Rain lashes the streets, a shadow lurks and a man waits for the perfect moment to take what isn’t his. But inside a quiet house, he finds something far more dangerous than the law, and something far more life-changing than he could have imagined.
The Midnight Vigil is a story of suspense, secrets and a light that refuses to be ignored.
The Midnight Vigil
By J.K. Stenger
The rain pattered against the pavement. Even though the thief stood against a tree for shelter, rain crept down his collar like icy fingers. He shivered and tugged his jacket higher for the tenth time. A sneer twisted his lips as he stared at the window of the biggest house on the block, owned by Pastor Creed. Everyone in the city knew the man. Even if you never stepped inside his church, you heard his voice on the radio. He preached hope and sunshine every Sunday, but he was just another one of those Christians who had no idea what life was really like. Hypocrites, all of them… or so he told himself.
The light in one room, probably the bedroom, was still on. Close to midnight. Were these people ever going to sleep?
He had never imagined his life would shrink to this, waiting like a stray dog outside in the rain for someone else to go to sleep.
He shivered again. What a night to be working. Maybe the rain would work in his favor. The trickle of water and the howling wind around the drainpipes would help these folks to drift into a deep, comatose sleep.
His teeth chattered, as a gust of rain pulled at his wet coat. He groaned. Stupid people. They had warm blankets, silk sheets, heaters cranked to the max, while he didn’t even have a heater in his miserable shack on First Avenue. Sure, it was partly his fault. Couldn’t keep his hands off the bottle. But life wasn’t fair, and he had as much right to the goods of this world as anyone.
The light in the small window went out.
“Finally!” he muttered in relief. “Soon it’s party time.”
He stretched his arms like a football substitute getting ready to run, then froze at the sound of an approaching car. A police cruiser cut through the rain, its lights hunting every shadow. He cursed under his breath and pressed himself against the tree. The engine hummed softly, like a predator on the prowl. He closed his eyes, wishing the car would vanish.
His hiding spot was solid. He had spent time scouting for the best tree to watch the house, and the bushes here provided plenty of cover. Not that he had done anything, at least not yet. After all, anyone could walk the streets at night. Of course, the gunny sack for the loot and his burglary tools leaning against the tree might be harder to explain.
The car crept slowly down the street, its headlights cutting through every dark corner. Then it passed.
They hadn’t seen him.
He couldn’t wait any longer. The cops might circle back. Snatching his bag, he checked the street and darted across.
His heart hammered against his ribs as he reached the pastor’s front door. The lock would not be a problem; he had seen this model a dozen times and he had the right pick in his gloved hand. Less than a minute later he nudged the door.
It gave a soft, accusing creak. He froze. His breath came in short gasps. Noise was more dangerous now than blue lights. But nothing stirred. He slipped into a large hallway with marble tiles and waited for his eyes to adjust. Streetlight spilled in, thin and pale, but not enough to see by. He’d come prepared. A moment later he snapped on his flashlight and crept forward.
His last burglary, which had also been his first, had ended with a rabid dog lunging at his throat. He had escaped, barely, and ever since he had sworn never to rob a house with a dog.
This pastor had no dog.
A large candlestick on a dresser caught his beam and shimmered. He focused his flashlight on it and let out a quiet grunt of satisfaction. Silver. That would bring some needed cash. He lifted it carefully and slid it into his bag.
He spotted a door to the left. Carefully, he eased the handle down and pushed it open, ready to run if anything went wrong.
He stepped into a dim bedroom. A small nightlight cast a soft glow over the face of a woman. She was fast asleep, snoring deeply.
The pastor’s wife.
But where was the pastor? The space beside his wife was empty. The man was in the house. But where?
This complicated matters.
Better not stay here. The pastor could return at any moment and he would be trapped. He slipped back into the hallway, leaving the door ajar to avoid noise.
A few steps brought him to a staircase on the right, leading to the second floor. At the top, a strip of light shone. Aha. There was the pastor, likely preparing his Sunday sermon. Best to stay downstairs.
At the end of the corridor, he spotted another door. He’d check that one first.
He switched off his flashlight and moved carefully forward.
A small, plain door. Nothing remarkable. Perhaps it led to a basement. Or maybe it was the door that led to the treasures he longed for. In his mind he already saw boxes of gold coins, jewelry and other valuables, waiting to be claimed.
He pushed the handle, expecting stairs. Instead, light spilled out, shocking him. There were no stairs. Instead, a small chapel-like room lay before him. The floor was lined with stone tiles, and on the far wall hung a large cross above a simple wooden desk holding more silver candlesticks. Large candles flickered wildly as the draft from the door reached them. A faint, oily sweetness drifted into his nostrils.
