A Gathering of Ghosts

by David Haynes

The key turned and Musgrave tumbled out into the night. Clouds obscured the moon, and the streets around the church had yet to benefit from the lighting the fashionable districts enjoyed. He ran immediately toward the front of the church, not bothering to close the door behind him. The ground was soft from rain but it was not that which caused him to lose his footing and fall headlong into the soil.

  He gripped his twisted ankle and cursed. He would not allow even a freshly dug grave to stop him leaving. It was strange the reverend hadn’t mentioned it earlier. He had given the impression it had been a long time since the gravedigger had been employed.

  Musgrave pushed himself upright and kicked at the soil. It was indeed fresh. He touched the headstone; it was covered in blooms of lichen. This was not a new headstone.

  He raised his eyes and looked along the route he had just taken. All along the side of the church and reaching around the back were dark mounds. He did not need to a candle to know beside each one a headstone stood sentry.

  He turned away. It was not his concern.

  But they had sought him out. They had sought his guidance and in the shadows he was sure to find them.

  He ran quickly back to the door and inhaled deeply. It was the same practice he had employed countless times when deceiving his wealthy customers. He stepped across the threshold into the darkness once again and the door closed slowly behind him.

  Once inside he had no idea what he was supposed to do but it had to start with Carson, of that he was convinced. He made his way to the vestry and peered inside. Washed in candlelight, Carson lay slumped on the table and had clearly not moved a muscle. Should he wake him and ask what he knew of the disturbed graves and the crucifix? He paused in the doorway and considered his options for a moment. There remained only two rooms which lay unexplored – the crypt and the reverend’s bedroom.

  He walked slowly over and gently prodded the sleeping man. Carson remained like a statue. To test the depth of his stupor, Musgrave prodded him again, this time harder. Instantly, Carson sat bolt upright with his eyes as wide as saucers and started flailing his arms this way and that.

  Musgrave regretted his second prod immediately. “I am sorry, Reverend. I did not…”

  “Begone, you devils! Back to the pit with all of you!” Carson screamed at the top of his voice.

  Musgrave looked around anxiously. He had seen the shadowy forms for himself but they were not present now.

  “Reverend, they are not…”

  Carson slumped back down. His head made a dull thud against the table and the sound of his guttural snores filled the space again. If Musgrave was to go down to the crypt, then he must do it alone. It was perhaps a good thing, he was not sure Carson was up to the task. He picked up one of the candles and walked around Carson to the door. There could be no greater place for shadows to gather than a crypt.

  He held the candle out before him but Carson’s chamber was little more than a cold box containing a bed. Several empty bottles lay strewn across his grimy sheets and dark pools of stale wine left blood-like stains on them. It was doubtful whether the reverend had washed in several days and there was no sign of clean vestments anywhere. Carson was truly in a bad way and if he saw what had become of his graveyard, it would undoubtedly be the end of him.

  At the far end of the room was a small wooden door and across it lay a heavy chain and lock. Musgrave rattled it but it was secure. There was really no place to hide the key in the room so it had to be on Carson himself or within the bed.

  He did not relish the idea of examining either for a key but he quickly rummaged through the sheets and blankets. A stale odour drifted upward and made him wince, but the key was not there. He thrust his hands under the Reverend’s pillow and felt the cold steel of a key in his fingers. He removed it quickly for the pillow felt damp on his skin.

  “They seek your guidance.” Her voice was beside him again and he clutched the charm around his neck.

  The lock was well used for the key turned easily and the chains fell to the floor at his feet. He pulled open the door and was greeted by a stench so vile and putrid he retched on the spot. The candle flame flickered violently in sympathy but remained alight. It was obvious why the reverend kept the room locked so securely. No sane person would want to share a room with such a malevolent fetor.

  Musgrave gathered his wits and thrust the candle out before him like a shield. The orange orb around the flame devoured the odour with ease and he took the first step of an unknown quantity down and deeper into the shadows.

  Once or twice he nearly lost his footing. The damp steps did not help but he was further hindered by the curving nature of them. They spiralled downward and curved inward until he was beneath the main body of the church. When at last he reached the bottom, he sighed with relief. His relief was short lived for an unseen breath extinguished his candle immediately.

  “Who is here with me?” His voice shook and he was angry with himself. It was merely the dark and there could be nothing more disturbing than the sights he had already seen upstairs.

  “When evening shadows gather,

  And twilight gently fades:

  When all is still and silent

  In midnight’s darker shades…”

  A sweet voice echoed throughout the chamber. There was no mistaking the timbre; it was Rachel.

  “Show yourself to me?” he whispered.

