The illusion of sanctity

The illusion of sanctity 

“Hook it brick, do ‘ya think I care who you are!?”

“Let us have no more of your gum cabbie, lest I withdraw my payment for this journey” reposts the reverend Obadiah Stain upon demanding his package to be brought down from atop the carriage.

“av’ at it mate, bet you an’ yer’ fine friend won’t be staying long in there either. I’m off” The Cabman grunts, before rudely tossing our expensive leather bag (from good old London herself I’ll tell you) to the muddy road. Turning my ear from the harsh verbal slating the gammy little man was sure soon about to receive, I looked upon the grand old chapel that would become our home.

Taller than it was wide, the blackened crumbling brickwork stretched upwards into a long single spire, cut off abruptly before its climax. It’d obviously been severed harshly by a lightning storm, frequent in these parts I hear, but I couldn’t shake the feeling it had been denied access to reach up into the heavens. The long thin windows reflected the eve’s last light, as the great bell hung passively in its cradle, dead still in the light breeze. It was silent all around.

I followed the Reverend into the possessive embrace of the hall (be it no warmer than the outside), passing among the cornrows of ebony benches hiding faded yellow cushions. Planted beside that tall pulpit shuffled a squat dirty little woman, who regarded us both with an inquisitive stare. There was an air of prejudice about the crone, as if she was constantly in a state of judgement, but being a man of god I decided against bearing ill thoughts against this unfortunate creature. After all, as soon as introductions were set down it was made apparent she was the custodian of the chapel. I took this as a little odd that a lady had been seeing to the running of this place in the absence of a vicar, and as I wandered about the pews I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the previous male curator.

After a small measure of drink that night I decided to survey our new home, forced by a lack of company or any form of merriment. Reverend Stain was nowhere to be found, so I thought I may as well converse with the old haybag, to get a better knowledge of the place. On finding her quarters however, I discovered she had also ambled off. Her room was awful queer, full of baby toys and sporting a flaking cot in the corner.  I thought this somewhat strange, as the woman had not mentioned a child, and I had seen none scampering around the place. Feeling a little unsettled, I decided to call in the day and return to my own room. I would ask the custodian about this at a later date. 

I was ripped from the sweet embrace of sleep by a loud banging on the confessional door. All of me grumbled to go back to sleep, par one small voice that questioned who was sharing their deepest darkest secretes at night in the middle of a storm. It couldn’t hurt to see first-hand how vicar Stain dealt with confessions, as I would have to do it myself one day, so I shamefully slunk to the door and tuned my ears above the storm.

“I assure you this is in the strictest confidence, only the almighty may judge you, you have nothing to fear” Such was the Reverend’s voice, soothing and calm. A voice you could trust, the reply however was masked by a noise most strange from down the hall. I could have sworn it was the cry of a child. Leaving the door be, I proceeded to inch my way down the corridor, the crying faint now over the storm. I was lead to the custodian’s room, which was in an awful mess as if the storm itself had thrust its way through. The noise was hardly there now, but with straining I was directed toward the cot. Gathering my wits I strode toward it and peered in.

It was silent all around.

The cot was empty, but I would never forget that sound; the sharpness of the plea that rung through the halls. I did not see my mentor for days, and when I did he lay still on a stone bench covered in nought but a shroud.  The custodian herself had also vanished that night, taking with her all the unanswered questions packed up in her bag, leaving me only with an empty chapel and that awful cry still ringing in my ears.