The Haunting of Briarwych Church Page 9
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” I reply. “You say that the dead woman was staring up at your window. Why would she be doing that? Why your window, and not any other?”
“I don't know what you mean, Father.”
“What was your relationship to Miss Prendergast?”
“She hated the whole village,” she continues. “Don't you get it? She hated us when she was alive, she thought us pagans and ingrates. Now in death, after the manner in which she passed away, she hates us even more.”
“That sounds rather melodramatic,” I point out.
“You do not believe in ghosts?”
“I believe in the ever-lasting soul.”
“You don't believe that the dead walk the streets, seeking revenge for wrongs that were committed against them?”
“I don't believe in ghost stories, no.”
“You would if you'd seen her tonight,” she continues, with tears starting to run down her face. “Father, you'd believe if you'd seen her face like I saw her face.”
“I think anyone who has committed a wrong,” I reply, “would be best served by coming to confession at the church. Any guilty feelings – and I am not saying for one moment that anybody here has reason to feel guilty – but any guilty feelings are best aired, lest they should fester and cause disturbances.” I pause for a moment. “A guilty soul can never sleep sound, Mrs. Canton. That's the thing about guilt. It wears us down.”
I wait, half-expecting her to suddenly offer some kind of confession, but instead she stares at me stoney-faced. It is evident that my words are not having the desired impact, that she perhaps refuses to permit herself the necessary level of self-examination.
“You can go now, Father,” she says suddenly, her defenses now up. “I'm sorry you were disturbed, Father. It shall not happen again.”
“If you need -”
“It shall not happen again,” she says again, more firmly this time. “Goodnight, Father. Thank you for your efforts.”
“If -”
“Goodnight, Father. Please send my husband in as you leave.”
Realizing that there is not much more I can say to the woman, I turn and head toward the door.
“And Father,” she adds, causing me to glance back at her. “You don't know what Judith Prendergast was like. Please, don't judge us for leaving her in that church. It's not our fault she didn't find a way out. And if you'd ever met the woman, you'd understand why we all just wanted to forget that she ever existed.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“People are spooked,” Mr. Rose says as we make our way out of the house, and as the front door swings shut behind us. “Just when we were starting to forget about Judith Prendergast, now it's all been brought up again. Still, I'm sure we'll manage.”
“I shall try to think of some way to address the matter again in this Sunday's sermon,” I reply, turning to him. “Of course, for that to have any impact, I shall need people to actually come to the service.”
“You must give them time.”
“I do not intend to force them.”
“It's late,” Mr. Rose says, “and I don't know about you, but I have to be up early. Thank you for your time tonight, Father Loveford. I shall see you at the service on Sunday, if not before.”
As I nod, and as he walks away, I turn to head back to the church. In that moment, however, I spot a shadowy figure standing nearby, seemingly watching me from next to a hedgerow. I must confess, I stop and feel a flicker of concern in my chest, before reminding myself that this most certainly cannot be the specter of the late, lamented Miss Judith Prendergast.
“Is Edna alright?” the woman asks suddenly, and as she steps forward I see that it is Mrs. Neill. “I heard her cry out from round the corner.”
“I believe she will be fine,” I tell her. “Might I ask about your son? Has he shown any signs of improvement?”
“He is comfortable. Thank you for your concern.”
“And your other son? Is there any news from the front?”
Her face twitches slightly, as if the question troubles her.
“There is no news,” she continues, her voice now sounding considerably tighter and more tense. “Which is good news, I suppose.”
“If you change your mind,” I reply, “I would be happy to join you in a prayer for his safety.”
She shakes her head.
“Mrs. Neill, I -”
“I've told you, I can't,” she says, taking a step back, almost as if she is scared of me. “I can't pray, not when I know that by doing so I'll be damning some other mother's son. I just can't. Goodnight, Father.”
With that, she turns and hurries off into the night before I have a chance to say anything more.
As her footsteps fade into the distance, I turn and make my way along the road that slopes gently uphill toward the church. I must confess that I am rather troubled by my continued inability to make inroads when it comes to the local population, but I suppose I should not be too harsh on myself. I have been here for less than a week, and I most certainly seem to have arrived in the midst of a difficult situation. The death of Judith Prendergast has evidently caused a great deal of trouble in Briarwych, and it will not be the work of a moment to unpick all of that and to settle the village's collective nerves.
For that to happen, they must face their collective guilt. And I do not feel that they are ready for that yet.
Reaching the churchyard, I step past the gate and make my way toward the door. As I do so, I cannot help but glance at the windows, which – although dark – are in some places picked out by patches of moonlight. I know that there is no truth to the stories of Miss Prendergast appearing at those windows, of course, yet still I keep my eyes on those open spaces as I approach. I suppose that I am trying to prove to myself that nothing is amiss, and sure enough I see nothing as I reach the door. The calm, ordered mind is not given to hysterical ghost stories.
