“We should have the grounds blessed by a proper priest or minister.” I had interjected, excited with the concept, saying, “And recreate the pentacle of protection with the statues around the place, just like the original mausoleum design at the old Duff Glenn.”
“And so, you become Sir Reginald and I’m his faithful doctor friend, as history repeats itself--,” He stared blankly, “Again and again….”
“I often wonder if it’s just history—or just the same people returning, and doing what comes naturally to them?” The thought had occurred to me on numerous occasions, “Have you ever considered that, maybe the reason we identify with certain individuals and places so closely is because we have already existed as them and lived there before?”
“Let’s just hope that the outcome is better this time and not like it ended for them.” He shuddered at the thought, “Because, if there’s any truth to that theory, I’d hate to have to go through this nightmare repeatedly and until the end of time….”
“Only time will tell, my friend--,” I stared out into the dark heavens as the flurries began, “And the answers to that question will come soon enough….”
We had been informed that town had been less than ten miles in distance, but in the deep snow and along the old and winding road it had seemed so much farther. The fields were vast and wide, as blanketed in snow, they appeared to touch the dark heavens in the distance. The farms were few and far between and we had not seen a single living soul the entire time.
When we finally reached town, the scene had been very much the same. As was customary during all of our investigations, we slowly drove through the little community while familiarizing ourselves with the place. Consisting of a main street filled with stores and little shops, the town appeared to have all necessities and even a few luxuries. There was a large grocery, library, post office, sporting-goods shop and little theater. I couldn’t help but smile when I saw the films they now played. One had been “American Graffiti” and the other “The Sting.” I had seen them both with Caitlin just a few weeks prior and was certain that they were both destined to become true classics.
There was a large park area, school and town hall, and as we neared the street’s end, we discovered a little fire department and mayor’s office. There were a great number of homes extending beyond into the distance and from off side-streets, the community having been far larger and better established than we had earlier presumed.
There was a town tavern called “The Windjammer”, hotel and bar, a local diner and even a Chinese buffet, but not a single soul wandered the snow-covered walks. We had expected to see someone shoveling, or at least attempting to clear a path for pedestrians and customers. But the place was absolutely devoid of people, or evidence that anyone had even lived there.
“It’s like a ghost town--,” Rich slowly pulled in before the town church, “I wonder if father Delaney will even be here?”
I had motioned with a wave to the path before the little church, “Well, someone seems to have shoveled the walks here, so I would assume so.” Drawing the camera from the case that hung about my neck, I snapped several pictures of the old church for posterity’s sake.
We had hesitantly climbed back out and dropped into that deep snow. Quickly making our way from the street to the shoveled walk, we shivered while hurrying down the stone path. It seemed even colder than before as we trudged up to the church doors, relieved to have found them unlocked. Stomping the snow from ourselves, we paused in the doorway, curiously looking about the empty hall. It was rather large in appearance for a little community church. Having obviously been built in the early 1900’s, it was a simple structure consisting of a single building, steeple and residence to the rear.
From the main entrance and coat room you had to make passage through a second set of oak-carved, panelled doors. From there, you could plainly see straight down the aisle and past the rows of pews and to the pulpit where the minister would deliver his sermons. An enormous, illuminated, wooden cross hung directly behind that and the entire room was surrounded in beautiful, stained-glass windows.
The lower portions of the walls were panelled in finely polished wood. From high above in the rafters could be seen the wooden figures of angels and the Saints, silently bowed. There was a beautifully carved organ, which was resting above the pulpit on a landing, the pipes of which, extending upward and into a golden and shimmering array, resembled heavenly beams and were lit with golden lamps, facing down from just above.
“It’s absolutely beautiful. And the first time that I’ve felt comfortable anywhere in town.” Rich sighed with certain relief.
“That was very kind of you to say. Welcome to Saint Benedict, friends.” We were startled by an elderly gentleman, who came from out of nowhere, extending a hand in greeting, as he politely smiled, “I’m father William Delaney, and how might I help you gentlemen today?”
He was white-haired, blue-eyed and soft-spoken and had a manner which made us both comfortable with the man almost immediately.
“I certainly hope so, father--,” We had introduced ourselves and shook hands, “We just had a few questions about your parish and needed some help with a Latin translation. Might I take a picture of you and this beautiful church, for antiquities’ sake?”
“I would be honored--,” He beamed, and posing before the aisle with clasped hands, smiled.
Snapping several images of the kindly old fellow, I paused in admiration as the sun had suddenly peeked through, lighting the stained glass windows behind him and creating a glowing veil that cast a barely visible, golden halo. I had caught these pictures before the moment had passed, the darkness returning as the sun faded, drawing a cloak of deep and trailing shadow once again.
“I hope that you don’t mind if I ask--,” Rich had looked to the elderly man, “Why is this church so extravagant and so beautifully done?”
