearing the clatter of a falling brass in another room, but when I approach to retrieve the object, it remains sitting on the mantle. I feel myself startle frequently, perhaps once every day, as if my brain is relentlessly ensuring I didn’t have a day of peace or tranquility. Understand that these moments, though inconsequential and harmless, are quite the opposite for my psyche. Certainly, especially, the true terror I am haunted by. What keeps my face pallid and my blood iced, the tremor in my hands making every word you read shake as though afflicted with the same horror as I––it is my own face. 

I stare at myself in my hand mirror, now, trying to best describe what reflects back. I am a grown man whose face has not changed significantly over the years, so one would imagine myself most accustomed to it; yet, staring back, is a face blurred by memory, as if in a dream, an uncertain dream; a face affixed to the body of a stranger; a face with features if you do not focus, but when I try to trace the outline of my lips or view the colour of my eye with sharper scrutiny, I cannot see them clearly, as if the mirror is dirty or fog has entered the room. This has been my reflection since yestermorn and is what compelled me to write, finally, after a week of indecision. 

I should believe this is some trial of Satan’s, some terrible trick; though part of me aches (with that deep ache in my chest, like it is breaking my ribs) that my devotion and lineage would have protected me from such a devious, devious punishment.

Thus is my sorrow, and mine alone, for no other can see nor bear witness to these misdemeanours that haunt me. I trust in the son of God, Jesus Christ, to rid Satan from my being and return me to tranquility; help me dispose of this beast so I may serve you better, O Lord.

O Lord. Amen.