Cenwick Priory

Halloween is on the approach! Always a time for fun, mystery and imagination. In honour of the Eve of All Hallows I thought I’d try my hand at a ghost story. I’m reading an exerpt from it at tonight’s ‘Spotlight’ open mic night. The full story is published below. Enjoy…if you dare! Mwahaha

Graves“…we haven’t got long to wait,” Matt’s dad said, peering through his binoculars. “Another twenty minutes or so, I reckon…what are you doing now?”

Matthew snapped his gaze back and tried to slow his breathing. “Nothing Dad. It’s nothing.”

“I thought getting  away from home would help..”

Matt rubbed his eyes. “Honestly, Dad, I’m fine.”

His dad shifted in the folding chair so he could look directly at his son. In the half-light of the low, bloated moon his face turned into a mass of shifting holes and polished highlights, skull-like. Matt resisted looking away. “This is because of that stupid story from the pub, isn’t it? Honestly, Matt. This old ruin’s no more haunted than your bedroom back home.”

Matt didn’t move but his father held up a hand, skeletal in the darkness. “I know what you think you’ve been seeing, but they’re only dreams. You used to get them a lot when you were younger. It’s a shame they’ve come back, but not surprising with what’s happened.”

Matt shrugged his face further down into his scarf and swallowed the useless words that rose to his lips. He stared at the moon as it crawled across the sky, large, hollow craters of eye sockets fixed on him.

“Besides,” his dad continued, lifting his binoculars to the sky. “Even if such things existed, why on earth would Ben be haunting you? You were friends, remember?”

…all I remember is the look on his  face as I pushed him… Matt shook the thought away.

His dad was referring to his light-up watch. “Ok, be ready with the stopwatch and the camera. It’ll be any minute now…”

Matt looked sharply over his shoulder, but there was nothing there . Despite the chill, his palms were sweating. He stood up to disguise the shaking that had suddenly taken hold of his limbs.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m just going for a slash Dad. I’ll be back in a minute.” He staggered behind one of the great shoulders of stone that jutted from the hilltop like teeth. Huddling in the shadows to get away from the stare of the moon, he held his head in his hands and tried once again to slow his breathing. But even with his eyes closed, it was still there. Everyone said it was all in his mind. Even when he’d opened his eyes to see it bent over his bed, blurry face a mass of crumpled flesh and bone, inches from his own…it was all in his head…

Forcing his eyes open he tried to ignore the thing that wasn’t really there by looking at anything else.

The crooked finger of a ruined bell tower loomed on his left. It had been impressive when he’d seen it earlier in the watery winter sunshine, but now, in the frosty moonlight, shadows pooled in the cracked stonework and distorted the angles and height, making it look like it was leaning over him. The last time the bell was rung by the living, the landlord of The Old Bell had said, was to call for help that never came. The last holy man to serve at this place had been pushed to his death from the tower as he desperately rang the bell to summon the villagers to his aid. Matt had felt a shiver run through his flesh. Ben’s scream was suddenly loud again in his ears.

The bell is still heard sometimes, someone else had whispered. It was a call to judgement, a call to atone. The villagers had left the Catholic priest to his fate to appease the forces of the Reformation. The soldiers left Cenwick in peace but the priest is still waiting for the village to redeem itself.

Someone had asked what they were doing there this time of year. There had been an odd silence when they’d explained. The local area was a Dark Skies Park. Amateur astrologers like his dad flocked to the village all year round to observe and photograph the night skies from the top of Priory Hill. However, it was always quiet at this time if the year, his father had said. He assumed it was just too cold even for the most passionate. But this year on this night there was to be a lunar eclipse, and when the moon was passing closer to the earth than it had done in a generations. His father had thought it would be a welcome distraction.

If only leaving home meant leaving it behind. But night fell and the familiar cold was at his back . It didn’t need to whisper in his ear any more for Matt to know what it wanted to say. He stared  at the bell tower, refusing to focus on something cold and pale that was hovering at the corner of his vision.

