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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Horror
- Subject: Horror / Scary
- Published: 01/21/2025
Captured Souls
Adult, M, from Ontario, Canada.jpeg)
~English Lake District, 1858~
Lewis set the bouquet of Daffodils on her grave. Her tombstone lay towards the back of the churchyard, next to the old stone wall that enclosed the small cemetery of St. Bede. Engraved at the top of the tombstone were two hands clasped together—a testament to their everlasting love. Below the engraving, the epitaph read: 'Harriet Parker. Her light will shine eternally. Requiescat In Pace'.
“Rest in peace, my love,” he said tenderly, “When the time comes, we will walk hand-in-hand once more, as we used to.”
It was just a few months ago that they had settled in the village of Elterwater, where he found employment as a bookkeeper at the gunpowder plant. Harriet was delighted when he told her the news. She loved the countryside and was eager to leave the crowded streets of London behind to begin a new life in Elterwater with him. They took up residence in a cozy cottage by a gentle stream, one of the many waterways that fed into the main river powering the factory. While he was away at work, she roamed the region in search of inspiration for her artwork, a series of landscape paintings commissioned by a dear friend of hers. It was during one of these outings that she came to discover the church at St. Bede.
The small church stood alone in a meadow along the western edge of the lake, two tall elm trees flanking the low stone wall surrounding both the church and its cemetery. A small wooden gate facing the rear of the church provided the only entrance into the church grounds. On the opposite shore of the lake, a series of imposing, craggy peaks towered above, dwarfing the church in comparison.
"Beautiful beyond words", thought Harriet as she absorbed the subtle details of the scenery that lay before her, "this will be an absolute joy to paint."
She went there almost every day, with her easel and pochade box in tow, painting the church and its surroundings for hours on end. On a singularly hot and humid afternoon, as Harriet was putting the final touches to her painting, a great thunderstorm caught her by surprise, forcing her to seek shelter under the canopy of one of the great elm trees. “Of all the rotten luck,” she said out loud, as a clap of thunder broke overhead and a sudden gust of wind swayed the towering branches above her.
That evening Lewis arrived home to find a clergyman waiting for him outside his cottage gate.
“Reverend Anderson, what brings you here?” He glanced past the reverend to the closed door of the cottage. “Has Harriet not yet returned?”
Clearing his throat, the reverend replied in a subdued voice, “As you are probably aware, there was a violent storm this afternoon. Mrs. Parker was caught unawares and took shelter under an elm tree by the church yard. One of its large boughs broke free by the fierce wind, badly injuring your wife. By the time I found her, there was little I could do to save her. I’m so sorry, Mr. Parker.”
Lewis stood in silence, then the meaning of the reverend’s words took hold and he felt sick, his head spinning and his legs ready to give way. He swallowed hard and said unsteadily, “My…Harriet…”
The reverend nodded slowly. “You can take some solace in knowing that I had time to administer her last rights, Mr. Parker. Before her parting, she asked that I convey her final words to you—that she loves you, and that she wishes to be buried at St. Bede’s cemetery. She passed away peacefully soon after communicating this to me.”
Suddenly, the reverend reached out and caught Lewis by the arms before gently laying him down on the ground. The poor fellow had fainted.
Her tombstone cast its long shadow in the waning daylight. “It’s time for me to go, Harriet, but I’ll be back soon.” He was about to leave but after a moment’s reflection spoke to her once more. “By the way, I almost forgot to tell you, there are some lovely forget-me-nots growing next to the hedgerows we planted, a vibrant azure colour. I’ll collect a bunch and bring them with me tomorrow. They will complement the daffodils quite nicely.”
Reaching out, he placed his hand on her tombstone. He held it there for a minute before turning away and slowly heading towards the gate. This was the most difficult part of the day, leaving her all alone in the small graveyard. "Just ten minutes more", he muttered to himself. "I can’t face the thought of going back to an empty house just yet."
He wandered among the tombstones, noting that most appeared quite old, the headstones stained green with the encroachment of moss over time. He read some of the dates as he walked past. "Seventeen-eighty-nine, seventeen—"
He suddenly paused and focused his attention on the epitaph beneath the date. Most of the words were too worn down to be read, while others were encrusted with fungal growth. But a few letters stood out clearly, as if recently scrubbed clean.
“H-e-l-p” he murmured. Below these, two more letters were visible; “m-e.”
“Help me,” he said in bewilderment. “How very queer.” He scanned the epitaph carefully once more, but those were the sole decipherable letters. Hesitantly, he walked up to the tombstone. The engraving at the top featured a bible. "This must be a grave of a minister", he thought. He tried to decipher the name. The first few letters read ‘Brad’. He used his nail to scrape away at the dried moss that covered the remainder of the name. Small flakes of green fell away revealing the letters ‘dock’.
“Braddock,” he said in a slow, puzzled voice. “I’ll ask Reverend Anderson about the name, perhaps Braddock was a clergyman at St. Bede. Uncanny about the message, though. Just a rare fluke I suppose, such events must occur sometimes. Still…I can’t shake the feeling that there is something to this. Perhaps—”
He broke his train of thought to look up towards the gate. Darkness had settled in, and a sudden feeling of unease fell upon him as he fixed his gaze at what looked like the silhouette of a man.
