Winter's Shadow

by M. J. Hearle

  They paused at the edge of the clearing and Winter waited patiently for her guide to compose himself. Though it couldn’t have been more than a fifteen-minute walk, Mr Denning was huffing and puffing as if the exercise was the most he’d done in some time. Judging by his stomach and the two extra chins he was carrying, Winter guessed it probably was.

  ‘Well, Miss Adams, there she stands. Pilgrim’s Lament. Oldest church in the Bluff, probably oldest in the state.’ He wiped some sweat off the back of his neck with a handkerchief. ‘I suppose you’d be wanting to take a look inside?’

  Winter nodded. ‘If that’s not too much trouble.’

  Mr Denning shook his head. ‘No, no trouble at all. There was a time I’d bring school groups and tourists down here, but it’s been a good ten years or so since Pilgrim’s Lament has had any visitors but me.’

  Winter followed him towards the stone steps. ‘Why’s that?’

  Mr Denning paused, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘After the fire, the local council ruled it an unsafe structure. Truth be told, I shouldn’t even be letting you inside without signing a bunch of insurance forms first . . . but I won’t tell if you won’t.’

  Winter smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s our secret.’

  ‘Good to know,’ Mr Denning hobbled up the steps to the double doors. ‘I’m just happy someone’s writing about the church again. It might help me finally get the funding I need to clean it up.’ A thick chain was looped through the doorhandles and bound by a padlock. He took out a keyring and began trying the keys in the lock. The first one failed, so he tried another and then another.

  ‘So, how unsafe is it in there?’ Winter asked, eyeing the church.

  ‘Well, put it this way: there’s little more than spit and faith keeping that roof up. You’ll be fine so long as you’re careful. Dammit!’ Exhausting his supply of keys, he let the chain and lock drop back against the door. ‘I must have left the key back at the centre.’

  Winter walked up the steps. ‘Do you mind if I try?’

  A little bemused, Mr Denning handed her the keyring. ‘Suit yourself.’

  Winter grasped the padlock and inserted a small brass key. It turned as easily as she expected it would, and the chain clattered to the ground. Startled by the sound, a flock of birds took flight from the bank of trees behind the church. She watched them disperse, ragged black shapes against a blue sky.

  ‘I must have missed that one,’ Mr Denning said, frowning, as he took the keyring back. Winter shrugged nonchalantly. Locks always opened beneath her touch. It was a trick that bordered on uncanny, though one she’d grown so used to that she was barely aware of it any more.

  She took a step back as Mr Denning pushed the front doors inward to reveal the dark interior. A gust of stale air rushed out of the belly of the church, like a breath that had been held for a long time. A slight shiver of fear rippled up the back of Winter’s neck, and she scolded herself for being chicken.

  ‘Now, I hope that camera of yours has a flash – there’s not much light to see by in there.’

  Winter raised the Nikon hanging around her neck. ‘I should be fine.’ Though, if she was perfectly honest with herself, she was beginning to feel anything but fine. Watching Mr Denning open that door into the darkness had unsettled her. She should have brought a torch along.

  ‘Okay then,’ Mr Denning nodded, twisting off the small brass key she’d used to unlock the chain. Before she could take it from his pudgy fingers, he drew it back, imparting one last warning. ‘Mind what I said about the roof. Be careful in there. I’d stay to keep an eye on you, but I gotta man the phones back at the Centre. Besides, you don’t look like you need a babysitter.’

  Winter took hold of the key and slid it into her jeans pocket, thinking he was wrong about that. Mr Denning may not have been the best company, but he was company nonetheless. She didn’t relish the idea of being left alone in the woods, with this ancient dark church.

  ‘No problem, Mr Denning. Thanks again. I’ll drop the key off when I’m done.’

  ‘You do that. Be sure to lock up.’ He frowned at her. ‘What publication is this for again?’

  ‘The Trinity Times. It’s our school newspaper. We’re doing a story on heritage buildings in The Bluff, and my editor wanted some photographs to go along with it.’

