by David Haynes
“Tell me Reverend, have you any enemies?”
“Enemies?”
“Yes, those who would seek to harm you.”
Carson turned away and walked back to the vestry. “As many as the next man, Musgrave. As many as the next man.”
His reply was puzzling, especially for a man of faith, yet Musgrave said nothing. He simply watched the reverend walk away. His investigation had revealed nothing so far but he was sure time would out the culprit. He turned away and approached the pulpit. His fingers touched the wood and traced the outlines of the beautiful carvings. At its base, the faces of three gargoyles looked out onto the congregation. Their faces were in stark contrast to the rest of the structure. He climbed up the steps and looked out over the church. In times gone by, how many men had stood there and given their sermons?
He placed one hand on the bible and stood in silence. The other hand touched the trinket about his throat. If anyone were in here, he would undoubtedly see them from this vantage.
“They seek your guidance.”
Musgrave shivered. It was little more than a whisper yet he had heard that voice and that sentence before. He opened his mouth to speak, to reply but stopped himself. It was merely a fragment; a long-buried fragment of a life which was lost forever.
A woman’s voice had spoken it then and it was the same voice now. He closed his eyes and pictured her face. Her long red hair fell in flowing locks and framed her beautiful face. The image was so clear it was almost as if she was in the pulpit with him. Yet she was not, he knew that.
He opened his eyes and fell back against the wall, startled. She had been there before him, as real as if… as if she were still alive. Musgrave shook his head. It was just a trick played by his mind. Conjured up by his desire to make it so. He climbed down from the pulpit and picked up one of the hymnals but he did not need to read from the book to know the words.
“When evening shadows gather,
And twilight gently fades:
When all is still and silent
In midnight’s darker shades;
Then, O my God, be near me,
Do Thou protect my bed;
From evil and from danger
Let Angels guard my head.”
He let the book fall from his hands and walked back to the vestry.
The next hour passed slowly, for Carson’s role was largely sedentary. More impressive was his ability to occupy his time furiously scribbling notes into an enormous ledger. This activity was punctuated with random and seemingly indiscriminate flailing of his arms. It was almost as if he were swatting away a bothersome fly. Occasionally he would shriek and wring his hands before throwing his head back and laughing.
“Where are my manners?” He suddenly announced and leapt from his chair. “I have not offered you a scrap of food. I have bread and cheese in my room. Would you care for some?”
Musgrave shook his head. “No thank you. I must be leaving shortly.”
“You are leaving?” Carson asked. There was a hint of panic in his voice.
“Yes, of course. I must go home but I will return tomorrow. What else would you have me do?”
“I would have you silence them forever! That is why you are here!” he shrieked.
Musgrave was taken aback by the reverend’s sudden display of anger.
“Sir, I gave no assurances on that score. I simply agreed to come and nothing more.”
“Then why have you come if not to dispel these vile creatures?” He stared intently at Musgrave.
“I came to try and bring peace to you, Reverend.”
Carson fell into his chair. His whole body slumped forward. “Please, I beg you do not leave me here alone. I cannot stand it.”
Musgrave looked down at the reverend. His shoulders heaved with restrained tears. The man was clearly at the end of his tether and his outburst the result of exhaustion. He could leave and return in the morning but that would not serve either of them well. If he walked home he would not sleep; not after hearing her voice again. And if he stayed and she spoke again, would he ignore her once more?
“I shall stay for as long as I am able to keep my eyes from closing.”
Carson jumped up again. His face was full of joy and it pleased Musgrave to see him so. He clapped Musgrave on the shoulder. “Then I shall bring the bread and cheese and perhaps a goblet of wine? It might steady my nerves.”
Musgrave watched Carson unlock the door to his chamber and disappear inside. He tried to peer around him but the reverend closed the door before his eyes could adjust to the darkness.
He was not hungry and the wine was of questionable quality, yet he ate and drank as if it was the finest meal he had ever eaten. To the reverend, it probably was.
“There had been little activity today. From your animated state last evening I expected more… theatricality.”
Caron stuffed a lump of bread into his mouth and spoke between his animal-like consumption. “Your presence has made them wary yet they gather at the doorway like children. They watch you as if you were a teacher. Do you not see them?”
Musgrave looked over his shoulder. “I do not. Who are they?”
“I am sure I have no idea.” He drained his glass of wine and changed the subject. “To quote the words of a hymn is common but to quote the words of a hymn scarcely sung is not. Tell me, Musgrave, where did you complete your training?”
“Training?”
“Yes your seminary training.”