“Reverend Anderson?” Lewis asked in a lowered voice.
There was no reply as the shadowy figure faded into the darkness.
The next afternoon, Lewis arrived at the cemetery to find Reverend Anderson standing by a grave, bending forward as he ran his fingers along the epitaph engraved on the tombstone.
Lewis studied him for a short while, then made his way to the tomb and greeted the reverend with a “Good afternoon.”
The reverend straightened suddenly with a start.
“My dear fellow, you took me quite by surprise. I did not hear you approaching. But it is good to see you Mr. Parker. How have you been?”
“I am coping with my loss as well as can be expected,” Lewis replied, redirecting the conversation before the reverend could inquire further, “Is that Braddock’s tombstone you were looking at just now? I came across it last night and was curious if he had been a reverend at this church.”
“Why yes, he was, but I know little about him. He was succeeded by a Reverend Clarke in 1779, who reached the ripe old age of eighty-seven by the time I arrived to replace him in 1834. If I recall correctly, he told me Reverend Braddock was responsible for creating this small cemetery. There was something else he mentioned about the cemetery…something about the number of graves…dear me, what was it…” He stroked his chin pensively. “Twenty-nine” he said suddenly. “There was never to be more than twenty-nine graves present. It’s curious how that slipped my memory. I’m afraid your wife’s grave brings the count to thirty, but I’m sure the good reverend will find it in his heart to forgive me, as I certainly could not refuse your wife’s last wishes.”
“No, you certainly could not,” agreed Lewis. He then added; “I noticed you were examining the epitaph quite closely when I arrived.”
“Yes, I was. I thought I made out a word or two as I was walking by, but upon closer examination I realized that I was mistaken. The stone is heavily weathered, and moss encrusts much of the epitaph.”
“Yes, I myself thought I could make out some words last night, but I can see now that I was mistaken as well. What was it you think you saw?”
With an uneasy laugh Reverend Anderson replied, “It’s of no importance. But you seem to be most interested in our Reverend Braddock, Mr. Parker. We do have a few of his documents and his journal in our ecclesiastical archives, if you wish to examine them.”
“I would, very much indeed.”
“Then make your way over to the church once you are done here. You can join me for a cup of tea before looking over the documents.”
The records of Reverend Braddock were few and did not reveal much about the man. It was only when Lewis reached the last few pages of the journal, recorded during the reverend’s eighty-second year, that he stumbled upon a few curious facts.
The cemetery was established by the reverend after consultation with a German theologian by the name of Mr. Ubel. None of the particulars surrounding this individual are recorded—who he was, where he lived, or how the reverend came to meet the man. As to the reverend’s interment, he requested that his sacred bottle of holy water be buried with him. Next to this entry, scrawled along the page’s border, was written 'Absolvat me Deus'.
“My Latin is rusty but I’m fairly confident this translates to May God forgive me,” murmured Lewis, then added after a moment’s reflection, “But what are you asking forgiveness from, Reverend Braddock?”
His attention was drawn to a small piece of paper that protruded from behind the last page. He ran his finger along the inside binding. "Someone has torn out the final few pages", he observed. "Who would do such a thing? Perhaps the pages held the answer to my question, one that was not meant to be shared…"
He returned the journal to the shelf. Next to it was that of Reverend Clarke. "Why not", he said to himself as he removed the journal from the shelf, "I’m sure Reverend Anderson won’t mind my taking a little while longer."
Reverend Clarke’s journal left Lewis with yet more unanswered questions. It was Reverend Clarke who decreed that St. Bede’s cemetery should not exceed twenty-nine graves in number, and had the outer stone wall constructed so as to limit any possible expansion of the cemetery. Why? And why, on more than one occasion, had he sought the assistance of senior pastors from surrounding districts to help consecrate the grounds? As for more information on Reverend Braddock, there was little, just a single entry that referred to his predecessor as ‘a poor, misguided soul.’
“Have you discovered any thing new about our Reverend Braddock?”
Lewis looked up from the journal and shook his head. “Unfortunately,” he said as he got up to replace the journal, “nothing beyond what you shared with me earlier.”
“We generally tend to live quiet, uneventful lives,” added Reverend Anderson pleasantly.
“Tell me reverend, are there any surviving family members of Reverend Braddock?”
“I believe,” he said after a moment’s reflection, “a niece of his resides at Little Langdale. I don’t recall her name, but I will find out for you. Mrs. Hill, my housekeeper, is a bit of a busybody. If anyone knows her name and where she resides, it will be her.”
The name and address were duly acquired from Mrs. Hill, and a few days later Mr. Parker found himself in a modest parlor seated across from a pale, delicate old woman with silvery gray eyes that complemented the colour of her hair.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mrs. Thatcher.”
“Not at all, Mr. Parker. The reverend mentioned your interest in learning more about my late uncle, Reverend Braddock.”
