I froze, rooted to the spot, still as a statue. Had it been this cold before? My breath fogged out in front of me, in short, white bursts. I felt my body shaking, though when I looked at my hand, I had not moved an inch from where I had begun to stand and leave the confessional. My stomach heaved, bile in the back of my throat. Tears fell from my eyes, fell onto my shirt. 
“Are you listening, mortal?”
Yes.
“Good. I always enjoy an attentive audience.” 
Chills crept up my arms and the back on my neck, every hair standing on end, every molecule of my being with taught, a bow string, ready for release. I couldn't speak, I could only think. 
Help.
“No one can help you. You see, no one else knows what is happening to you. This has all taken place in nanoseconds of time in your world. But you’re in my world now, which means this can take an eternity if I so choose. So stop begging, and listen.”
Who are you? My mind was spinning, a whirlwind of questions, terror, and languages, some of which I couldn’t even place, swirls through my head, tumbling painfully against the walls of my skull. Pressure built in my sinuses and my head felt like it was going to explode at any moment.
“I have no name. I merely am. Do you feel that? Inside your head?” The voice was deep, smooth, almost seductive, but every time it spoke, my stomach churned again and my head throbbed. 
Yes. 

“That is me. That is knowledge. That is knowing. That is the universe. All that was, is and will be, filling your brain. Every neuron in your skull is firing one thousand times faster than it’s meant to. A piercing pain that starts in your jaw, works its way up through your sinus cavity, past your eyes and will eventually burn through the back of your skull, alight in radiance and the splendor of education and knowledge of the universe and all its mysteries. It hurts now, but the pain will stop soon. It will soon stop. Relax now.” Am I dying? “No, you are simply venturing to another plane of existence. You will have more knowledge that any other being, on this plane, or the next. Embrace this part of your life. Because that’s all it is. It’s life. Just a new way of being. A new place to explore yourself. A new place to find the things you’ve always wanted. Love? “Love.” A new life? “Brand new. More beautiful and radiant than the last.” How? “Use my knowledge. Use it and you can come with me, be with me, forever. I have so much more knowledge for you. I know everything that you will do. All the amazing things you will find. Just use my knowledge.” You won’t hurt me? “I won’t lay a finger on you. I simply am. I am not here to judge or harm you. Nor here to forgive or heal you. I simply am.” How do I use the knowledge? “Just close your eyes. Be at peace the decision you are about to make. Then use that knowledge that I have already given you. Use it to help you pass to my plane. Become one with me and my people. “ I closed my eyes, tears still streaming down my face and I smiled because at first, when this voice had appeared, I was terrified. But now, with all these languages and images of history and time and space swirling through my head, I became calm. I felt secure. Reassured. I am going to use the knowledge to help me go find this mysterious being. How many people get this opportunity? How many people are able to say that a powerful, omniscient being wants to meet them? I will be able to come back with so much information. All those questions that the scientists and teachers and politicians and historians where unable to answer… I can answer them! Think of the books I could write! The information of the universe will be mine. No more loneliness! I will have everything I need to be successful, desirable, needed, and sought after. I will be free!

The sound of a gunshot is heard on the security tape Detective Swanson is watching of the confessional booth. “That’s all there is on there. He came in every week. Like clockwork. The past few weeks, he’d been looking tired, worn out. And his coworkers had said that he had been talking to himself recently.” The Detective ran his hand, that wasn’t holding the tablet with the security footage on it, over his face. This had been the third suicide in three months at the St. Patrick Cathedral in downtown Boston. There wasn’t a link. There wasn’t a lead. All three, came to this church. All three had used a gun with the word “knowledge” inscribed on the barrel to end their lives. All three al been muttering to themselves about a mysterious voice after their confessions. Swanson handed the tablet over to a uniformed cop and squared his shoulders. He looked at the priest, sitting in a pew, a couple meters away. What was it about this place that gave him the chills? Ignoring his stomach full of butterflies, he stepped over to the priest who had been taking the young man’s confession. “Father, is there anything else you can tell me?” The priest looked up. Old, wrinkled, white hair, bushy eyebrows. Just a normal looking man. “I don’t know anything. I wonder if you could check to see if the guns are being planted in the confessionals. We have three. I would go check, but…” His voice trailed off. He let his head drop into his hands. Had his eyes just flashed a different color? Red perhaps? No, they were just brown. It was a play off of the police lights outside. “I understand, Father. Let me go look. Is there anywhere they could be hidden?” The detective watched the old man closely. No sign of interest. Just horror and death in his eyes. “There is a donation box on the inside of the doors. We figure, people are coming clean with the Lord, might bring out their generous side. It works. But that’s the only place I could think of.” Detective Swanson nodded, patted the old priest on the shoulder and walked over to the confessional furthest from the one with blood dripping out of it. He took a deep breath and entered the confessional. He turn and sad down on the red velvet covered bench and looked at the box for donations. It look normal enough, but the box was locked. No one could store a gun in there. Swanson shook his head, and stood up. And then, the Detective froze, rooted to the spot, still as a statue. Had it been this cold before? His breath fogged out in front of him, in short, white bursts. He felt his body shaking, though when he looked at his hand, he had not moved an inch from where he had begun to stand and leave the confessional. His stomach heaved, bile in the back of his throat. Tears fell from his eyes, fell onto his shirt. “Are you listening, mortal?” Yes.