The Haunted Cathedral

by Antony Barone Kolenc

Lucy gave his hand another squeeze. “Did you hear that? A kind of shuffling sound?”

  He paused to listen, but there was only silence.

  They reached the candleholder by the statue. One candle was lit, but the spot next to it was empty; someone had taken one of the candles. Xan picked up the lit candle and raised it high. The hot beeswax gave off its sweet aroma.

  “Recently lit,” he whispered, pointing at the wick, which was barely burned.

  Had the ghost lit a candle as a prayer to baby Jesus? If so, maybe the ghost was still hoping to find Heaven.

  “Now we find out what little Nelly was trying to tell me in my dream,” he said.

  At that moment, a reverberating clang—like the rattling of chains—echoed in the cathedral.

  “Was that someone at the front door?” Lucy said, as the fading echo made its last lap.

  He shrugged. “’Tis too early for that priest to be here.”

  The sound clearly had been those door chains, but he didn’t want to guess who else might be trying to get into the cathedral in the middle of the night. Maybe Christina and Simon?

  “Let’s go, Lucy. Our time’s running out.”

  He bent down next to the black metallic stand that held the row of candles. Then, touching the stone floor, he ran his index finger back and forth. “Just as I thought,” he said. “Remember the scratches I told you about?”

  Lucy joined him to examine them. “Aye, but what does it mean?”

  He stood again. “A strange coincidence. This is the very place in my dream where Nelly dropped to the floor. Here, hold this.”

  He gave Lucy the candle and, falling to his knees, began to crawl toward the candleholder in the same way the glowing girl had done in his dream. The space beneath the candles was deeper than it looked. His whole body was soon beneath it, and still he had not reached the stone wall. Finally, he sensed a blockage in front of him.

  He reached out his fingers and touched a metal grate—the backing of the candleholder. Strips of metal were fastened one over another like a mesh. Indeed, it left little gaps large enough for his fingers to pass through.

  He poked his index finger through the mesh, to touch the wall, but there was no wall, only an opening. He moved his face closer to the mesh to see what he could, but it was too black inside. Yet, a faint odor—putrid and stale and nasty—seemed to be coming from the hole.

  Now it made sense: the hole, the scratches, the candleholder.

  “Xan, are you all right down there?” Lucy asked.

  “Aye,” he said. “Nelly was right. This is what we’ve been looking for!”

  21

  The Crypt

  He crawled out from under the candleholder and told Lucy what he’d seen. “It’s some kind of hole—I’m not sure how large. We need to move this stand.”

  Grasping the candleholder, he slid it from the wall. It was lighter and easier to move than he’d anticipated, but it still made a screeching noise as the metal feet scraped across the stone floor.

  Lucy touched the marks on the ground again. “That explains these scratches.”

  “Aye.” Taking the candle from her, he bent behind the stand and thrust the light into the shadows. “Come see!” he said, as chill air flickered the flame.

  Lucy crouched down low and they peered in together. Behind the stand, the stone wall opened into a gaping hole, just large enough for a man to squeeze through.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  Xan took the lit candle and set it down so it could illuminate the unknown corners of that hidden place. The hole seemed to lead to a larger space. “’Tis some kind of passage. I think God revealed its location to me in my dream.”

  He crouched down on the floor.

  “You’re not going in there, are you?” Lucy said.

  “Aye, and you’re coming with me.”

  “Hold on, Xan.” She sounded worried. “Whatever went into that hole lit a candle and moved this candleholder to crawl into it. That means it’s as solid as you or me.”

  “True,” he said. “Can ghosts have a body, or must they be pure spirit?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve never met a ghost, so I don’t know.”

  What else was to be done? If they backed out now, they would never know the truth. “We’ve made it this far,” Xan said. “We have to see this through to the end, whether that thing be a ghost or a man. Surely ’tis God’s will for us—look at all the clues He’s given.”

  That seemed to persuade Lucy. She bent down as though to lie upon the ground.

