I end up on Mulberry Street somehow. I don’t remember turning onto it. But I’m here, and I’m standing in front of a church, the Basilica of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral. I’ve walked past it a hundred times on my way to get pho at the little Vietnamese place on the corner, but I’ve never been inside.
It’s beautiful but haunting. The building is old, dark brick, Gothic windows, with a wrought iron fence winding around the cemetery next to it. The headstones in there are neat and straight, well-cared-for. The front doors are open. A faint yellow light spills out onto the stone steps.
I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I’m not even sure I believe in any of it: God, forgiveness, prayer. I do think I believe in devils now, though. After all, one wears a mask and comes
