The Haunting of Briarwych Church

by Amy Cross

“She used to work for Father Perkins,” she explains. “Nobody liked her. Oh, I probably shouldn't say that, but it's true. She was shrill and vicious. Even Father Perkins abhorred her, although he was far too well-mannered to say as much. In truth, I believe they're right when they say that by the end she was mad, quite out of her mind. I mean, I suppose that's why, in the end, when he locked her inside, nobody...”

  I wait.

  “Nobody what?” I ask.

  “Nobody wanted to come and let her out,” she continues. “Not at first. I was younger then, of course, but I heard people saying that she could stew in the church for a while. For a night, at least. I think at first it was seen as something of a joke. And then the next day, when she still hadn't found a way out, they said she could stay another night. And then it sort of went on like that for a while, until people started saying after a week that, well, of course she'd got out. That she couldn't possibly still be inside.”

  “Of course she couldn't,” I point out. “If the woman was trapped, she would surely have called out for help.”

  “Nobody heard her call out.”

  “So she wasn't here, then. I'm sure she wasn't an idiot.”

  “The door remained locked.”

  “Then she got out some other way.”

  “There is no other way,” she says, with a hint of desperation in her voice. “Oh, I know this all sounds dreadful, but after a time people just... Well, they just stopped talking about it.”

  I wait for her to explain.

  “Excuse me?” I ask finally, supposing that I must have misunderstood. “They believed this woman to be trapped in here, and they just... lost interest?”

  “I think perhaps they just assumed she'd found a way out,” Lizzy says. “Nobody really wanted to get into it that much, so they stopped talking about it. Everyone sort of ignored the church, to be honest. Well, until...”

  Again I wait, and again she says nothing.

  “Until what?”

  “Oh, it must have been a year ago,” she says, with a hint of tears in her eyes. “I feel so bad whenever I think of it, but about a year ago some local children were playing in the cemetery. They'd been told not to, on account of pieces of stone falling from the roof sometimes, but you know what children are like.” She takes a deep breath. “When they got home, they were scared and crying. Eventually they were persuaded to tell what had happened, and they said they'd seen...”

  Her voice trails off.

  “Do you know the window in the bedroom?” she adds.

  “I do.”

  “The children were outside, playing. That window is very old and rather opaque, very hard to see through. It has lead passing through it, as you might have noticed. It's really not much of a window at all. But both children swore that they'd seen somebody standing there, as if watching them.”

  “Someone inside the church?”

  She nods.

  “But the church was locked,” I point out.

  She nods again.

  “Well?” I ask. “Did somebody come inside and check?”

  “Nobody had a key, and there wasn't much eagerness to break down the door. Besides, it had been almost a year since Father Perkins had left, so everybody knew that nobody could still be inside. But then, over the next few months, more people said they'd seen the same thing.”

  “A figure standing at that window?”

  “Or sometimes at one of the other windows,” she says. “There's one in the kitchen, too, and at least one other in the corridor. But each time, the same thing was seen. The vague outline of a figure, and just the slightest hint of a face.”

  “It must have been a reflection.”

  “I do not think so, Father Loveford.”

  “Then it was hysteria,” I continue, “or perhaps foolishness. People can be inclined toward mischief from time to time, you know.”

  “Oh, I do know that, yes.” She pauses. “I myself never saw this figure at one of the windows, although in truth I never really went out of my way to look. Like a lot of people, I preferred to keep my eyes averted whenever I had cause to pass along the lane the comes close to the cemetery. I suppose I was afraid.”

  “And when did these imagined sightings end?” I ask, unable to hide the fact that I feel a little irritated. “At what point did people tire themselves out and accept that nothing untoward was happening?”

  I wait, but she simply stares at me.

  “Out with it,” I continue. “When did this all end?”

  “The last supposed sighting of a figure at the window,” she says cautiously, “was about... three days ago.”

  I feel a shiver pass through my chest.

  “I think Mrs. Parfitt was walking along the lane and she glanced toward the church. She saw somebody at the window and, well, I believe I heard that she fainted due to the shock.”

  I let out a heavy sigh.

  “Please,” I say, “there's no -”

  “It was this very window here,” she adds, turning and looking at the window at the far end of the kitchen. “Three days ago, Miss Prendergast was seen standing at this very window, two years after she was last seen. Almost exactly where we're standing now.”

  Chapter Eight

  “If the remuneration is sufficient,” I say as I step out into the churchyard, “then I would be happy for you to start tomorrow.” I turn to Lizzy, just as she comes out after me. “Is that acceptable?”

  “You don't believe me,” she replies, stopping at the start of the path. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I believe that you believe everything you just told me.”

  Hearing a creaking sound, I look across the cemetery and see that the gentleman from yesterday is arriving with his lawnmower, and with a young boy in tow. They're pushing the gate open and arguing as they struggle to get the mower through.

  “However,” I continue, turning back to Lizzy, “I should caution you now that I do not believe, in any shape or form, in the existence of ghosts.”

  “Because of your faith?”