“Yes, I felt I ought to know a little more about the history of St. Bede’s church, as my wife cherished the spot and is now laid to rest in its cemetery.”
“Mrs. Hill told me about the terrible accident. Life can be so cruel at times. You have my condolences, Mr. Parker.”
Lewis acknowledged her sentiment with a nod, but remained silent, prompting Mrs. Thatcher to continue;
“I did not know my late uncle very well. He mainly kept to himself and spoke little during family gatherings. I don’t believe he was particularly well liked by his parish. As you may already know, he did establish the church cemetery, although Reverend Clarke’s decree that it remain small, not more than twenty-nine graves I believe, was seen as unreasonable by many. So much vacant land surrounds the church.”
“Yes, I can understand why people would see it that way. Tell me,” Lewis continued, “did your uncle ever mention someone by the name of Mr. Ubel?”
“The name rings a bell…but I can’t be certain.” Mrs. Hill gave a small sigh as she shrugged her shoulders. “But I’m afraid, Mr. Parker, that I have little more to add. I wish I could have been of more help to you.”
“You have been most helpful. Thank you again for your time.”
He was about to get up from his seat when she added;
“Mr. Parker, before you go, there is one more thing. Behind you on the bookshelf you will find a bible. It belonged to my uncle. I’m not sure why he wanted me to have it—I’m not a religious person. I’d like to donate it to St. Bede’s church. Do you mind leaving it with Reverend Anderson the next time you find yourself there? I feel that is where it should have remained all along.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Thatcher. I’ll see to it that he receives it this week.”
That evening, seated at the kitchen table, Lewis examined the leather-bound bible with great care, leafing through its gilded pages one at a time, the flame of the candle flickering slightly with each page turn.
"Admit it man", he said to himself in frustration, "there is nothing here. I felt certain the reverend would have written some notes within the bible, or perhaps concealed the missing pages from his diary. I know I did not hallucinate the ‘Help Me’ message that evening, and his own diary asks for mercy from God. But I remain totally in the dark as to how to help him". Lewis buried his face in his hands and let out a sigh of exasperation. "Accept that this is a hopeless task. Give it up and retire for the night".
He shut the book and in an uncharacteristic fit of anger slammed his fist down near the front edge of the bible. An image materialized ever so briefly within the fore edge of its gilded pages. Lewis stared at the bible in disbelief.
And then a moment’s reflection reminded him of a book he had seen on display at the British Museum. The curator explained how a painted image on the exposed front edges of the book could only be seen when the pages were fanned out, forming a flat canvas. Fore-edge painting, he called it. The gilding of the pages, which is added after the image is painted, makes the painting impossible to see unless the pages are fanned.
“It’s time to see your artwork, Reverend Braddock,” Lewis said, somewhat hesitantly.
He picked up the bible by its sides, sliding his thumbs under the cover and his fingers above the back cover, so that he was grasping all the pages between its bindings. He then pressed the pages downwards with his thumbs, causing them to fan out. The image that materialized deeply unsettled him.
The scene was that of a cemetery at night. At the top of the image, tombstones could be seen. A cutaway view below portrayed the coffins buried underneath them. A series of tunnels connected each of the graves. A hunched figure in a black robe was next to one of the graves, a small, uncorked bottle in his hand. A ghostly white mist was rising from the coffin and streaming towards the opening of the bottle. There was the semblance of a face within the mist, one displaying great fear and sorrow.
"My God", uttered Lewis, "what unspeakable evil have you perpetrated, Reverend Braddock?"
He let the bible fall onto the table as he leaned back in his chair, viewing the book with a sense of dread.
“Harriet,” he said unsteadily under his breath as he rose suddenly from his seat, knocking over his chair, “This cannot be your fate!” And with a sense of impending doom, he staggered out the door.
He stood for a moment outside the cemetery gate, catching his breath as he looked about uneasily. Long spectral shadows stretched out from the base of the tombstones, cast by the light of a full moon. "There is devilry in the air, I can feel it in my soul." Quietly pushing the cemetery gate open, he made his way cautiously to Reverend Braddock’s grave, the only sounds being the soft rustling of the elm leaves and his own footsteps.
He stood in silence before the tombstone, his heart filled with dread. With a tone of defiance, he finally spoke;
“What monstrous deed have you committed Reverend Braddock? How dare you ask for my help—”
Lewis suddenly fell silent, his attention drawn to a faint rustling noise. The sound of footsteps approaching.
“It is I who asked for your help, Mr. Parker.”
Lewis turned to confront the man who spoke these words. Before him stood a tall, dark figure with piercing eyes set wide apart.
“Mr. Ubel,” Lewis uttered with disgust.
“That is but one of my names, Mr. Parker. I have been given many over the centuries, as you may have already surmised.” He took a step closer to Lewis and added in a darker tone, “I would advise you to listen carefully to what I have to say, if you truly care about the fate of your poor wife’s soul.”
Lewis stared into the bestial face before averting his gaze and giving a slight nod.