Musgrave shook his head. “I am not sure I…”
Carson held up his hand. “I have seen your look before. It is the expression of someone who has been let down; someone who finds himself adrift.”
Musgrave touched his trinket. “I care not to discuss such matters.”
“Then I was correct?”
Musgrave remained silent and stared back at the reverend. Their eyes locked and in Carson’s eyes Musgrave saw the candle flame flicker and grow taller. He felt uncomfortable.
“We will walk through the church again.” He looked down at Carson’s plate. “After you have finished, of course.”
“Of course. Of course!” Carson finished his glass of wine and opened another bottle. He lifted it toward Musgrave’s glass. “Let’s see if this will loosen your tongue.”
Musgrave covered his glass with his hand. “I will go back to my warm and comfortable bed if you push me.”
Carson’s eyes narrowed. “You are not a man for sport, I see.”
Musgrave simply looked away.
After a while the reverend’s speech began to slur and what little grasp he had on reality started to slip. He slumped head-first onto the table and started snoring.
Musgrave stood up. There were few who knew him well, but those that did could have advised the reverend that Musgrave was not a man to be pushed into something he did not want to do. Talking about his past was one such thing. He looked down at the sleeping man. His vestments were dirty and he had not shaved for several days. The man would be better off in an asylum. There was nothing in the church to investigate, save for someone with a penchant for tricks.
He turned away. “Goodnight, Reverend Carson.”
A shadow danced across the doorway before him and was gone in an instant. Musgrave blinked and felt his heartbeat quicken. Carson had lit a solitary candle by which to eat dinner and Musgrave reached behind his back and grabbed it. He stepped forward holding the candle like a dagger.
“Who goes there?” His voice remained assured but quiet.
“I said, who’s there?” He called out loudly this time but did not step across the threshold. The church was a fathomless pit of darkness before him. He turned and opened his mouth to call to the reverend, to wake him from his drunken slumber, but he uttered not a sound.
Music came from the church. The sound of the organ flowed through the space and reached him. It was mellow and deep and transported him back in time.
“They seek your guidance.”
The words came ag
ain, carried on the low notes of the music. She had proclaimed those words to him many, many times and he had listened to her for she was right; she was always right. They had sought his guidance and he had offered it to them, one and all. And yet when she needed his words, his guidance and his courage, he was rendered mute. All he had was rage. As she slipped further and further under the spell of the disease, all he had was a vile and furious rage.
At once he felt sickened for what his life had become. Repulsed by the lies, deceit and false hope that fell from his mouth at the sight of a shilling, he was justly being tormented by the voice and the music of his dead wife. She had played the organ so sweetly at each and every service and people had come just to hear her play. His eyes filled with tears for she would be ashamed of him, as he was ashamed of himself.
“I am sorry, my love,” he whispered and stepped across the threshold into the darkness.
Dark shapes flew before him, and he hoped the shadows had talons to scratch out his eyes and render him blind. It was the best he deserved. The music was soft and slow and the shadows moved slower and slower until they almost stopped before him. Disembodied faces appeared then quickly vanished; their twisted expressions full of pain and terror. Was it some elaborate magic lantern trick?
He moved closer to the organ and watched the keys moving of their own volition and not a false note was played. It was perfect and it was beautiful. “Rachel?” he whispered.
“It is not the reverend they seek. It is you.”
He felt the stinging bite of icy breath on his neck. It came not with the freshness of a winter’s morn but with the festering reek of rotten swine. He turned slowly and felt his feet lift from the floor.
“I do not understand, Rachel,” he uttered breathlessly and felt the world suddenly flip upside down then inside out as he flew through the air and collided with the altar.
“They seek your guidance,” her voice demanded.
He felt dazed but scrambled to his feet. What was happening to him? He could pass it off as a deception no longer. Whatever came next would not be conjured by the hands of a fraudster but by the hands of the dead. He no longer had the benefit of candlelight and the church was covered in a dark and threatening shroud. He stood still and waited, yet curiously he felt no fear, only a pathetic resignation for he was no longer in control and it was obvious there was more to come.
A strange ticking noise echoed around him. At first he thought it the wind whistling through the eaves but the sound was regular and constant. It grew faster and faster and Musgrave felt his heart fall in time with it until he could stand it no longer. It was as if a giant pendulum or an axe was swinging and scraping across the wall, ready to fall on his miserable neck. He peered into the darkness but could see nothing. It grew louder and louder until the ticking turned to screeching and he was forced to cover his ears. The noise whistled and echoed all around him yet it seemed to hang above his head like a threatening storm. He flinched and turned to face the altar. The noise was coming from above him, from above the altar.