  “Because of common sense,” I tell her. “I am a man of the cloth, and as such I have traveled a great deal throughout this country. I have stayed in homes that are hundreds of years old, in places where terrible things have happened, and I have never once witnessed any kind of spirit or apparition.”

  “That doesn't mean -”

  “I slept here last night,” I add, interrupting her rather rudely but unable to stop myself. “I slept in this very church, alone and in total darkness. I heard and saw nothing. There were no moans in the night, no clanging of chains, no doors slamming or floorboards creaking.”

  “That's not -”

  “I did not at any point feel that I was being watched,” I continue, determined to snuff out this nonsense at once, “and I did not see, out of the corner of my eye, any unexpected figures standing in the shadows. Nor did I hear ghostly whispers, or the rattling of chains, or any of the other nonsense that one tends to find in such stories. It was simply me, and me alone, and some drips from a leaky ceiling.”

  I wait for her to admit that I'm right, but she simply stares at me.

  “Why,” I add, “I believe that if a man – or a woman – were to truly meet a ghost, were to meet somebody who had died yet who now returned in spectral form... Well, I fear the only consequence would be madness. Yes, indeed, I believe anyone who truly saw a ghost would be driven mad by the vision.”

  “Perhaps you're right,” she whispers.

  “It seems Briarwych has suffered for lack of spiritual guidance,” I point out. “Fortunately I am here now, and we can begin to get things back on track. Lizzy, I would be grateful indeed if you could spread the word about my upcoming sermon on Sunday. I think I know what theme I shall tackle, and I should like to think that most if not all of the village will be in attendance. That way, we can begin to knock this nonsense on the head.”

  “Scores of people have seen her at the window, and you call it nonsense.”

&
nbsp; “I do.”

  “And if -”

  “And I shall not discuss it one moment longer,” I add. “Now tell me, can I expect to see you here tomorrow to begin your new cleaning job? It's a simple enough question, but I would appreciate an answer. If you are unavailable for any reason, I am sure I can find somebody else.”

  Stepping back, she looks up at the church for a moment, as if filled with fear. She hesitates, and for a few seconds I feel certain that she will refuse to return.

  “I shall be here tomorrow,” she says finally.

  “Are you sure? Can I rely on you?”

  She nods. “Absolutely.”

  “Because you accept that these silly ghost stories are foolish nonsense?”

  “Because I need the money,” she replies. “And because I suppose that even if there were a ghost here once, the door has been opened now. Perhaps she is gone.”

  “There is certainly no dead body in the church,” I remind her. “Surely that fact alone is enough to demonstrate that these foolish superstitions have no basis in reality?”

  I wait, but she still seems a little uncertain.

  “And perhaps it would be nice to have some flowers to liven the place up a little,” I say, hoping to give her a little cheer. “Could you pick some roses and put them in vases?”

  “I don't much like roses,” she replies stiffly. “But... I'll see what I can do. I'll find something bright and colorful.”

  “Thank you, Lizzy,” I say. “I would be very grateful.”

  “I shall be here tomorrow,” she says, before turning and heading toward the gate, passing the man and boy who are working on setting up the lawnmower.

  Left alone in front of the door, I cannot help but feel exasperated by Lizzy's foolishness. She seems like such and intelligent and level-headed young woman, and I am truly shocked to learn that she entertains idiotic superstitions. Then again, perhaps this whole village has gone for too long without spiritual guidance, in which case I most certainly have some work to do. And as the lawnmower starts up, I head back inside and walk straight through to my desk, so that I can start again on the sermon I am planning for Sunday.

  Chapter Nine

  “Safety in numbers is not safety from God's judgment,” I whisper, as I read out loud from the sermon I have handwritten over these past few hours. “For judgment, when it comes, is judgment of how we have behaved, not of how we have managed to fit in with those around us.”

  I pause for a moment, digesting those words, and then I glance out the window.

  The man with the lawnmower is still at work, and the young boy is dutifully running around after him and gathering the cuttings. I must admit that after seeing how decrepit the church looked when I arrived, I am relieved to find that some of the locals are finally helping out. I do not understand why they could not do the same before I arrived, but again I remind myself that later is better than never in these matters.

  The young boy picked up another bundle of grass and then turned to run, but then he freezes as his gaze meets mine.

  I smile and wave.

  He stares at me with an expression of abject horror, and it takes a few seconds before his features soften. He looked rather relieved as he turns and hurries away, and I cannot help but roll my eyes as I look back down at Sunday's sermon.

  “If your neighbor sins,” I read from the page, “there is no change in your own duty to the Lord. If your -”

  Suddenly I hear a loud bumping sound, coming from somewhere nearby. I instinctively turn and look over my shoulder, and it takes a few seconds before I realize that the sound seemed to come from somewhere inside the church itself, as if perhaps a door was hurriedly opened and the handle was allowed to bang against the wall. There should be nobody else here at the moment, of course, so I quickly tell myself that the noise was likely just something outside that sounded closer.

  And then, as if to disprove that notion, I hear the same noise again, except this time it sounds closer and higher, as if it is coming from one of the rooms above the living quarters.

