The Haunting of Briarwych Church

by Amy Cross

  Nearby, human excrement is piled in the corner of the cell.

  “It wasn't me who needed comforting,” Frank says. “Davey wasn't a happy man, Father. He was terrified, always jumping at the slightest provocation. Restless days, sleepless nights. There's no wonder he couldn't cope, but there was no way he ever wanted to talk about it much. He was -”

  He flinches, as his face once again twitches. He tries to wave away a fly, but already several more are crawling over his face.

  “He was a good man,” he continues, before spitting one of the flies away from his lips, “but he was haunted. Tell me, how did the official report say that he died?”

  “I believe some mention is made of a booby-trap in a house. A house that had recently been occupied by some Germans.”

  “And what exactly do you think happened in there?” Francis asks.

  “I imagine he was very unfortunate,” I reply. “I can only pray that his death was quick and painless. I am sure that the Lord would have ensured that it was so.”

  At this, Frank chuckles.

  “Was it not so?” I ask, feeling a flicker of concern. “A bomb would be quick, would it not?”

  “You're just like the rest of 'em,” Francis says, shaking his head as if he can't quiet believe what he's hearing. “You don't get it, do you? You didn't believe him, not all the times he told you about it.”

  “I'm afraid that you're losing me,” I tell him, and now I am feeling a little frustrated. As I wave more flies away from my face, I am beginning to wish that this man could say his piece and then let me leave. I know that is not very Christian of me, but truly the stench in here is overwhelming. “Could you please explain why you have been so frequently writing letters to Father Carmichael? Obviously you have something to say, man, so say it.”

  “He said she was there,” he explains. “He was always seeing her, he said he couldn't escape, but people thought he was mad. They thought he was seeing things, on account of the stress.” He leans forward, then back again, as if he's highly agitated. “That's what people need to know, you see? It was going on for months, he kept seeing her, and no-one took him seriously.”

  “I'm rather afraid that you've lost me,” I reply. “Who was Father Perkins seeing?”

  “He said she was following him around. He said even out there, she'd found him. He caught glimpses of her, and over the months he slowly became more and more nervous. Sometimes I'd be talking to him, and I could tell he was seeing her in the room, 'cept I couldn't see her at all. At first I was like the others, I thought he was just a bit doo-lally, but over time I began to realize that maybe there was more to it. Occasionally I even heard him begging her to leave him alone. Sobbing, he was, and putting his hands on the sides of his head. He'd be doing that all night, every night. The last week before he died, I don't reckon he got any sleep at all.”

  Suddenly he does the same, clutching his own head and starting to rock back and forth.

  “Like this!” he cries out. “Begging her, just begging her! Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Like that!”

  “I'm not sure what this has to do with anything, but...”

  “Go away, Judith!” he shouts. “I didn't do anything to you! Go away! Go away! Go away!”

  “Judith?” I hesitate for a moment, wondering whether this might all be a coincidence. A moment later a fly lands in my left ear, and I hurriedly wave it away. “Are you absolutely certain that Judith was the name he mentioned?”

  “Over and over,” he says, still rocking for a few seconds before finally leaning back, breathless, against the wall and staring at me with fear-filled eyes. “It got worse as time went by. Eventually it was happening several times a day, like she wouldn't leave him alone. He tried to ignore her, he tried everything. By the time we got to Ypres, he was a broken man. Sometimes I even heard him at night, in our barracks, weeping and begging her to leave him alone. One time I even...”

  His voice trails off.

  “You even what?” I ask cautiously.

  I wait, watching as a fly crawls up his chin. Frank's lips part slightly, and the fly crawls inside, and the man does not seem to react in any way whatsoever.

  “You even what?” I ask again, starting to feel repulsed and frustrated in equal measure. “What, Frank?”

  “I don't know if I really did see her or not,” he replies, with a hint of wonder in his voice, “but I saw something. It was so dark, and so late at night. I was half asleep, but Davey was whispering and begging to be left alone, and I glanced over. Maybe it was nothing, but for a moment I swear I saw a woman leaning over his bunk. Dressed in gray she was, with long hair hanging down, and she had a hand reached out toward the side of his face. Such a pale hand, pale and thin. Then I blinked and she was gone, but Davey was still terrified.”

  “You were exhausted,” I remind him. “You said it yourself, it was late at night and you were tired.”

  “The next day we were clearing houses in Ypres,” he continues. “We got to this one house, and we found a booby-trap in one of the rooms. Well-hidden, it was, but me and Davey we saw it. We were good at that sort of thing, Jerry didn't get much past us. Davey said he'd forgotten his cutters. I told him I saw him put them in his pocket, but he swore he'd left them outside. He asked me to go and get them. Well, I didn't want to argue with him, so I went to take a look. As I was leaving, I thought I heard him talking to that woman again, but I didn't pay much attention. I went outside and checked the kit-bag, and of course I was right, the cutters weren't there at all. And then...”

  Again, his voice trails off.

  I wait, while still trying to convince myself that this is all nonsense.

  “And then the whole bloody top floor went off,” he adds finally. “It must've been the trap we'd found. The official report said Davey maybe tagged it by accident, but I knew Davey and I can tell you he'd never have done that.”