  “We pray for those who languish

  In sickness and distress,

  That Thou wilt soothe their anguish,

  And their afflictions bless:”

  Musgrave closed his eyes in bliss. It had been so long since he had heard her honeyed voice in song that he had almost forgotten how it would send him into rapture. He lost track of himself as he floated on a bed of sweet verse. He clutched the bone around his neck to feel close to her once again.

  “They seek your guidance,” her voice urged him.

  “What would you have me do?”

  He opened his eyes again and gasped in horror.

  A hundred candles, perhaps more, had been lit in the chamber and if he could, he would have blown them all out in an instant.

  It was a crypt, yes, but it was not the bones of the deceased which filled the room. It was the flesh. He took a step back. This was too much, he could not be any part of this, but the pressure of unseen hands pushed him forward.

  What horror was this? What form of vile defilement had taken place on this most sacred of land?

  It was no longer a mystery where the missing pews had gone or for what purpose they had been put to. Broken up, they had been crudely nailed together to form a number of crucifixes.

  Voices screamed out behind. They wailed in one sickening chorus but their voices were indistinct and corrupt.

  Some of the crosses lay on the floor but some lay propped up against the damp walls, and upon each one was fastened a body. Some were at later stages of decomposition than others but all were nailed in place in the fashion of the corpus. It was a staggering blasphemy, one which was heightened for its location.

  Musgrave approached the closest one and stared disbelieving into the vacant eyes. Remnants of flesh still clung to the skull in brown blooms, and wispy tendrils of hair rose like smoke from the discoloured dome. The dampness in the atmosphere glistened off the skin like sweat.

  He felt bile rising quickly in his throat and bent over to empty his already vacant stomach. Dizziness gripped him and he reached forward to steady himself. His hand tightened around the poor figure’s ankle. He retched and felt his stomach muscles spasm in objection.

  Yet his hand did not feel rotting flesh but something cooler and smooth. He dared not look for he knew it was bone, it had to be.

  “They seek your guidance.”

  Musgrave looked up. It was not bone, it was plaster of Paris. It was the same material that covered the corpus above the altar. He took his hand away and brought it to his eyes. His hand was covered in white dust.

  He turned away and look
ed to the others. It was not the various stages of decomposition which made them appear distinct from each other but the various stages of being encased in plaster. He turned in a whirling and nauseating pirouette. One of the dead had been wrapped from toe to neck in plaster with only his head poking out of the top. In contrast with the crude nature of the crucifix, the painting of Christ’s body upon the plaster was elegant. Were it not for what lay beneath that plaster, it might be considered beautiful.

  How many were there? Ten or eleven, perhaps more. How many graves lay disturbed in the graveyard? Musgrave had not counted but he did not need to go back to count them. There would be ten or eleven. How had this been done without Carson’s knowledge? How could he…?

  “They have been granted the highest honour imaginable!” Carson’s voice boomed down the chamber. “To become the Son of God is to reach the promised land!”

  Musgrave peered into the darkness. He could see nothing but a shadow coming toward him. He knew in an instant what had happened here.

  “It is blasphemy, Carson. You have desecrated their graves and debased them! You are deranged.”

  Carson appeared. His eyes shone red in the candlelight. “It is nothing of the sort. They will be worshipped. Besides, what business is it of yours what I do with the bones of the dead? They do not mind.”

  A screech echoed around the chamber in reply.

  “Do you not hear them, Carson! It is these very people who haunt you. We must put them back where they belong.” Musgrave turned and started to drag a crucifix back toward the steps. “Help me and you will be free.”

  “But I have not heard them for three hours or more. You have driven them back merely with your presence. You must stay!”

  “Stay?” Musgrave turned slowly and looked at the reverend. “I will stay no longer than is necessary to return them, each and every one of them, to the earth.”

  “Then it is a shame.”

  A flash of lightning flew from Carson’s hand. It was as it struck his temple he realised it was a candlestick.

  *

  “You keep the dead close to you in many ways, Mr Musgrave.”

  Musgrave opened his eyes and focused on Carson. The reverend held Musgrave’s beloved trinket between his fingers. “Your wife, perhaps?”

  Musgrave tried to touch his temple but his arms and legs had been bound to one of Carson’s crude crucifixes.

  “Give that back to me or I will…” What could he do?

  Carson loomed over him, smiling. “Do you not see? Do you not understand? They should be grateful, they should love me for I have made them kings!”

  “It is madness.” Musgrave tested the strength of his bonds. He could not move.

