by G. F. Frost
“Rational? Nothing you believe in is rational! What gives you the right to decide what is rational? To be a Christian, we have to accept everything that is irrational. All the things you teach and preach are irrational. Life is full of unexplainable and unbelievable experiences. What gives you the right or the Church the right to pick and choose what is real and what is not? I want to hear what is really in your heart, not what the Church teaches you to say. What do you think, Father, you!” Massey voice trembled as she spoke.
Father Patrick didn’t answer her right away. He took his time again. He had to think about it all. He was feeling confused and sad. He knew in his heart he had to do the right thing, and he had to know exactly what the right thing was. He had to think it through.
“I’m going to stand beside you, Massey. I’m going to fight this fight with you. You must promise me that you will never tell anyone that I am in on this, and I will not be responsible for any effect this situation has on you. You brought me into this, and I want to help you, but if it’s going to be your way, it’s on you. I will be here, and I will fight to find out what we can, but that’s all I can do. If there is no answer, you have to accept it. I want to see it for myself, but if I don’t, I’m going to stand beside you and give you the benefit of the doubt because I am your parish priest, and I am responsible for your soul. May God help me. I’ll be here for you,” he said adamantly.
Massey jumped up from her chair and wrapped her arms around him. Tears were flowing down her cheeks; tears were flowing down Father Patrick’s cheeks. She hugged him tightly and kissed his head. He grabbed her shoulders and sat her in the chair. As he looked into her eyes, she spoke.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you! If we cannot figure it out together, no one can. You have God on your side, and I have tenacity on mine. We’re a deadly pair now.” She laughed as she spoke. Tears were still flowing from her eyes.
“Don’t thank me. I’ve not done anything. I’m going to the rectory, and I’m going to get a few of my things. I’m going to spend the night here. It must stay between you and me. I’ll park my car in the barn, and I’ll sleep downstairs in the parlor. If I’m going to believe all this, I’ve got to witness it,” he said as he hurried out into the foyer, grabbed his jacket, and walked out the door.
Massey didn’t have time to reply. She turned on the porch and driveway lights, and went to have her bath. She didn’t know what to think. She felt relieved though. She knew she had found help, and she knew it came from the right place. Making the sign of the cross, she thanked God. Maybe things would be okay now.
Chapter Nine
Massey hadn’t finished drying her hair when Jenkins began to bark. She ran down the stairs and peered out the front door glass. Father Patrick was standing in the dim light with two bags. As he walked through the door, Massey grabbed his jacket. She felt unsure how to make him feel welcome under the circumstances. He took the smaller bag to the parlor and set it on the coffee table. Massey made tea for him and went to the linen closet to get pillows and blankets. She prayed that he would be able to help her.
Massey had a bit of trouble finding the key to the old barn. Theo had thrown it in a drawer, and Mister Grant kept the extra one, but eventually she came across the old key and ran outside to unlock the doors for Father Patrick. His small car easily fit in the roomy barn. He closed the doors and asked Massey to leave it unlocked in case he received an emergency call in the night. He had forwarded all the church calls to his mobile. Father Patrick was trying to keep from explaining anything to anyone. The rain was at a mere drizzle as they came back into the house, but the cold November winds were icy for this early in the month.
A warm cup of tea seemed to soothe both Massey and Father Patrick as the two sat quietly sipping the warm beverage. Father Patrick looked down at big, old Jenkins. The dog was licking the moisture from the top of his paws. Then the priest looked around the parlor. His eyes were soaking in the lovely room. In the lamp light, the room looked bathed in a soft golden glow. He didn’t know if it was the low sound of the television or the lamp light, but he felt nothing uncomfortable there. He thought about the lives that had come and gone in that room.
“I’ll be fine here on the sofa. If you need me just call. I’m going to try to stay awake as long as I can. Don’t be afraid if you hear me rambling around tonight, I may walk around and check out the house if that’s okay,” Father Patrick said in his reassuring tone.