To this the old priest had simply turned, proudly looking about, and replied, “Unlike many little community churches, ours was established and funded entirely by the ministry rather than at the community’s cost. Midvale may appear rather small, but taking into account the many number of distant farms and hamlets, is surprisingly quite large.”
“Saint Benedict--,” I thought briefly and then looked to the old priest, “Wasn’t he the patron Saint of exorcism?”
“He is the patron Saint of many causes--,” Father Delaney politely explained, “And is especially known for his intercession against evil, including poison, temptations and witchcraft. He is also the patron Saint of monks, students, farmers and all of Europe. After all, he was heralded as the father of Western Monasticism.”
Noticing the pendant clenched in the father’s hand, I couldn’t help but ask, “Is that a medallion?”
“Oh yes--,” He proudly displayed it for both of us to see, “It’s the Jubilee Medal and was originally struck in 1880 to commemorate the fourteenth centenary of Saint Benedict’s birth.”
Looking closely, I noticed the image of Saint Benedict holding the holy rule in one hand and the cross in his right. There was a raven on one side of him and a cup on the other. Around the medallion’s outer rim were words written in Latin. The father noticing that I could not read them, pointed and said, “Eius in obitu nostro praesentia muniamur. May we, at our death, be fortified by His presence.” He turned the coin over and proudly presented the other side.
I had leaned closer to examine the cross and engraved letters on the vertical bar CSSML. At which point he translated, saying, “Crux Sacra Sit Mihi Lux. May the Holy Cross be my light.”
Looking to the horizontal bar, I noticed the initials ND SMD and looked to the priest who politely translated, “Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux. Let not the dragon be my overlord. And the letters CSPB, found on the interior angles of the cross, stand for "Crux Sancti Patris Benedicti. The Cross of the Holy Father Benedict. In most cases, you will find the initials “PAX” or peace, or the Christendom HIS at the top of the medallion.” He directed my att
ention to the medal’s margin and on the side, where I could see the initials VRSNSMV, and said, “Vade Retro Satana, Nonquam Suade Mihi Vana. Begone Satan, do not suggest to me thy vanities.” And then following a space, he pointed out the letters SMQLIVB, and said, ‘Sunt Mala Quae Libas, Ipse Venena Bibas. Evil are the things thou profferest, drink thou thy own poison."
“Thank you for the explanation father--,” I nodded politely, and waving at Rich, said, “Father Delaney’s Latin is fabulous—maybe he would consider looking at that parchment that you have?” I looked to the priest, “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”
“I would be happy to assist you if I am able.” He appeared strangely unsettled, but willing all the same.
“We have this document—an etching from an old cemetery marker from a local farm--,” I had politely interjected, “It appears to be written in some form of Latin. We weren’t able to translate the words—and had hoped that you might be able to read it.” Realizing to have forgotten to copy the lettering into a simpler and possibly safer format, I swallowed hard, “But, I feel that we should warn you, we have our doubts and concerns about the possible content.”
“Oh—I see--,” He appeared somewhat concerned but unafraid, “Might I ask—does this matter concern the Lumberton family farm?”
His astuteness having caught us both off-guard, we had simply looked between one another, and then nodded at the old priest.
“Oh dear—I was worried about that.” He offered a hand and I gave him the parchment. We followed to where he unrolled it upon a table in the corner of the main hall, closely examining it for several minutes.
“Well then—I can assure you that you have nothing to fear, where this parchment is concerned anyway.” He turned to look back at us. His eyes revealing obvious dread, as putting a finger to his lips, he quietly said, “From what I gather, it is simply a prayer for the dead.”
“Father Delaney, can I ask how you knew which farm these came from?” I had my doubts, and his expression now revealed that he shared my fears. As somewhat apprehensive to disclose any information concerning the farm or family, he politely asked, “May I first ask what your interest in the family and this matter might be?”
“Gregory Lumberton contacted us--,” Rich explained, “Our organization researches paranormal activity. Maybe you’ve heard of us, Nightrealm? We even publish a bi-monthly magazine.”
“Please, forgive me. My experience with the outside world does not extend beyond local gossip, and our little theater.”
“The short of the matter--,” Politely explaining, I said, “Is that we came in hopes of learning more about the history of their home and property, and possibly assist with a recent disturbance.”
“History is written by the winners of wars—and real estate agents, my friends.” He led us away from the table and to the back of the hall, where waving, he beckoned as he went down a set of stairs and we followed him into the basement. “This church was built in 1850 and has consistently maintained Parish records over the years. I have been here since the spring of 1935 and expect to be replaced in the coming year.” Moving toward an old filing cabinet, he went through the drawers. Spending several moments searching before finding the required documents, he politely offered them to us, “If I might be of any assistance in any way concerning this matter, please, do not hesitate to ask. Might I offer tea or coffee, possibly some nice hot cocoa?”
“Tea would be absolutely wonderful.” I thanked him as he guided us back upstairs, offering us seats at the table where we had read the parchment. “You might find some of that very disturbing--,” He had paused, peering back in thought, and said, “I would only ask for your discretion concerning the records, for the sake of the family.”
