The Haunting of Briarwych Church

by Amy Cross

  “Apologies, Father,” he mutters. “We didn't get it all done yesterday, on account of that lad being bone-bleedin' idle.”

  “No apology is necessary,” I reply. “It's good to see a boy doing some hard work.”

  “He's a moaner, though, Father. You watch, soon enough he'll be complaining about how his arms are aching and his legs are tired and how he just can't keep going. I'm telling you, children these days are losing the appetite for honest hard work. I don't know what the next generation'll be like if there's not an improvement.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then again, the grass is long,” he adds. “I suppose one of us should've come in and neatened the place up now and again.”

  “I understand that a local superstition was responsible for people staying away,” I reply.

  He eyes me with caution for a moment.

  “Heard about that, did you?” he mutters finally.

  I can't help but smile.

  “Bits and pieces,” I admit, as I watch the boy struggling still with the lawnmower. He makes for a rather comical sight as he huffs and puffs his way around to the other side of the church, disappearing swiftly from view. “I take it that some of the more over-excitable members of the local community have taken to spreading tales.”

  I chuckle as I turn to the gardener, but then I see that he's staring back at me with a stern expression.

  “What is it?” I ask, still smiling. “You don't believe the stories, do you?”

  “I saw her,” he replies.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He pauses, before stepping back and looking at one of the nearby windows.

  “I saw her,” he says again, his voice heavy with tension as he keeps his eyes fixed on the window. After a moment, he points. “Right there, about nine months ago.”

  “And you're sure this was not a reflection?” I ask.

  “It was no reflection,” he replies, turning to me again. “I remember Judith Prendergast. I saw her around often enough, even though I didn't really like to. She was a tall, thin woman, very proper. Good posture, looked like she was always carrying a bunch of invisible books around, balanced on the top of her head.” He pauses, as if the memory is unsettling him. “So when I saw her at that window, a little over a year after she'd been locked inside, I recognized her straight-away.”

  “But if -”

  “There's no doubting it, Father,” he adds. “It was her alright. As God is my witness, I was not drunk and it was not dark. It was daylight, in fact, much like right now, and she was right there in that window. The question is, how was she there. She couldn't have used the main door, and that's the only way in and out of the church. And she certainly couldn't have lasted inside for all that time. Now, I'm not a man who believes in a load of nonsense usually, but I'll admit between the two of us that I felt mighty uneasy that day.”

  “So you're suggesting that Miss Prendergast spent two years inside the church?” I reply. “Just... watching?”

  “Not just watching, if you ask me. Waiting.”

  “Waiting? For what?”

  “That's what I don't like to think about. She was a nasty woman, and she made poor Perkins' life a misery.”

  “I was under the impression that he employed her as a general housekeeper and cleaner?” I reply.

  “He was probably too scared to give her the heave-ho,” he mutters. “That woman thought she should be in charge of every aspect of life in the village, she stuck her nose into everything and that kind of behavior really sticks in your craw after a while, doesn't it? She wasn't afraid to give her opinion on everything everyone was doing. You couldn't wear a pair of odd socks without her telling you God was watching and that you'd be damned to Hell. If you ask me, that woman had no soul.”

  “Everyone has a soul,” I point out.

  “Not a good one.”

  “It is not for us to judge our fellow man,” I tell him. “We must remain charitable at all times, and conscious that others might suffer in private.”

  “Good riddance to the woman, if you ask me,” he replies, before turning as the young boy emerges from the other side of the church, having finally managed to push the lawnmower all the way around the building. “No-one misses her, and no-one particularly wants to know what happened to her. Just so long as she doesn't come back any time soon, we're all happy.”

  “One hopes that she is safe, at least,” I point out.

  “One should,” he mutters, “but one doesn't.”

  “You can't possibly mean that you -”

  “Get a move on!” he yells, waving at the boy. “Put some welly into it, or you'll never get finished! Flamin' Nora, you couldn't be slower if you tried! You'll be on a hiding to nothing if you want getting paid after this dismal performance, let me tell you. Let me show you how to handle the damn thing properly.”

  With that, he sets to work with the lawnmower, pushing the boy aside and then demonstrating to him how best to use the machine. I watch for a moment, and – although I can certainly appreciate the man's strength – I cannot help but think back to the quite heartless things that he said about this Judith Prendergast woman. It's almost as if hopes she is dead, which would be a most un-Christian way to view the matter.

  I can only hope that his view is an outlier, and that he does not represent the opinion of the whole village. Could one woman really have been so awful that people wished her dead?

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Father Loveford?”

  Looking up from my journal, in which I have been writing out the sermon's latest iteration, I see Lizzy standing in the doorway. She looks rather unkempt, with her hair tied back and sweat on her brow, and with her sleeves rolled up and wet patches on her dress. Evidently she has been working hard over the past few hours, which I note is a sign of very good character.

  “I'm so sorry to disturb you,” she continues, “but I was cleaning in one of the upstairs room, and I couldn't help but notice something that I think you should see.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I... I would rather show you.”

