Ghosts of our Past

Return to Bartholomew's

I ambled through the maze of streets in Crowling Ground for about half an hour before reaching the market square that I had been in the day before. I peered into the small shop windows that neighboured the old church before being drawn to the abandoned place. Again I walked up the steps, slowly gathering information- I wasn't ready to give up on my news report just yet. I didn't bother to knock this time and walked straight in. I was unsurprised that the door opened easily, slightly doubting the validity of  he landlord's earlier comments. This time, I took in my surroundings in much more detail. I read all of the memorial stones if previous vicars. Most of the older vicars' names were faded and hard to read but as I reached the 18th century I was able to make out the words on the marble plaques. Each gave a name, date and short statement about what each reverend had done for his community. I then moved onto the notice board, reading about what were once upcoming marriages when one in particular caught my eye.

Mr Arthur Kennedy to marry Miss Rose Bailey
30th November 1756

My parents. My mother and father. I knew they had originally lived in a small village near Yorkshire and moved a few years after. My parents marriage was still written on the notice board of St Bartholomew's in Crowling Ground and I had had no idea that this would be where I was to make a delivery.

And though I was clearly shocked at my new discovery, I was even more surprised to faintly see a different name beneath that if my mother. It seemed almost as though the bride had been changed last minute and my father was previously engaged to a woman named Vanessa Rowling, completely unknown to me.

A scratching noise brought me back to reality and I spun to find it. Once again, the small door at the back of the room drew my attention, being the apparent origin of the noise. I walked to it, curious as to whom I had been sharing the space with. Before I had even reached the door, the scratching ceased. I knocked on the door, tentative to interrupt whoever was working in the small room. No one answered and a familiar chill ran down my spine. Looking outside I was surprised to notice that not only was it dark but there was a mist gathering at the door. I had clearly spent more time in the church than I had originally thought. Quickly, I pulled my coat around me, now more worried about getting home than my work, as I dragged the doors shut behind me and left into the evening hours.

As I reached the other side of the square, I grew concerned about my ability to navigate my way home. I began to wander aimlessly between the unfamiliar streets, surrounded by a thick blanket of mist, its blindfold pushing me into all the wrong streets. Soon, I was very much lost and had no idea where I was in relation to the hotel. I stood there, completely unknowing of what to do.

But my hope was renewed as the familiar, comforting noise of a pony and trap clip-clopping along the cobbles met my desperate ears. I called out, hoping that just perhaps the driver would be able to direct me to the right place. But ti my dismay, as I listened to the metal shoes of the pony against the stone cobbles, its pace did not slow or grow nearer. Instead it seemed to be accelerating and veered around a corner. I listened, paralysed by the shrieks of a woman that met my ears and the cold fear of what came next. Another scream came as I heard the crunch of a rolling carriage and the distressed whinny of the pony. Still, no matter how hard I tried I could not lift my feet as I listened to the deafening silence that followed.

I do not know how long it took before I collected my thoughts and began to retrace my steps, still unclear about what had happened. Eventually the mist began to clear, and with it the haze that smothered my sensible thoughts. I could now recognise the road that I was on, not too far from my hotel. I dragged my feet up the stairs, not concerned in the least about what the landlord might think of my delirious state. I knocked on the door and it was instantly opened, the landlord not looking surprised or confused at seeing me beaded with cold sweat on his doorstep. Instead, with a grave, knowing expression, he wordlessly took me up to my room. He didn't ask any questions, simply saying "I've seen worse" in a low voice before returning downstairs.

I lay awake most of the night, occasionally drifting into nightmare-ridden sleep. Yet again, St Bartholomew had won.