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Vitale always admired the frescos and statues that adorned the church. Indeed, it had a long and storied history. Saint Lawrence, for whom the church was named, was martyred by Roman Emperor Valerian in 258 AD and entombed under what was now the altar. Other saints and popes were buried there as well. The first church over the site was built in the sixth century, and a second in the thirteenth century. The two were later combined, before being bombed in World War II. It was then lovingly restored by men inspired by God.

You left out Christopher Pike.  Boo.

Vitale frowned and struggled to stand. “Who are you?”
“Here's a clue.” The ground shook, the cross atop the altar crashed to the floor, and the windows exploded inward. The temperature plummeted and the lights dimmed. Fog swirled around the being and his eyes glowed fiery red.

Cardinal Aristotele Vitale shuffled down the center aisle of his titular church, Basilica Papale di San Lorenzo fuori le Mura, in Rome. If Vitale hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn the aisle grew longer with each passing year. At eighty-six, he wondered how many more years he would be able to walk to the high altar. Given what the Lord had endured on the cross, it would take more than a body riddled with arthritis to stop him from his frequent visits to pray here.

Vitale always admired the massive stone pillars that ran the length of the church on the far side of the pews to his left and right. Indeed, the entire church had a long and storied history. Saint Lawrence, for whom the church was named, was martyred by Roman Emperor Valerian in 258 AD and entombed under what was now the altar. Other saints and popes were buried there as well. The first church over the site was built in the 6th century, and a second built in front of it in the 13th century. The two were later combined. The church was bombed during World War II but subsequently restored.

Besides Vitale, the church was empty. Father Coppola, the parish pastor, had already left for the night, locking the doors. Vitale had used his own key to enter, then locked himself in. Except for the occasional tourist pulling on the door and the faint sound of traffic from the Via Tiburtina, all was quiet.

Vitale genuflected toward the cross atop the domed altar, then sat in the front pew. Sadly, gone were the days when he could kneel on the tiled floor. He straightened his scarlet robes. As always, they were freshly laundered. He owned several sets, allowing him to always wear clean clothes when entering his church. The laundering costs were a minor extravagance that Vitale thought the Lord would approve of. Besides, Vitale donated the unused portion of his yearly pay to the poor.

He began to pray. Soon, pounding footsteps approached him from behind. He sighed, thinking Coppola had returned. “Did you forget something, Father?”

A sonorous male voice said, “Good evening, Your Eminence.”

The cardinal turned.

A dark being stood a few feet away. Light barely penetrated to his face or clothes, as if he was shrouded in deep shadows where none existed.

Vitale frowned and struggled to stand. “Who are you?”

“Allow me to introduce myself.” The ground shook, the cross atop the altar crashed to the floor, and the windows exploded inward. The temperature plummeted and the lights dimmed. Fog swirled around the being and his eyes glowed fiery red.

Vitale staggered back, realizing he was staring in the face of death.