“Rest assured, you have our promise--,” I nodded, “As I’m certain that you already realize that this is being done for the family’s sake to begin with.”
“And I shall assist you in any way possible for that exact reason.” The old priest agreed, and turning, moved from the room.
“I really like him, which says a lot.” Rich whispered, “You know that I’m not big on churches or their representatives, for the most part.”
“You might be surprised at the bad that you might find in good places--,” Gazing about at the beautiful old building, I sighed, “And the good that you might discover in some of the least likely.”
Father Delaney had soon returned with a platter containing a tea pot, cups and condiments. Having quietly taken a seat at the table with us, he said nothing, but just sat back and silently observed. There had been far more details in the matter than we might ever have imagined. The actual records predating the house and property, as in 1863 it had begun as a stock field where cows had been gathered. These accounts having been carefully documented by father Joseph Mullholland outlined everything in the finest detail, listing dates, names and accordingly even the weather during the course of the events. Feeling these necessary, I promptly took out my notepad and pen, and began recording the events.
The accounts went on to relate about several deaths having occurred there over a single winter, the cause of which had been left to extreme weather. But there had been doubts wherein the minister had been concerned. He had written: ‘I fear that more occurs here than is immediately apparent to the naked eye, and shall pray for guidance. May the Lord bless and keep them all.’
In 1868 the property had then come into the able hands of cattle farmer, Jacob Engelmann. A family man with three grown sons and a wife, he had built a humble home and barn on the property. They resided there successfully and seemingly quite happily until the winter of 1875, when a severe cold spell claimed many of his cattle. To this the good father had made remark: ‘The beasts were rendered limb from limb, their entrails spilled and the earth red with their blood.’ It also noted that Jacob’s wife was taken by pneumonia, and selling the place soon after, he had departed and never returned.
Underlining the dates and fact that winter had always been the deciding factor, I continued reading. The records spoke of the good Doctor, Marcus Irwin Kingsley, and building of his house in 1891, and then described his family. There was nothing out of the ordinary mentioned, with exception to the fact that the workmen were uneasy in the place after dark. The document revealed the sad events of which we had been previously aware, the loss of the doctor’s wife and youngest son in a drowning accident at the local river. The Parish records also contained details of which the historical account did not. Firstly, that the doctor’s wife had complained of a dark apparition, inexplicable odors of decay, melancholy and a distinct fear of the night….
In one account done previous to the woman’s death, Father Mulholland had attended the residence and during a ceremonial blessing, become violently ill. So much in fact, that he was unable to breathe and had to be physically carried from the premises before regaining his composure. Having never completely recovered from this experience, father Mulholland retired in 1893 and was replaced by father Nathan Clements. He was a young man, who reigning through what seemed a quiet time as the property had remained vacant, kept standard accounts of general affairs. It was not until his replacement by father Thomas Delaney in 1932 and the occupation of the property that events took a turn for the worse….
“The house seems to have drawn some suspicion from your predecessor.” I looked to father Delaney, “Have you read through any of this?”
He had only nodded while sipping at his tea, and then said, “We can discuss the matter further when you have finished.”
My attention returning to the document, I continued with my notes, adding questions of which came to mind at the moment. Unlike the historical account of which Rich had provided concerning the doctor’s final days in the home, the Parish record was quite different. These were now penned in father Delaney’s hand, and like father Mulholland, recorded in the greatest of detail. The previous claim had stated that Physician Marcus Irwin Kingsley had simply abandoned the place and that his remaini
ng son departed for parts unknown. But the Parish record clearly outlined an ending and substantiated evidence for both. Having left his practice and become destitute due to alcoholism in the winter of 1935, the good doctor had hung himself on the premises, his corpse found suspended from the central bannister, and from at the top of the second story landing. His son, having been utterly dismayed with the discovery, had stumbled out and into the snow during the night, his body found frozen solid near the paths edge by passing neighbors on the very next day….
Rich had immediately taken notice of my utter shock, and rather than explaining, I had just slid the document across the table to him. My attention returning to the pages that still lay before me, I quietly continued.
The residence had remained empty again for some time. And then there was the account of the town grocer, Benjamin Lloyd Porter, who had bought the house in 1943. The events being rather common, it did mention his wife Ellen and young daughter Theresa. But, unlike the existing records, it had gone on to explain the reasons as to why they had finally sold the place and moved into town. There had been mention of shadows and shapes which had frightened both Ellen and Theresa on several accounts. Having been explained as nothing but over-sensitivity and fleeting fancy, they had previously been ignored. But then, in the month of December and shortly before Christmas, young Theresa’s beloved German shepherd had been found dead. It wasn’t so much the animal’s demise that had shocked her parents, but the manner in which the animal had been dispatched. As wandering from their bedrooms early in the morning, they had found it suspended with its head caught from between the bannisters…. They had immediately listed the place and promptly moved straight into town.
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