  “So what are you suggesting?” I ask.

  “I've written to so many people, begging them to listen,” he continues. “Even the church ignores my letters. But people have to know, Davey wasn't careless. I reckon he sent me out on a wild goose chase, just to make sure I was safe. And then, to finally stop that woman haunting him, he...”

  He pauses, and then he swallows hard. There are tears in his eyes now.

  “It's the only explanation,” he adds. “Davey Perkins would never have tripped that wire and got himself blown up. Not unless he intended to. Not unless he thought it was the only way to get away from her always whispering in his ear.” He shudders for a moment. “I know how ghosts work, Father. The first twenty-four hours are the most important. Most dead spirits fade away in that time, but a few linger, especially if they're in some way trapped in the place where they died. Some, the really strong ones, can reach out further on occasion. Like she did to Davey, to push him into...”

  His voice trails off, and his eyes widen with horror.

  “Are you suggesting that he killed himself?” I ask.

  He shudders, and then he spits out the mangled corpse of a little fly, letting it fall to the floor. Then he does the same again, and he opens his mouth enough for me to see that his stained and rotten teeth are covered in black stains and in patches of little torn-off legs.

  “That's not possible,” I continue, as Frank starts laughing. “I'm afraid you're like the others, you're allowing your imagination to run riot at the expense of all reason. It's not -”

  Suddenly his laugh bursts into a full-throated howl, and he starts rocking back and forward once again.

  “You're not seeing things clearly at all,” I tell him, hoping to get through to the man even as I have to swat away more flies. “Please, you have to be sensible about this. I demand that you quieten down and listen to me.”

  Still he howls with laughter, his cries getting louder and louder until I step back against the bars of the cell. It's almost as if the man is screaming now.

  “You have to listen,” I continue, although now my voice
is trembling and I can barely hear my own words over the sound of Frank's cries. “Be sensible, man. Listen to me. I demand that you listen to me!”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “No, I'm quite sure, thank you,” I tell the taxi driver, as I hand him his fare. “I should like to walk the last stretch of the journey.”

  “Just like last time?” the driver says with a smile. “I remember you, Father. I brought you out this way a couple of months ago, didn't I?”

  “You did,” I reply, pleasantly surprised that I apparently made an impression on the gentleman. “Once again, let me express my gratitude for your good service. I wish you a pleasant day.”

  “It's getting late, though,” he points out. “It'll be almost dark by the time you get to town.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall enjoy the stroll. Thank you for your concern.”

  As the driver sets off back in the other direction, I turn and start carrying my two suitcases along the road. I remember two months ago when I first arrived in Briarwych, I was filled with such optimism. Now, however, I must confess that the sight of the church spire ahead leaves me feeling rather apprehensive. I suppose I must simply put my head down and get to work, and hope that I can at least help some people from the local area.

  Yet as I walk along the quiet road, somehow I feel I can still hear Frank Townley's maniacal laughter echoing in my thoughts.

  ***

  Where is everybody?

  As I make my way along the road that curves up toward the center of Briarwych, I cannot help but notice that I have so far seen not one soul. Granted, Briarwych is at best a quiet place, but there is usually evidence of some sort of activity. These evening, however, there are very few lights in any of the windows, and – as darkness begins to fall – I see none of the usual pre-blackout rush to get things done.

  I tell myself that I should not be concerned, yet deep down I know that this is a very strange situation indeed.

  By the time I get to the narrow main street, my worries have been compounded by the fact that the place is so very quiet. Up ahead, I can see lights in the window of the public house, but I hear none of the raucous merry-making that is the usual signature of that place. I might usually find all that palaver to be a sign of weak-willed low living, but right now I rather think I would be glad of some noise. And as I reach the public house and look through the window, I see that inside there are only a few lonesome individuals sitting around. Nursing their beers, they seem utterly sullen and completely uninterested in talking to one another.

  I hesitate for a moment, knowing that I should simply keep going, but then I open the door to the public house and step inside. As I do so, the door's hinges creak loudly, immediately attracting attention from the few people gathered here inside. Faces turn and look at me, but they swiftly turn away again. Evidently the half-drunk pints of beer are of more interest.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” I say, already feeling as if it was a mistake to come in here. “I trust that all is well.”

  The man at the nearest table grumbles something under his breath, but I do not catch the words and I do not – in the circumstances – feel that much would be gained by asking what he said.

  “It's a fair evening out there,” I continue, hoping to perhaps strike up a pleasant conversation with somebody. With anybody, really. “A little chilly when the breeze picks up, but otherwise quite fair indeed. Especially when one walks into town, and when one is able to marvel at the high tree-tops of the forest.”

  I wait.

  Nobody says anything.

  “Well, absolutely,” I add finally. “Just an observation, that's all.”

  Again I wait.

  Again, nobody even looks up at me.

  I am about to turn and leave, when I see that Mr. Hendricks is one of the few souls in here. Sitting near the unlit fireplace, he is taking a sip of beer, so I make my way over to him. He is the closest thing to a friendly face right now.