“That’s fine, just make yourself at home. I’ve got cake in the kitchen and the kettle is full of water for tea. The coffee pot is full too; just flip the switch, and you’ll be in business.” Massey handed him the remote control.
“I don’t think I’ll need anything, but if I do, I will manage,” Father Patrick answered.
Massey and Jenkins made their door check around the house and went upstairs to bed. She didn’t have much trouble falling asleep. Something about having a priest in the house made her feel safe and secure. She left the bathroom light on in case Father Patrick needed to find his way during the night. For the first time, she hoped that something would happen. She knew that he had to see for himself to ever truly believe her. She was hoping something would happen, but nothing could have prepared her for the events that were in store for them that rainy evening in November.
* * * *
Father Patrick muted the volume on the television and made a cozy bed on the sofa with the soft blankets and pillows that Massey had left for him. He walked into the foyer and looked up towards the landing. He listened to hear if all was quiet from Massey’s bedroom. Kneeling at the sofa, he said his evening prayers. He tried to remember the elderly and sick and the unfortunates of his parish. He gave thanks and praise and lifted his head. He didn’t remove any of his clothing, but kicked off his shoes and socks and placed them on the floor against the sofa.
The winds were picking up in the old oaks outside. Pulling himself up from the sofa, Father Patrick walked to the side window of the parlor and looked out. It had begun to rain a bit harder, and there was lightening in the distance. He could see it through the trees. The lights to the driveway were on and the misty rain glistened under their glow. Father Patrick walked to another window near the back of the parlor and looked towards the barn. He was delighted that Theo and Massey had chosen to keep the weathered old building when many would have replaced it with something metal and new.
He scanned the huge yard with his tired eyes. The lightening was getting closer. As his glance reached the cemetery, he noticed a dim light. Just inside the gate, a large oddly–shaped, lighted mist swam within the enclosure. He watched as it slowly moved above the headstones. Rubbing the moisture from the windowpane, Father Patrick pressed his face closer to inspect the object. It bobbed deliberately over the marble markers. He watched as it swerved its way from grave to grave. At one point, the light seemed to become a bit brighter and gently pulsed. He thought of car lights and dismissed it as a possibility. Walking back to the sofa, he stepped into his black loafers. Returning to the window, he looked out again. The misty light was still there as if waiting and searching for something, oblivious to his curious eyes.
Father Patrick walked to the front door and very slowly unlocked the latch and pulled carefully. Once the door was open, he looked up the stairs to see if the creaking door had disturbed Massey or Jenkins. As he stepped onto the veranda, the winds swept across his face. He walked to the edge of the porch and took a closer look at the cemetery. The strange light pulsed again and disappeared.
The soggy ground gave way as Father Patrick stepped into the yard. He made a quick walk to the cemetery gate. The rain was slowing to a sprinkle as he pulled on the rusted ironwork. He walked around the graves, being careful to avoid stepping on any he could see. There was nothing there. He looked down the long drive realizing that the road was too far away for it to have been headlights. Tiptoeing out of the wet graveyard, Father Patrick turned to close the gate. As he did, he reached his right hand into the damp a
ir and made the sign of the cross.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Bless this land and all within it,” he said quietly.
The house felt warm and safe as he pulled off his shoes at the front door. He hoped he could manage to get the mud cleaned off of them before Massey awoke in the morning. He didn’t want to mention his visit to the cemetery or the light to her. He had to come up with a good explanation for her and himself before bringing it up. The parlor was welcoming and the sofa too comfortable. Soon, Father Patrick had fallen off into a deep sleep. Massey and Jenkins were soundly asleep upstairs as well. The winds were whipping through the huge oaks.
Suddenly, the television flickered. It faded and came back on. Father Patrick roused and rubbed his tired eyes. The picture on the screen was fading slowly in and out. It flickered and went black. Father Patrick reached for the remote and turned it back on. It went out again.