  I hesitate, unwilling to give in to base superstitions, but then I get to my feet. Were I a lesser man I might fear the arrival of a ghost, of course, but I am hardly about to surrender to such stupidity. Instead, then, I head to the doorway and look out into the corridor, where I wait in case the sound returns. Already, I am beginning to have my suspicions about what might be afoot and – although I do not wish to leap to such a horrible conclusion – I cannot help but feel it is a coincidence that this strange noise arrives just a few hours after Lizzy was telling me that weak ghost story.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Is anybody there?”

  In my mind's eye, I am already imagining Lizzy hiding somewhere in one of the upstairs rooms, perhaps clamping a hand over her mouth in order to keep from laughing. She seemed like a nice girl, very sober and thoughtful, but all that chatter about ghosts suggests that she has another side to her character. Would it be beyond her to sneak back to the church and to try scaring me in this manner? I do not know her at all, really, so I cannot judge either way.

  Cautiously, then, I step out into the corridor, and naturally my eyes are drawn to the narrow spiral staircase that winds up toward the upper floor and the bell-tower.

  “Hello?” I say again. “If there's anybody there, I would appreciate a swift end to this tiresome game. I am working on a sermon.”

  After just a moment, I hear another bumping sound, and now I am more convinced than ever that somebody is upstairs. Sighing, but realizing that I am unlikely to be able to reason with some prankster, I head over to the door that leads into the stairwell and then I listen for a few seconds. I am tempted to simply shut the door and slide the bolt across, and to then wait for the miscreant to inevitably bang and call help since there is no other escape, but I am a man of the Lord and I would prefer to tackle the problem head on.

  I start to make my way up the stairs, holding onto the rope that runs around the edge for support, and finally I get to the upper floor. There are several doorways leading off this corridor, while another set of steps leads up toward the bell-tower.

  “Lizzy?” I call out. “Is it you? I hope you don't think that this foolishness can ever persuade me that ghosts are real.”

  I head to the first door and look into the room, but there is nothing there, not even furniture. There is certainly nowhere to hide, so I check the other rooms in order to satisfy myself that nobody is lurking. Then I head up the next set of steps until I reach the door to the main part of the bell-tower, where I find that the bolt is still in place and the padlock is still secure. I am the only person who can open this lock, and it is clear that nothing has been disturbed, so I am quite certain that nobody is up in the tower.

  I pause, before heading back down into the corridor, where I take a moment to wait.

  After several minutes have passed, I begin to realize that the miscreant must have already left. I thought I was being careful, but I suppose it's possible that somebody slipped away while I was checking the other rooms, in which case the joke is on me. I head over to the window and peer out, hoping to perhaps spot the perpetrator running away across the cemetery, but all I see is the man still working on the lawn and the child still collecting grass.

  Sighing, I make my way up the last set of stairs, to the door that leads into the bell-tower. This door remains securely locked, and it's clear from the dirt and grime around the edges that it has not been opened in some time.

  Heading back downstairs, I return to my desk and take a seat. For a moment, I consider grabbing the padlock key and going back up to double-check the bell-tower, but I know that nobody else could be up there so I remind myself that I mustn't be distracted. If somebody has been trying to fool me, they perhaps want me to waste time poking around, and I refuse to do that. I shall not be so easily tricked into believing superstitious nonsense. If somebody indeed wishes to make me look and act like an idiot, they are going to have to do a much better job.


  Checking the clock on the wall, I realize that there is no point getting back to work on the sermon now. I rather think that it is time to dust of the bicycle I found in the kitchen, and to head out to introduce myself to my other parishioners.

  Chapter Ten

  “Jerry would do anything to get his hands on these designs!” Corporal Bolton shouts a couple of hours later, as he leads me across the airfield. Nearby, a fighter aircraft's engine is roaring. “Some of the stuff here is absolutely bloody top secret!”

  “I'm sure!” I reply, struggling to keep from getting blown away as the plane's propellers whip up the air all around us.

  “That's why there are extra blackout restrictions in place for Briarwych,” Bolton continues, leading me toward a small building that – I hope – will offer us some shelter. “Can't risk Jerry spotting the airfield from above at night. Essential to the war effort, this stuff is. I mean, bloody hell, there are secrets here that nobody's allowed to know outside of the top brass. If you learned certain things about some of these plans, I'd bloody well have to shoot you!”

  “How lovely,” I mutter. “Nice to know that the war effort is going so well.”

  ***

  “We don't want a priest,” Bolton says a few minutes later, as he hands me a cup of tea in the control room that overlooks the main runway. “Sorry to be blunt, old chap, but priests and chaplains and all that palaver... Well, they just get in the way, if you know what I mean.”

  “I...”

  To be honest, I don't exactly know how to respond.

  “It's not that we don't like priests at all,” he adds. “It's more a case of finding them a little morbid.”

  “Oh.”

  “That's why we cut a bit of a deal with the chaps back at Bexley,” he continues. “Rather than having a full-time chaplain stationed here, getting in our way and generally being a bloody nuisance, we agreed to have visits from the priest at Briarwych. Of course, then it turned out that there wasn't a priest there, which I suppose is where you come into the picture. Sorry about that. Still, chin up, eh?”