“Very wise of you, Mr. Parker. Let me begin by telling you a little about the reclusive Reverend Braddock. I have, as you can imagine, a talent for sniffing out morally vulnerable individuals, and our good reverend was certainly one. His innermost desire was to explore the delights the world had to offer, particularly those that would satisfy the carnal desires that were burning within him. And so, before his death, I made a bargain with him.
“I presented him with the opportunity to experience such a life, to live his years over again, to fulfill whatever depravity his small mind could imagine, and to do so freely, without the danger of being held to account by anyone, not even the law. The price of such unrestrained joy? Thirty souls, to be collected by him after his death by means of a unique bottle—a kind of spirit trap, that was to be interned with him. Once buried, I reanimated his corpse, where he spent his time tunneling his way to each new grave in order to capture its soul.
“A problem arose when, unbeknownst to me, the old fool decided to record our agreement in his journal, a most unwise decision as it was soon discovered and read by Reverend Clarke following Braddock’s death. He took its contents very seriously, and so implemented measures to ensure the contract could not be fulfilled. The first of these was to limit the number of graves in the cemetery to twenty-nine. That is, until your wife was buried here. I now have my thirty souls, Mr. Parker.”
“My God, you have…her soul?” Lewis stammered in a trembling voice.
“Not I, Mr. Parker, it still resides in the bottle held by the rotting corpse of Reverend Braddock. You see, as a further precaution, Reverend Clarke had the cemetery blessed several times, believing it would free any of the captured souls. But in this regard he was mistaken. Instead, the consecrated soil hinders me from descending to retrieve my souls, while also preventing what remains of Reverend Braddock from ascending to the surface. This is why I need your assistance, and I am willing to trade your wife’s soul for it.”
Without hesitation, Lewis replied;
“What do you require of me?”
“I need you to get my collection of souls, Mr. Parker. Meet me on the other side of this wall. I have already excavated a six-foot hole next to it, but I cannot dig any further without hitting consecrated ground. Instead, you will use the spade to dig your way forward another foot, where you will connect to one of several tunnels leading to Reverend Braddock. Take the bottle from his hand. The moment you do so, I will release your wife’s soul. Then bring the bottle back to me.”
“Is the reverend…still—”
“He is not, Mr. Parker. He is a rotting corpse. He disregarded our pact of secrecy by recording our bargain in his journal. For this, I will enjoy tormenting his soul for a very long time…”
A damp, foul smelling air assaulted Lewis as he broke through to the connecting tunnel. He placed a handkerchief over his nose before peering into the darkness with the aid of a hurricane lamp. The ceiling of the tunnel was low, forcing him to proceed with his back steeply hunched forward. As he advanced, his breathing grew more laboured, compelling him to remove the handkerchief from his nose. The air was thin and stagnant, and soon the flame in his lamp began to flicker and dim, but not before he caught sight of a shadow just a few feet away. He staggered towards it, his head and back scrapping against the top of the tunnel as he found it impossible to maintain his hunched posture.
The shadow proved to be the opening to a grave. Lewis dropped to his knees and held the dim light above its bodily remains. He gave a start as he made out the ghastly grin of a skull.
“Dear God, please let this be the grave of Reverend Braddock,” he uttered desperately.
The flame grew dimmer still, so that Lewis was forced to keep his face within inches of the corpse as he traced the light along the body towards its hands—a pair of skeletal remains which held…nothing. He hung his head in defeat, and whispered;
"Forgive me my love, I have failed you. I do not have it in me to go forward, I can scarcely breathe…"
The lamp slipped from his grasp and landed beside the corpse, its metal base striking an object. He bent closer to the ground as he ran his trembling hands around the lamp until they came upon a slight protrusion in the earth. Using his fingers, he unearthed a small glass bottle.
Suddenly, a faint light appeared before him, growing larger as he stared at its nebulous shape. As it grew brighter, he could discern the outline of a face, then its features. Loving, caring eyes stared at him.
“Harriet, my God…it’s really you,” he stammered as he gasped for air. “I have little time. Together…soon.” Turning, he headed to the entrance of the cave.
Lewis stumbled out of the tunnel and fell upon his knees, struggling for air. “Give it here, quickly!” demanded the beast, leaning down into the hole to snatch the bottle from Lewis’ outstretched arm. He held the bottle to his ear, listening for a moment before a wide, ghastly grin spread across his face.
“You have done well, Mr. Parker. Let me assist you as you make your way out.” He extended his hand towards Lewis, who did not accept it.
“I see…very well, have it your way.”
Lewis turned and headed back into the tunnel, as the dug earth collapsed back into the hole to seal its entrance. He was soon crawling forward on his hands and knees, too weak to walk. The flame of the lantern gave a final flicker then died. He couldn’t go on. He sat himself up against the tunnel wall, his breathing coming in short, shallow breaths.
“Harriet,” he whispered.
She was there suddenly, her radiant spirit floating next to him, her loving face looking directly at him. Her eyes expressed bewilderment.
“Come now,” he said lovingly, “you didn’t think for a moment that I would leave you all alone down here, did you?”
Smiling, he held out his hand, and when he felt the warmth of her soul upon it, he shut his eyes and took his last breath.
