by Amy Cross
She takes a moment to straighten the papers, making sure that they're neat and in line, and then she comes over to the doorway. She seems a little embarrassed as she slips past, but then she stops and turns back to me. As she does so, I see that there is a bruise on her left cheek.
“I heard your sermon earlier,” she continues, “and I thought it was rather beautiful. I wanted to read some of the passages, that's all. To... relive the parts that I thought were particularly insightful.”
“You heard the sermon?” I reply, shocked by the news. “I don't think I saw you in the congregation.”
“I stayed out of sight, at the back. Behind the pillar, next to the door. I suppose that was foolish of me, really. I don't know why I did it, except that I didn't want to be a pain. I arrived a little late, you see, and then I saw how few people there were. I suppose I didn't want to be a distraction.”
“I'm sure you would not have been,” I tell her. “And if you had been, it would only have been in a positive manner.”
“You really did give a most interesting sermon,” she says. “It would have done a lot of people some good, if only they'd roused themselves and come to listen.”
“That's very kind of you.”
“And now I shall leave you in peace,” she adds, taking a step back. “Again, I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
She turns to leave.
“I have books,” I say suddenly, rather surprising myself.
She turns back to me.
“There are books here, I mean,” I continue. “I just thought, if you have nothing to do and you wish to read today, there are books here. You are welcome to take some away with you, or even to stay here and read. The church is very quiet, and you won't be disturbed.” I pause, waiting for her to answer. “It was just a thought, that's all,” I tell her. “I'm sure you have plenty to be getting on with today.”
“You...”
She stares at me, as if the offer is an utter shock.
“You wouldn't mind?” she asks finally. “I know your work is important. I wouldn't be disturbing you, would I?”
“Of course not. In fact, I would be very pleased to have you here.”
As soon as I have said those words, I realize that they make me sound rather forward. Lizzy is a remarkable young woman, and I do not wish to say anything that could be deemed inappropriate.
“It's entirely up to you,” I add. “I'm sure there are plenty of other things that you could be doing on such a nice day.”
“Oh, no,” she says quickly, as if to cut off any further talk of alternatives. “I should greatly like to stay and read. I'll go into one of the other rooms, so as to not bother you.” She hurries out of the room, before stopping and glancing back at me. “Thank you again, Father Loveford! You're too kind.”
“Not at all,” I reply, somewhat taken aback by her gratitude.
She runs off to the room with the bookcase, and I take a moment to reflect upon the fact that it might be pleasant to have somebody else around the place. And then, remembering my duties here at the church, I turn to my desk as I realize that I have another sermon to write.
***
“Let us not forsake such small pleasantries,” I whisper, reading from my latest – rather poor, I must admit – attempt to write something useful, “and let us not -”
Before I can finish, I hear footsteps out in the corridor, and I turn to look over at the doorway. As I do so, I adjust my posture and sit up straight, then I take my glasses off in case they make me look too strict, or perhaps too old. Then, worried that without glasses I might appear vain, I set them back in place, while still waiting for Lizzy to reach the door. Then I glance at the candle that burns on my desk, set against the darkening evening outside, and I realize that the shadows might make me look older than my years. I suppose I am being vain.
The footsteps continue, but now it seems that they are heading toward the corridor's far end.
“Lizzy?” I call out. “Is everything alright?”
I wait, but she does not reply.
Supposing that she might be lost, I get to my feet and head to the door. As I look out into the corridor, however, I am surprised to find no sign whatsoever of Lizzy. At that exact moment, meanwhile, the footsteps come to an abrupt halt, leaving me standing in silence. I hesitate for a moment, before heading over to check one of the other rooms.
“Are you still reading?” I ask. “I was only -”
Stopping suddenly, I see that Lizzy is fast asleep in one of the armchairs, with an open book resting on her lap. She looks very peaceful, and I cannot help but smile as I see her closed eyes twitching slightly. She must be having a rather energized dream, as well she might since she appears to have been reading a collection of eighteenth century romantic odes.
The room is getting colder as evening advances, so I take a blanket from one of the stools and then I carefully set it over Lizzy's body, so as to ensure that she remains warm while she sleeps. And then, as I finish setting the blanket in place, I must confess that I hesitate and let my gaze linger on Lizzy's face for a little longer than is necessary.
She will make somebody a very fine wife one day. Indeed, she must be twenty-one if she is a day, so I wouldn't be surprised if she already has a suitor. Some lucky boy from the village is most likely already wooing her. Really, she should be out with him today, rather than reading old poems in a dusty church backroom. Certainly, she seems to have a wise head on her shoulders. I'm sure she understands that, when it comes to matters of the heart, the old-fashioned ways are often the best.
And then I notice the scratches on the nape of her neck.
I am loathe to look too closely, lest I be accused of informality, but there are several scratches on the back of Lizzy's neck. I peer a little closer, just enough to see that these scratches do indeed appear to run down beneath her collar, going out of view beneath the fabric. My first thought is that these must be the product of some self-punishment ritual, but I confess I have also heard of young girls – and boys – who occasionally self-harm for other reasons. Lizzy has always seemed to be a most carefree young lady, yet evidently she is in some ways deeply troubled. Yet what can I do, other than offer general comfort? It is certainly not my place to ask questions of a deeply personal nature.