His heart clutched in his chest as the low, deadened clang of a bell echoed out into the night. One, two…three times. A high, human voice called out with it, distorted and weak, like it was coming from far, far away. It dissolved into a sickening scream, clawing at his ears and his head and his heart for what seemed like forever until he was swamped by silence. The light started to dim. Even though his rational mind knew it must be the eclipse, his blood froze. Silence and darkness swallowed everything. He closed his eyes and ears against it, afraid of what might show itself. He wondered if this was what death was like….sight, sound and smell all leeched away until nothing remained.

A whole forever later he dared to crack an eye. The moonlight had started to return, bleaching the broken rock bones that were scattered around him. He got shakily to his feet. Nothing moved or made a noise.

“Dad?” he called. “Dad, are you there?”

He started to pick his way back to their chairs when something caught his eye. At first it looked like a fall of stones at the bottom of the bell tower. Then, as he passed closer, it looked more like crumpled linen. He edged closer and it took on the shape of a bent and broken body, awkwardly angled, pale as the moon and still. He choked back the bile that rose in his throat but something behind him wouldn’t let him step back. He found himself bending over the cracked and splintered thing, made even more hideous in the sickly light, only identifiable as something once human by the complete but bloody hands, stretched as if still trying to grab hold of something.

Control returned to his feet and he stumbled backwards, then ran back to his dad. Their chairs were there, illuminated in the moonlight. The torches, blankets and bags were all neatly piled where they’d put them. But his dad was nowhere to be seen. He opened his mouth to call but stopped as something got to its feet behind him.

He ran, calling out. No one answered. He raced blindly down the side of the hill, not daring to look back, hardly daring to look ahead, staggering and stumbling on the uneven ground. Trying to stop his ears, he ran down the path into the village. The Old Bell sat, well-lit and warm-looking, on the other side of the square, music and laughter spilling out its open door.

He paused to catch his breath but something was breathing, staggering, bleeding close behind him. He took off across the square, nearly tripping over the steps into the pub. He slammed the door and leaned against it. The same half-dozen people from earlier were scattered around the room, staring at him. Cold sweat pooled at the base of his back as he searched for his voice.

“Help,” he forced out.

“Easy lad,” the landlord said. “Calm down. Where’s your dad?”

“I don’t know,” he sputtered, glancing back at the door. “We were up at the ruins…I couldn’t find him after the eclipse…”

“Now slow down. He can’t have just disappeared. What exactly happened?”

He looked right into the landlord’s eyes. Everyone in the room was quiet. The music had stopped.

“I saw it…” Matt could hardly raise his voice above a choked whisper. “I heard him fall. I heard him get pushed…”

“Told you we shouldn’t have let them go up there tonight.”

“Quiet!” The landlord snapped at whoever had spoken. Knuckles were white around pint glasses. Matt thought he saw a pale shape beyond the glass of the window, one hand raised to knock, but he blinked and it was gone.

“You need to atone.” The voice wasn’t loud but it filled the silent room. A finger of chill crawled up Matt’s spine as he made out a sullen heavy-browed man sitting in the shadows, staring directly at him. “You must own up…all of you. There’s blood on your hands.”

“Out, William,” the landlord said. “You’ve been warned before. I won’t have this nonsense in my pub.”

The man left, his gaze locked on Matt, only breaking with the door closed behind him.

Matt’s hands were shaking. “Please,” Matt whispered again. “Help me find my dad.”

It’s didn’t look like the landlord was listening. He was looking out the window, face tight and pale . “Shut those curtains over,” he ordered and someone obeyed. Hushed conversation rose, many furtive glances being thrown toward the door and at Matt. The landlord laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Nothing’s happened to your father, ok? He’s probably wandered off and lost himself in the dark.”

“Can’t you help me find him? What if he’s hurt? We should search – ”

“No.” The landlord’s hand tightened. “No, I don’t think anyone will help you with that tonight.” He was staring at the curtained window. “Best sit tight until night blows over. Always best to stay back, sit trouble out, let things take their natural course.”