Captured Souls(Stephen Tallevi)
~English Lake District, 1858~
Lewis set the bouquet of Daffodils on her grave. Her tombstone lay towards the back of the churchyard, next to the old stone wall that enclosed the small cemetery of St. Bede. Engraved at the top of the tombstone were two hands clasped together—a testament to their everlasting love. Below the engraving, the epitaph read: 'Harriet Parker. Her light will shine eternally. Requiescat In Pace'.
“Rest in peace, my love,” he said tenderly, “When the time comes, we will walk hand-in-hand once more, as we used to.”
It was just a few months ago that they had settled in the village of Elterwater, where he found employment as a bookkeeper at the gunpowder plant. Harriet was delighted when he told her the news. She loved the countryside and was eager to leave the crowded streets of London behind to begin a new life in Elterwater with him. They took up residence in a cozy cottage by a gentle stream, one of the many waterways that fed into the main river powering the factory. While he was away at work, she roamed the region in search of inspiration for her artwork, a series of landscape paintings commissioned by a dear friend of hers. It was during one of these outings that she came to discover the church at St. Bede.
The small church stood alone in a meadow along the western edge of the lake, two tall elm trees flanking the low stone wall surrounding both the church and its cemetery. A small wooden gate facing the rear of the church provided the only entrance into the church grounds. On the opposite shore of the lake, a series of imposing, craggy peaks towered above, dwarfing the church in comparison.
"Beautiful beyond words", thought Harriet as she absorbed the subtle details of the scenery that lay before her, "this will be an absolute joy to paint."
She went there almost every day, with her easel and pochade box in tow, painting the church and its surroundings for hours on end. On a singularly hot and humid afternoon, as Harriet was putting the final touches to her painting, a great thunderstorm caught her by surprise, forcing her to seek shelter under the canopy of one of the great elm trees. “Of all the rotten luck,” she said out loud, as a clap of thunder broke overhead and a sudden gust of wind swayed the towering branches above her.
That evening Lewis arrived home to find a clergyman waiting for him outside his cottage gate.
“Reverend Anderson, what brings you here?” He glanced past the reverend to the closed door of the cottage. “Has Harriet not yet returned?”
Clearing his throat, the reverend replied in a subdued voice, “As you are probably aware, there was a violent storm this afternoon. Mrs. Parker was caught unawares and took shelter under an elm tree by the church yard. One of its large boughs broke free by the fierce wind, badly injuring your wife. By the time I found her, there was little I could do to save her. I’m so sorry, Mr. Parker.”
Lewis stood in silence, then the meaning of the reverend’s words took hold and he felt sick, his head spinning and his legs ready to give way. He swallowed hard and said unsteadily, “My…Harriet…”
The reverend nodded slowly. “You can take some solace in knowing that I had time to administer her last rights, Mr. Parker. Before her parting, she asked that I convey her final words to you—that she loves you, and that she wishes to be buried at St. Bede’s cemetery. She passed away peacefully soon after communicating this to me.”
Suddenly, the reverend reached out and caught Lewis by the arms before gently laying him down on the ground. The poor fellow had fainted.
Her tombstone cast its long shadow in the waning daylight. “It’s time for me to go, Harriet, but I’ll be back soon.” He was about to leave but after a moment’s reflection spoke to her once more. “By the way, I almost forgot to tell you, there are some lovely forget-me-nots growing next to the hedgerows we planted, a vibrant azure colour. I’ll collect a bunch and bring them with me tomorrow. They will complement the daffodils quite nicely.”
Reaching out, he placed his hand on her tombstone. He held it there for a minute before turning away and slowly heading towards the gate. This was the most difficult part of the day, leaving her all alone in the small graveyard. "Just ten minutes more", he muttered to himself. "I can’t face the thought of going back to an empty house just yet."
He wandered among the tombstones, noting that most appeared quite old, the headstones stained green with the encroachment of moss over time. He read some of the dates as he walked past. "Seventeen-eighty-nine, seventeen—"
He suddenly paused and focused his attention on the epitaph beneath the date. Most of the words were too worn down to be read, while others were encrusted with fungal growth. But a few letters stood out clearly, as if recently scrubbed clean.
“H-e-l-p” he murmured. Below these, two more letters were visible; “m-e.”
“Help me,” he said in bewilderment. “How very queer.” He scanned the epitaph carefully once more, but those were the sole decipherable letters. Hesitantly, he walked up to the tombstone. The engraving at the top featured a bible. "This must be a grave of a minister", he thought. He tried to decipher the name. The first few letters read ‘Brad’. He used his nail to scrape away at the dried moss that covered the remainder of the name. Small flakes of green fell away revealing the letters ‘dock’.
“Braddock,” he said in a slow, puzzled voice. “I’ll ask Reverend Anderson about the name, perhaps Braddock was a clergyman at St. Bede. Uncanny about the message, though. Just a rare fluke I suppose, such events must occur sometimes. Still…I can’t shake the feeling that there is something to this. Perhaps—”
He broke his train of thought to look up towards the gate. Darkness had settled in, and a sudden feeling of unease fell upon him as he fixed his gaze at what looked like the silhouette of a man.
