by C. J. Tudor
Still, I should know from experience that things can always get worse.
I park outside the chapel, stomp up to the cottage and let myself in. I’m immediately seized by the quiet.
“Flo?”
No reply. I frown. She mentioned taking some photographs in the graveyard. I wonder if she’s still outside, around the back. I’m just about to go and look when I hear a creak from upstairs.
“Flo?”
I climb up the staircase. Her bedroom door is open. She isn’t in there. I try the bathroom door. Locked. I bang on it.
“Flo. Are you okay?”
No reply, but I can hear movement.
“Flo—talk to me.”
“Wait!” Urgent, annoyed.
I wait. After a few more seconds there’s the sound of the bolt being drawn across. I take this as my cue and gently push the door open.
“Quickly,” Flo hisses, and I immediately understand why.
A flattened cardboard box has been used to obscure the bathroom’s tiny window. Photographic equipment covers every available surface and most of the cracked-lino floor. The small room stinks of developing chemicals. Her battery-powered safelight is propped on top of the bathroom cabinet. The shower curtain has been shoved to one side and the rail is being used as a drying line. Wet photos are clipped to it with clothespins from the laundry basket. While I was out, Flo has turned the tiny bathroom into a makeshift darkroom.
I watch as she carefully takes a sheet of photographic paper out of the wash tray and hangs it on the shower rail.
“What are you doing, sweetheart?”
“What does it look like?”
“It looks like I’m out of luck if I need to pee.”
“I have to get this film developed.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No. I need to see the girl.”
“What girl?”
“The girl in the graveyard.” She adjusts a photograph on the clothespin and regards the row of black-and-white images.
She’s made the graveyard, with its higgledy-piggledy headstones, look hauntingly beautiful. But I can’t see a girl in any of the pictures.
“I don’t see anyone.”
“I know!” She turns in frustration. “But she was definitely there. She was on fire, and she had no head or arms.”
I blink at her. “I’m sorry?”
She tilts her chin at me defiantly. “I get how it sounds.”
“Right—”
“It sounds nuts, right?”
“I didn’t say that.” I pause. “You think you saw, what, some sort of ghost?”
A shrug. “I don’t know what she was. She looked real. Then she was gone.”
The shrug is too casual. She’s trying to keep it together and not sound hysterical, but I know my daughter. She’s scared. Whatever she saw, it’s shaken her.
“Okay,” I say gently. “Could there be another explanation?”
“I know what I saw, Mum. That’s why I tried to take some photos—I knew no one would believe me.”
“Well, what about a statue or some kind of—I don’t know—weird trick of the light?”
I’m grasping now. Flo folds her arms and narrows her eyes.
“It was a girl, on fire, without a head or arms. That’s some frigging trick of the light.” She turns and squints back at the photos. “But why hasn’t she shown up on film?”
“I’ve no idea.”
But Joan’s words suddenly come back to me.
The burning girls still haunt the chapel. If you see the burning girls, something bad will befall you.
I look around at the detritus littering the bathroom. “Look, why don’t we go downstairs and come back to this later?”
She huffs dramatically. “Okay. Fine. I’m done, anyway.”
She allows me to guide her out of the bathroom.
“Why were you so long?” she asks as we go downstairs.
“Parish visits.”
“Who were you visiting?”
“Simon Harper.”
“I thought you were supposed to be keeping your head down here?”
I feel a wince of guilt. “I am. Come on. I’ll make us a late lunch.”
“You’ve been shopping?”
Crap. With everything else, it totally slipped my mind. I am a terrible mum.
“I’m sorry, I forgot. Don’t suppose you fancy pizza, for a change?”
“Works for me.”
We walk into the living room. It’s only two o’clock, but the sky has clouded over and it feels gloomy and dark. Through the window I can just see the tips of headstones amid the overgrown grass. We stand and stare out at the graveyard.
“D’you think she could be one of the girls you told me about?” Flo asks. “The ones who were killed for being martyrs.”
I’m reluctant to feed this fixation but, on the other hand, she saw something: “Some villagers believe the girls haunt the chapel—but that’s just folklore.”
“But it’s possible?”
I sigh. “It’s possible.”
She loops an arm around my waist and leans her head against my shoulder. She’ll be too tall to do this soon, I think sadly. Dear God, I know she has to grow up, but does it have to be yet? Can’t I hold on to her, protect her, just a little bit longer?
“Mum?”
“Yes.”
“Is it better or worse that we both now believe that a burning, headless and armless girl is haunting the graveyard?”
I squeeze her shoulders, trying to batten down my disquiet. “Let’s not dwell on that.”
* * *
—
I do dwell on it, of course. More so than Flo, who is now snoring away heavily in her room, lanky teenage limbs tangled in her Nightmare Before Christmas duvet.
We cleaned up the makeshift darkroom. I told her I would investigate the cellar as an alternative tomorrow. The outhouse is no good, apparently. No electricity, not light-proof.
In the evening we microwave leftover pizza and potato wedges and watch old comedy DVDs. Black Books. Father Ted. I follow Flo up to bed at just past midnight.
