Joe had been driving around aimlessly for an hour in the rain and just wanted to get out of the car and stretch his legs for a while. But where to stop and what to do when he did? He’d seen quite a few pubs, all lit up and festively welcoming and every one of them probably an exact clone of one original Authentic English Pub designed by somebody called Jason who lives in a converted windmill in Cheshire with his partner Tristessa and their two Shiatsu’s Yin and Yang….
“Calm down!” he snapped at himself, “calm right down, find somewhere to park up and chill out.”
The lane he was driving down was too narrow to just stop in. There was no other traffic but there were also no lay-bys and if he did stop now, dozens of cars would probably appear out of nowhere. At least it had stopped raining. He’d always hated it when there was rain over Christmas. It just seemed wrong. But of course, it hardly ever snowed at Christmas – another lie – it was stuff your face spend a fortune get into a fight over the last bubble bath in the shop Happy Holidays…there was a church just up ahead – square tower and old looking.
He checked his mirror and then turned in through the open gate and into the empty car park. It was edged with dry stone walls and beyond that, there was nothing but fields and the beginnings of woodland.
He switched off the engine and got out of the car. It was cold but not unpleasantly so. What was that line out of A Christmas Carol? Piping for the blood to dance to; beautiful metaphor. He breathed in deeply and felt his head clearing.
There were lights on in the church showing gold against the growing twilight. He glanced at his watch – four o’clock – and decided, on a whim, to have a look inside. It was better than standing outside in a carpark freezing. He hadn’t set foot in a church since his Dad’s funeral.
A picture, unbidden but startlingly vivid of his Dad lying in a coffin holding a single long-stemmed rose and looking like he was about to open his eyes and ask if there was any chance of a brew came into his mind.
He felt the world tilt and had the sensation of sliding slowly sideways. That settled it. He buttoned up his coat against the sudden cold gust that danced through him, went in through the lych gate and up the short path past tilting gravestones – they’re always tilting – lifted the latch, pushed open the heavy oak door and walked in.
A man and woman, both in their sixties he’d guess, were sorting out piles of hymn books on a table right next to the door. The man glanced up. “Welcome to St. Brigids,” he said smiling.
Joe managed a smile back. He was hoping the place would be empty. Make an effort, he thought and said, “Lovely church you have here.”
“We like it,” the man replied extending his hand. “Graham Duckworth. I’m the Vicar here.
Joe shook the proffered hand, “Joe Sweeney.”
The Vicar waved in the direction of the woman still stacking hymn books. “This is my wife, Marjorie.”
Joe nodded towards the woman and even managed another smile. Oh god no! Not the bloody Vicar and Mrs. bloody Vicar to boot. They’ll probably try and tap me for a donation to the roof fund or something…
The Vicar’s wife finished sorting the last of the hymnals. “Sweeney: that’s an Irish name isn’t it?”
Joe sensed no hostility in her voice so smiled again; only this time there was nothing forced about it. “Yes, it is,” he said. “My Dad always used to tell me we were named after Kings.”
Marjorie turned to her husband. “Isn’t there a story about him?”
The Vicar thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe there is. He went mad with grief after a battle so made himself a pair of wings and flew off into the woods where he lived in the trees.” He paused, “I’m sorry; I expect you already know this one.”
“No,” said Joe, “no I don’t.”
The Vicar looked puzzled, “Hasn’t your Dad ever told…”
“My Dad’s dead!” Joe vehemence echoed back at him from all round the church. Good manners demanded an immediate apology. “I’m sorry,” he began, “it was only a couple of weeks ago and I’m still a bit raw.”
There was an awkward silence and Joe was about to say a quick goodbye and leave when the Vicar and his wife exchanged a glance. In the few seconds it lasted an entire unspoken conversation took place. “Perhaps you’d like to be left alone with your thoughts for a while,” said the Vicar. His voice was soft and sympathetic; like his Dad’s could be.
Joe nodded, “Is that alright?
The Vicar’s wife pointed to a row of switches on the wall, “Would you mind turning off the lights before you leave? Oh, and make sure you’re out by five o’clock. That’s when the caretaker locks up.”
“Thanks,” he said, “I will be.”
As the door closed behind them, Joe turned and walked slowly up the central aisle. His footsteps echoed and he had a strange urge to try and walk quietly. He glanced up at the stained-glass windows. Saint George, an assortment of apostles and Jesus as the Good Shepherd. The high altar was carpeted in red and there was a brass lectern in the shape of an eagle supporting a bible on its outstretched wings. A tall Christmas Tree at least twice Joe’s height stood just to one side of the altar and next to that, there was a Nativity: Joseph, Mary, one cow, one donkey, one sheep, no shepherds and an empty crib. A votive candle, unlit, stood at the front. It’ll be lit midnight on Christmas Eve…
He had a sudden flashback and he was maybe four or five. It’s Christmas and he’s standing looking up at the crib in church. He can’t see it very well so Dad lifts him up…
He heard the church door open and close and turned round to look back down the aisle. He was half expecting to see the Vicar come back to pray with you but there didn’t seem to be anyone there. There were pillars blocking his eye line so there might be someone behind one of those.