Taking the key from my pocket, I reach for the lock, only to find that the door is slightly open. In a flash, I realize that I must have forgotten to lock it when I was hurrying out with Mr. Rose, although I am certain that I at least pulled the door shut. Now it is hanging partially open, and I feel a sense of concern in my chest as I push the door all the way and stare into the cold, pitch darkness of the church's interior. Truthfully, I can understand how a guilt-laden soul might, in such circumstances, begin to imagine whispers coming from these shadows.
I wait, but all I hear is the sound of my own breath.
Stepping inside, I cannot help but wonder whether somebody might have taken advantage of the open door. Then again, I can't imagine that anybody here in Briarwych would do such a thing. Nevertheless, I wait for a moment longer before gently shutting the door, and then I slip the key into the lock and make sure that the church is properly secure. Then I turn and make my way along the dark corridor, heading toward my bedroom. As I do so, I pass the door that leads into the church's main section, but I do not look directly through as I walk.
And then I stop, as I realize that – in the corner of my eye – I spotted a figure standing silently at the altar.
I hesitate for a moment, before forcing myself to step back and take another look. This time, there is nobody to be seen, but I still look around and watch the rows of pews in case a figure might suddenly appear.
I open my mouth to call out, but I am sure I would sound terribly foolish were I to indulge these foolish imaginings. Yet at the same time, I cannot dismiss my fears out of hand, for the figure – though seen only in a flash – was very clear and very distinct against the church's pale stone walls, and I am quite sure that I saw the outline of a woman. Finally, unable to help myself, I clear my throat.
“Hello?” I call out. “Is anybody here?”
I wait, and then I make my way along the aisle, walking between the pews and looking around in case I spot any hint of movement. When I reach the altar, and the spot where the woman was standing, I turn and look back the way I just came, ye
t still there is nobody in sight.
“I am quite alright with you being here,” I continue, wondering whether perhaps some fearful local is worried about getting into trouble. “Please, there is no reason to hide, no reason at all.”
I wait, and then I realize that perhaps it would help to add a little humor.
“I do not bite,” I say.
Silence.
“Lizzy, it's not you, is it?” I add, and I must confess that I should like to see her face at this juncture. “Did you perhaps come back for more books?”
I hesitate for a few more seconds, before starting to make my way back along the aisle. I know what I saw, but at the same time it is also quite clear that nobody else is here. I suppose that all this activity at such a late hour must simply have left me rather susceptible to suggestion, and I tell myself that I must remain alert to any such failings. Still, as I reach the corridor, I cannot help but look over my shoulder and glance one more time at the altar, just to make absolutely certain that the figure has not reappeared.
It has not, so I head to my bedroom, before taking a quick detour into the office.
Heading to the desk, I reach out for a notebook. As I do so, however, I spot a crumpled ball of paper on the desk, and I know for certain that there was no such ball when I left. Reaching down, I pick up the piece of paper and start to pull it open, and I feel a shudder in my chest as I see that this is the page upon which I have been writing out my upcoming sermon on the subject of forgiveness.
Looking over my shoulder, I listen for a moment to the silence of the church.
Were I a weaker-minded man, I must at this juncture come to believe that some spirit took issue with my sermon and demonstrated its displeasure. Alternatively, I might allow myself to believe that the sermon was spoiled by an interloper who crept into the church. Refusing to believe either thing, however, I realize with a sigh that I simply must have screwed the piece of paper up earlier, and now for some reason I do not remember doing this at all. Yet I must have done it, because there is no other possibility, so I straighten the piece of paper out and set it back down, so that I might return to it at some point tomorrow.
As I do so, I see that the sheet has not merely been screwed up. Scratches have been ripped straight down through the page, as if somebody wanted to destroy the sermon entirely.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Six weeks later
“But what I truly hope you will take from today's service,” I continue, despite the increasing dryness of my mouth, “is the sheer joy of worship. For it is this joy that represents God's gift to us, and which lights our way no matter how dark the night.”
I pause for a moment, staring down at those final words, and then I look out across the congregation.
Mr. Hopkins clears his throat.
Miss Frazer stares at me with a friendly, perhaps slightly sympathetic smile.
Lizzy sits eagerly, as if she has listened to – and absorbed – every word.
And that is the extent of it, since these three are the only people who came this week. I am accustomed to low turnouts here in Briarwych, and indeed I have still not managed to attract more than eight people in any one week, but three is a particular disappointment, although I force a smile in an attempt to hide this disappointment. I had hoped that I might be building some momentum, yet evidently that is not the case.
“Thank you once again for coming,” I say, “and I do hope to see you all again next Sunday. Perhaps with some friends and family members along. Feel free to invite anyone you can think of. We have, as you can see, plenty of free seats.”
