The Haunting of Briarwych Church Read online

  Little Jack has come to his own funeral.

  I have so far managed to avoid looking directly at the child, for fear of encouraging what must surely be some kind of apparition. Yet out of the corner of my eye I still see the boy, and in truth I feel a glimmer of relief as I tell the mourners that the service is over. I step back and allow those gathered to talk amongst themselves, and then I make my way around to speak directly to the mourning parents. When I offer to take them into the church and discuss matters with them privately, I am surprised by their willingness, so I lead them toward the door.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I feel a stir of dread as I see that Jack is following us. Not rushing, not attempting to attract our attention in any way; he is simply keeping pace with us, a few steps behind.

  “It was a beautiful ceremony,” Mrs. Neill says, as she sniffs back tears. “Your words gave me some comfort, Father, and I did not think that was possible.”

  “It'll take time,” her husband replies. “We'll get through it together. And when Anthony gets back from the war, he'll move in with us and train to take over the shop.”

  “We don't know that he'll -”

  “Of course he'll be coming back,” Mr. Neill adds, interrupting her. “The war can't last forever, you know. And he's a smart lad. He's clever. He'll keep himself out of trouble.”

  “My door is always open,” I tell them, leading them into the church and then toward the office.

  Reaching the doorway, I turn and look back at them. To my surprise, I see that although Mr. and Mrs. Neill have both followed me inside, young Jack has stopped at the main door and is staring along the corridor with an expression of fear. For the first time he is looking not at me, but at something at the corridor's far end that seems to have caught his attention. I turn and follow his gaze, but all I see is empty stone walls and a couple of doors leading off into other parts of the church.

  Turning once more to Jack, I see that he has now taken a step back, and that the expression on his face seems to be slowly turning into one of fear. It is as if something in the church is scaring him.

  “Father?”

  Startled, I turn and see that the Neill's are staring at me. After a moment Mr. Neill looks over his shoulder, straight toward the spot where Jack is still backing away from the church's threshold, but then he turns to me again as if he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Are you alright?” he asks.

  “Of course,” I reply, before looking again along the corridor toward the empty spot that seems to so terrify young Jack. “I merely -”

  For a moment, I spot a shadow moving against the far wall, a faint darkening of the stones that seems to fall in the shape of a passing woman. And then, in an instant, that shadow is gone. I watch, waiting for the cause to become apparent, but now the shadows is completely absent. It must, I suppose, have been some trick of the light, perhaps something that showed through one of the windows.

  I turn to the Neills.

  “I'm sorry,” I continue, “I only -”

  Before I can finish, I hear footsteps nearby, and I turn just in time to see Corporal Bolton hurrying into the church.

  “I want a word with you, Father Loveford,” he says firmly, giving the impression that he's rather angry about something. “Now!”

  ***

  “A spy?” I say, shocked by the suggestion. “Whatever are you talking about, why in the name of all that's holy would you think I might be harboring a spy?”

  “I know your lot,” he replies, still eyeing me with a hint of suspicion. “You think all souls are worthy of being saved, all that nonsense. You probably think Jerry's not bad, underneath it all, and that they're all just following orders.”

  “I assure you, I -”

  “I need you to promise me, Father,” he continues, “that you know absolutely nothing about a German spy who might be in the area. That you haven't heard so much as a whisper!”

  “I know nothing!” I tell him, unable to hide the fact that I feel rather insulted by the suggestion. “How can you even think such a thing? I am a patriotic Englishman and I am doing my bit for the war.”

  Sighing, he heads over to the window and looks out for a moment, and then he turns to me again.

  “I would be out there myself,” I explain, unable to hide a hint of indignation, “were it not for my damaged leg. Do you think I didn't try to sign up? I went to three separate centers and tried to conceal my disability, but I was turned away each time. I am a man of the cloth, yes, but don't you dare think for one moment that I chose not to be out there with our brave soldiers!”

  I pause for a moment, and I already feel that I perhaps allowed myself to get too easily riled.

  “I did not mean that to come out the way that it did,” I add. “I merely... I won't be accused of being soft when it comes to the war. And I assure you, I would be the first to turn in any spy in this vicinity.”

  “I'm sorry, Father,” he says with a sigh. “I suppose I'm letting it get to me, but our airbase is one of the most important in the country. We already know that Jerry's onto our existence, but we're safe so long as our precise location remains hidden. If there's a Jerry spy in the area, the entire project could be jeopardized. I can't tell you the details of the planes we're developing, or the payloads, but they could be enough to bring this bloody war to an end.”

  “And what exactly makes you think that there might be a spy nearby?” I ask.

  “First it was those petrol cans that went missing,” he explains. “Let's just say that they're an experimental mixture.”

  “So they were mislaid.”

  “We have procedures in place to ensure that experimental items aren't mislaid.”

  “Procedures fail sometimes.”