A chapel. How strange.
He almost bit his lip in shock. There, on the crude stone floor, knelt a man, weeping, hands folded.
The pastor.
Not in bed, not upstairs but here, on the floor, burning the midnight oil.
What was the pastor doing here?
It was obvious. The old man was praying.
The thief shifted uneasily. Every instinct screamed at him to shut the door. Run. It would be another disastrous night, but as long as he stayed free, who cared.
Then a voice cut through his fevered thoughts. Soft, firm, commanding.
Listen!
Fear gripped his heart. Was someone there? He glanced back, but the hallway was empty. Yet the voice had been clear.
And what was he meant to hear?
The voice came again.
Listen to his prayer.
The thief blinked, still wanting to run, but he could not. Against every instinct, he eased the door open a little further and did what he didn’t want to do. He listened.
The pastor’s voice was broken. His shoulders shook, tears garbling his words, and yet they were clear.
As the words reached him, something else entered too. Light, not physical, accompanied by a heavy sense of truth. He listened, spellbound.
Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace.
Where there are thieves, let me show mercy.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love.
Where there is darkness, light.
We are all broken vessels before You,
sinners and thieves alike.
But like the thief on the cross,
who whispered, “Jesus, remember me,”
You answer us with paradise…
It had been a long time since he’d heard such words. Images of his mother welled up. She had forced him to church every Sunday, but as soon as he could stand on his own, church was the first thing to go from his to-do list. He had replaced it with the pub and a crowd of friends who weren’t really friends at all, just partners in crime.
Seeing the pastor on his knees, pouring out his heart in prayer, opened a little door in him that had long been barred shut.
No—no—no. He didn’t want to hear it. The light hurt too much.
At that instant the voice of his old life, the one that had held him in its wicked grip for so long, surged back.
Run—run!
This time, he did.
Not caring about the noise, he stormed away. The bag with his tools and the candlestick clattered across the marble, shattering the silence. It didn’t matter. He had to get away. Fast. Now.
But as he neared the front door, another shock awaited him. Before the door there was a glow, an aura of light, shimmering and sparkling, almost as if beckoning him to join a dance of joy. He did not want to dance. He was not joyful. Out! He needed out, but how could he pass through that weird circle of light before him?
He froze. In the middle of the light a face appeared; gentle, yet with the saddest expression he had ever seen.
He leaned closer. Was he losing his mind?
It had to be. There, just above the floor and in front of the door, hovered the shimmering face of his mother who had died years earlier. Words formed in his mind, and he heard her speak: “Son, come home.”
Enough! That was enough! He let out a roar and leapt through the light, desperate to reach the front door and escape all this strangeness. As he did, his life flashed before him. His wicked deeds played out like a slow-moving movie. Countless wicked deeds. All of them.
Still, he resisted the urge to yield. He would not. He could not. If he did, he would be caught and jail would be his end.
“No… no… light, get away from me!” he shouted. His scream sounded like a beaten foot soldier crying out in fear during some ancient lost battle.
Then the light vanished.
Gone. Just like that.
He yanked the front door open. Cold wind washed over him, and icy rain stung his face. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as long as he could get away from this… this horrible place.
He reached home close to dawn. The night had stretched endlessly, though he hardly noticed. Another failure. He had even lost his tools. Another step deeper into his own mess.
***
Pastor Elias Creed sat at his desk in the study, a steaming mug of tea in hand as he prepared his sermon for next Sunday.
Downstairs, the bell rang. He looked up. Who could that be? He hadn’t expected anyone.
“I’ll get it,” his wife called.
Elias shrugged. Probably a salesman, or perhaps the police, who had been notified after last night’s failed robbery. His wife could handle it. He took a sip of tea and returned to his work.
A minute later, there was a knock on the door.
He looked up. “Come in.”
The door creaked open. A man entered, timid and ragged, carrying the stench of sin. Who in the world was this?
“Come in, friend,” Pastor Elias said. “What can I do for you?”
The man could not speak. Something blocked his throat. At last, with tears welling up, he blurted out, “I am a sinner, Pastor. I need God.”
Pastor Elias smiled gently, got up and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Then you’ve come to the right place. Let’s pray together.”
“I-I have been very bad, Pastor,” the man said, while tears now freely ran over his cheeks.
“We all have been very bad, my friend,” Pastor Elias said with a serious nod, but his eyes warm and steady. “That’s why we need God.”
The visitor sank to his knees before the astonished pastor, whispering, “Mother… I am coming home.”
_____