The Haunting of Briarwych Church Read online

  “Perhaps we should pray and -”

  “I cannot.”

  “The Lord -”

  “I have told you,” she continues. “I cannot pray for Anthony, not if by so doing I harm another.”

  I open my mouth to tell her that she must not worry, but somehow I cannot get the words out. There is an answer to her dilemma, of that I am sure, but I cannot quite determine that answer. And when, a moment later, her son coughs once again upstairs, I feel a rather easy alternative come to mind.

  “Perhaps for now we should pray for Jack,” I suggest, “and for his suffering to ease a little.”

  She pauses.

  “Yes,” she says finally. “Yes, that I can countenance.” She bows her head. “Please.”

  I too bow my head, although it takes me a moment to find the words. I rather feel that I have failed to offer proper comfort and guidance, but for now I shall do what I can.

  “Lord,” I say, keeping my voice low, “we ask for your mercy, for an innocent child rests in pain in this very house.”

  ***

  “Thank you for coming tonight,” Mrs. Neill says a short while later, as I step out into the cold night air and then turn back to face her. She still has tears in her eyes. “Perhaps his coughs shall ease, at least for a while.”

  “I am sure the Lord heard our prayers.”

  “I do my best, just like everybody else, but if -”

  Before she can finish, we both hear the sound of engines in the distance. We turn and look up toward the clear night sky, but there is no sign of any planes up there. They must be close, though, and for a moment I try in vain to distinguish the particular type of engines that we are hearing.

  “Are they ours,” Mrs. Neill asks cautiously, “or theirs?”

  “I cannot say,” I reply, still trying to determine where the planes are or, indeed, in which direction they are flying.

  “Oh, the light!”

  Suddenly she switches off the hallway light.

  “I am sure nobody saw that,” I tell her, turning and seeing her standing in the darkness.

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” she points out, as her son coughs once again upstairs. “We don't want to inadvertently guide them to the airbase, do we? I apologize once more for disturbing you tonight, Father Loveford. Thank you for coming.”

  “You know where I am,” I reply. “Call on me any time, day or night. And please, sleep well, Mrs. Neill. I am sure the Lord has need of your work come morning.”

  With that, I turn to walk away, although at the last moment I glance back at her just as she begins to shut the door.

  “Can I expect to see you at church on Sunday?” I ask.

  “Of course,” she replies, with a dutiful nod. “Good night.”

  She shuts the door, leaving me to stand for a moment on the garden path and listen as the distant engines begin to fade. I think perhaps they are heading in from the coast, which means that either they are our boys coming home from the mainland or they are Germans coming to bomb the cities. I remain completely still and silent for several minutes, as if somehow deep down I fear that I might attract attention if I make a noise, and then I listen as the engine hum quietens to nothing.

  Dear Lord, can not this war end soon?

  Turning, I walk along the path and out onto the quiet, dark street, and then I start making my way back up toward the church. Fortunately there is not far to go, and soon I am back in the cemetery, where the path is now clear and obvious as it winds its way between patches of freshly-mown grass. In the moonlight, gravestones stand out so brightly that I worry they might be seen from the air, although I suppose that is not likely. Still, as I approach the church and fish the key from my pocket, I cannot help but look out across the cemetery and wonder how it is that war can rage all around us, yet this pocket of England remains so calm?

  And then suddenly I stop as I see a face at the window.

  A chill settles in my chest. At first I tell myself that I am wrong, but with a growing sense of fear I realize that I am not wrong at all. As I stare at the window of the kitchen, around at the rear of the church, a patch of moonlight illuminates the glass and I can indeed see a figure standing on the other side, seemingly staring straight at me from inside the locked church.

  “This is not possible,” I whisper, trying to dismiss the image from my sight. “I am tired, I am imagining things.”

  Yet the figure persists, hazy through the old glass but most definitely there. So far, the figure has not moved, but the moonlight casts great shadows where the eyes and mouth should be. I know that room, I was in there just this evening, and I know that there is nothing near the window that could possibly resemble a human face or body.

  Taking a deep breath, I tell myself that I must go closer, that I must prove to myself that this is some trick of the light. I refuse to be so easily scared, so I start making my way past the door and around to the far side of the church, and then I step off the path and tread across the grass until I am just a few feet from the window.

  And still the figure is there.

  In fact, I think the figure has perhaps turned its head slightly, so as to continue to watch me during my approach.

  I swallow hard.

  This cannot be.

  “This is an illusion caused by the light,” I whisper, although I can hear my voice trembling. It is cold tonight, but not so cold that I should shiver, yet I do shiver. And that can only be through fear.

  I swallow again.

  My throat is dry.

  I force myself to take another step forward, and then another, until I am directly in front of the window. Now the figure, or whatever it is, stands only a couple of feet in front of me, albeit with the distorting glass between us. And whereas I had hoped to come closer and to see that there is no figure at all, if anything the impression is now more clear.

  Still, I know that this cannot be real.