As always, before I settle down under the covers, I sit, cross-legged, and I pray. I’m not sure if God hears me. In a way, I hope he’s got better things to do than listen to my ramblings. But I get comfort from our nightly chats. They’re an outlet for my fears, my worries and my joys. They calm my soul and clear my mind. They remind me who I am and why I became a priest.
Tonight, I struggle. I can’t seem to find the words. My head feels muddy and disorganized. As if coming here has shaken loose all the bits that I normally keep carefully in place and I don’t know where anything is anymore.
I mumble some perfunctory “thank yous” and praise then turn off my light and lie on my side. But, predictably, I can’t sleep. It’s too hot and stuffy in the small room. And I’ve never been a good sleeper. I don’t like the dark. I don’t like the silence. Mostly, I don’t like time alone with my thoughts. All the prayers in my repertoire cannot quite stop the things that prey upon my mind from crawling out of their dark corners, looking to feast.
I stare up at the lumpy ceiling, willing my eyelids to droop, for sleep to start to pull me down into oblivion, but my mind stubbornly resists.
She was on fire, and she had no head or arms.
If you see the burning girls, something bad will befall you.
Folklore, urban legend. Rubbish. But I still feel a wedge of discomfort sit heavily in my stomach.
Flo isn’t prone to flights of fancy. She is pragmatic, sensible, reasoned. She wouldn’t make something like this up. So, what’s the alternative? Some kind of apparition?
As a vicar, I believe in a continued existence after death. But ghosts? Physical entities that remain tied t
o this earth, seeking revenge or resolution? No. I’ve never seen anything that could convince me of that. More to the point, I don’t want to see anything to convince me of that. I would rather keep those that haunt me metaphorical, rather than physical.
I sit up, flick on the bedside light and swing my legs out of bed. The wooden floor feels cold and rough beneath my feet. Rugs, I think, mentally adding another expense to the list of “things to make the cottage vaguely comfortable.”
I shove my feet into my threadbare slippers and pad out on to the landing. I switch on the hall light and make my way downstairs.
In the kitchen, I yank open a drawer and fumble under the tea towel for my rolling tin and papers. My fingers scrabble around but come up empty. I curse under my breath. Flo.
Fortunately, I have a contingency plan. I duck into the living room. Most of my books are still in boxes, but I’ve taken a few out to stick on the battered bookcase, including a thick leather-bound Bible. It looks like a church relic, but I actually picked it up from a rummage sale. Instead of containing the word of God, it’s hollow. A good hiding place for a flask, if you are so inclined or, in my case, a spare rolling tin, a packet of Rizlas and a lighter.
I walk back into the kitchen, roll a cigarette and open the door. The night air is heavy and thick with the familiar cloying smells of evening primrose, moonflower and jasmine. Night flowers. I remember the scent drifting through my bedroom window when I was a child.
I draw hard on the cigarette, banishing the memory, sucking in the nicotine, but it’s doing little to soften the sharp edges of my anxiety. I’m too aware of the quiet, the dark, my clamoring thoughts.
The dark here is different than the city. There, it’s softened by streetlights, the glow from shops, passing cars. This is true dark. The dark we lived with before fire and electricity. Hungry dark, full of hidden eyes. Here lies evil, I think, and then wonder where that came from. My brain is really going overboard tonight.
I raise the cigarette to my lips…and pause. There’s a light in the chapel.
What the—
It flickers from an upper window. Could it be a reflection of car headlights? No, this window faces the cottage, not the road. And there it is again. A small light bobbing about upstairs. A faulty bulb? Dodgy wiring? Or an intruder?
I stare at the light, torn. Then I stub out my cigarette, walk back into the cottage and open the cupboard under the sink. I remember seeing a flashlight in here yesterday. Chances are, it’s out of batteries, but there’s no way I’m going out there in the pitch black with just my phone light. I switch on the flashlight. A sturdy beam of light shoots out.
I grab my keys and walk along the narrow path from the cottage to the chapel, flashlight trained in front of me. A small inner voice tuts that this is exactly the sort of thing people in horror films do. Stupid people who inevitably die in gruesome ways before the titles kick in. I try to ignore that voice.
I reach the door to the chapel. I locked it last night. I remember twisting the heavy key. It had stuck, and I’d had to lean on it with all my weight to get it to turn.
Now, the door is ajar.
I hesitate, then push it open further. I step inside. The flashlight illuminates a small triangular section of the church. Darkness presses in on either side. Where are the light switches? I swivel to my right and feel around. And now the darkness is behind me. Where are the bloody switches? My fingers brush plastic.
The lights hum and stutter into life. The bulbs are dim and jaundiced, coated in dust and cobwebs. They don’t do an awful lot to alleviate the gloom. The church looks empty. But that’s the problem with churches. They’re full of nooks and crannies where you can crouch and hide.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
No reply, surprisingly. I grip the flashlight tighter. It’s sturdy enough to make a half-decent weapon. In my other hand, I hold the hefty key. I wedge it between my fingers, sharp edge poking out. Just like I used to do in the city at night.
