The Haunting of Briarwych Church Read online

  Copyright 2018 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  Dark Season Books

  First published: October 2018

  This edition: December 2018

  The year is 1942. Britain is in the grip of the Second World War, bringing blackout conditions to much of the country.

  For several years, Briarwych Church has remained locked and unused. Arriving to take up his new position, Father Lionel Loveford's first task is to open the great wooden door and get the church back into use. But something lurks in the shadows. A terrible tragedy once took place in Briarwych, and now the locals live in fear of a vengeful spirit that has sometimes been spotted looking out from the church's windows.

  Although he doesn't believe in ghosts, Father Loveford soon discovers that the entire village of Blackwych lives in a perpetual state of guilt and terror. Does the ghost of Judith Prendergast really haunt the church and, if so, what does she want from the villagers? With the door now unlocked, does her spirit now roam the village? And can her anger really reach as far as the wartorn fields of mainland Europe?

  The Haunting of Briarwych Church is a horror story about a dead woman's anger, and about a terrible quest for revenge.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  The Haunting of Briarwych Church

  (The Briarwych Trilogy book 1)

  Prologue

  “May the Lord hear me, and guide me through it all.”

  Keeping my head bowed, so as not to be noticed, I make my way along the corridor. Voices are shouting out in the distance, patients and nurses, as I head toward the exit. I can see the double-doors up ahead, and the glorious sunshine beyond, and now I am only a few meters away. If I just keep walking, and don't look back, I shall be fine.

  “Father?”

  Suddenly a hand touches my shoulder from behind, and I freeze.

  “Father Loveford, where are you going?”

  I half turn to look at her, but I already know that this is Nurse Simpkins.

  “Father, why don't you come back this way with me?”

  “I -”

  “Please, Father. You know it's important.”

  I hesitate, before turning fully and seeing her kind face smiling back at me.

  “I know you weren't really going to leave,” she continues, “were you?”

  After staring at her for a moment, I turn and look once again along the corridor. The daylight seems so bright outside, and I can see the beautiful green gardens stretching out toward a distant treeline. And then, looking up at the panel above the door, I feel my heart sink as I see – etched in reverse in the glass – the name of this place:

  Meadow's Downe Asylum

  “Come on, Father,” Nurse Simpkins says, moving her hand down to my elbow. “You don't need me to tell you, do you? You know you have to come with me.”

  Chapter One

  One year earlier

  Finally I see it, rising above the tree-tops in the distance, and my first reaction – instinctive, even, since it catches me by surprise – is to tap on the back of the driver's seat and call out:

  “Stop the car! Please, stop right here!”

  The driver dutifully pulls the taxi off at the side of the road. As the engine cuts out, I have to duck slightly to peer out through the front of the vehicle, but sure enough I can still see that tall, thin, beautiful spire silhouetted against a gray sky.

  “I think I shall walk from here,” I tell the driver, as I take my wallet from my pocket and remove two crisp, carefully-folded notes. “You may charge me as if we had gone all the way to Briarwych, and by all means keep whatever change is due.”

  The driver grunts something that doesn't sound particularly grateful, but I do not care as I take my suitcase and clamber out of the taxi. Immediately, I am struck by the smell of countryside air, which is so very different compared to the London smog I left eighty miles away. Indeed, for the first time in many months, I can hear birds twittering in the trees, and I even take joy in the sound of my feet rustling in the long grass.

  A moment later the taxi's engine starts up, and I wait as it turns around and drives back the way we just came. Then I am once again plunged into the calm and tranquility of the Kent countryside, and I take a few steps out into the middle of the road. There I stop and look at the beautiful church spire in the distance, and I take a deep, satisfied breath as I realize that after months of planning I have finally reached my destination.

  Well, almost.

  I am probably two miles from the village still, perhaps three at most, but I wish very much to approach my new home on foot. This is, after all, how the pilgrims would have arrived many hundreds of years ago, and in these dark and harried times I believe it is every man's duty to draw himself closer to those pious times. War might rage on the continent, but we cannot allow such horrors to change our way of life here in our dearest, most cherished England. And out here, right now, how could any man even imagine a place that is more perfect and peaceful?

  With my suitcase in my right hand, then, I start limping along the road, heading toward the distant spire of Briarwych Church.

  Toward the future.

  Chapter Two

  “A new vicar, eh?” the man asks, starting to walk with me along the steep curved path that leads up into the heart of Briarwych. “I don't think anyone round here was expecting a new vicar any time soon.”