  “Not my procedures, Father.”

  “That doesn't mean that a spy's involved.”

  “Then there's the tent,” he continues. “Two of my men were taking a shortcut back to the base through the forest, and they discovered a tent out there in the middle of nowhere, about five miles from the base. It's obvious someone's been living there for a while.”

  “And was there anything in the tent to suggest that Germans are involved?”

  “No, but -”

  “So perhaps it's just a vagrant,” I suggest, “or a draft-dodger. There are plenty of possible explanations.”

  “And I'm supposed to accept that it's just a coincidence that they're near the airbase?”

  “Coincidences do happen,” I remind him.

  “It just seems to be too much,” he says with another sigh. “We've seen an increase in the number of German bombers that fly within fifty miles of the base. It looks like they're starting to narrow down our location. If they manage to hit us, Loveford, they could set the war effort back by six months. We thought about moving some of the most sensitive test programs, but that'd pretty much set us back by the same amount of time. I'm sorry, Father, I didn't mean to come storming in here and start accusing you of treason, but...”

  I wait, but he seems to be at his wits end.

  “What did you find in the tent?” I ask, hoping to be helpful.

  “Not a lot. Some rations, some clothes.”

  “And nobody has been back to claim any of this?”

  “I've had two men stationed out there, keeping an eye on the place. If the bugger knows his hiding place has been rumbled, there's no way he'd return. I've got to be honest, Loveford. My men are jumpy as hell. They'll shoot on sight if they so much as see a leaf blowing through that forest at the moment.”

  “Let us hope that no accidents occur due to this,” I suggest.

  “Something's going on,” he continues, still looking out the window as if he hopes the answer might suddenly appear. “Something I can't see, even though I know it's there. And that's driving me mad, Father. I need answers, or I think I'm liable to go stir bloody crazy.”

  I look along to the far end of the corridor, but now there are no shifting shadows and I am quickly a
ble to convince myself that I have merely – of late – allowed my imagination to run a little wild. At the same time, I feel the I understand Corporal Bolton's predicament all too well. Here too in the church there seems to be something going on, something just beyond my understanding. I need to understand what this 'something' is, before my imagination starts running wild.

  First, however, I need to confront the fact that even a child's funeral was not enough to draw more than a few mourners to the church. It is time, I believe, for the people of this village to face facts.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Is this how you choose to mark the passing of a child?”

  As soon as those words leave my lips, the laughter stops and the denizens of the public house turn to me. Perhaps I raised my voice a little too much, but I'm afraid that I am at my wit's end with these people, and I feel not an ounce of regret as I step forward and look around at the faces that, in turn, stare back at me with expressions ranging from shock to incredulity and even amusement.

  “A child was laid to rest today,” I continue, with my voice trembling slightly, “and where were you all?”

  I wait, but not one of these miscreants dares answer me. They simply sit, staring, some even with their mugs of beer still in their hands and waiting to be sipped.

  “You all knew little Jack Neill, I assume,” I say, stepping into the middle of the saloon and looking round once again. “You must certainly know his parents. Good people, they are, and fine upstanding members of this village. Yet not one of you -”

  “Father -”

  “I am speaking!” I roar, turning to the man who dared try to interrupt me.

  He stares, clearly shocked by my outburst.

  “Not one of you came to show your support today,” I continue. “In this time of need, not one of you gave even one ounce of your compassion or pity. And why not, eh? What is it that kept you away from the church?”

  Another man opens his mouth to speak.

  “Guilt!” I say firmly.

  The man hesitates, before closing his mouth.

  “It's guilt you all feel, is it not?” I ask. “These months, I have been opening the doors of the church, I have been running services, and barely anybody has bothered to show up. And it's because of a sense of guilt. I see that now. When Judith Prendergast got locked inside the church, nobody bothered to check up on her. Maybe you laughed, or maybe you simply scared yourselves witless with childish ghost stories, but the upshot is that a woman died and rotted in that place and not one of you went to check on her.”

  I look around at some more of the men, and now it is as if one could hear a pin drop in the silence.

  “Basic human care,” I continue. “That's what you all lacked. And now, rather than face up to what you did, or rather to what you didn't do, you sit here and drink yourselves silly. You choose to forget, rather than to face up, to your sins. Even if that means foregoing service on a Sunday, or if it means neglecting to attend the funeral of a child. You'll do anything to avoid facing up to your collective guilt.”

  “Would you care for an ale, Father?” the barman asks.

  I turn and glare at him.

  “Just a little joke,” he adds.

  “You can all be forgiven at the church,” I say, turning to some of the other men and spotting Hendricks among them. “Not here, not in this den of iniquity. You'll find nothing here but more misery, for all this ale will not change anything, it will only exaggerate what you already feel. The guilt, the shame... All shall be magnified as you sit here laughing and grinning and trying to ignore the truth. And you'll never, ever shift that sense of guilt that resides in your hearts. Not for so long as you hide here.”