  “Wait,” he said, looking at her pretty red dress. “You’ll soil your frock.”

  She laughed, dropping to the floor. “If that’s the worst I have to worry about tonight, ’twill be my good fortune indeed. Now, move!”

  Xan stuck his arm and head into the opening, holding the candle up. The flame shone upon an ancient staircase, barely the breadth of two small boys. He pulled himself back out and turned to her. “A stairway! Very narrow.”

  He pushed his body through the opening and sat on the top step, waiting for Lucy. The stairs were stony and crumbling, covered in dust and grime. About six steps down, the staircase rounded a corner into darkness. The foul odor wafting up from the depths was stronger here.

  “What is this place?” Lucy asked, once she’d made it through, her dress covered in dust.

  The crumbling steps and walls seemed as though they might collapse at any moment. The stonework was different from anything in the cathedral above. “Could this . . . could this be Saint Mary Magdalene’s? Remember what Father Philip said: Bishop Remigius built his cathedral over that old Saxon church.”

  Lucy nodded. “They built it over the old crypt.”

  Aye—Carlo had mentioned that fact also. “But why hide its entrance behind this wall?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe out of respect for the dead? That way they didn’t destroy it.”

  “Could be.” He pointed to the stairs. “The answer is down there.”

  “Aye,” Lucy said. “You know what else might be down there? That ghost thing.”

  A cold fear crept up his back. That made sense—a ghost living among the tombs. But there were too many unanswered questions. Why had the ghost only recently come up from the crypt? And why did it take on bodily form, requiring it to move the stand to get into the cathedral?

  “Maybe we should pray,” Lucy said.

  He reached into his pouch and held the little whittled cross in his palm. “Lord, save us.” Then, taking the first step, he descended toward the darkness.

  When they reached the bend in the steps, he held the candle aloft to catch a glimpse of the rest of the stairway. With only five stairs to go, they’d almost reached the bottom, but the light couldn’t reveal what lay there in wait.

  Lucy choked out a gasp at the thick mustiness of the damp cellar. She put a hand on the ancient stone wall to support herself. “This stench . . . I can’t go on,” she said, hand over her mouth.

  “Lucy! We have to go on together.”

  The reeking odor seemed overwhelming, but they hadn’t come this far to give up.

  “God will protect us,” he said. That seemed to give Lucy courage. She gave him a nod and took a deep breath.

  They continued to the bottom of the stairs. The dim light of the flame illuminated a broken floor made of rock and dirt. It seemed to be an ancient hallway with a low narrow ceiling of stone. They followed it until they reached a larger room under a rounded archway.

  Chunks of stones littered the ground around the place, which was larger than it had seemed at first. Even the flickering beams of the flame couldn’t find its corners. But the light did reveal a number of similar rounded arches throughout the room, holding up a low stone ceiling.

  In the center of the room in several rows stood many long stone tablets that rose to the height of Xan’s waist. Some of them had flat lids made of stone, still in good condition. Others were open, their contents hidden in shadow. Still others were bro
ken and hole-pocked, as though a reckless visitor had lifted a lid and then dropped it, allowing the stones to shatter.

  The first of these stone tablets was just five steps away from where they stood. The stench of the room surrounded Xan, filling his lungs and every fiber of his body. “Definitely a crypt,” he said.

  Lucy took another deep, forced breath. “Aye. A room full of old Saxon tombs.”

  The heat of the candle warmed his fingers. No sound could be heard in the deathly silence, except an occasional drip, as though some ancient well were still leaking from centuries earlier.

  He wavered. Should they continue under the room’s arches or flee back to the steps? Before them lay a room of graves, with a stench as foul as he’d ever known. And somewhere in here might be the ghost, or whatever thing had lit that candle and moved the stand before them.