  “Confirmation of my appointment came only last Thursday,” I reply, as I feel a twinge of pain in my right leg. “I dare say my keenness to make the journey brought me here faster than the bishop could send a letter to the parish council.”

  “People'll be surprised,” the man continues, “that's for sure. It's almost a while now since Mr. Perkins went off to war, and since then we've been constantly promised that somebody would be sent down. I don't suppose you've heard anything about Mr. Perkins, have you? Last we heard, he was headed off to the front.”

  “I'm not sure,” I reply evasively. The truth is, news came through just two weeks ago that Mr. David Perkins was killed in action near Ypres, but I do not wish my first act here in Briarwych to be the delivery of such awful news. I shall wait a while for that. “I can assure you that I am very keen to get started here in Briarwych. Very keen indeed.”

  Ahead, the spire looks much cl
oser now, but the church itself is still hidden behind a row of gray-stoned houses.

  “Is it your first church, might I ask?” the man continues.

  “It is.”

  “I was thinking that. No offense intended, of course, but you do seem a little younger than the average.”

  “I hope I can make up for a lack of experience,” I reply, wincing slightly as my right leg flickers with pain. “I humbly suggest that I am prepared for this position, and I do not think I would have been sent if anyone else had any concerns. Although I must admit, I had to fight a little to be assigned to Briarwych. There was some resistance to the idea of sending anybody here at all.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Most likely because of the village's remote location.”

  “Aye, I'm sure that's it.”

  “To be honest,” I continue, struggling a little to get any words out at all, “I rather wonder if the local RAF base didn't have something to do with it. This is the closest church and they themselves have been without a chaplain for some time now. Costs and all. So I'm afraid that to some extent I'll be pulling double-duty.”

  Reaching the top of the hill, I stop to regather my breath. That slope was somewhat more challenging than it appeared, and I must confess that I am perhaps not in the finest of health. An extended stay in hospital will do that to a man, no matter how hard he tries to recover in the aftermath. Indeed, as I lean for a moment against the wall, I can tell that my companion has already noticed my lack of fitness. He looks to be seventy if he's a day, but he – unlike me – is not out of breath after the climb.

  “It's all hills round here,” he says finally. “You'll get used to that.”

  He paused, before reaching out a hand.

  “Roland Rose,” he continues. “British forces, retired. Although I'd go back in a second, if they'd take me.”

  “Lionel Loveford,” I reply, shaking his hand. “It's a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rose. I am so very much looking forward to serving the people of this fine community, and taking on the role of custodian of your fine church.”

  Looking along the street, I see that houses are still obscuring the view of the church, although the steeple remains tall and proud against a darkening sky.

  “I have heard that this church is one of the finest in the whole of Kent,” I continue, feeling a swell of pride in my chest. “Indeed, I am at a loss to understand why it has remained shut for these past few years. I would have thought that among the locals, there'd be a clamoring for somebody to come and open the place up again.” I stare at the spire for a moment longer, before turning and seeing that Mr. Rose now appears a little apprehensive. “The church is the heart of a village,” I add. “I've always believed that. I intend to get this heart beating again, for the sake of us all.”

  “Aye, I'm sure you'll do that,” he says. “There'll be much to be doing, mind. I'm not sure how the place was left.”

  “I'm sure Mr. Perkins made the proper arrangements before he left,” I reply. “A cleaner has been going in, has she not?”

  “Not as far as I'm aware.”

  “Well, then...” I pause for a moment, before forcing a smile. “Whatever needs doing,” I continue, “shall be done. That is the nature of our work for the Lord, is it not?”

  “Aye, I'm sure,” he says, and then he takes a step back. “I won't detain you any longer, Mr. Loveford. I'll only wish you luck, and I'm sure I'll see you around soon.”

  “And at Sunday service, of course.”

  “Aye, and at Sunday service,” he replies, with no obvious sense of excitement.

  With that, he mumbles something under his breath and then walks away, heading up the hill and then disappearing along a side-street. He certainly seems to be a peculiar chap, but then I suppose we all do to some extent, when we meet strangers for the first time. I imagine this whole town will be a little wary of me at first, but I intend to win them over once they come to appreciate my stewardship of their fine church.

  Now fully rested, I resume my walk toward the church. And with each step, I feel a swell of contentment in my heart, as I realize that I am getting closer and closer to a house of the Lord.

  Chapter Three

  Outside the church, just before the gate, there stands an old noticeboard. Faded, yellowing notices have been left hanging behind the glass, so I stop and take a moment to slide these out. In truth, the noticeboard looks rather unkempt, and I'm surprised nobody had seen fit to tidy the place since Mr. Perkins left. Nevertheless, it is the work of a mere moment to pull the papers away, and already I am making improvements.

