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The tiny, medieval church of St. Cleots stands nestled among the trees of the Fulmer Estate, near Witherby. I am visiting and paying my respects to the stonemasons, who built this fascinating shrine to God.
A frequent pilgrim to old churches, the peace and tranquillity that such excursions usually afford me is today, however, distinctly uncomfortable.
My dog, Suzy, seems her usual self as she sniffs among the ancient gravestones and undergrowth, whilst I walk alongside the church towards the door.
The scenery is breathtaking, there’s no doubt about that, but for some, obscure reason though, I’m sweating and, despite the open air, feel... claustrophobic.
The weathered characters on the gravestones shout at me to be read, but I turn away, a tingle running down my spine. Am I being watched? I can’t see anyone, but the feeling’s strong.
The handle on the church door turns and I am inside the vestibule. I flick a switch and delicate light illuminates the stunning interior. My first thought is how out of character the bulbs and wires look in this place that is aged beyond comprehension, where walls are adorned with Latin and Old English. A tiny staircase rises on one side through an aperture hardly big enough to crawl through. I can see gnarled, oak pews that have sat more people down through the ages than I can possibly imagine. It’s like a step back in time and I feel so inadequate when I consider this. I look up, and on one of the original oak beams that stretches across the worn, slate floor of the knave, I can see a statue of Our Lady smiling down at me, baby Jesus in her arms. They remind me of Sharon, my Wife and Daughter, Lauren.
My footsteps echo as I walk down the aisle, towards the Alter. On both sides, buried in the walls are the tombs of past Lords and Ladies of the manor who once graced this hallowed ground before me, making me mindful of my low place in this life. In my mind I feel sure they’re calling out to me. Urging me to them. I approach and touch the wall-stone that denotes the last resting place of Elizabeth De Luncy who died in 1575 and feel her presence.
“Stay with me,” she whispers as she touches my soul. I yearn to see her, but she fades away.
“Come back!” I call, but silence is her only reply. I walk along the wall, examining the texts on each stone. As I pass, other voices, a long way off, echo around me. They sound indistinct and lost, yet close to me, these voices of the dead from ancient times.
I move across the Altar to another wall stone, that of John Francis, Physician to the De Luncy family, who died in 1542. The stone is so cold to the touch that I retract my hand from it, but the feeling remains.
“Can you hear me?” His memory whispers to me.
“Yes. Where are you?” I ask.
“There is nothing,” he replies and he fades away. I’m unnerved at this. Goose bumps prickle my neck.
Suzy’s sudden bark from outside makes me jump. As I leave, a sign tells me to switch off the lights. But, somehow, I don’t want to be left in darkness. As my eyes adjust to the bright sunlight suddenly thrust in my eyes, I hear Suzy’s barking becoming more agitated. I can see her digging, in a hollow beneath a headstone; her attention on something buried.
“Suzy! No!” As I near my dog, I see her pulling at something decayed. Sweet Jesus! It’s an arm!
The wretched cloth is bloody and identical my own jacket. Suzy is licking the blood, whimpering. What is this?? I suddenly have an immense headache and feel sick in my stomach. I turn away to vomit only to see, out in the lane, the blackened, smoking, crumpled bonnet of my car. I see blood sprayed on the inside of the smashed windscreen.
I turn away in fear only to see, in horror, Sharon gliding slowly towards the door to the church.
“Sharon?!” I cry. But she’s ignoring me.
“What’s the matter with me?!”
She slows as she moves past and cocks her head.
“Can’t you hear me?!! Why don’t you listen to me?!!!” I scream in frustration!
Just then she turns and looks at me with stone-dead eyes as the voice of John Francis whispers in the distance, chilling to the bone,
“I’m sorry, but he’s brain-dead”.
“Switch him off,” is all she says as she disappears inside the church.
Suddenly, I’m running towards her, tears running down my face!
“Don’t’ switch it off! Don’t switch it off!! Don’t you understand?! I’m not dead! I’m alive! I’m alive!! I’______________________________
Keith Blakesley has been a member of Lincoln Phoenix writers' circle for over 10 years now. He writes stage plays, television screenplays and, occasionally, short stories. This is one of those occasions…