I'm hping you enjoy this little ghost story. I had the most fun writing it.
Jonathan Brittleby was a man of god. Just ask his parishioners. He could often be seen out ministering to the sick, downtrodden, and needy, seeking to bring them into the fold of God. Any given night might find him out on the streets of Ravenford, talking quietly with anyone who cared to stop and listen. And in his spare time, Father Brittleby helped organize and maintain the First Street Mission’s soup kitchen, feeding the community’s poor. Father Jonathan Brittleby was a real pillar of the Ravenford religious community all right.
One of his favorite projects was ministering to Meg Saunders. He spent at least three nights a week working with her, more if he could manage it. Meg was his refuge from the trials of saintly perfection. And then she had to go and get religion, ruining everything. The minute Meg found God, she began questioning her all-too-physical relationship with the good brother. And then, adding insult to injury, she threatened to “tell all” in one public confession of sin.
So he did the only thing a righteous man could. He killed her. Drowned her actually. Couldn’t have the little bitch blabbering things the public didn’t need to know. He did it one night when they were together, soaking in that old claw-footed bathtub. Meg brought the subject up again and he’d just shoved her under, holding her there while dispassionately watching her struggle.
Afterwards, Brittleby’d wrapped the body in a tarp and tossed it in the trunk with some cement blocks and rope. He headed out to Lenore State Park and dumped poor Meg in Pym Lake. Suitably weighted down, she’d make excellent fish food and take forever to find. The holy man grinned to himself and patted the wrapped corpse’s rump, “Consider it your baptism, Meg.” He continued, laughing at his private humor, “Hell, I’ll even say a few words as I send you off.” And thus was Meg buried.