I spotted the light upstairs, so I climb the steps at the side of the chapel to the upper balcony. It’s even darker up here. Only two lights provide illumination. And there’s that strange smell again. Smoky, charred. I swing the flashlight around. Nothing but the rows of wooden pews. I move along them, poking the flashlight into the dark areas in between. But no one is hiding.
At the far end of the balcony, there’s a small, narrow door. A storeroom, I guess. I walk forward, clutching the key, flashlight held out in front of me. I reach the door and yank it wide open. A pile of pew cushions topples out.
I leap back, heart jumping. And then I allow myself a chuckle of relief. Just pew cushions, Michael.
I peer back into the cupboard. It’s tiny, jammed with more cushions and prayer books; no room for anyone to hide in there. I bend and pick up the cushions, realizing now that they are blackened and scorched, like they’ve been set alight. Odd, but it might explain the smoky smell. I shove them back inside and shut the door. As I do, I hear a noise from below me. A creak, like the chapel door opening. My heart catapults into my mouth. I scurry back along the pews and down the steps, being careful not to twist my ankle.
At the bottom, I swing the flashlight around the nave. I can’t see anyone. I pause and swing it back, toward the altar. The reading lamp is on. I’m sure it wasn’t before.
I walk down the aisle toward it. There’s something on top of the altar. A Bible. Small and blue. The type given to children at Sunday School. It’s been left open and a passage highlighted: 2 Corinthians 11:13–15.
For such are false apostles, deceitful workers, transforming themselves into apostles of Christ. And no wonder! For Satan himself transforms himself into an angel of light. Therefore, it is no great thing if his ministers also transform themselves into ministers of righteousness, whose end will be according to their works.
I stare at the words, feeling a coldness wash over me. And then I pick up the Bible. One corner is blackened, as if by a flame. I flick back to the very first page. When I attended Sunday School, we were made to write our names on the inside cover of our Bible. And sure enough, there’s a name. Written in blue ink, now almost entirely faded away. I trace my fingers over the ghostly letters:
Merry J. L.
* * *
They lay in the long grass behind the house. Hidden in the swaying fronds. Bible study was finished. They had a few moments to themselves before they had to head home.
Merry fumbled in her jeans and pulled out a crumpled cigarette and a Bic lighter. “Want to share?”
“I can’t. The reverend is coming around for tea.”
“Why?”
“Mum wants me to take extra Bible lessons.”
“Extra? With old Fudface?”
“No. The new one. Have you seen him?”
Merry shrugged. “Yeah.”
“He looks a bit like Christian Slater.”
“Still a God-botherer.”
“You shouldn’t say that.”
“Why?”
“God might hear you.”
“There is no God.”
“D’you want to go to hell?”
“You sound like my mum.”
Joy leaned over and gently touched the bruise around her friend’s eye.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes. Get off.”
“Do you hate her?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I wish she was dead. Mostly, I just wish she was different.”
They lay in silence for a while. Then Joy stood. “I have to go. I’ll call you later?”
“Okay.”
Merry sat up and watched her friend skip off through the grass. She glanced back at the house. She could hear her mum screaming inside. She picked up the Bible and lighter. She held the flame near the corner, watching the leather blacken. Then, before it could catch, she threw the Bible ba
ck on to the grass, lay down and lit the cigarette.
I don’t care if I go to hell, she thought. It can’t be worse than this.
I fasten my shirt and adjust the white collar. I smooth my vestment. Then I walk from the vestibule and up to the altar. I stare out at the congregation. The worshippers sit, bent forward, heads bowed, faces in shadow.
“Welcome,” I say, and one by one the figures raise their heads toward me.
I see my husband, Jonathon, first. Smiling. Always smiling. Even on his worst days. Even now, when his head is caved in on one side, hair matted with blood and brain matter. Next to him is Ruby. Of course. She stares up accusingly. Her face is bruised and swollen from where they beat her with their fists, boots and her own wooden toys. She holds a stuffed bunny. The one I found her with. She loved that bunny, except, as I watch, I realize that it’s a real rabbit she’s clutching. Eyes never leaving mine, she bends her head and bites a chunk from one of its ears.
I step back, heart thudding, and something brushes the top of my head. I look up. Reverend Fletcher hangs from the balcony above me, feet twitching in a macabre death dance.
“If you see the burning girls,” he gasps between cracked and blackened lips, “something bad will befall you.”
I bite back a scream. More faces peer up at me from the pews. Some, I recognize. Some, I barely remember. Two figures rise and begin to shuffle down the center of the aisle toward me. Halfway, they burst into flames. But still they keep coming.
I stumble backward. A cold hand falls on my shoulder. I understand my mistake. I smell his rancid breath and hear a voice…
“Mum. MUM!”
I flail, breaking the waters of sleep like a drowning woman breaking the surface of a dark and fetid lake.
“Mum. Wake up!”
I tear my eyes open and focus blearily on Flo, who is holding my shoulders and looking worried and angry.
“Jesus, you scared me.”
“I…I—”
“You were having some kind of nightmare.”
A dream. Just a dream. Awareness creeps in. I’m curled on the sofa, in clothes that stink of sweat and cigarette smoke. I swing my legs around to get into a sitting position. Daylight is edging in through the curtains.