  “Can you not simply tell me?” I ask. “I am in the middle of some important work and I was rather getting into the flow.”

  I wait, but she looks rather uncomfortable.

  “As you please,” I say, getting to my feet and heading over to follow her. Evidently she is distressed by something, and it might be quicker to simply indulge her. “I have been up there a few times myself, and I must say that I have noticed nothing out of the ordinary.”

  She mumbles something under her breath, but she is already leading me toward the stairs and I can tell that she is troubled. Even though I barely know the young woman, I do know when somebody is upset. When we reach the top of the stairs and she gestures for me to follow her into one of the smaller rooms, I rather fancy that she appears very pale. Perhaps her constitution is weak.

  “What's wrong?” I ask. “Did you perhaps come across a spider? They won't hurt you, you know.”

  “There,” she says, pointing up toward the top of the wall. “Do you see it?”

  Looking up, I see only the white plaster and what looks like a dark brown stain. I look around the stain, in case there is a spider or some other creepy-crawly that might terrify a young woman, but then I realize that the stain itself must be the object of Lizzy's discomfort.

  “This is an old building,” I explain. “There is bound to be some discoloration.”

  “But it looks so different to anything else, and it seems to be coming from above.”

  “There is only the bell-tower above,” I point out, “and I have not been up there yet. I doubt that anything is leaking down.”

  “I saw a mark like this once before,” she says. “That is why I recognized it immediately. It was at a hospital where some blood had been spilled and not cleaned up.”

  “Blood,” I remind her, “is red, not brown.”

  “But over time it changes color, Father Loveford. That
's what I'm saying. The stain looks like old blood.”

  “And why would it be up there on the wall?” I ask.

  “I fear it might be on the floor of the room above this one.”

  I open my mouth to calm her fears, but deep down I am starting to wonder whether she might be right. Truthfully, I did not notice the stain earlier, and I cannot now dismiss it out of hand. Indeed, I am already reaching into my pocket, already taking out the key that I shall need in order to open the padlock.

  I do not wish to indulge Lizzy's fears, but it might be as well to show her that she is wrong.

  “Wait here for one moment, please,” I tell her, as I head back out and start making my way up the next set of steps, toward the old door that leads into the bell-tower. Truth be told, the climb is rather awkward, since the ceiling is low and the walls move noticeably closer. I suppose these old buildings were rather bodged together.

  As I get to the door and start opening the padlock, I hear Lizzy coming up behind me.

  “There really is nothing to worry about,” I continue, struggling for a moment with the key. The padlock is old and slightly rusted, and clearly has not been touched for quite some time. “I intend to put your mind at rest, Lizzy, and then you must get back to work. One can find endless distractions if one is so inclined.”

  I turn to her.

  She stares up at me with fear in her eyes.

  “There is nothing up here,” I tell her, forcing a smile in an attempt to calm her worries. “I promise.”

  I wait, but she is clearly not in the right state of mind to be persuaded. She must be shown that she is wrong.

  Sighing, I fiddle with the key for a while longer, but then – just as I am beginning to fear that the lock is beyond use – I hear a clicking noise and the padlock opens.

  Pulling the door open, I am confronted with another, smaller set of steps, leading up into the bell-tower itself. I should have come up here already, but I suppose I was trying to focus on important immediate tasks, while delaying everything else.

  I gesture for Lizzy to wait behind, and then I begin to climb up, struggling slightly with the creaking wooden steps. The stairwell narrows considerably, to the point that I have to really hunch down in order to progress, and this is not made any easier by the fact that one of my legs is rather stiff. Finally I haul myself up into the cold, airy bell-tower and I look up to see that the bells all look to be in good working order. Filled with a sense of relief, I examine the ropes for a moment and then I turn to look at the spot directly above the stain in one of the lower rooms.

  And at that moment I freeze, as I see a strange shape on the floor. It takes a moment, and then I realize that this shape is that of a curled human figure.

  “Father Loveford?” Lizzy calls out. “Are you okay up there?”

  I stare at the body, unable quite to process what I am seeing, until suddenly I hear Lizzy on the steps.

  “Wait down there!” I shout.

  “Is everything alright?”

  “Wait down there,” I say again, as I take a couple of steps toward the body. “Whatever you do, do not come up here.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do as I tell you,” I say firmly, stepping closer still to the body until I can make out the side of its face. “For the love of God,” I add, “do not come up.”

  Wearing a ragged and pale gray dress, the body is almost completely rotten. Or perhaps that is not the right word. I am no expert, but the body looks terribly withered. I can see one side of the face, where the skin clings to the skull. The eyes are open, although I see no eyeballs, and the mouth is open too, allowing me to spot a row of stained teeth. Long dark hair is still attached to the scalp, and runs down to cover the neck and part of the shoulder. A little further down, the left hand is closed almost into a fist, with the fingers partially curled.

  A breeze blows through the arches and through the bell-tower, and for a moment I detect a faint odor. At the same time, the fabric of the corpse's dress is rustled slightly, and some of the hair moves in the wind.