He sat up on the sofa thinking that the wind and rain had somehow affected the satellite. He shook his head and rose from the sofa. Turning on the lamp on the corner table, he walked to the window and looked out. All was dark and quiet, no lights, no mists in the cemetery. He stood there as if trying to remember if it had been a dream.
Before he could make his way back to the sofa, he noticed a soft sound coming from the second floor. He walked into the foyer and listened. It sounded as if someone was singing. He listened carefully and realized that a soft and low woman’s voice was singing a sad and lovely song. He looked towards the top of the stairs. Turning his head to the stairs, he listened with a hand behind his ear. Yes, it was a woman singing.
Taking a step at a time and stopping along the way to the landing, Father Patrick made his way stealthily, thinking he would find Massey singing in her sleep. As he reached her door, Jenkins lifted his head and offered a sleepy yawn and tail wag. Father Patrick stood in the doorway, feeling a bit uncomfortable about approaching the sleeping lady. The singing had become louder with each step he made. The room filled with the sound of the lovely tune. Father leaned over the bed to look at Massey.
She lay sleeping with the covers of the bed bunched around her. Her breathing was erratic and deep. She was obviously soundly asleep. Father Patrick stepped away from the bed. Could it be a television or radio? Something from deep within him knew that this was not a radio. It was not a television. He backed away from Massey and walked around the room looking at the ceiling. The voice sounded as if it were coming from the very room he was standing in. It sounded as though someone were standing in that very room singing! He didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense. A feeling of sadness overcame him, and the priest stepped quickly out of the room and into the hallway. The singing stopped.
He noticed Massey tossing in her bed. She was pulling her legs up and moving from side to side. Father wondered if she was having one of her dreams. He decided he should wake her and have her tell him about it, maybe waking her would help the dream seem less real to her also. It was worth a try. As he stepped back into the room, he felt a strange sensation and caught a slight glow coming from the mirror standing in the corner.
Slowly, he turned towards the mirror and saw a pale and smoky face before him. He backed away in horror. He could not make it down the stairs fast enough. As he reached the bottom, he looked back and saw Jenkins standing at the top looking down at him curiously.
Father Patrick walked to the end of the staircase and stood again looking up. He felt ashamed and confused. He began to shiver as if he had a chill, but beads of sweat had formed along his hairline. He looked at Jenkins and wondered what he should do. Reluctantly, he ascended the stairs and looked into the room again. Massey was still asleep. He could not bring himself to look towards the mirror. After feeling sure that Massey was all right, he returned to the parlor. He decided that he needed something to drink and remembered the coffee. Maybe that would wake him enough to think more clearly.
Massey’s notes were still lying on the kitchen table. Father Patrick turned on the coffee pot and sat down pulling the notebook towards him. He noticed his hands shaking as he reached for the book. Inside were loose pages and copies of various stories and census reports. He reached into his shirt pocket for his glasses. After reading over a few pages, he pulled the glasses from his face and rose to pour a cup of coffee. Setting the steaming cup on the table, he sat down and placed his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. He felt overwhelmed.
He went over the night’s events. He thought of the glowing mist in the graveyard, the singing, and the face in the mirror. It was just as Massey had said. He shook his head. Had her tales influenced his thoughts, informed his imagination? He tried to find explanations for it all. He was embarrassed that he felt afraid. He was feeling inadequate to help her. He hoped that it was all his imagination, but he knew it wasn’t.
* * * *
Massey was surprised to find Father Patrick sitting at the kitchen table reading her notes when she came downstairs. She looked frazzled and tired as if she had not slept well at all. She smiled at him and grabbed a wrap hanging in the washroom. Jenkins was waiting at the door. Stepping into the boots by the door, Massey followed the dog outside. Father Patrick walked into the foyer and slipped into his muddy shoes. He hoped she wouldn’t notice.
