Father of Lies by Brian Evenson Page A

tightly.
    â€œWhat’s your name, son?” I ask.
    â€œJosh,” he says.
    â€œJosh,” I say. “Ah, yes. Your sister told me all about you.”
    A flicker of something passes near his mouth and quickly disappears.
    â€œI doubt it,” he says.
    â€œDoubt not, fear not,” I say. “Thus sayeth the Lord. Come visit me sometime.”
    â€œYou don’t know anything about me,” he says.
    He pulls his hand out of mine and steps out. I let the door swing shut.
    As I gather my notes off the desk and take my Scriptures from the drawer, a knock comes from the window, from behind the curtains. I hold myself still, listen as the knock comes a second time, then a third.
    I part the curtains. Outside, his face pressed against the glass, is a man.
    I open the window, see the glass smeared with blood where his forehead was.
    â€œCan I help you?” I ask.
    He pulls his head straight and I see that there is an X hacked into his forehead. The hair of his head is shaved to the length of a day’s growth of beard. His eyes are dark and penetrating, nervous.
    â€œThe question is, can I help you?” he says.
    â€œI don’t think so,” I say, and begin closing the window.
    He blocks me by placing his head in the gap. I can see all over the crown of his skull slits and streaks of blood, razor slashes.
    â€œCan it be you don’t recognize me?” he asks.
    I go cold. I pull the window back and slam it against his head, opening a gash above his eye. Blood begins to drip onto the sill.
    â€œI take it you aren’t happy to see me again?”
    â€œI’ve never seen you before in my life.”
    â€œHow quickly we forget,” he says. “The bus? Wednesday afternoon? And the woods before that?”
    I look at him, his torn shirt, his faded jeans.
    â€œNo,” I say. “You can’t be.”
    â€œI can,” he says. “I am.”
    â€œWhat happened to your clothes?”
    â€œWhat?” he says. He looks down at his body, tugs up his T -shirt. “One takes whatever is available. I assumed you and I were close enough it wouldn’t matter.” He looks back to me. “Or shall we say I am traveling incognito?” he asks. “That I am trying to avoid someone?”
    â€œAvoid who?”
    â€œAren’t you going to invite me in?” he asks.
    â€œI have a funeral service to conduct.”
    â€œI am here to help,” he says. “There are things that should be said at this funeral. I am just the man to say them.”
    â€œYou?”
    â€œWhy not?” he says. “Invite me inside.”
    â€œYou aren’t dressed for a funeral.”
    â€œThis?” he says. “Don’t worry about this. Nobody will mind.”
    I stand staring out at him.
    â€œInvite me in,” he says. “The people would much rather listen to me than to you.”
    I stand hesitating, fingering my notes.
    â€œDo you really trust yourself not to slip?” he asks. “What are you going to feel when you see her casket?”
    â€œCome in,” I say. “But only for a minute.”
    He pushes the window fully open with his hand, then reaches out to me. I extend my hand, pull him up onto the sill and through.
    â€œYou can’t stay long,” I say.
    â€œOnce I’m in, I’m in,” he says. “Nobody tells me how long I can stay.”
    He opens the door and goes out, ushering me before him. I step out and into the foyer, find it empty, the doors to the chapel proper shut. Opening these doors, he waves me in.
    The whole congregation is seated. They turn their heads as I enter, following me with their eyes as I walk up the aisle and onto the platform. The family is already seated on the stand. In the front and to the side, near the sacrament table, is the casket, lid screwed down, gleaming.
    I can see my face in its skin. I cannot take my eyes away from the face, distorted and rippling.
    I