  Crouching down, I see that the wooden floor beneath the body is stained a dark color. There is definitely blood, mostly around the head area, as if perhaps there is an injury unseen on the side of the head that is pressed against the floor.

  Taking a deep breath, I make the sign of the cross against my chest, and then I lower my head.

  “Lord, grant peace to this poor child of yours,” I whisper, “and take her into our kingdom. And have mercy on those who -”

  “Is everything alright?” Lizzy calls out, and suddenly I once again hear her coming up the steps. “Father Loveford?”

  “Wait!” I gasp, turning to stop her. “Don't -”

  But I am too late.

  She appears at the top of the steps, and her gaze immediately falls upon the corpse. She stares for a moment, her smile half-frozen on her face before fading entirely.

  And then the poor girl screams.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Well, it's a woman,” Doctor Sommersby says as two attendants carry the covered body outside on a stretcher. “I'll have to make a formal identification, of course, but the age and height and general appearance, from what I can tell, match Judith Prendergast perfectly. The dress also matches the one she was last seen wearing.”

  I watch as the stretcher is carried out of view. A sheet covers the body, but I cannot help thinking of the terrible sight that I witnessed up there in the bell-tower.

  “How long?” I whisper, before turning to Doctor Sommersby.

  “How long has she been dead?” He pauses. “Two years seems about right. The conditions up there were very dry, and she was high enough up that any odor would have dissipated without being noticed by anyone on the ground. There would have been flies and maggots, that sort of thing, but again they were all the way up there in the bell-tower. It's not hard to understand how she could have died and rotted up there without being noticed.”

  He pauses again.

  “Then again,” he adds, “the condition of the body is a little different to what you'd expect. There'll be some reason, something in the environment up there, but I would have expected more... Well, I won't go into the details, but let's just say that she has more meat on her bones that I'd have thought.”

  A shudder passes through my chest.

  “There's a wound on her head,” he adds.

  “I thought as much,” I reply.

  “It's right here,” he says, tapping the left side of his forehead. “There's some blood on the corner of the ledge near the steps, too. I don't want to rush to judgment, but I wouldn't be surprised if she fell and hit her head on the corner. It's unlucky but not impossible, and she could have died instantly.”

  “But the padlock,” I reply. “How could she have locked the door after herself?”

  “The door itself was locked, yes,” he says, “but the actual frame was loose. Didn't you notice? It can be pulled aside, certainly far enough to let someone get through even if they didn't have the key. Why she put it back in place after herself, I have no idea, but that's for the police to think about. People do strange things sometimes, Father Loveford, as I'm sure you're aware. We don't know why she went up to the bell-tower either, do we? Then again, she was rather fond of ringing that thing, whenever she wanted to draw attention to more sins in the village. Maybe that's why she loosened the door. If Perkins tried to lock her out of the tower, she'd have wanted to find another way in.”

  “I suppose so,” I reply. “It's still hard to believe that the poor woman could have been up there for two years, undisturbed and undiscovered. Was nobody looking for her?”

  “It's sad, to be sure.” He nods, and then he sighs. “Clark's outside, I expect he'll want to have a word with you, but I don't think the police are going to be too interested in this case. It's open-and-shut, as far as I can see. Unless I find anything else during the autopsy, I imagine I'll have to list misadventure as the cause of death. It's a damn shame. The
woman was disliked by pretty much everyone, but still, nobody should have to die like this. Makes you wonder, eh?”

  With that, he turns and heads outside, and a moment later I hear him conversing with Constable Clark. Their conversation sounds unhurried, and it's clear that Miss Prendergast's death is indeed being treated as a tragic accident. I turn and head away from the door, and then I stop as I realize I can hear a faint, gentle sobbing sound coming from my office.

  I walk to the door, and I see that poor Lizzy is indeed weeping with her face in her hands. She is sitting in my chair, in the spot where I have been sitting while I work on my sermon.

  “There,” I say, making my way over and, after a moment's hesitation, placing a hand on her shaking shoulder. “One must keep a stiff upper lip in these circumstances, mustn't one? I know it was quite a shock, but no good can come of this excess of emotion.”

  She looks up at me, and I see tears streaming from her eyes and running down her reddened face. In that moment, I feel that my words – particularly my warning about an 'excess of emotion' – sounded rather uncaring, perhaps even old-fashioned.

  “No good?” she asks breathlessly. “Did you see her up there?”

  I nod.

  “Did you see her face?”

  Again, I nod.

  “Did you see how shriveled she looked? Her mouth was open and -”

  “Well, there's no point going into detail,” I point out, hoping to bring her to her senses. Were she a man, I would offer her a small shot of whiskey, but I don't think that would be appropriate in these circumstances. Instead, I leave my hand on her shoulder for a moment longer, for longer than I would in any other situation, and then I step back a little. “Nor is there any point in reliving the sight over and over.”

  I wait, but still Lizzy sobs.

  “Do you know what would be best right now?” I ask finally, hoping to stir her back into action. “We should go about our daily business. We should get back to what we were doing before.”