  “Good evening,” I say. “Please, forgive the intrusion, but I cannot help but notice that -”

  “There was an accident out at the airbase,” he replies dourly.

  I feel a flicker of fear in my chest.

  “A young lad, only nineteen or so,” he continues. “He wasn't part of the flying crews, as such. He worked on the ground, refueling and the like.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Something to do with the fuel catching light,” he says. “He wasn't a lad from round here, he was shipped in to work on the base like most of the others, but people round here still take it hard when anything bad goes on. It was yesterday afternoon it took place, and since then nobody's felt much like getting on with things. It'll pass, but for now just let people be.”

  “I am so dreadfully sorry,” I reply, as I set my suitcases down and take a seat. “Is the boy -”

  “Last I heard is he was still hanging on,” Hendricks continues, “but that was about lunchtime. From what they were saying about his injuries, I can't imagine it's still the case. Poor lad was covered from head to toe in flames, they said.” At this, he makes the sign of the cross against his chest, and then he takes another sip of beer. “I'll tell you, Father. I can't get it out of my head. I keep imagining what it must have been like out there for him, even though I don't want to know. I prayed for him this afternoon, truly I did, but at times like this you start to wonder...”

  He looks down at his hands, as if he's wondering what use a prayer can be in these troubled times.

  “The Lord will look after the boy,” I tell him.

  “Will he?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why couldn't he have looked after him before this happened?”

  “He moves in -”

  “Aye, I've heard that before. Mysterious ways.”

  At this, he rolls his eyes.

  “But it's true,” I continue. “The Lord has a plan for us all, and it is not always for us to know that plan until we reach his kingdom.”

  Hendricks opens his mouth, as if to argue with me, and for a moment I wait anxiously. Truth be told, I think I am at the limit of my calming words, and if challenged again I might have no answers. Fortunately, after a few seconds Hendricks takes another sip of beer and falls quiet, and I realize with a sense of relief that the moment has passed. He pauses, then he takes another sip, and then he glances at me again. Words seem, at least for now, to have failed him entirely, until suddenly he says something I had not been expecting:

  “Can I buy you a pint, Father?”

  “A pint?” I stare at him. “Of beer?”

  “Well, you can have water if you really want, but I was thinking beer, yes.”

  “I...”

  For a moment, I consider accepting this remarkable offer, if only to make a little connection with this man. Quickly, however, I realize that I can never do such a thing.

  “It's okay,” he says, as if he's anticipated my quandary, “I understand. Just a friendly suggestion, that's all. I thought you might want to actually get to know the people of Briarwych a little.”

  “I think I should go out to the airbase,” I tell him, “and see what I can do.”

  “I wouldn't bother until morning, Father. The lad'll be dead.”

  “But there will be others,” I point out. “Men who witnessed what happened. I shall go and see what I can do.”

  He pauses, before nodding.

  “That'd be mighty good of you, Father,” he admits finally, before taking another sip of beer. “I'm sure there's some comfort you can offer them. Maybe you'll finally be useful round these parts.”

  ***

  Stepping into the church, I set my suitcases down and then go over to the office, from which I retrieve my bicycle. Already, night has begun to well and truly fall outside, but I know I simply must make the journey out to the airbase. As I turn my cycle toward the church's door, however, I am suddenly stopped by an overwhelming sense that I am not alone.

  Standing in near-darkness, I tur
n and look along the corridor, and then I turn again and this time my gaze falls upon the distant altar. I know I should not indulge these foolish notions, especially so soon after listening to the mad ravings of that Francis Townley fellow in London, but for a few seconds I feel absolutely certain that there is somebody very close to me. I keep my eyes fixed upon the altar, convinced that at any moment I shall spot a hint of movement. A moment later, I hear a very faint, very distant rustling sound.

  Or do I?

  As soon as the sound has stopped, I am doubting it was ever there at all. I thought, just for a moment, that I heard the sound of fabric rustling, perhaps the creases of a skirt touching as a lady moved. There is quite clearly nobody here, yet this fear compels me to keep looking until finally I remind myself that time is of the essence.

  Turning, I wheel my bicycle out of the church and then out of the gate, and then I mount the saddle and set off on the long, dark journey out to the RAF airbase. Lord knows what horror awaits me there.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “It's good of you to come out so late at night, Father,” Corporal Bolton says as he leads me across the dark tarmac, toward the unlit building up ahead. “We'd heard you wouldn't be returning until tomorrow, or even the day after.”

  “I am so sorry that I was not here when the accident happened,” I tell him. “I'm afraid I was in London, attending to some business.”

  “He was right, the poor lad,” Bolton says, pushing the door open and turning to me. “He told us all you'd be back before he died.”

  “Before...”

  I hesitate for a moment, as the meaning of those words sinks in.

  “Do you mean to say,” I continue finally, “that the victim is still alive?”

  “If you can call it that,” Bolton replies, with a hint of fear in his eyes. “He told us all he'd last until he got to speak to a priest. None of us believed him, but here you are. Looks like he was right all along.” He pauses. “He was so certain, Father. So insistent. Quite remarkable, really, that he managed to cling to life for even this long.”