  Steeling my resolve, I step even closer, until my nose is just inches from the glass.

  I stare at the shadowy eyes, and in that moment I start to realize that perhaps they are not eyes at all, that perhaps they are merely reflections on a wall in the room. My sense of concern begins to dip just a little, yet I cannot entirely convince myself that what I am seeing is not a face. I tilt my head slightly, trying to get a better view, yet still those two apparent eyes are staring at me.

  Finally, I step back.

  No.

  No, this is not a face. There is nobody on the other side of this window. Of that I am certain.

  I turn to walk away, but at the last moment I spot movement in the corner of my eyes.

  I turn back.

  Suddenly the face distorts and shrieks, rushing at the window. A scream rings out, and I step back with such alacrity that I trip on the edge of a gravestone and fall, clattering to the ground and landing hard on the grass. And as I stare up at the window, I see that the face is now entirely gone.

  ***

  “Who's there?” I call out angrily as I push the door open and step into the darkened church. “I demand to know who you are and what you're doing here!”

  Stopping, I listen out for any hint of a reply. It is now clear that some local prankster sees fit to toy with me, and I refuse to tolerate such childish behavior. Breathless and unable to contain my fury, I take a step forward and wait for the miscreant to repent, but all I hear is silence. The inside of the church is so very cold, but after a moment I turn and swing the door shut, shutting out what little light there was and plunging myself into darkness.

  I instinctively reach for the light-switch, before remembering at the last moment that I cannot turn on any lights at all. Not during blackout hours.

  Turning, I look ahead.

  The stained-glass windows do not permit much moonlight to enter the church, so I am almost entirely left in darkness as I take a first cautious step toward the rearmost pews. There I stop, and as my eyesight adjusts to the lack of light I am just about able to see the va
rious rows spreading out ahead toward the altar. I see no sign of anybody and, although it is possible that the trickster is hiding cleverly, I turn after a moment and look toward the corridor that leads toward my living quarters.

  Heading back to the door, I slip the key into the lock and turn it firmly, and then I remove the key again. Whoever is in here with me, they shall most certainly not be able to run away without facing up to the consequences of their actions.

  Stepping toward the corridor, I make my way to the kitchen and look through, and I immediately spot the window at which – just a few minutes ago – somebody stood in this very room and watched my approach. Now, however, there is no sign of anybody, although I am certain that the person cannot have gone far.

  I walk to the window and look out for a moment. The glass is so old, it is impossible to get a proper view, but I can just about make out the shapes of the nearest gravestones. Somebody standing here would certainly have been able to see me, and would doubtless have made out the astonished look on my face as I fell. I suppose that was the intended reaction, in which case I am sure that the perpetrator of this hoax would have enjoyed a hearty chuckle.

  Now, however, the fun and games are most certainly over.

  Suddenly hearing a brushing sound, I turn and look over my shoulder. There is no sign of anybody, and the sound of has passed, but for a moment I am sure that I heard a faint ruffling noise, as if perhaps someone walked along the corridor and brushed briefly against one of the stone walls.

  I head to the door and look out, checking both directions, but there is of course still no sign of anyone.

  I wait, listening in silence for the intruder's inevitable next mistake.

  “Do you think I am a fool?” I call out finally, even though I know I should probably stay quiet. I am simply too angry to hold back, and as I step out into the corridor I cannot help thinking of somebody hiding nearby and trying to stifle a giggle. “This is a house of the Lord, and you think it is your right to play games? Shame on you. I demand that you come out and explain yourself, and then – if you are willing – I might be persuaded to help you repent!”

  I wait.

  Silence.

  “You are testing my patience!” I announce. “Let me assure you, any pleas for forgiveness will seem more genuine if they are made after you reveal yourself, rather than if they come after I have rooted you out from your miserable hiding place. Do you think the shadows will protect you for the whole of the night?”

  Again I wait.

  Again, there is no reply.

  “If not -”

  Suddenly I hear another bump, and as I turn I immediately realize that the sound has this time come from somewhere above. I spot the open door that leads to the stairs, and in that moment it becomes more than apparent that the miscreant has fled to the upper floor.

  “You think you're safe up there, do you?” I mutter, before starting to make my way over. “We shall see about that.”

  I begin to climb the stairs, but then I stop myself. I hesitate, and then I step back. I could go up, of course, and search the rooms one by one. In this darkness, however, I could easily lose sight of the intruder, who might indeed double back and slip away. Indeed, if there is another way out of the church, the intruder might be able to escape without being seen, in which case I would seem like quite the fool. Whereas if I watch the stairs, I know for a fact that the intruder cannot pass undetected back down to the ground level, in which case he or she shall be quite trapped and shall have no choice but to eventually confess.

  Therefore, I step back from the stairs and resolve to remain here all night if necessary. Sooner or later, the miscreant has to make their move.

