The Prophet of Marcello

The prophet of Marcello was, ironically, unaware he was dying. When he walked up the cathedral steps that morning, he only thought of how on earth he was going to get the Charlie Chaplin club to quit stealing his keys to the estate. He was sick of hearing the help complain about seeing ghosts when it was really just a bunch of film-obsessed teens wanting the perfect backdrop for their silent movies.

"Let's just move back in," his husband had suggested over morning coffee. "They'll stop going in if they know someone's there."

"They know the gardeners are there and that doesn't stop them."

"It's about being on the inside that counts."

When the prophet opened his office door, he found his wall hook hanging empty. Shame they didn't lock the cathedral overnight. Shame his heart was beating faster in an odd rhythm. And what a shame the floor was rising u to meet him. His mind sank like an anchor in a storm.

The priestess loomed over him sometime after that. The beads on her rosary dangled over him where they weren't locked in her fist.

Feeling like a receding tide, the prophet said, "I think I'm on the outside of it all. Those Chaplin boys are always in on the joke. I would be, too, if I had a camera and the energy to break and enter. Would you?"

The priestess muttered a prayer under her breath. She fussed over him as he burned up.

"Tell 'em Chaplin and I had a chat. He said the keys to heaven aren't nearly as easy to steal."