Thomas Caryngton, MA, Vicar of St. Brigids, enters his church, locks the door again behind him and looks around. It’s cold and dark but he barely notices the chill and doesn’t bother to light the candle Mr. Adams, the Verger, has left on the table next to the hymnals. He prefers the dark as it reflects perfectly the dark night of his soul – if indeed I possess such a thing, he muses – just as the empty church reflects the emptiness in his heart.
“Hello,” Joe called out. “Is that the caretaker?” His voice echoed back but other than that, there was no reply. But there was somebody there; had to be. Probably some deaf old sod of a caretaker who’s forgotten to turn his hearing aid on. His Dad was always…no, don’t think about that! “Hello,” he called again only this time much louder.
Caryngton pauses. Was that a voice in the distance?
Joe felt the adrenalin beginning to pump. His legs suddenly felt weak and the hairs in his beard and on the back of his neck tingled sharply. Somebody playing silly buggers because…well because there was no other explanation. He didn’t believe in ghosts anymore or God or everlasting life. That was all just so much wishful thinking.
“Hello,” he called again and this time, when there was still no reply, set off back down the aisle. Halfway down he felt an icy chill pass through him. Someone’s walking over my grave!
There are deep shadows everywhere that are spreading and linking like an incoming tide. Caryngton can see no-one and yet, instinct tells him he’s not alone. He dismisses the thought. He no more believes in ghosts than he does in mermaids. He’s no longer even sure he still believes in God. There’s no love in me, he thinks to himself. When I stand on that altar week in, week out spouting my homily, I’m just a sounding brass.
He sets off up the aisle towards the altar. Hallway there he shudders with sudden cold and in his mind’s eye, catches a fleeting glimpse of a man with long hair and a beard. The man’s face is drawn and pale, his eyes moist and sad. The picture is so sharp and clear, he gasps in shock and is suddenly brimming over with the most terrible grief. He sways and grips the end of one of the benches for support.
Joe decided to leave. It was getting dark; the church was creepy and …what was it Dad used to say? Just because you don’t believe in ghosts doesn’t mean they’re not there.
But when he got the door, it wouldn’t open. It’s locked! It must have been the bloody caretaker after all. What to do now? He didn’t have a mobile so couldn’t ring the police for help. He could hardly smash a window. They were stained glass and knowing his luck, probably put in when the damn place was first built. He kicked the door with sheer frustration and the bang echoed and re-echoed round the church.
There’s a distant clap of thunder and Caryngton’s heart leaps in his chest.
All the lights suddenly went out. Joe ran over to the bank of switches and began flicking them up and down. Nothing, so the power must be on a time switch or something. He stood still and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He could have closed them for a minute to speed things up a bit…but felt disinclined.
A thought suddenly occurred: Candles! This is a church so there’ll be candles. He felt in his jacket pocket. Tobacco tin, papers and yes, thank God, his lighter. And not just any old lighter – this one had a built-in torch. It only gave off a small beam but it would be enough.
He clicked it on and shone it round the church. Nothing this end but there must be candles on the altar. Focussing the beam on the floor just ahead, he began walking slowly back up the aisle.
Carryngton sees a light at the back of the church. It hovers by the door and then begins moving slowly up the aisle towards him. He turns and runs, so terrified, he can no longer think. It is only when he reaches the altar that he stops himself with the thought, I’m a priest. This is a church. I’m safe no matter what I may see or hear.
Joe paused. He heard the sound of running just up ahead. “Hello,” he called again. “Is there anybody there?”
He flashed the torch beam around but as far as he could see, the place was still empty. Imagination, he thought to himself though he was no longer convinced; either that or the ghost of some choirboy trying to get away from some pervy vicar.
The light pauses for a moment and Caryngton does the only logical thing he can think of. He gets down on his knees and begins to pray.
Joe kept walking but now he could hear whispering and hesitated. He couldn’t make out any words but he recognised the rhythm of prayer when he heard it. Sounds can’t hurt you, he thought, and just up ahead are two rows of candles on the altar. There were in tall brass candlesticks but he was sure he’d be able to lift them down and get them lit.
He flashed his torch towards the Nativity and the votive candle. That would do to begin with and besides which, the whispering had stopped as suddenly as it had started.