A foul taste rose in Matt’s mouth. The landlord moved away but he still felt like something was holding his shoulder. He shut his eyes tight, willing there to be only darkness behind his eyelids. But instead he saw it all again. Saw Ben on the roof, saw himself pushing, heard the scream that rose and fell and cut off. Over the whispers in the room he became aware of a tapping noise. Knuckles on glass. Nobody looked up, even when it got louder. Something pale was stood at his shoulder. He felt the chill on his neck. It bent down to look into his face and he shut his eyes tight.

“It was me, it was me, it was me.” It went round and round in his head. The smell of rain-slicked tarmac roof rose in his nostrils and the feel of the wind goosepimpled his skin. Ben was stood in front of him with that look on his face, that look he got when he knew he’d won.

“It wasn’t and accident…” He couldn’t tell if he spoke out loud or in his mind. He made his mouth move. “It was me…”

“The lad’s gone mad.”

“…shouldn’t have let them go up, not tonight.”

“It’s got the dad, it won’t bother us, surely?”

“It was me.” Matt tore his eyes open. It was dark in the pub. The lights had been turned down low. A chair had been dragged in front of the door but something was rapping on the wood. “It was me. It wasn’t an accident, it was me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He said it over and over. Everyone was staring but there was a fear in their eyes that was nothing to do with him. “I’m sorry. I did it. I killed him.” Vision blurring with hot tears, his words became thick. He swallowed hard. “I’ll go to the police, anything,” he didn’t even know who he was talking to but he was  facing the window. “I promise. I’ll tell everyone, I’ll admit it. Just please let Dad be safe…”

The tapping rose to a banging, an angry fist on the thick wood of the door. Matt moved towards it.

“No, lad. Get back. Don’t touch it!”

Someone moved to stop him but he flung himself across the room and threw open the door.

“Matt, there you are! Where the hell of you been?”

Matt flung himself into his father’s arms and cried into his shoulder like he had when he was a boy. “Now, now, son. Don’t be daft. What’s all this? I wasn’t that angry…”

“Get in here now and shut that door,” the landlord ordered, all but pulling them inside by their coats. He bolted the door again, pulled a chair in front of it and drew the blind across the little window set in the wood that perfectly framed a pale, hooded figure standing silently in the middle of the village square.

Everyone retreated back to near the fire. The landlord threw on another log, said they’d have to settle in comfy because he wasn’t opening any door until sunrise. There was no word spoken above a whisper for the rest of the night. There was occasional tapping on the glass of the windows and sometime past midnight a bell was heard tolling in the distance.

Everyone’s faces were grim but Matt felt like a tight band had loosened around his chest. His sight was clear and nothing hung at his back or at flitted at the corners of his vision. Warmth had returned to his bones. They sat in a quiet corner and he explained what had really happened to Ben. He dozed off toward morning, head cushioned on his arms on the table. He was able to sleep knowing that no matter what happened now, unlike Cenwick, nothing that should be buried would be returning to him again.

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9 Responses to Cenwick Priory

  1. D. James Fortescue says:

    Nice work with the suspense. If it was Ben, would he have stopped pursuing Matt after the confession?

  2. H. Ken Abell says:

    A lot of classic elements of suspense and horror here — the waiting and huddling in the bar while there’s a knocking at the window/door has The Monkey’s Paw written all over it. Well done.

    • jcollyer says:

      Thanks so much! This was another I did for fun around Halloween a few years ago. I think I may try another one this year 🙂 I am a fan of old-fashioned creepy, like Poe, Lovecraft, M. R. James and like that one of yours, The Last Story

  3. Pingback: The Witching Hour | The Path – J. Collyer's Writing Blog

  4. M. C. Dulac says:

    Agghhh! That was scary fun! I love the whole, ‘there’s nothing to be scared of but we’ll just shut those curtains anyway,’ when there’s ghouls all around!

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