  “Father Loveford,” Hendricks says as he gets to his feet, “perhaps -”

  “Save it,” I reply, turning and heading back to the door. “Shame on you. Shame on all of you!”

  Several voices call after me, but I ignore them. In my anger, I simply let the door swing shut and then make my way along the darkening evening street. In truth, I know I should have stayed and listened to what those men had to say, but I left because I was worried. I fear that, had I remained, I might have said something that I would ever-after regret.

  I am starting to fear that the people of this village are beyond salvation.

  ***

  Voices cry out in the distance, carrying far and wide through the forest as the last of the light fades. Bolton's men are still out there, still trying to track down the occupant of that tent. They shall not rest, I suppose, until they are satisfied that there is no spy.

  I intended to go straight back to the church, but for some reason I ended up coming here to the edge of the forest instead. I would dearly like to go for a longer walk, to lose myself in nature for a while and to perhaps let my anger begin to subside, but I suppose there is a danger that Bolton's men might mistake me for a spy and shoot me on the spot. Such, it seems, is the state of the world today.

  Yet as I stand here now, watching the distant flashlights of the airbase men, and as a cold wind blows against me and as night falls, I feel that I am at my lowest ebb. Bishop Carmichael told me to keep working, to remember the bigger picture, but I fear that I did not adequately convey to him the disastrous start that I have endured. How can I possibly get through to the people of Briarwych, when they won't even come to the church? Especially after I shouted at them all in the public house.

  “Come out with your hands in the air!” one of the soldiers shouts far off in the forest. “We know you're here!”

  I pause, before taking a step back. As much as I should like to go for a walk, I do not want to get drawn into the soldiers' madness, so I turn and start making my way back toward the church. I must admit that I feel utterly disconsolate, but I quickly remind myself that I am here as much for the airbase as for the village itself. If my lot is to sit out the next few years here, then so be it. I shall just have to make the best of a bad situation.

  Once I reach the church, I push the door open and step inside. With the light outside fading, the church's interior is rather gloomy, but I suppose there is no point setting candles so late in the evening. I make my way along the corridor, heading toward the office, and then – at the last moment – I freeze as I realize what I just saw.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I am certain that I spotted figures sitting facing the altar.

  I hesitate for a few seconds, telling myself that I must have been wrong, but then I step back and look through the archway. To my surprise, I see that not only was I right, but I failed to see just how many figures are here.

  The church is packed.

  Every pew is taken, and some people are even standing at the sides. A few of the figures start turning to look this way, as if they only just heard me, and it is at that point that I realize I recognize several of these people from the public house, and from the streets of Briarwych.

  I have a congregation.

  “Please, Father,” a woman says, with tears in her eyes, “we heard what you said in the pub tonight. You're right, we've been hiding from the truth. Please, you have to help us.”

  I stare at her, before looking out once more across the sea of heads. There must be over a hundred people here, huddled in the low light, and finally I start making my way along the aisle. I still cannot believe what I am seeing, yet – as I reach the front and turn to look properly – I see row after row of fearful faces staring back at me.

  “You're right, Father,” Hendricks says, from his seat on the front row. “We should all have come sooner, but we were scared. We don't know how to put this right.”

  “Can we put it right?” a woman asks, sitting a little further back. “Judith Prendergast was nobody's favorite round these parts, but we shouldn't have just left her here to rot. Someone should have come to check on her.”

  “Tell us how to be forgiven,” another woman says, her voice trembling with sorrow. “Father, help us. We've all sinned.”

  “Sometimes,�
�� a man says nearby, “I think I'm going crazy. I'm scared I'll end up in an psychiatric hospital.”

  I pause, trying to work out what I might say, but then I make my way up to the pulpit. My knees feel weak and my hands are trembling, but it seems as if my outburst earlier has actually made people reconsider their actions. And as I stop in the pulpit and look out across the rows of faces, I realize that these people – these scared, guilt-laden people – truly need my help.

  So I help them.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “But we can talk more about that on Sunday,” I continue, my throat feeling rather dry now after I've been speaking for almost an hour. “That is, if you'll all come back on Sunday.”

  An immediate murmur rises from the congregation, and it is clear that they will indeed all return in a few days' time.

  “For now,” I add, “I imagine that you're all sick of the sound of my voice. Please remember, however, as you leave, that the Lord's forgiveness is always just a prayer away. The fact that you're all here this evening shows that you are willing to address your sins.”

  “Everyone's here, Father,” Hendricks says from the front row. “I don't think a single soul from the village is anywhere else right now.”

  “I hope the same is true on Sunday,” I reply with a faint smile. “Now please, it's getting late and I don't want to keep you any longer tonight. Go home, and sleep well tonight safe in the knowledge that you have all begun to tread the path to redemption. Amen.”