“Reverend Anderson?” Lewis asked in a lowered voice.
There was no reply as the shadowy figure faded into the darkness.
The next afternoon, Lewis arrived at the cemetery to find Reverend Anderson standing by a grave, bending forward as he ran his fingers along the epitaph engraved on the tombstone.
Lewis studied him for a short while, then made his way to the tomb and greeted the reverend with a “Good afternoon.”
The reverend straightened suddenly with a start.
“My dear fellow, you took me quite by surprise. I did not hear you approaching. But it is good to see you Mr. Parker. How have you been?”
“I am coping with my loss as well as can be expected,” Lewis replied, redirecting the conversation before the reverend could inquire further, “Is that Braddock’s tombstone you were looking at just now? I came across it last night and was curious if he had been a reverend at this church.”
“Why yes, he was, but I know little about him. He was succeeded by a Reverend Clarke in 1779, who reached the ripe old age of eighty-seven by the time I arrived to replace him in 1834. If I recall correctly, he told me Reverend Braddock was responsible for creating this small cemetery. There was something else he mentioned about the cemetery…something about the number of graves…dear me, what was it…” He stroked his chin pensively. “Twenty-nine” he said suddenly. “There was never to be more than twenty-nine graves present. It’s curious how that slipped my memory. I’m afraid your wife’s grave brings the count to thirty, but I’m sure the good reverend will find it in his heart to forgive me, as I certainly could not refuse your wife’s last wishes.”
“No, you certainly could not,” agreed Lewis. He then added; “I noticed you were examining the epitaph quite closely when I arrived.”
“Yes, I was. I thought I made out a word or two as I was walking by, but upon closer examination I realized that I was mistaken. The stone is heavily weathered, and moss encrusts much of the epitaph.”
“Yes, I myself thought I could make out some words last night, but I can see now that I was mistaken as well. What was it you think you saw?”
With an uneasy laugh Reverend Anderson replied, “It’s of no importance. But you seem to be most interested in our Reverend Braddock, Mr. Parker. We do have a few of his documents and his journal in our ecclesiastical archives, if you wish to examine them.”
“I would, very much indeed.”
“Then make your way over to the church once you are done here. You can join me for a cup of tea before looking over the documents.”
The records of Reverend Braddock were few and did not reveal much about the man. It was only when Lewis reached the last few pages of the journal, recorded during the reverend’s eighty-second year, that he stumbled upon a few curious facts.
The cemetery was established by the reverend after consultation with a German theologian by the name of Mr. Ubel. None of the particulars surrounding this individual are recorded—who he was, where he lived, or how the reverend came to meet the man. As to the reverend’s interment, he requested that his sacred bottle of holy water be buried with him. Next to this entry, scrawled along the page’s border, was written 'Absolvat me Deus'.
“My Latin is rusty but I’m fairly confident this translates to May God forgive me,” murmured Lewis, then added after a moment’s reflection, “But what are you asking forgiveness from, Reverend Braddock?”
His attention was drawn to a small piece of paper that protruded from behind the last page. He ran his finger along the inside binding. "Someone has torn out the final few pages", he observed. "Who would do such a thing? Perhaps the pages held the answer to my question, one that was not meant to be shared…"
He returned the journal to the shelf. Next to it was that of Reverend Clarke. "Why not", he said to himself as he removed the journal from the shelf, "I’m sure Reverend Anderson won’t mind my taking a little while longer."
Reverend Clarke’s journal left Lewis with yet more unanswered questions. It was Reverend Clarke who decreed that St. Bede’s cemetery should not exceed twenty-nine graves in number, and had the outer stone wall constructed so as to limit any possible expansion of the cemetery. Why? And why, on more than one occasion, had he sought the assistance of senior pastors from surrounding districts to help consecrate the grounds? As for more information on Reverend Braddock, there was little, just a single entry that referred to his predecessor as ‘a poor, misguided soul.’
“Have you discovered any thing new about our Reverend Braddock?”
Lewis looked up from the journal and shook his head. “Unfortunately,” he said as he got up to replace the journal, “nothing beyond what you shared with me earlier.”
“We generally tend to live quiet, uneventful lives,” added Reverend Anderson pleasantly.
“Tell me reverend, are there any surviving family members of Reverend Braddock?”
“I believe,” he said after a moment’s reflection, “a niece of his resides at Little Langdale. I don’t recall her name, but I will find out for you. Mrs. Hill, my housekeeper, is a bit of a busybody. If anyone knows her name and where she resides, it will be her.”
The name and address were duly acquired from Mrs. Hill, and a few days later Mr. Parker found himself in a modest parlor seated across from a pale, delicate old woman with silvery gray eyes that complemented the colour of her hair.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mrs. Thatcher.”
“Not at all, Mr. Parker. The reverend mentioned your interest in learning more about my late uncle, Reverend Braddock.”
“Yes, I felt I ought to know a little more about the history of St. Bede’s church, as my wife cherished the spot and is now laid to rest in its cemetery.”