  Heading to the door, I take the wooden chair from next to the alms table and I sit so that I can see the foot of the stairs. There is now no escape for the intruder. Even in darkness, I shall be able to spot any man or woman who tries to get away. And if the intruder believes that I shall move even one inch from this spot until then, they shall swiftly find that they have another thing coming.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The bang on the door behind me is sudden; so sudden, in fact, that I am startled as I continue to stare at the foot of the stairs. Morning light is streaming through the windows, and thus far – after several hours in this position – I am positive that the intruder has not come down from the upper level. And I most certainly did not fall asleep.

  Did I?

  Not even for a second?

  No, I'm sure I didn't. I'm sure I kept my eyes wide open the whole time.

  A moment later there is another knock, and I realize I can hear somebody shuffling about outside the door.

  Getting to my feet, I move the chair out of the way and then I unlock the door. I do not know who can be here at this early hour, since it is not yet even seven o'clock, but when I pull the door open I am presented with a rather welcome face.

  “Lizzy,” I say, momentarily stunned. “I...”

  “Am I too early?” she asks, taking a step back. “I'm sorry, perhaps I was too eager to get started with the cleaning work. You did say to come as soon as I was ready, but I can return a little later if you wish.”

  “Cleaning?” I hesitate, and then I realize that I did indeed make arrangements for her to come today. “Of course,” I stammer, stepping back and pulling the door fully open, allowing her to come inside. “You must forgive me, I was rather lost in thought.”

  I look again at the stairs, where there is still no sign of the intruder having come down. In an instant, the whole situation feels utterly ridiculous, yet at the same time I know that I did not fall asleep during my long wait.

  “Father Loveford?”

  I turn to Lizzy, but how can I explain all of this to her? How can I tell her that I allowed myself to be spooked in the night? After all, that is what happened, and the last thing I want is for the people of Briarwych to start gossiping about how their new priest is already spreading fresh fear of a ghost in the church.

  “Might I ask you a favor?” I say, as I start to formulate a plan that should take no more than a few minutes to implement. “Would you mind waiting here for just a moment?”

  ***

  “Well?” she asks as I come back down from the upper floor. “Did you find whatever you were looking for?”

  “No, I did not,” I reply, as I stop and try to work out whether there is any other way that the intruder could have escaped.

  I checked every room up there, and I know that there is no way out through any of the upper windows. I did not try the bell-tower, but I have the only key to that padlock and I can tell from the dust and dirt all over that door that nobody has passed that way in quite some time. In which case, I am at a loss to understand how last night's intruder could possibly have escaped.

  One thing is certain, however.

  I do not believe in ghosts.

  “There is no other way out of here, is there?” I ask.

  “No, Father, there is not.” She pauses, keeping her gaze fixed on me. “Why? Has something happened?”

  “Is there no window, perhaps, that could be opened to allow one to slither out?”

  She shakes her head.

  “So the only way in and out is through that door?” I add, pointing toward the large wooden door at the far end of the corridor.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Then...”

  My voice trails off. I know that I was awake all night, and that nobody could have slipped past me. Equally, I know that there is nobody else here now. I might have been rather exhausted of late, but it is hard to believe that I could have imagined that face at the window, or that my subconscious mind could have somehow summoned up that terrible scream that I heard.

  Yet as I turn and look once more at Lizzy, I realize that any further questions are bound to rouse her suspicions even further. I want to end this superstitious nonsense, not add to it.

  “Father -”

  “Never mind.”

  �
�But if -”

  “Everything is fine,” I say firmly. “What did you say you wanted, again?”

  “To clean, Father,” she replies, rather matter-of-factly. “Today's my first day.”

  “Of course. I'm sorry, I was momentarily distracted.”

  “So can I get started now?” Lizzy asks, clearly bemused by my behavior. “I don't mean to push, it's just... I was planning to really give the place a proper going over, seeing as how it's been so long since it was cleaned. I brought some supplies, and I'm not afraid of hard work.”

  “That's fine,” I reply, still half-thinking about the events of the past night. “I must work on my sermon for tomorrow's service, anyway.”

  “I shall try not to disturb you.”

  “Work as you must,” I say, heading through to the office area. “Thank you, Lizzy. I greatly appreciate your devotion to this task.”

  Once I am in the office, and once I have heard Lizzy going through to the store-room, I stop at the desk and try once more to make sense of the sounds I heard last night. Unless I am losing my mind, it seems clear that somebody – somehow – managed to slip past me. I know of no other way in or out of this church, yet that is the only possible explanation. I feel I am at the verge of losing my wits, but at the same time I am quite determined that I shall not let this annoyance become a long-standing irritation.

  I have a sermon to write.

  Yet, as I prepare to put pen to paper, I suddenly become aware of voices outside the window.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Just push harder!” the gardener says, his voice spilling over with irritation as he pushes the lawnmower across the overgrown cemetery. “Like that, see? Put some welly into it!”

  Stepping back, he lets the boy take over, and he folds his arms across his chest as he watches the resultant efforts. He barks some more orders at the boy, and then he rolls his eyes as he turns and comes over to join me outside the church's main door.