  “I’ve followed even Death,” he muttered, spurring his own will to some brave new action. Still, the courage to take another step evaded him. He reached out his hand in the dimness and Lucy took it in hers. That brought some strength. Then she began to chant in a voice stronger than anyone should have been able to muster in all that stench and fear: “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name.”

  The words brought calm and the strength to go on.

  “Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done . . .”

  Xan took a shaky step forward into the crypt and held the candle in front of his face, as though to dispel any evil spirit that might dwell in these nether regions of the cathedral.

  “ . . . on earth as ’tis in Heaven.” Lucy’s words had formed a rhythm that allowed Xan’s reluctant feet to step, one beat at a time, further into the crypt—one step closer to finding the ghost that might dwell down here.

  “Give us this day our daily bread . . .”

  With each step his confidence grew. He needed to focus on the prayer, on Lucy’s hand, on her labored breathing, on anything but the darkness before him.

  “ . . . and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

  Forgiveness. Had he forgiven Carlo, the one who had trespassed against him? Nay, not at all. Is that how God would forgive him, then, for his own trespasses? Would God hold a grudge?

  Xan’s mind swirled as his feet marched under the rounded arches toward the center of the crypt, between the rows of caskets. He’d almost reached the third coffin—one that had no lid.

  Where was the ghost? Where had it come from? Might it be a spirit from one of these very tombs in the crypt—maybe even this one without a lid?

  “And lead us not into temptation . . .”

  Halting in front of the open casket, he lowered the candle to the level of the stone. Empty—nothing but the remnant of broken rocks.

  “ . . . but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

  That’s when the sound came from his right. Until that very moment, the crypt had seemed entirely empty, as though they were alone in the room.

  Now he knew differently. There was no mistaking it: a mournful wail—soft at first, but growing louder—had begun in the tomb, just a few steps away from them. Coming from one of the rows of graves.

  Lifting the candle like a weapon he could use to conquer the darkness, he pushed it toward the wailing cry. At last they would confront the ghost face-to-face.

  22

  The Ghost

  The light of Xan’s candle shot toward the stone caskets, where the wailing had arisen.

  The foul odor of the crypt had vanished from his mind; every thought focused only on the presence of the ghost. He moved the flame from left to right in a steady motion.

  The candle flickered and almost sputtered out.

  The ghost!

  There, huddled in a ball with its head in its arms, sat some creature with its back against one of the stone tablets. Muffled weeping now replaced the sorrowful moaning.

  Was this truly a ghost? He took a step toward the thing and shined his light upon it.

  A child!

  The small, crouching boy appeared to be no older than six years and was dressed in a tattered tunic. His grimy hair and dirt-streaked body stunk of sweat and filth. By his side lay some old scraps of bread.

  “Look at this poor child,” Lucy said, stepping toward the boy cautiously. As she approached, the huddled boy lifted his head, eyes full of fear.

  “All is well,” Xan said in a reassuring tone, as Lucy stretched out her hand to the child. The boy’s whimpering almost entirely ceased, but his body still trembled.

  “This is no ghost,” Xan said. “Unless the dead eat moldy bread and cry real tears.” Like Lucy, he reached an open palm to the boy in a gesture of friendship—just as Brother Andrew had reached out to the prisoner Carlo on the road to Lincoln.

  The child immediately drew back and began wailing again.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Lucy whispered, like a comforting mother. “We won’t hurt you.”

  The child would not—or could not—speak. Yet the tone of Lucy’s voice had disarmed the moaning again. The boy studied their faces curiously.

  “I’ll bet we aren’t the first people to find the hole in that little window,” Xan said. “This boy’s probably been using it to get in and out of the cathedral.”

  “He needs our help,” Lucy said.

  “But who is he, and what is he doing here?”

  On the ground, burnt-down remains of candles littered the area. “That explains a lot,” Lucy said, picking up a candle.“But how did he survive down here?”

  Xan poked at the molded crusts of bread. “Father Philip and I met a baker on the road who said he left bread out each night for the beggars. I suppose he could have got these from there.”