“Mrs. Hill told me about the terrible accident. Life can be so cruel at times. You have my condolences, Mr. Parker.”
Lewis acknowledged her sentiment with a nod, but remained silent, prompting Mrs. Thatcher to continue;
“I did not know my late uncle very well. He mainly kept to himself and spoke little during family gatherings. I don’t believe he was particularly well liked by his parish. As you may already know, he did establish the church cemetery, although Reverend Clarke’s decree that it remain small, not more than twenty-nine graves I believe, was seen as unreasonable by many. So much vacant land surrounds the church.”
“Yes, I can understand why people would see it that way. Tell me,” Lewis continued, “did your uncle ever mention someone by the name of Mr. Ubel?”
“The name rings a bell…but I can’t be certain.” Mrs. Hill gave a small sigh as she shrugged her shoulders. “But I’m afraid, Mr. Parker, that I have little more to add. I wish I could have been of more help to you.”
“You have been most helpful. Thank you again for your time.”
He was about to get up from his seat when she added;
“Mr. Parker, before you go, there is one more thing. Behind you on the bookshelf you will find a bible. It belonged to my uncle. I’m not sure why he wanted me to have it—I’m not a religious person. I’d like to donate it to St. Bede’s church. Do you mind leaving it with Reverend Anderson the next time you find yourself there? I feel that is where it should have remained all along.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Thatcher. I’ll see to it that he receives it this week.”
That evening, seated at the kitchen table, Lewis examined the leather-bound bible with great care, leafing through its gilded pages one at a time, the flame of the candle flickering slightly with each page turn.
"Admit it man", he said to himself in frustration, "there is nothing here. I felt certain the reverend would have written some notes within the bible, or perhaps concealed the missing pages from his diary. I know I did not hallucinate the ‘Help Me’ message that evening, and his own diary asks for mercy from God. But I remain totally in the dark as to how to help him". Lewis buried his face in his hands and let out a sigh of exasperation. "Accept that this is a hopeless task. Give it up and retire for the night".
He shut the book and in an uncharacteristic fit of anger slammed his fist down near the front edge of the bible. An image materialized ever so briefly within the fore edge of its gilded pages. Lewis stared at the bible in disbelief.
And then a moment’s reflection reminded him of a book he had seen on display at the British Museum. The curator explained how a painted image on the exposed front edges of the book could only be seen when the pages were fanned out, forming a flat canvas. Fore-edge painting, he called it. The gilding of the pages, which is added after the image is painted, makes the painting impossible to see unless the pages are fanned.
“It’s time to see your artwork, Reverend Braddock,” Lewis said, somewhat hesitantly.
He picked up the bible by its sides, sliding his thumbs under the cover and his fingers above the back cover, so that he was grasping all the pages between its bindings. He then pressed the pages downwards with his thumbs, causing them to fan out. The image that materialized deeply unsettled him.
The scene was that of a cemetery at night. At the top of the image, tombstones could be seen. A cutaway view below portrayed the coffins buried underneath them. A series of tunnels connected each of the graves. A hunched figure in a black robe was next to one of the graves, a small, uncorked bottle in his hand. A ghostly white mist was rising from the coffin and streaming towards the opening of the bottle. There was the semblance of a face within the mist, one displaying great fear and sorrow.
"My God", uttered Lewis, "what unspeakable evil have you perpetrated, Reverend Braddock?"
He let the bible fall onto the table as he leaned back in his chair, viewing the book with a sense of dread.
“Harriet,” he said unsteadily under his breath as he rose suddenly from his seat, knocking over his chair, “This cannot be your fate!” And with a sense of impending doom, he staggered out the door.
He stood for a moment outside the cemetery gate, catching his breath as he looked about uneasily. Long spectral shadows stretched out from the base of the tombstones, cast by the light of a full moon. "There is devilry in the air, I can feel it in my soul." Quietly pushing the cemetery gate open, he made his way cautiously to Reverend Braddock’s grave, the only sounds being the soft rustling of the elm leaves and his own footsteps.
He stood in silence before the tombstone, his heart filled with dread. With a tone of defiance, he finally spoke;
“What monstrous deed have you committed Reverend Braddock? How dare you ask for my help—”
Lewis suddenly fell silent, his attention drawn to a faint rustling noise. The sound of footsteps approaching.
“It is I who asked for your help, Mr. Parker.”
Lewis turned to confront the man who spoke these words. Before him stood a tall, dark figure with piercing eyes set wide apart.
“Mr. Ubel,” Lewis uttered with disgust.
“That is but one of my names, Mr. Parker. I have been given many over the centuries, as you may have already surmised.” He took a step closer to Lewis and added in a darker tone, “I would advise you to listen carefully to what I have to say, if you truly care about the fate of your poor wife’s soul.”
Lewis stared into the bestial face before averting his gaze and giving a slight nod.
“Very wise of you, Mr. Parker. Let me begin by telling you a little about the reclusive Reverend Braddock. I have, as you can imagine, a talent for sniffing out morally vulnerable individuals, and our good reverend was certainly one. His innermost desire was to explore the delights the world had to offer, particularly those that would satisfy the carnal desires that were burning within him. And so, before his death, I made a bargain with him.