  Looking down at the papers, I see that they contain announcements of various church events. I am rather surprised to see that they all date from around the end of 1940, which is a good year before Mr. Perkins left for military service. I am sure he must have organized events and services in the interim, but evidently for some reason he neglected to advertise these on the church noticeboard.

  Never mind.

  In the early days of war, much was likely overlooked.

  After screwing the old pieces of paper up, I carry my suitcase through the gate and into the churchyard, where I find that the grass is overgrown. Indeed, the entire place looks completely neglected, with grass having been left to grow wildly around the gravestones. I am again surprised to see that – even in the absence of a local vicar – nobody from the village thought to come and maintain the church grounds in a proper manner, but I quickly remind myself that I should not judge too quickly. I am sure that the people of Briarwych have their reasons, and that they are good Christian people.

  Nevertheless, I have to rather pick my way carefully between the gravestones as I struggle to find a path. Thick brambles have curled all across the yard, and I almost catch myself several times, but finally I spot the door at the front of the church and I reach into my pocket for the keys that I was given back in London. Evidently the church here in Briarwych has been left in a state of abandon, but I shall certainly get on top of this unforeseen turn of events. Indeed, as I get to the door I am already filled with a resolve to get immediately to work. Why, the day is still young and I can most certainly set to work in the afternoon.

  Glancing down, I see several small pieces of masonry that appear to have fallen from the roof. Nobody has been to clear them up, and I suppose that I shall have to arrange for a full inspection to be made. After all, I cannot risk having any of my new congregation members being injured on their way to worship.

  Just as I am about to turn back to the door, I spot movement in the window of a nearby house. I turn and look, just in time to see a figure stepping out of sight. A curtain falls back into place, but it is most certain that I was being watched. I look at several of the other houses, and sure enough another curtain moves similarly. I suppose that the fine people of Briarwych are simply besides themselves with excitement, now that the church is being reopened. Why, Mr. Rose has probably been hurrying around already, spreading the joyous news.

  With that, I turn and slide the old iron key into the lock. I have to jiggle it around a little, and at first it will not turn. Just as I am beginning to worry, however, I feel the mechanism shift, and with a feeling of great honor and duty I push the wooden door open and – for the first time – I step into Briarwych Church.

  Chapter Four

  The first thing I notice, as I enter the church, is that the air in here is very cold. I suppose the old stones walls provide no warmth whatsoever, and the church has been locked up for quite some considerable period of time. Still, the air is decidedly chilly, to the extent that I decide to leave the front door open in the hope that air from outside might enter and warm the place up a little.

  But then I look straight ahead, and I see that this church is so much more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.

  I have seen pictures of Briarwych Church, of course, but the reality is something else entirely. Setting my suitcase down, I simultaneously feel the weight of responsibili
ty settling upon my shoulders. As I start to make my way along the aisle, I look up at the tall, beautiful stained-glass windows, and I am momentarily dazzled by the brilliant shades of red and blue and yellow that – even set against a dull gray sky – bring to life so wonderfully the stories that they are intended to depict.

  Indeed, I am guilty for a moment of letting these wonders overwhelm me, and it takes a few seconds before I remind myself that there is more to a church than such wonders. Forcing myself to look away, I turn my attention instead to the wooden pews that are arranged on either side of the aisle, and I see old prayer books and kneeling pads that were evidently left scattered when the church was locked up more than a year ago. There are old candles, too, that were left melted on racks near one of the pews, and again I am surprised that Father Perkins did not see fit to tidy the place a little before he departed.

  Then, again, I must remind myself to not judge people.

  I make my way slowly along the aisle, keen to breathe in the calm, humble beauty of this church. After all, there is no need in this world to hurry, especially when one is all alone, so I take my time until finally I reach the foot of the altar and I look up to see a simple yet beautiful cross that must have been standing here this whole time, unobserved ever since Father Perkins last shut and locked the main door. For a few seconds, I am transfixed by the sight of the cross, and I am reminded of my lessons back in Oxford when I was first taught by Professor Hugo Clairthorne to see beauty in simple things.

  How he would chastise me now, were he to see how I allowed myself to become distracted by the pageantry of the high windows.

  “It's the simple cross that you must admire,” he would tell me, as he told me so many times back then. “This is where your work for the Lord must begin, and it is where it will end also. Never forget that.”