  Lucy’s face lit up. “Right! And remember the priest said someone had been emptying the holy water each night? What if this boy has been drinking it?”

  “But how did he find this crypt?”

  Lucy put a hand on the boy’s grimy hair and stroked it gently. “He must have happened upon it while hiding under that metal candleholder, just like you did.” Her voice was as gentle as a lullaby as she smiled kindly at the child.

  There were no other clues on the ground. But there, on the stone tablet upon which the boy leaned, was a carved image: a star in the sky with the shape of a dragon within it.

  That symbol—he’d seen it before. Aye, it was the same as Carlo’s wooden pendant.

  The child’s mood seemed to lighten a bit. He no longer cried, and the tense balling of his body had relaxed to the point where he now sat up straight, observing them with interest.

  “Why won’t you say something to us?” he asked, meeting the boy’s gaze.

  Immediately the child put his head back into his arms.

  “You’re scaring him,” Lucy said. “Let me try.” She bent at her knees and, with a warm smile and peaceful voice, spoke to the filthy child. “I’m Lucy. And this—” she pointed—“is Xan. He can be a bit loud at times, but he’s all right.”

  The boy’s eyes shifted toward Xan and then back again.

  “What are you called?” she asked.

  The child said nothing.

  “He can’t talk, Xan. Is he a mute?”

  He considered for a moment. “I don’t think so. He can moan quite loudly.”

  “I wonder where he came from.”

  Suddenly the boy spoke in a whisper, sounding to Xan something like “Ég er glataður strákur. Ég vil mamma og pabbi.” That language—it sounded like what he’d heard at the city gate that morning.

  Suddenly the clues all came together. “That’s it!” he said. “I know what’s happened!”

  Lucy took the boy’s hand and stood him up. “This is one of those Northmen boys, isn’t it?”

  Mother and Father had never sought for Xan at Harwood Abbey. That’s how he’d known deep in his heart they were dead, because no mother or father would abandon their child in a strange place without doing everything in their power to find him.

  “Aye,”
he said. “A few weeks ago, those guards chased off those traders in the middle of the night at the point of a spear. But a few keep trying to return. Everyone thinks they’re trying to sell or steal, but that’s not it at all. They’ve been searching desperately for their lost son.”

  Christina and the guard at the gate had both mentioned how wild those Northmen boys could be, running unsupervised all over town. He might have been near the cathedral that night.

  “He must have got separated from his parents in all the chaos,” Lucy suggested.

  He nodded. “And he’s been living in here on bread and water all this time. He can’t even speak our language to ask for help.”

  Lucy embraced the boy comfortingly, without objection from the child. “The poor dear has probably been terrified this whole time. No wonder he’s always wailing and moaning.”

  Indeed, the discovery of the Northman boy nearly fully resolved the mystery of the ghost—the wailing, the candles, the scraping noises, the watching, the missing holy water. Although, how had the boy shaken the cathedral with tremors? Surely no child could have done that.

  The flickering of the candle lit again upon the familiar shape of the star and dragon that was carved on the stone tomb tablet.

  “Look at that symbol,” he said, pulling Carlo’s pendant from his pouch and showing it to her. “How odd that Carlo should have this same symbol on the pendant he gave to me.”

  Lucy held the boy tightly but glanced at the pendant. “Aye, that is strange.”

  Yet Carlo had mentioned that he’d explored this cathedral as a boy, after the fire that had caused so much destruction and broke Remigius’s tomb. What if the entrance to the crypt had been uncovered in that fire? If Carlo had discovered its existence as a boy, he would remember that all his life. He would know exactly which wall covered the entrance to the tomb. If he could get into the cathedral at night, he could chip away that hole in the wall and access this crypt—the perfect hiding place for his treasure.

  People barely remembered this crypt existed. No one knew of this hole. Carlo could have moved his treasure into this crypt bit by bit over time. But with so many tombs within it, he would need some way to identify where he’d hidden it.