He turned quickly and looked at the shadowy body of Christ on the cross. “What do you want from me?” he roared above the noise.
The crucifix swung in a great arc across the wall, first one way then the other like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. As it swung, it scratched a groove into the plaster and howled with delight. Musgrave watched transfixed.
“When evening shadows gather.”
Abruptly the crucifix stopped at an unnatural angle high up on the wall. What forces held it there were behind comprehension, but either through design or weight they could not hold it for long, and Christ fell onto the altar with a resonating thud.
By some miracle, the altar remained intact. Musgrave took a step toward it in the gloom. It was almost as if someone had placed the crucifix with a measure of precision, for it lay on the table as a patient ready for surgery. Christ’s face was turned toward him in anguish. Musgrave reached out his hand to touch the face of the man he had longed to banish from his life.
A terrible and all-encompassing wave of nausea fell upon him the instant his fingers touched Christ’s cheek. He recoiled with revulsion.
“Forgive me,” he whispered and reached forward again.
The loathsome sensation came again but this time he was unable to remove his fingers. He was held fast.
Again, the whispering shadows gathered about him, they swam through the air with ease and brushed their velvet tendrils against him. Yet he felt no threat for he was once again in the thrall of his Lord. It was as it had been a lifetime ago.
He looked down at the pained expression of Christ and felt the nausea drift away. He was free again; trapped no longer in the dismal arms of selfish greed and it felt joyous.
But there was something about the touch of Christ that did not feel right. Something about it felt corrupt. Something was twisting the corpus and driving it down into the altar. Something was taking it away from him.
“No!” he pleaded, but it was too late for Christ was gone and in his place was the body of a common man. The body was little more that a skeleton wrapped in perished leather and his sockets empty of eyes.
Musgrave tried to pull away. It had been cruelly taken away from him again, as Rachel and his faith had been taken from him those years ago. But he could not move for the shadows wrapped their dark fingers around his own and held them fast.
“Release me.” he called.
“They seek your guidance,” Rachel’s voice whispered beside him.
“I do not know what they want,” he answered meekly. “I am as lost as they are.”
The corpus swam again into view before his eyes but it was now transparent and within it was the body of the common man.
“What is this?” he muttered.
All at once he was released and the spirits withdrew. He was utterly alone again. He peered over his shoulder for it seemed impossible that Carson could have slept through everything. Yet there were no signs of life from the vestry.
Although he had been released he felt in no hurry to remove his hand from the body of Christ. He had been shown something, but it was surely symbolic. He had never felt the true calling to be a man of God before, when he had taken his vows, but now perhaps that is exactly what he had just experienced; his true calling.
He lifted his hands in the air and allowed them to fall onto the corpus. He was greeted not with the sound of a dull thud but by a hollow echo. He rapped his knuckles against the body and lowered his head. The corpus was hollow.
He had never been so close to a full-size crucifix before but it was surely not commonplace for the corpus to be a shell. He tapped again but much harder this time and the sound echoed around the church.
The spirits had shown him something, and Rachel had spoken about guidance and about others needing his direction. Yet why now did he feel like he was the one being guided?
Musgrave clenched his fists and drove them into the torso of Christ. “Forgive me,” he cried out again. The corpus crumbled beneath his fists and he was immediately overcome by a powerful stench. He covered his mouth and took a step backward. It was unlike any smell he had ever… But it was not. It was the smell of a rotting cadaver and he had smelled it before in his previous life as a man of God.
How was this possible? He stepped forward and drove his fists down again and again until the floor at his feet was covered in plaster. There on the altar was the body of a man. The corpse was withered and rotten and his mouth was agape in a silent scream. A piercing shriek filled his ears as the scream was finally vented.
Musgrave covered his mouth and choked back his own scream. He could stand no longer to look upon such a tortured expression and staggered away. He cared not where he stepped, only that he wished to be away from the stench of that wretched creature.
“God save you,” he whispered.
He knew he must leave the church. If he stayed any longer he would leave it a demented and raving lunatic. He dared not wake C
arson and he possessed the only key to the door, but he would smash a window if he had to. He looked frantically about for an object, a candlestick to hurl through the stained glass. But as his thigh collided with a pew, he recalled the small door on the side of the building. Carson said that the key always remained in the lock.
Musgrave ran toward it and felt the cold steel of the key in his hand. Carson was correct for he was barely able to turn the key and for a moment Musgrave thought he would be trapped in this nightmare forever. Were these the same visions and voices that haunted Carson? It was a surprise the man was as sane as he portrayed.