An awkward silence ensures for a few seconds, but Mr. Hopkins finally gets to his feet. This seems to be the signal for which Miss Frazer was waiting, for she swiftly gets to her feet and follows him toward the door, as I make my way down from the pulpit and walk over to the altar. There, I stop for a moment to fold my sermon away, while trying to get my head around the fact that I continue to attract so few people to the church.
“You mustn't lose hope,” Lizzy says, and I turn to see her coming over to join me. “Your sermons are wonderful, Father Loveford. It's just going to take time, that's all.”
“Indeed,” I reply, once again forcing a smile.
“You're worried,” she continues. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“Of course I'm not worried,” I tell her, although I know that she sees through the lie. “Although it is natural for one to wonder whether one is performing at one's best, when one seems to attract so little interest.”
I pause for a moment, feeling most uncomfortable.
“I should go to my desk,” I add finally, turning to walk away. “Tomorrow is my trip to London, and first I must contemplate matters.”
“Don't.”
I turn to her.
“Don't what?”
“Don't start to doubt yourself,” she continues, hurrying around as if to block my way. “Please, Father Loveford, you must recognize that the problem is not you. The problem is this place. You're doing far better than anybody else would manage in this position, and you must simply give it time.”
“That's very kind of you to say,” I reply, stepping past her, “but I am not -”
“Don't give up,” she adds, suddenly putting a hand on my arm to stop me.
Startled by the contact, I look down at her hand, which she quickly withdraws.
“I'm sorry,” she says, “I didn't mean to... I mean, you must forgive me. I shouldn't have been so forward.”
“After six weeks,” I reply, “it is evident that my methods are not working. I have a train journey to London tomorrow, and I intend to use that time for some quiet, sober reflection. If there is something I can change, then I must change it. The people of Briarwych deserve a priest who can cater to their needs.”
“I have faith in you,” she says, keeping her eyes fixed on me.
“And that is good to know,” I tell her. “Would that some of the others in the village might feel the same. And now, if you will excuse me, I must go and check that my papers for tomorrow are in order.”
“Their guilt is not your fault,” she says earnestly. “They did something terrible, all of them together. They didn't bother to check to see if Miss Prendergast was okay. Now they don't want to admit this, so they hide away and they think they can ignore what they did. But you can forgive them, can't you? If only they come to you and ask?”
“I can certainly help them,” I reply, “but they are the ones who must forgive themselves. And in order to do that, they must first admit to what they have done.”
***
Later that evening, as I click my case shut in the dying light of the office, I cannot help but think back to that earlier conversation with Lizzy. She seemed so keen to reassure me, to tell me that I am doing the right thing, yet in my heart of hearts I am already beginning to worry that my ambitions here at Briarwych are fated to failure. If I cannot even get people to come to one of my services, how am I ever to reach out and make them listen?
Once I am certain that everything is ready for the morning, I head to the door and step out into the cemetery. The sun is starting to set, and soon all lights will have to be out, but for now the village looks extremely calm and peaceful. Indeed, I almost feel as if my efforts here are disturbing what was already a comfortable life for the locals. It is almost as if they do not need the church.
Although I know I should get an early night, I decide to take a short walk. Wandering out through the gate, I head along the sloping road that leads down into the center of the village, and in truth I am glad of the shadows that make me less obvious. The road is empty anyway, but I feel as if my very presence is an intrusion, and I worry that the people here would not be particularly overjoyed if they were to encounter me here. In fact, as I reach the end of the road, I am already starting to think that I should head back to the church.
And then I hear a commotion in the distance, raised voices and some degree of disagreement.
Stopping, the figure holds the door open and looks back inside, and even in the low light I immediately recognize her face.
“You're all wrong!” Lizzy shouts back into the public house, her tone filled with a kind of anger that I never would have imagined she might possess. “You stand around in here night after night, patting each other on the back, telling each other that you're doing the right thing. The truth is, you can't any of you see the wood for the trees!”
“Go on, Lizzy!” a harsh, drunken voice cries out from inside. “Be off with you! No-one wants to hear this, not now!”
“You know I'm right!” she sneers. “Maybe if you actually went to one of his services, just one, you'd see it for yourselves, but you're too scared, aren't you? That's what it boils down to in the end! Fear! You're a bunch of cowards, huddled together to make each other feel better and -”
“Go home!”
“- and never daring to actually face up to what it is that you did! The Lord knows, though. You can't hide from him. He sees everything you do, including your cowardice. And if any of you actually dared go to one of Father Loveford's services, then he'd see that too, and he'd see that maybe – just maybe – you're willing to repent for your sins! Until that day, though, you might as well stand around in this place and get drunk!”
“Now listen, young lady,” a voice says, “you're no -”
Slamming the door shut, Lizzy steps back and puts her head in her hands for a moment. She seems to be crying, and a moment later she turns and hurries away along the darkening street.