“I presented him with the opportunity to experience such a life, to live his years over again, to fulfill whatever depravity his small mind could imagine, and to do so freely, without the danger of being held to account by anyone, not even the law. The price of such unrestrained joy? Thirty souls, to be collected by him after his death by means of a unique bottle—a kind of spirit trap, that was to be interned with him. Once buried, I reanimated his corpse, where he spent his time tunneling his way to each new grave in order to capture its soul.
“A problem arose when, unbeknownst to me, the old fool decided to record our agreement in his journal, a most unwise decision as it was soon discovered and read by Reverend Clarke following Braddock’s death. He took its contents very seriously, and so implemented measures to ensure the contract could not be fulfilled. The first of these was to limit the number of graves in the cemetery to twenty-nine. That is, until your wife was buried here. I now have my thirty souls, Mr. Parker.”
“My God, you have…her soul?” Lewis stammered in a trembling voice.
“Not I, Mr. Parker, it still resides in the bottle held by the rotting corpse of Reverend Braddock. You see, as a further precaution, Reverend Clarke had the cemetery blessed several times, believing it would free any of the captured souls. But in this regard he was mistaken. Instead, the consecrated soil hinders me from descending to retrieve my souls, while also preventing what remains of Reverend Braddock from ascending to the surface. This is why I need your assistance, and I am willing to trade your wife’s soul for it.”
Without hesitation, Lewis replied;
“What do you require of me?”
“I need you to get my collection of souls, Mr. Parker. Meet me on the other side of this wall. I have already excavated a six-foot hole next to it, but I cannot dig any further without hitting consecrated ground. Instead, you will use the spade to dig your way forward another foot, where you will connect to one of several tunnels leading to Reverend Braddock. Take the bottle from his hand. The moment you do so, I will release your wife’s soul. Then bring the bottle back to me.”
“Is the reverend…still—”
“He is not, Mr. Parker. He is a rotting corpse. He disregarded our pact of secrecy by recording our bargain in his journal. For this, I will enjoy tormenting his soul for a very long time…”
A damp, foul smelling air assaulted Lewis as he broke through to the connecting tunnel. He placed a handkerchief over his nose before peering into the darkness with the aid of a hurricane lamp. The ceiling of the tunnel was low, forcing him to proceed with his back steeply hunched forward. As he advanced, his breathing grew more laboured, compelling him to remove the handkerchief from his nose. The air was thin and stagnant, and soon the flame in his lamp began to flicker and dim, but not before he caught sight of a shadow just a few feet away. He staggered towards it, his head and back scrapping against the top of the tunnel as he found it impossible to maintain his hunched posture.
The shadow proved to be the opening to a grave. Lewis dropped to his knees and held the dim light above its bodily remains. He gave a start as he made out the ghastly grin of a skull.
“Dear God, please let this be the grave of Reverend Braddock,” he uttered desperately.
The flame grew dimmer still, so that Lewis was forced to keep his face within inches of the corpse as he traced the light along the body towards its hands—a pair of skeletal remains which held…nothing. He hung his head in defeat, and whispered;
"Forgive me my love, I have failed you. I do not have it in me to go forward, I can scarcely breathe…"
The lamp slipped from his grasp and landed beside the corpse, its metal base striking an object. He bent closer to the ground as he ran his trembling hands around the lamp until they came upon a slight protrusion in the earth. Using his fingers, he unearthed a small glass bottle.
Suddenly, a faint light appeared before him, growing larger as he stared at its nebulous shape. As it grew brighter, he could discern the outline of a face, then its features. Loving, caring eyes stared at him.
“Harriet, my God…it’s really you,” he stammered as he gasped for air. “I have little time. Together…soon.” Turning, he headed to the entrance of the cave.
Lewis stumbled out of the tunnel and fell upon his knees, struggling for air. “Give it here, quickly!” demanded the beast, leaning down into the hole to snatch the bottle from Lewis’ outstretched arm. He held the bottle to his ear, listening for a moment before a wide, ghastly grin spread across his face.
“You have done well, Mr. Parker. Let me assist you as you make your way out.” He extended his hand towards Lewis, who did not accept it.
“I see…very well, have it your way.”
Lewis turned and headed back into the tunnel, as the dug earth collapsed back into the hole to seal its entrance. He was soon crawling forward on his hands and knees, too weak to walk. The flame of the lantern gave a final flicker then died. He couldn’t go on. He sat himself up against the tunnel wall, his breathing coming in short, shallow breaths.
“Harriet,” he whispered.
She was there suddenly, her radiant spirit floating next to him, her loving face looking directly at him. Her eyes expressed bewilderment.
“Come now,” he said lovingly, “you didn’t think for a moment that I would leave you all alone down here, did you?”
Smiling, he held out his hand, and when he felt the warmth of her soul upon it, he shut his eyes and took his last breath.
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Denise Arnault
01/22/2025That was an excellently written story full of description and characterization. It had me on the edge of my seat until the end. I liked that it had the feel of an older style of writing.
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