The Creature in the Church

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The night was haunted. Heavy rain fell. Moonlight seeped through cracks in the dark clouds above. Below, wading through mud and dirt, a group of men were hauling a great wooden box across a waterlogged field toward a village. Guiding them: a humble vicar draped in sodden robes. He looked onwards with a piercing determination—something undetected amongst the exhausted labourers behind him. They groaned wearily as they pushed the heavy wooden box forward. Through the cold rain and the bitter wind, the vicar shouted forth. ‘There can be no rest. Not until we have homed the almighty.’ The labourers, drenched too in water and mud though more severely than the vicar, did little else but grumble to themselves and carry on. The word of the vicar was the word of God. And the word of God was the word of goodness. Pure and holy goodness. Through the fields, they had arrived at the village and carried on along the main street. Before them stood the church. Nothing about this church was unus...

Seeing What Mustn’t

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‘Will you promise me?’ the voice said calmly. ‘You must promise me.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ came two other voices in unison—both young and timid.

The twins were made to promise their mother every night that they’d never speak to anyone unknown to them. They were not more than 8 years of age—their dear mother would never lead them astray. Each evening, after they were made to take their bedtime prayers, she would command her sons not to speak to strangers. Not for as long as they lived. She told them about how awful people could be and what awful things they could do. She told them that even the friendliest of faces and warmest of gestures could disguise the most appalling of motives. No matter how delightful the words or how enticing the charms, she had instructed the twins in pain of death that they resist the venom.

Their abode—an old, detached house—sat humbly on a small street at the heart of a quiet English village. It was in the children’s bedroom on the top floor of the house that their mother would, each evening, command them to make their promise and each evening, they would do so. The most unusual of occurrences developed on one such night, hours after their mother had done the same as she did every other evening.

Some light. Some sound. The quiet night outside had been disrupted. A liveliness had possessed the village. The twins were tucked away in bed but were awoken by the outside disturbance.

‘What’s going on—what’s going on?’ one of the twins frantically asked the other.

‘I don’t know—I don’t know!’ the other replied equally as desperately.

One of them swiftly shuffled out of bed and ran across the bedroom towards the window. He pulled aside the curtain, and the room became enveloped by a bright warm light from outside. His eyes became fixed on the happenings in the village like something of a trance.

‘What’s happening?’ the twin, still in bed, asked eagerly.

The boy at the window opened his mouth as if to speak but, instead, silence. He couldn’t distract himself from what he was seeing. Not even for a moment. The other son scurried over quickly and perched beside his brother. His eyes, too, became transfixed by the world outside. For seconds. For minutes. Perhaps even for hours. They stood motionless watching. As they did so, colour drained from their faces. Their expressions of curiosity had transformed into expressions of deep angst and discomfort. From that moment, they knew they would never utter another word. Not to a soul. Not even to their dear mother.