Several Hours Later...
Unwilling to remain confined within the walls of her luxurious mansion on such a dreary day, Countess Bathory arrived at the church.
Her heavy velvet cloak dripped with rainwater, but her pale, flawless face remained as cold and emotionless as a marble statue. The church was completely empty, the nave swallowed by shadows. Moving with eerie silence, Bathory approached the confessionals.
She slipped behind the thick velvet curtain into the narrow, suffocatingly dark sinner's booth. Separating her from the priest's chamber was a wooden partition with a small, carved grate.
Bathory raised her slender, pale fingers and gently tapped the wood.
"Father... Father, are you there? Is anyone there?" she whispered, her voice smooth as silk.
From the other side of the grate came a strange, heavy groan.
"Just a... just a moment..." a muffled, slurred voice eventually replied. Then came the loud, agonizing creak of a wooden chair, as if someone had just collapsed his heavy, uncoordinated weight onto it.
Bathory paid no mind to the strange behavior. She was consumed by a dark, maddening obsession, and she only needed the voice of the church to validate it.
"Father," Bathory began, her tone completely devoid of guilt. "There is a young maid in my household. Today, she disrespected me. She insulted my honor. I am... torn on what to do. I have come to seek your guidance."
Silence hung in the air. The only sound from the other side was heavy, labored breathing.
Assuming the priest was deep in pious thought, searching the scriptures for a proper penance, Bathory pressed forward to her true, horrific point.
"You see, Father, I recently read a fascinating text in an ancient tome," Bathory whispered, a terrifying, ecstatic light entering her eyes despite the darkness. "It stated that if human blood touches the skin... it rejuvenates it. It grants eternal youth. Because of this... I wish to kill her. I want to kill her to become younger."
She spoke the word "kill" with such absolute boldness and chilling casually that it would have frozen the blood of any sane man.
A dead silence fell over the confessional.
Then, the wooden chair creaked violently again.
"Kill..." the voice on the other side mumbled. It was incredibly thick, the tongue clearly struggling to form the word. "Kill... yeah... sometimes... sometimes killing is the best decision... hic... It... it frees you from all your problems... just like this..."
There was a distinct sound of glass clinking against teeth, followed by the heavy glug-glug-glug of liquid being hastily swallowed, and a long, satisfied exhale.
But Bathory didn't hear the clinking glass. Her twisted mind only absorbed the words: killing is the best decision.
A wide, beautiful, and utterly demonic smile spread across Bathory's face. Her wicked desires had just received the "blessing" of a holy man.
"I knew it," Bathory whispered, her heart fluttering with dark excitement. "Thank you, Father."
She rose gracefully, slipping out of the confessional and back into the storm, eager to return to her mansion and bathe in the blood of her insolent maid.
Meanwhile, left behind in the dark, sacred booth meant for divine absolution... the young priest slumped over in his chair. The empty bottle of vodka hung loosely from his fingertips as he snored, blissfully unaware of the horrific massacre his drunken mumblings had just authorize