I stare at her for a moment longer, before telling myself that I really should leave the room before I disturb her. Indeed, I need to contemplate my next course of action, because the scratches and the bruises make it quite clear that Lizzy is in need of guidance.
And then, just as I begin to turn, I once again hear footsteps out in the corridor. This time, the sound is quite clearly coming from the far end, so I head over to the doorway and look out, just as – once more – the footsteps suddenly stop. I wait, confused, trying to work out who might have entered the church. I am certain I would have heard somebody entering, as I have been working for several hours now in silence. It is simply inconceivable that anyone could have entered unnoticed.
A moment later, hearing a murmur, I turn and see that Lizzy has shifted slightly in the chair. She has not woken, but she mutters something unintelligible in her sleep.
Suddenly I hear a loud thump in the distance. Looking back out into the corridor, I am shocked to see that the church's main door has swung open, and that the inside handle has bumped against the wall. Hurrying over, I stop in the doorway and look out across the cemetery, but there is absolutely no sign of anybody near the church. I wait, in case somehow a visitor appears, but I suppose the failing evening light means that somebody must have simply slipped away into the shadows. Either that, or I am losing my mind.
“Is everything alright?”
Startled, I turn and see that Lizzy has emerged from the other room. With the blanket around her shoulders, she blinks away sleep.
“Father Loveford?” she continues. “You look a little pale.”
“Of course,” I stammer, “I merely...”
My voice trails off.
&n
bsp; I merely what? I merely heard footsteps where there could be no footsteps? To admit that would be to invite ridicule, and – worse – to risk fanning the flames of this ridiculous ghost story. I must remain above all of that. I must lead by example.
“I merely noted that it is getting late,” I say finally. “The lights must go off soon, and I am afraid I have an early start tomorrow, for I have to visit the RAF base in Littleton.”
“I see,” she replies. She stares at me for a moment, as if she does not quite understand, and then she nods. “Of course, you wish to retire for the night. I'm so sorry to have kept you up.”
“You haven't kept me up,” I say, as she hands me the blanket and steps outside. “Forgive my abruptness, you can of course stay and finish whatever you were reading.”
“I shall come tomorrow morning to clean again, as arranged,” she replies, and suddenly her tone seems much more formal than before. She barely even dares look at me as she takes a step back, and then she mumbles a goodbye before turning and hurrying away into the twilight. As she goes, she adjusts the back of her dress, as if perhaps she's worried that I might have seen the scratches.
“You can stay!” I tell her, but she does not respond.
I open my mouth to call after her again, but at the last moment I realize that there is no point. She doubtless has chores at home, and I have some work of my own to complete. With that, then, I swing the door shut, and then I pause for a moment as I realize how much I enjoyed having Lizzy here. Her presence seemed right somehow, and I must confess that there is a part of me that misses her already. I am sure that one day she will make some man a very good, very loving wife, provided she can recover from whatever malady it is that makes her harm herself. I fear that no man will want a wife who does such things. Perhaps this is why there is a hint of loneliness in her manner?
Heading through to my office, I resolve to finish work on my next sermon before I have to blow out the remaining candles for the night. The theme of this particular sermon shall be the need for forgiveness, and I can only hope that next time around I shall have rather more of a congregation than I managed to gather today. As I begin to write, however, I find my mind wandering back to the subject of Lizzy.
Forcing myself to stay focused, I return to the sermon. Yet once again I cannot help but think of Lizzy, and finally I lean back in my chair and look out the window, watching the darkening cemetery as I try to work out how I can possibly help the poor girl.
Chapter Twenty
“Father!” a voice shouts, as a fist continues to bang on the door. “Father Loveford, come quickly!”
Startled awake, I sit up in the darkness and listen as the banging goes on and on. For a moment I am not quite sure where I am, but then I feel the arms of the chair and I realize I must have fallen fast asleep. I instantly reach over and snuff out the candle, which – although it was almost dead anyway – nevertheless still burned in defiance of the blackout restrictions. How could I have been so foolish?
“Father Loveford, you must come!” the male voice continues, accompanied by further banging on the door. “Father Loveford, hurry!”
***
“It was awful, quite awful,” Mr. Rose continues, clearly shaken as he leads me along the dark, winding street that runs into the heart of the village. “Didn't you hear her screams, Father?”
“I confess I did not,” I reply, shivering slightly in the cold air. It is only a little after midnight, and I must admit that I am as yet not quite fully stirred from sleep.
“Here,” Mr. Rose says, as we reach the outside of a terraced cottage, where several men and women are gathered in earnest conversation. “It's okay,” he continues, pushing past them and then beckoning for me to follow. “Father Loveford has arrived, he'll see Edna now. You must make way for him. Move!”
The crowd parts, and I step toward the cottage's open front door. As I do so, I glance at the faces that are watching me, and even in the moonlight I can see expressions of suspicion and concern. Nobody greets me, nobody even seems particularly pleased by my arrival, so I simply nod an un-returned greeting at each of them before bowing my head and ducking under the low door that leads into the cottage.
