Dark Resurrection

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  Jesus arrived at the temple, changing from bat to man in an instant. The gilded walls of the inner temple seemed somber and foreboding; dim candles in recessed wall niches used to light the stone rooms. Passing the altar, he walked up to Peter, seated in a side vestibule near the Ark of the Covenant.

  “Jesus! You’re alive!” Peter exclaimed, rising and walking toward his master, not knowing that the vampire’s incredible powers of entrancement were taking hold upon him.

  “In a way,” replied Jesus in his Dracula voice, plainly refusing the warm welcome his disciple was giving him.

  “You sound different master,” said Peter, attempting to resist entrancement and trying to understand his stilted rebuff.

  “I do?” asked Jesus, folding arms across his chest, hardly interested in how he sounded.

  “Sort of,” Peter stammered, asking with newfound trepidation, “Why are you here?”

  “You denied me three times.”

  “I know master, you said I would.”

  “That was a sin,” Jesus declared, an index finger in the air.

  “Okay, I’m sorry, forgive me,” said Peter, confused by Jesus’ stoic injunction, his hypocrisy showing through his rote apology.

  “Forgive you?” asked Jesus, reaching for his shoulders, “Why should I forgive such as you, your actions helped lead to my death!”

  “Please?” asked Peter, feeling the new strength of his master, “Besides, you're not dead now, so what does it matter, your prophecy about me was fulfilled,” the crowing cock crossing his mind.

  “It’s not that simple,” said vampire Jesus, hands almost growing gentle for a moment, yet not once did the stronger than human grip lessen, “Not anymore, a new form of communion has become necessary for my forgiveness.”

  “What do you mean?” asked a wide-eyed Peter, in terror of the undead monster before him.

  “I mean that I’m going to kill you for denying me, by sucking your blood.”

  “I thought you were God!”

  “So did I for a while, how crass of me, but compared to you, I am a god.”

  Pulling Peter closer, Jesus stared in his eyes, paralyzing the disciple like a cobra moving in for the kill. For the second time in his undead existence, he bared fangs and plunged them into the disciple’s neck, draining his life from him. Moments later he dropped the corpse to the floor, exhilarated and nourished from the revenge he had taken upon Peter.

  Life is good, any life, thought Jesus, sitting down in the vestibule while Peter lay dead on the marble floor. For several hours he sat, stroking his long beard and silently contemplating his undead existence, observing the almost decadent opulence of the Temple. It was as if he was visiting this ‘House of God’ for the very first time. He had been there before, but was somehow seeing it much differently as a member of the undead, disdainfully looking about at the ostentatious structure, now striking him as more of a bank for containing valuables than as a house of worship.

  I wonder what the God of the universe would need a place like this for, thought a frowning Jesus as he rose from his seat and strolled about the deserted Temple. The wealth of a nation was melded into walls made of imported polished stone and exotic oiled woods from Lebanon. Silver, gold, and ivory inlays meandered in and around corners, with window lattices wrought in curious patterns – coming close to the forbidden practice of making depictions of living things, lest they be considered graven images. Father was right, he thought as he wandered the Temple, people like these were not worth it.

  From a window he observed the horizon lightening with soft blues and pinks of the approaching dawn. Looking to his bare feet, he returned to the vestibule and removed the sandals from Peter’s stiffening corpse, slipping them on before he left. For lack of a better place, Jesus returned to the cemetery, wisely choosing an unused sepulchre for safety, several tombs down from the one borrowed from Joseph of Arimathea, for protection from the sun’s rays.

  At dawn the relief guards arrived, calling for other soldiers after discovering the cold remains of their fellows. Using superior hearing to eavesdrop on the men carrying off his first victims, Jesus listened as they surveyed his former resting place, searching the empty tomb in an attempt to find him. Finally realizing they would get no information from a deserted tomb, the soldiers left and all was quiet.

  Lurking in the shadows of a sepulchre, Jesus beheld the brilliant rays of the sun shining on the cloudless, warm spring day. During that time, he plotted his revenge against those who had crucified him. Pilate will be first, he thought, then those damn Pharisees and Sadducees. After that, I’ll ravage the rest of my disciples, especially Judas Iscariot, the Roman soldiers who scourged and crucified me, and anyone else who even looks at me wrong. I should also disguise my new voice, as it seems to frighten my victims, he mused, wondering why he sounded so bizarre. Satisfied with his plans, he relaxed on a cool slab deep in the tomb, folded arms over his chest and settled into slumber.