I recognised his quivering voice the moment I heard the first note of Amazing Grace, I didn't even need to turn around to see if he was there. I knew he'd be sitting in the same seat he'd died in five years ago to this day.
It was nice that he remembered this anniversary at least. Made it seem like he'd been unwilling to leave but the multiple self-inflicted stab wounds to his torso and face said otherwise. At least I had one day where I could hear him again and pretend he hadn't smothered our three children, set the house ablaze and then killed himself in the back garden.
There was always someone else who noticed him, some tourist who felt the need to point out that a drunk in a Halloween costume was slumped in a corner singing hymns. At least the Reverend had the decency to look away and pretend nothing unusual or spiritually doubtful was occurring.
These past few years we've been getting more and more tourists in, more people who interrupt our anniversary to whisper and wonder at who he is and why he's singing by himself. I'm glad they don't realise he's dead and gladder still that they don't notice him slowly moving through the pews, trying to reach the front.
I think he's coming for me, after sixty years since he ruined our family he now wants us all back together again under God's own roof. It'd almost be romantic, were it not for the murder-suicide aspect of our situation and all.
This year I think I'll wait for him at the front.
This year I won't run away when I hear him moving behind me.
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