“She's upstairs,” Mr. Rose says, leading the way by candlelight, already heading up to the cottage's upper floor. The stairs creak beneath his steps. “I'm so sorry to have roused you, Father Loveford, but poor Mrs. Canton is in a terrible state. She's rambling and sobbing, and nobody has been able to comfort her at all. We've all tried but, well, she hasn't been making much sense. Calling you is our last option.”
“How gratifying,” I murmur.
“You know what I mean, Father. We just didn't want to wake you, that's all.”
“I shall do my best,” I reply, having to duck once again as I find that these cottages all have such low ceilings and doorways. “Perhaps I can offer a prayer that will calm her soul.”
As I say those words, however, I realize I can hear a woman's wailing voice coming from one of the bedrooms, and a moment later I look through and see a middle-aged woman with her head in her hands on a bed, while a man – presumably her husband – attempts in vain to console her. For a moment, the whole scene seems utterly cacophonous and out of control.
“Father Loveford is here,” Mr. Rose says, as he stops and gesture for me to to through. “He'll know what to do.”
“He's the last person we need!” a voice hisses.
“He might know what to do.”
I hear a sigh.
“Give it a try,” Mr. Rose continues. “Unless you have any better ideas?”
There's a pause, and for a few seconds it seems as if I might be turned away.
“My wife is in a terrible state,” Mr. Canton says finally, getting to his feet. He seems rather unsympathetic, as if he is mostly just annoyed by the whole disturbance. “Father, you can speak to her, if you think you can do any good. She's getting hysterical and that's most unlike her. I confess I slapped her once, in an attempt to get some sense into her, but she's utterly out of control. I've tried to talk some sense into her, but she won't listen.”
“It's okay,” I say, approaching Mrs. Canton as she continues to sob. “My dear lady, can you tell me what is the matter?”
“She's hysterical,” her husband snaps. “I told you already.”
“Might I ask what caused you to feel this way?” I ask the woman.
“Nothing, of course,” her husband says, once again answering for her. “She just had a bad dream, that's all. Evidently she's not capable of determining dream from reality.”
“Perhaps I might speak to your wife alone,” I reply, turning to him. “If you don't mind, Mr. Canton.”
He opens his mouth to answer, but then he simply sighs and heads out of the room. Something about the way he stomps along is enough to make me realize that I truly am the last resort in this situation.
“Whatever you wish,” he says darkly. “This nonsense is entirely beyond the pale. A man should not be woken in his own home, by his own wife acting in this manner. Whatever is the world coming to?”
Once he is gone, I step over and swing the door shut, and then I turn to see that Mrs. Canton has at last looked up at me. Her eyes are filled with tears, and she is quite plainly in great distress, and after a moment I see that her hands are trembling as if she is extremely fearful. I wait a few seconds, hoping that she might volunteer some information, and then I step back around to the side of the bed. The lady is in her nightgown, so I am careful not to look at her too directly, for fear of seeming over-familiar. Indeed, she really should be wearing a dressing gown, but I suppose now is not the time to mention that.
Truthfully, I am not entirely sure how to begin this conversation.
“I saw her,” she says suddenly, her voice shaking with fear.
“You saw who?” I ask.
“You know who. You must know.” She makes the sign of the cross against her chest. “I saw her, Father. God save my soul, but I saw her fac
e.”
I am about to tell her that I have no idea, but then in an instant I realize that perhaps this mess has something to do with all the stories about Judith Prendergast.
“What exactly did you see?” I ask cautiously.
She turns and looks over at the bedroom window, and I realize I can see true fear in her expression.
“What did you see?” I ask again.
“She was out there,” she replies, still staring at the bedroom window. “I got up to use the bathroom. On my way back, I happened to look out and I saw her. I only looked out to check the weather, but then I spotted a figure down there on the road. For a moment I thought I was imagining it, but then I realized I could see her face. She was standing right down there in the road, staring straight up at me.”
She pauses, and now there are tears in her eyes, and her bottom lip is trembling.
“Well, it's very dark out there,” I point out. “Perhaps what you saw was somebody else.”
“It was her!”
“Or a shadow.”
“It was her!” she says firmly, turning back to me. “I knew the woman, Father! Not well, but I knew her! And I'm telling you, I saw her out there on the road tonight. Yes, it was dark, but there was some moonlight, and it was enough for me to see that face. That awful, staring, dead face. She was right outside!”
I hesitate, before stepping over to the window and peering out. Several men and women are still gathered outside the house, but there is certainly no sign of any spectral visitor. Nor indeed could there be, since such things are impossible.
“They found her body,” Mrs. Canton continues. “What if, by removing it from the church, they stirred her spirit?”
“It seems that something has been stirred,” I mutter, still watching the road for a moment before, finally, turning back to look at Mrs. Canton. “You say that you knew the poor deceased woman. Is it possible that the discovery of her body has woken some feelings?”
“You don't understand,” she says, shaking her head.