As he walked towards Massey, he turned his head and looked at the cemetery. He pictured the bobbing light from the night before. The crispness of the morning air and the sunshine temporarily washed away the memory of mysterious happenings from the night before. It was almost serene today. Massey clapped her hands together as she called for Jenkins. Father Patrick watched sleepily as Massey called the dog. She placed her hands on her hips impatiently waiting on Jenkins to finish his rounds. Walking towards her, Father Patrick noticed the morning sun shining through her soft hair.
“Did you sleep at all, Father?” Massey asked.
“Yes, a bit,” Father Patrick answered.
“I think the weather may have interrupted your satellite service. It went out during the night,” he said.
Father Patrick could tell that Massey didn’t care about the satellite. She wanted to know if he’d felt anything in the house. She had no idea what had taken place while she and Jenkins slept, but she would want to know if he noticed anything at all.
“So, did you notice or feel anything different in the house last night, Father?” Massey asked as she walked beside him towards the house.
“We’ll discuss that later. Right now I’ve got to pull my car into the yard,” he said as if he were avoiding the question. He was.
* * * *
While Father Patrick went to the barn to retrieve his vehicle, Massey dressed and went down to cook some breakfast for the priest. Father Patrick was putting on his jacket and folding the blankets on the sofa when she walked into the parlor. He was unusually quiet.
“I was going to cook you something for breakfast,” Massey said.
“I’ve got to get to the church and take care of some things. I think I’ll come back tonight and talk things over. I want to hear about your dream,” he said as picked up his small bag.
Massey felt unsure about what Father Patrick could do for her at this point. He didn’t very talkative, and she didn’t know what he would have to offer her that night.
She decided to spend the day checking out the cellar. She hoped it would not be full of water after the night’s rainfall.
The floor of the cellar was dry, but the musty and moldy smell of damp age hung like a heavy cloud in the dark room. The ancient stone foundation formed the walls of the cellar, and Massey admired them, running her hands along the uneven surface of the stones as she walked towards the back of the dank room. There were no boxes or trunks within the room. There were shelves with dusty bottles and rusted tools lined on them. A few pieces of furniture leaned against the back wall. An old rocker and a small broken table sat sadly in the corner.
The room was huge and dark with low beamed ceilings. It was like explorin
g an ancient cave or dungeon. She pictured the root vegetables and grains that had once piled in heaps along the floor. An old trap of some sort hung from the wall beside her. Nothing even resembled a safe. She went through every shelf and fought cobwebs and crawly things to look behind every jar and tool. She decided that the safe was not in the cellar.
As she mounted the steps of the cellar onto the back veranda, Massey heard Jenkins whining in the kitchen. He couldn’t have made the steep steps into the cellar, so she had left him in the house. He was not happy. Massey tossed him a doggie treat as she walked through the pantry. She thought she’d finish the last part of the attic before tackling the barn. Jenkins could join her there.
Before she had the cellar dirt washed off her hands, the home phone rang. It startled Massey because not many people ever called the home phone. Everyone knew that she carried her cell around with her everywhere. It was Father Patrick. He had finished work for the day and was going to check on a parishioner who was in the hospital in New Orleans, but wanted to come over that evening. Massey was relieved.
After the call, she returned to the sink and finished scrubbing her hands. A thought suddenly popped into her head. She didn’t hear a voice over the home phone. There wasn’t even any static. She would start using it when she was in the house. After all, that’s what it’s for.
Drying her hands, she walked to the refrigerator and pulled out sandwich meat. That would do nicely for today’s lunch, but she knew Father Patrick would stay for dinner, so she’d have to decide on that too.
She sat on the parlor sofa and finished her sandwich. She clicked on the television and it came on just fine and seemed to work perfectly. As she flipped through the channels, a cooking show caught her eye. She stopped and watched the show. During a commercial, she went into the study and got her list of people to invite to Thanksgiving dinner. She’d do that today instead of finishing the attic. She’d had enough dirt for one day.