Confession Booth: 1. The Stranger's Mouth

The first time I knelt in the booth, it wasn’t to confess.

It was to watch.

The church was always mine after dark. I had the keys, the mop, the silence. The pews glowed faintly from the candlelight that Father Joseph insisted stay burning at all times. They flickered like guilty eyes. The scent of incense clung stubbornly to the wood, heavy and ancient, as though the air itself had sins to remember.

I should’ve hated cleaning the confessional most—it always gave me chills. The carved doors, the heavy velvet curtains, the small lattice where whispers became judgment. But that night… something was different.

The curtain was drawn.

Someone was inside.

I froze. My mop squeaked against the stone floor before I caught myself. My heart began to pound—not with fear, not at first. With curiosity. Who could be there at this time of day? 

I leaned closer.

And then I heard it.

Breathing. Low. Rough. Masculine.

It curled into me li