Salter

John Bryson-Haigh loved his village. Salter-le-Dale, was a sleepy rural back-water near the Lake District of England. Too far from a Lake, or a mountain, to attract tourists, the former hamlet of houses became a village with the re-concecration of the old local church. Father John Bryson-Haigh's church.

Most Catholic churches which survived the idoloclast of the middle-ages, reformist movement, lay ruined and neglected forever, but not Salter-le-Dale's. St. Mary's was deemed an "important building of historical importance which should be resurrected as a working model". Well, that was what the Bishop said, when he appointed John as Parish Priest. In reality, Father John could not see why the heating system should be so antiquated too.

Like a picture postcard, St. Mary's huddled in a corner of the overgrown graveyard, and against a patch-work of lush fields. It should be beautiful. It should be the center of community hub-bub, and a hive of village activity, but it was not. The Womens Guild met at the hairdresser's and the Cub Scouts met in a function room above the pub. Villagers, who were eager to visit their Priest at all hours in his little house down the lane, shunned the gray stoned building throughout the week, except for Mass on Sundays. He could not say he blamed them; there was something wrong with the place. While a Priest would find such circumstances unbelievable and superstition at best, Father John came to realize there may be something behind the fears of his Parish.

Vespers and Benediction took place on the first Sunday evening of every month. Only a handful of villagers attended, and Father John was left with the distinct impression they got increasingly agitated at the length of the proceedings. A number of times when he glanced up from the Blessed Sacrament to see anxious pale faces turned to the descending dusk's, orange hue through the stained glass windows. When he turned to the congregation and instructed them to go in peace, they practically fled.

Left alone, in the vestry, he heard the wind pick up outside and chase the shadows around the eaves. He replaced the Host, removed his outer vestments and was about to lock the sacristy, when the outline of a man passed the window which looked out to the west. Shortly after, he heard the creak of the wrought iron latch on the heavy oak church door and ventured out to see who entered his church. No-one. The door remained closed, the aisles remained empty.

He went over to the Lady Chapel in the north-east section of the building and extinguished all save the shrine candle. The window here was a veneration to the Mother of God, but the unmistakable shadow of a figure outside, startled him again, as its passing darkened Mary's robes. Soon after, the latch creaked, as if someone were intent to enter, but no one did, and the wind's soft moan was Father John's only companion.

Widdershins, walk the soulless. The thought came to him and he glanced at the windows on the opposite side of the Church. There! A figure passed them at a fast gait. Three times, anti-clockwise, this man mocks the Trinty. Father John thought, and he sprinted down the aisle on a wave of adrenalin tinged with instinctual fear.

He reached the main door at the same time the person outside did. The latch began to rattle and creak. Father John slammed his whole weight behind the wood - air knocked out of his lungs by the furious assault and battery on the other side. Howls of outrage rang through the church and reverberated down the Priest's spine. Eventually, the energy of the attack dissipated and Father John slumped to the floor in front of the door. The pitying gaze of the crucified Christ stared down at him from the cross above the Rood Gallery and he thanked God for His presence.

* * * * *

Father John spent his Monday morning off having a cooked breakfast in the village tea shop. He tried not to eavesdrop on his parishoner's conversations, but could not help overhear a group of older people discussing their attendance at Vespers and subsequent refusal to attend any more, because it was obvious to them "His Lordship" was unhappy with the resurrection of services. Mrs Floydd, one of the old people involved in the discussion, was Father John's cleaning lady. He made a mental note to put out a whole tin of biscuits for the habitual tea break they shared before she polished the brasses.

It worked. Biscuit after biscuit was devoured between gossip and superstitious story-telling. Yes, the Devil once lived in Salter-le-Dale, and his name was Lord Matherton. No, there was no manor house now, the Church and the house were both attacked by villagers in the seventeenth century who believed his Lordship a satanist and vampire. The manor house was razed to the ground, but an army battalion, stationed nearby, stopped the rioters completing the job on the church. However, Father John was the first communicant since then, and the new villagers thought he brought the Devil back with him. No-one in the village wanted to enter St. Mary's after dark. There were no counter-curses, which Mrs Floydd knew of, which would compel a man to walk widdershins around the church before entering it. In fact, that alone proved her right for thinking the Devil and Lord Matherton were both returned, and if Father had an ounce of sense, he would not be at the church after dark, either.

* * * * *

The following Sunday Father John made a point of addressing the silliness of local superstition as a means to empower the Devil. He quoted passages on Simon Magus, and the Homily examined the phenomenon of 'Psychic Vampires' in the modern world. He illuminated the congregation as to the ways the Devil could come to them to sap their moral, Christian strength. How he could feed on their fears, weakness, and vice, using every trick in the book to promote wickedness. At the end of the sermon, he urged every member to join him in devotion at a candle-lit Evening Prayer for the spiritual well-being of the entire village.

Coffee was drunk quickly after the Mass, with little cause for conversation. There were mummers, furtive glances, whispers and hushed tones. He would have to wait to see if anyone joined him at the appointed hour.

The wan glow of twilight came and went, tumbling the old arches into varying degrees of shadow, and the sky into inky velvets. No one came. He closed the heavy door, but remained in his vestments, not ready to cast them off, in the hope someone would come. The votive lights in the Lady Chapel shone out and he knelt and prayed. He prayed for the congregation to believe in him, for the souls of those tortured by fear to be eased, for the parish, for himself and all for God. He thought he might cry.

The row of blue votive flames gutted in unison, and sprang back up like yellow sentinels. Father John stirred from his melancholy reveries, in the happy realization someone came to pray with him. He turned and smiled; the door was opening, but his faith and hope were soon lost, as instead of a clutch of villagers, the open door revealed the thick emptiness of the void beyond.

"Is anybody there?" He called.

Nothing. Only the noise of the nocturnal countryside answered his call. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shadow pass the window to his left. He glanced away from the door and watched the passage of something vaguely human shaped running anti-clockwise around the church. He held his crucifix out toward the door, expecting the Devil to burst in, but all he saw was the fleeting impression of volume added to the gaping maw of blackness beyond. He moved forward and pushed against the door, but it was swollen with recent rain and all his efforts seemed feeble. Shadow passed against the window to his right and the smell of bestial sweat wafted past him with the sound of hoof beats. It was hopeless! He whimpered in his mind, but then saw the unblinking statue of Christ and realized he acted the same as the villagers: allowing the psychic vampire to feast on his faith.

Father John redoubled his efforts, all the while singing the Angelus at the top of his voice, against the beast without. What was a door? He questioned, feeling his strength return. Flimsy wood, and little else. Faith was something much more substantial than oak!

The figure approached. It was bore down on him, but Father John no longer struggled with the door, or his conscience. He knelt before the open door, opened his arms wide, and opened his soul even wider. Heaven's doors would lock out the beast tonight.

* * * * *

No one in the village dared to ask Father John what he saw that night. Monday morning, he walked into the tea shop for his usual cooked breakfast with a knowing smile and a shock of white hair where his dark brown locks once were.

"I will see you all at the next Vespers & Benediction." He announced to the room, as he sat and waited for the waitress. The air of confident authority even solicited some nods of ascent. Nobody doubted John Bryson-Haigh loved his village.

(1,591 words)