  Carson turned away and walked quickly toward one of the alcoves buried in the wall. “You are not a man of God, you do not understand. The bishop will, though. He will clap me on the back when I take one to him.” Carson rummaged in the darkness and removed a small bag. He brought it out into the light and placed it beside Musgrave’s legs.

  “I do not expect this to be pleasant but the pain will take you closer to God.”

  Musgrave watched in horror as Carson removed a hammer and three rusty nails from the bag.

  “Please… no!”

  “They seek your guidance.”

  “I give it to them! For the love of God, let them take my guidance!” Musgrave screamed as he watched Carson raise the hammer high above his head.

  The candles were extinguished in an instant and the chamber was once again thrown into darkness. Musgrave felt himself lifted from the damp ground and his bonds removed. Had Carson come to his senses?

  His body tightened until every sinew, ligament and muscle threatened to burst in bloody ribbons from his body. He groaned in pain but could move not an inch, for his spirit was being used by another; it was being used by many others.

  Before him in the darkness, the shadows took form. They growled and howled and their bodies grew strong and tall. Musgrave could see the confusion on Carson’s face for he was bathed in a ghostly glow.

  Musgrave counted their forms. Eleven ghostly forms made a circle around the reverend. Their faces were lined in tortured anguish and loathing for the man before them. One by one they joined in a terrible chorus.

  “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.”

  Carson was held in a thrall and simply stared back at the forms before him. No doubt he had seen them before but now they had a strength flowing through them. They possessed the energy of a true medium. They possessed Musgrave’s strength.

  One by one they raised a crooked finger to the heavens and the circle tightened evermore until there was not a space between them.

  Then there was silence while the great storm gathered its strength. The air left Musgrave’s lungs entirely as his body was purged. It was then that the screaming started. Carson pleaded and whimpered as his body was torn asunder by the searching and piercing fingers. They reached beneath his skin and tore out his organs. They reached beneath his heart and tore out his soul. The screams did not abate until Musgrave felt the very last of his strength desert him.

  He fell to the floor and closed his eyes. His body was once again his own but he knew he had witnessed the demise of the reverend without seeing a single drop of blood.

  He slept for what felt an eternity. He dreamed of his beautiful Rachel. He dreamed of her soft elegant voice singing a sweet lullaby to him and of holding her hands in his own. He dreamed of Rachel on her deathbed and of her death. It was painful and even in dreams it remained an unbearable torment.

  When at last he was able to open his eyes again, the candles had once again been lit. Beside him, Carson lay slumped against the wall. His body displayed no signs of violence or of pain, simply of peaceful rest. Musgrave knew this was a contradiction for the spirits had taken him and defiled him as he had done to them.

  He knew what he must do now. The bones of these poor souls must be returned to the earth where they could rest in peace. He had been their guide and given himself freely so they may seek retribution. It was now his duty to give them their freedom.

  *

  Musgrave worked in silence throughout the night. The earth was loose and easy to dig and the bones were like twigs from diseased elms. Moonlight guided him, and as he interred the last rotten cadaver, he spoke the solemn words he recalled from his training.

  The reverend could remain in the crypt for all he cared. It would probably be found by someone or other in the next few weeks. Perhaps when the stench of his death invaded the church, they would look for him and find a broken man in the crypt. Musgrave cared not what they thought of him in death for in life, at least his latter life, he had been a monster.

  When at last the final words had been spoken, Musgrave watched the remaining apparition silently take his place in the earth. They were free again; free to take their rest in Elysium. Musgrave clutched the charm around his neck and looked to the moon. One last duty remained and it was one he could put aside no more.

  He walked quickly across London, through the streets which only yesterday had been filled with the laughter of the living. Now, shadows lurked in every corner and the ghosts which skulked there held his gaze in their own vapid eyes. Could he go back to the life he had lived before? He did not need to consider the question for he had seen things this night which he had never thought possible. Fame and fortune were nothing save for fleeting notions of the greedy and dissatisfied. He was now a better man.

  He crouched over her grave and touched the soil. He could almost feel her soft skin against his own. He could smell her scent and hear her voice, yet she was dead and she would ever remain so.

  He sunk his fingers into the earth and m
ade a well. The trinket made from her bone must go back into the earth and be part of her again. She would never be at rest while he had it for his own comfort. He slipped it from around his neck and held it above the hole.

  “They seek your guidance.” Her velvet voice whispered from behind.

  Musgrave turned quickly, almost concussing himself on the headstone. Could it be? He knew his eyes were not deceiving him. She was before him and she looked as wondrous as the day they had first met.

  “They seek your guidance,” she whispered again.

  Musgrave slipped the trinket back around his neck. “Then I shall keep you close a while longer, my love.”