Ghosts of our Past

Crowling Ground

So later that day, I packed a cart with the new Bibles and began my journey. My driver asked where I would be going and I told him. However, when I gave him the name of the church, St Bartholomew's, he immediately finished the directions for me. 

"St Bartholomew's of Crowlin' Ground?" He jumped as he asked me, with a sudden fear in his Northern voice, before finally collecting himself. "Okay. How long will you be in the village?" The driver seemed edgy as if uncertain that he was (even hopeful that he wasn't) correct.

"Indeed, sir, I am headed for Crowling Ground. I only plan to be there for the day though."

"Right oh. Just be careful," then he jigged the reins and we travelled in silence.

We pulled up to a grey-stone square only hours later. Set in the corner, towering above the other houses, was the church. I jumped out of the trap and strode over. The sky was blue and I was still maintaining my good mood. Strangely, it seemed that the pony, the driver and I were the only forms of life around but I didn't mind, assuming the townsfolk were all at work. 

Churches are one of the strangest places to deliver to. Being a public place, it is hard to know whether to knock or just walk in. After pondering for a while, I decided to knock and waited at the bottom of the concrete steps, enjoying the sun. I stood for a few minutes as it sometimes takes a while to be answered, before realising that either I hadn't been heard or wasn't going to be answered, so I pushed open the dark wooden door and peered inside. Seeing no one around, I decided to enter, listening to the click of my shoes on stone.

The curch was dark and I had to hold the door open to see much of it. Strangely, I couldn't see anyone: not a single vicar or clergyman as may be expected to receive a delivery. Noticing another door on the other side of the open space, I propped the front door open with a small pile of hymn books and walked over, admiring the ornate pictures and carvings on the walls. It was a strangely sinister place, with memorial stones running down the sides and a small, moth-eaten alter taking pride of place. I knocked on the small door at the back and waited, now nervous having left my driver for such a while outside. This time I didn't wait long and almost immediately tried the handle. The door was locked- and yet I could hear the rhythmic scratching of a pen on parchment. I knocked again, assuming that the occupant was hard of hearing or something of that nature. The scratching stopped. Once again, I waited. Once again, I was left unanswered. Noticing a new chill I the air and seeing that the square outside was now in shadow, I took my leave, irritated at having been ignored for such a long period of time.
As I stormed out of the church, the heavy door swung back but I took no notice, so consumed was I by this anger. I immediately went to the pony and trap, telling the driver I of my sudden (and amateur) decision to try again tomorrow. I at least expected that I wouldn't be missed having had Mr Hartley dismiss me so abruptly that morning.

I spoke to the driver before we left, discovering his name- Mr Clarke. We would both stay in the village 'til morning, at a hotel a few roads down. I glanced back at the dull church as I climbed into the trap, suspicion edging its way into my mind about its apparent abandonment. But still, St Bartholomew's puzzle would have to wait another day.