  Mr Denning shrugged. ‘Trinity Times? Never heard of it.’

  Winter wasn’t surprised. Nobody read the Trinity Times except for geeks like Harry and perhaps some of the teachers. Winter hadn’t bothered to read it herself until Principal Sorensen had suggested she join the publishing team as a photographer. Suggested wasn’t really the right word – Sorensen had more or less told Winter that if she didn’t work with Harry and the other newspaper dweebs for extra credit, she was in danger of flunking. Academic probation, she’d called it. To Winter it felt more like blackmail.

  ‘Be sure to send me a copy. I’m sure Mrs Danvers would like it for her bulletin board.’ Mr Denning began walking towards the path leading through the woods to the Heritage Centre. He paused at the edge of the clearing to wave goodbye. ‘Hope you get what you’re looking for, Miss Adams.’ And with that he turned and set off along the path.

  I hope so too, Winter thought as she watched the woods swallow him.

  Above the trees, a cloudbank the colour of fresh bruises loomed. If she didn’t finish up here soon, she was going to get drenched on the journey home.

  With that in mind, Winter turned back to the dark doorway, took a deep breath and entered Pilgrim’s Lament.

  Chapter 2

  Winter drew her jacket tightly around her body as she crossed the threshold. She tried to convince herself that it was the sudden drop in temperature that was making her shiver, not the eerie atmosphere of the church. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as the stench of mould and mildew pricked her nostrils. It smelt old here. Old and stale. At least she could see. Diagonal shafts of weak sunlight stabbed through the holes in the church’s roof, lighting Winter’s way through the gloom.

  She ducked beneath a ragged curtain of spiderweb, keeping her eyes peeled for any black scuttling shapes. Hadn’t Mr Denning said something about spiders? Looking around at the scattered debris on the floor, it was easy to imagine her foot sliding into a pile of rotting wood and thousands of tiny, hairy, black bodies running up her leg. If she saw so much as one of those eight-legged little monsters she was out of here – academic probation or not!

  It suddenly occurred to Winter that this was the first time she’d been in a church since her parents’ funeral six months ago.

  Six months . . .

  To stop her mind from dwelling on that miserable day, Winter lifted the Nikon to her eye and began snapping images of the shadowy disarray. The process distracted her, but Winter knew the sadness still lurked on the periphery of her consciousness, waiting to drag her down. As long as she kept busy she’d be fine.

  Viewing the church through the camera lens, Winter was struck by its starkness. There was hardly anything here. No pews or confession booths, just a bare altar at the front of the church, and beside it, the splintered base of a charred pulpit. Any furniture that hadn’t been reduced to ash had been piled up and pushed to the edges of the room, presumably to make space for the vagrants who’d used Pilgrim’s Lament as a shelter over the years.

  As she looked down at her feet, Winter was interested to see what looked like red moss growing on the floor in thick patches between the empty beer bottles, cans and charcoaled wood. On closer inspection she realised it wasn’t moss at all, but the remnants of a plush carpet, which must have lined the aisle before the church had fallen to ruin.

  It was hard to imagine a religious congregation ever gathering here. Winter felt as though she was walking through the carcass of a huge, rotting leviathan – some horrible dead monster that had been left to decay on the mountain and was now nothing but bones and dust.

  The church felt more than old.

  It felt dead.


  Winter shivered at that particularly morbid thought. The darkness suddenly seemed alive around her. She could hear wind whistling through the cracks in the walls, the sound both mournful and ominous.

  The sooner she was done here the better.

  Winter quickly began snapping off shots to finish the roll of film, taking less care than she should have to frame her photographs. They didn’t all have to be masterpieces, so long as one or two were usable. She had enough confidence in her technique that she didn’t need to spend hours agonising over every angle. Just take the shots and get out!