“One-two-three go!” he muttered firmly to himself then ran over to the votive candle and lit it. As its warm red glow spread out all around him, startled shadows ran for cover.
Carygton watches as the light suddenly rushes past him and stops before the Nativity. The votive candle ignites and he is overwhelmed by a sense of peace. His vision becomes blurred and the tears well up like the stream Moses drew from the rock when he struck it with his staff.
I am that rock, he thinks, an unfeeling lump of stone in the middle of the arid desert of my lack of faith…and now Almighty God, the loving and merciful, has given me a sign.
And then he weeps and it is as if every pain he’d ever endured, every loss, every hurt he’s ever felt is being purged from him.
Joe could hear the sound of sobbing, fierce and desperate. He looked around and there, just at the foot of the altar steps, was a shadow…but when he shone the torch beam full on it, there was no sudden disappearing act. It stayed exactly where it was, its outline familiar and he could see now that it was quivering. It was a man, dressed in black- so maybe in mourning– down on his knees, bent double and sobbing. Not a ghost then, he thought, just a man. But when he reached out and tried to touch the man on his shoulder, his fingertips met cold empty air.
Caryngton feels a gentle cooling touch on his shoulder and looks up. He is dazzled by light and raises one hand to cover his eyes. He hears a faint whisper. “Sorry,” it seems to say.
Caryngton presses his palms together. “Yes Lord,” he says. “I am sorry, truly sorry.” and then bows his head in reverence.
The shadow unbent and Joe could see a man who covered his eyes with one hand. Instinctively, he turned off his torch. “Sorry,” he said and then realised he was apparently apologising to a ghost.
The man’s lips began to move but his words were blurred and all Joe could make out, mainly by lip reading was I am sorry, truly sorry.
Joe’s fear was gone. It had slipped away and been replaced by an odd kind of exhilaration. It’s aware of me. It’s not an echo from the past or a trick of the light. It’s a ghost and it’s got sentience…or I’m going crazy. There’s always that possibility I suppose.
He suddenly had a vivid memory of his Grandad sitting in an armchair and saying, “Ghosts can’t hurt you, Joe.”
“But they scare me Grandad,” he’d said.
His Grandad had smiled, “No more than you probably scare them. Sure, half the time they don’t even know they’re dead. They’d probably think you were a ghost. At least, that’s how they’d see you.”
“But supposing I see one?” he’d persisted. “What’ll I do then?”
Grandad had sat back in the chair, pressed his fingertips together and said patiently, “Ask it what it wants.”
Joe looked down at the ghost. “What do you want?”
The ghost looked back up at him. “Forgiveness,” it said – and now Joe could make out the words clearly – then bowed its head.
Joe couldn’t believe he was actually doing this, “Forgiveness for what?”
The ghost looked up again, “For not believing in you.”
It thinks I’m a ghost, he thought then corrected himself. No, he thinks I’m a ghost. What was it Father Kelley used to say when he was blessing the coffin at a funeral? Be at peace.
“What do you want?” Caryngton can hear the voice clearly and in it, he hears sympathy. He dares himself to look up and sees the face of a bearded man, thin and with hair curling at his shoulders “Forgiveness,” he dares himself to say then bows his head again.
“Forgiveness for what?”
He looks up again, “For not believing in you.”
“Be at peace,” Joe said and with the edge of his hand made the sign of the cross in the air above the man’s face. As he finished all the lights in the church came back on again and as the church door swung open, the ghost faded from translucent to transparent to gone.
“Be at peace,” his saviour said – for Carryngton knew it He – and blessed him. But before he could respond, there was blaze of light that filled the whole church, dazzling him. And that faded too and was gone. When his vision cleared, his Lord was gone.
Gone from my sight, he thought, but not from my heart.
Joe walked over to the votive candle at the front of the Nativity and blew it out before setting off quickly down the aisle. His heart was dancing in his chest and blood thundered in his ears. He felt like someone who’s just woken up from a nightmare and being elated to find it was only a dream after all. And it was all true: there really is both magic and mercy in this world.
He’d expected to find an apologetic caretaker at the back of the church. But no-one came in and when he looked outside, the car park was empty. He looked back round the church one last time then flicked off the bank of switches to turn out the lights and left, closing the door firmly behind him.
Reverend Carrygton gets up from his knees and looks around his church in time to see the votive light before their crib, snuff out. He knows his vision has ended. He kneels down, offers a prayer of thanks and leaves, re-locking the church behind him. Calmer now, he walks quickly home across fields silvered and shadowed by the rising moon: at one point he pauses, breathing in deeply, slowly exhaling, he smells a promise of snow on the air. Life is good and as he walks on towards the vicarage, he begins whistling an old song from his childhood.