  After a few minutes of this frenzied snapping, Winter realised, with no small sense of relief, she was down to her last frame on the roll. She glanced around for something worthwhile to photograph for her final subject. A flash of colour drew her eye to the far eastern wall. Pushing past a large pile of rubble so she could see what was creating the dappled rainbow, Winter made a surprising discovery. It was a tall stained-glass window that had been previously obscured from her view by a large column – one of the few remaining roof supports.

  The bottom portion of the window was missing, but the top half remained a stunning testament to the artistry of stained glass, standing in marked contrast to the gloom and squalor of the church. The image was an exquisite depiction of the Madonna holding her hand out in benediction, rendered in vivid blues, reds and yellows. The artist had taken particular care to infuse the Madonna’s face with the appropriate blend of beauty and piousness.

  Her sense of dread momentarily forgotten, Winter moved closer for a better angle of the stained glass. This was the one! Winter was suddenly filled with confidence that this particular shot all but guaranteed the extra credit she needed to pass the semester. Harry Francis would sing her praises to Principal Sorensen, and Winter would be released from probation. She might even be able to use the image in her personal portfolio, which was currently limited to a few shots of the lighthouse on Whistler’s Peak. As long as she didn’t mess it up.

  Adjusting the exposure to retain the vibrant colours, Winter raised the camera to her eye, carefully framing the window in the viewfinder. Her finger began to depress the button but froze mid-action. Winter’s breath caught in her throat.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Chapter 3

  Winter slowly lowered her camera, careful not to make any noise. Through the broken pane of the stained-glass window she could see the remnants of an ancient graveyard, all but hidden by the tall grass and weeds that had crept in from the surrounding woods. Blackened tombstones rose above the grass here and there like strange fungi, weathered by the elements and the passage of time. Standing over one of the graves, dressed in a simple grey suit, was a young man.

  He was angled away from her so she couldn’t quite see his face, a bouquet of wild flowers in his hands. Slowly he knelt and placed the flowers at the base of the gravestone, with a degree of reverence that told her how much he cared about the person buried there. As he straightened, a gust of wind blew through the trees, buffeting his clothes and freeing the black curls from his brow. Winter could see his face more clearly.

  He was beautiful.

  Her eyes traced the contours of the man’s superbly wrought face, searching for a flaw and finding none. His skin was a deep golden brown, his bone structure startling in its perfection: high cheekbones, straight, slightly tilted nose and a sculpted jawline covered in fine stubble. By far his most striking feature was his eyes, which glittered like emerald stars in the shadows of the graveyard. Winter thought she detected a sadness about him, a haunted quality shadowing his features, which made his beauty all the more striking. And she couldn’t look away!

  Something about the man demanded her attention, calling to her on an instinctual level. Winter’s pulse quickened, her body flushed with heat, but she was only vaguely aware of these physical responses. It was as though watching the man had lulled her into a kind of dream state. Her thoughts slowed, any lingering fright at realising she wasn’t alone faded away. Nothing seemed to matter but the stranger.

  She bumped against the window ledge, the sensation bringing her back to herself. Had she been trying to walk towards him? Troubled by this lapse in self-awareness, she quietly stepped out of view. What was wrong with her? She was spying on a stranger, observing what was clearly a private moment, but she couldn’t help herself. Even now the urge to peek around the window frame at him was maddeningly strong. Too strong to resist. His beauty demanded her attention.

  Winter stealthily leaned around to watch him again, a question finally occurring to her – what was he doing here?

  The church was far enough from the road that it was unlikely a person could stumble across it. Besides, Winter was certain the only pathway here started at the Heritage Centre, and a wanderer wouldn’t have been able to pass by without Mr Denning seeing him. The old man hadn’t mentioned to Winter that there was going to be anyone else down at the church today, which led her to believe he didn’t know about the handsome stranger. The man was as much a trespasser in this forgotten place as Winter.

  Winter raised the Nikon and framed the stranger through her lens. There was little conscious thought behind the action, just an almost instinctive urge. It was the same urge that had drawn her to the Madonna: to capture a subject of such pure aesthetic worth. Silently, she shifted the focus until the stranger’s exquisite features were brought into sharp relief. Again, the notion flashed through her mind that what she was doing was somehow wrong.

  Winter took the picture, and immediately regretted her decision.

  At the sound of the shutter, the man stiffened and jerked his head towards her. His eyes locked onto hers, and the intensity of his gaze forced her to take a step backwards, as though he’d physically pushed her. A strange thought flashed through her mind – he was seeing her! He was really seeing her! – and behind this was another, much clearer thought – what had she done?

  Winter continued to back away, still staring at the stranger, unable to break the spell of his gaze. Mid-step her foot caught on a piece of fallen timber and she lost her balance.

  Whack!

  Her back slammed against the supporting column and she slid down it onto the floor, vaguely conscious of her shirt being shredded by the rough wood. There she stayed, feeling a mixture of shock and embarrassment. Nice job, Winter, she thought, really smooth!

  There was a loud creaking above her in the rafters as the vibrations of her collision ran up the column and found their way to the crossbeams. A shower of dust sprinkled down on her. She brushed it from her hair and got painfully to her feet. The man had vanished from the graveyard. Perhaps he was making his way around to the doorway to confront her.

  This prospect didn’t trouble Winter as much as it should have, because something else was distracting her – something she couldn’t quite grasp but seemed terribly important. Overhead, the creaking increased in volume, deepening to a low groan as the church voiced its complaint.

  The fine hairs on her arms stood on end as though the air around her was infused with static electricity. Slowly, too slowly, the thought formed, rising above the din, becoming clearer.

  The roof was going to come down!

  As if to confirm this, more dust showered around her and the ominous reverberations amplified. Winter didn’t need any more convincing. She scrambled over the debris cluttering the floor. The dust fell like a thick, grey rain. Coughing and spluttering, she shielded her mouth with her hand. Panic threatened to bloom, but she held it at bay. She just needed to walk quickly and be careful not to trip on any of the —

  A huge beam crashed to the ground, barely missing her. Winter cried out as splinters of wood flew through the air, bouncing off her arms and legs. Stunned, she stood rooted to the spot, staring at the fallen beam and the broken furniture it had pulverised beneath it.

  That could have been her!

  Winter jolted herself into a zigzagging run, one hand clutching the Nikon protectively to her chest. Above her the chu
rch’s roof continued to groan and shake, dislodging timber struts and hurling down fragments of wood like some enraged god. Her eyes stinging, Winter managed to duck and weave through the avalanche, keeping her watery gaze locked on the exit. She was close now – the green woods were framed by the church doorway, the light and colour beckoning her with a promise of safety. Only steps away . . .

  Winter spared one last look upwards, just in time to see the blunt wooden face of a beam rushing towards her.

  Chapter 4

  Darkness rippling with emerald light.

  Bells tolling somewhere in the distance.

  She was flying, or falling, while someone held her hand tightly.

  A warm wind buffeted her face, filling her nose and lungs with the sweetest perfume.

  Where was she?

  Where . . .?

  Winter opened her eyes to the harsh sunlight of the clearing. A face loomed out of the golden light above her: the graveyard stranger. He was looking down at her, his brow furrowed. It seemed a sin that such beautiful features were troubled by this worried expression. Winter blinked, curious to see if he’d disappear or if this was actually happening. It felt like a dream.

  ‘Are you okay?’ His voice was soft; his breath smelled vaguely of that strange darkness she’d fallen into: aromatic, sweet. As he stared at her, the light in his eyes seemed to brighten, intensify, draw her in. Lost in his gaze, she was vaguely aware of her heartbeat thudding in her ears. That peculiar sense of being seen by him returned, stronger than ever. He was looking at her more deeply than anyone ever had before, his vision penetrating her mind, as though searching for something hidden.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he repeated.

  ‘What?’ she replied breathlessly.

  Another face joined the stranger’s, this one much less handsome and a good deal older – Mr Denning.