Well, this is another story featuring vicars and churches, but this is darker and delves more into the supernatural and has less humour than my Jenna stories. I've put it in Erotic Horror, as it features themes of reincarnation and a bit of violence, but it could fit into other categories too. Bit of an experiment in writing something a bit spookier.
Regular readers of Jenna's adventures may have spotted that "Hills of the North" is the name of the book Reverend Morris brought for Gladys Wilcox to read in Chapter 1 of "Jenna's Cousin Mia."
Clitheroe, Worston and other locations featured in this story are real. St. Peter's CE parish church and its characters are alas, completely fictional.
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'But do not imagine we do not know, Nor that what you hide with such care won't show. At a glance. Nothing is done, nothing is said, But don't make the mistake of believing us dead: I shouldn't dance.' - W.H Auden - The Witnesses.
Nestled on the north-western slope of Pendle Hill is the small, secluded hamlet of Worston. This peaceful little corner of northern England associates itself with a Pendle Witch connection. The cottage opposite the Calf's Head pub has a small circular window known as the 'witches window'. When the fireplace was being altered in the cottage, clay effigies into which pins had been stuck were discovered, suggesting witchcraft may have been practised here. Behind the main street is a small meadow which is said to have been used for bull-baiting. In the centre of it is a large stone ring to which the bull would have been tethered, but thankfully this practice is long-abolished.
A prehistoric burial ground was found on Worsaw Hill, and when workmen were widening the road to Chatburn they found 1,000 Roman silver denarii. Very little has changed in Worston over the last 100 years, although all the quarries have now closed.
Worston Old Hall dates from the early 19th century, and built into its porch are three decorative shields said to have come from Sawley Abbey. They depict a lion rampant (arms of Percy) the quarterly arms of England and France, and three pikes (arms of Lacy).
In between Worston and the much-larger town of Clitheroe, stands St. Peter's CE parish church. It is here where our story begins.
Across the storm-bruised clouds, lightning followed a jagged course like cracks in a ceramic plate. In the unsheltered churchyard, parked cars glimmered briefly with hard-edged reflections.
"Looks like we'll have to call it a day, Vicar," a burly-looking workman in hi-vis clothing muttered. "There's a massive downpour coming."
Reverend Graham Hosking looked up at the darkening sky. "Most unseasonal isn't it? Almost as if something were trying to avenge itself."
The workman shrugged. "Eh, if you say so. Maybe something to do with them bones that were dug up? Anyway, the lads will finish up tomorrow." He loaded tools into a transit van and lit a cigarette.
"Yes, thank you, Greg." Reverend Hosking said, before hurrying back into the church.
The grounds of St. Peter's church had been undergoing maintenance work for several weeks; old water pipes long overdue for replacing were finally being replaced. Work had been disrupted by the discovery of human remains. The skeleton had been unearthed some distance from the church's graveyard, which had prompted an investigation. However tests confirmed that the remains were at least a century old. Further discovery of personal effects belonging to the deceased confirmed that she was a twenty-one year old woman by the name of Caroline. No other details were known.
Reverend Hosking had re-buried the remains in a proper grave and performed a ceremony for her. Local amateur historians were having a field day trying to find more information on the long-dead woman. Ever since the remains had been uncovered, a dim but persistent sense of fear had stalked the vicar. He couldn't put his finger on it. It was rare for him to dream, but for the past couple of nights, he'd suffered terrible nightmares. Horrific visions of a woman burning to death in a fire, a severed head on a church altar...a bloodstained knife. He hoped it was just the product of an overactive imagination, and the fact he'd read far too many Stephen King novels in the past.
In the empty church, the vicar sat in the front pew. While thunder reverberated through the low sky and seemed to hammer on the roof of the building, he read the application that the workman had given to him, on the pipe repairs.
"He's such a neat little man," Alice the forty-three year old church organist thought as she watched the vicar. "When he sits very still like that, you'd almost think he was a statue."
Reverend Hosking was a very old-fashioned young Englishman of the sort that did not really exist any more. He was thirty, but had the air of someone who'd just stepped out of the 1950s. He was exceedingly well-groomed. Clean-shaven and with watery blue eyes. His carefully combed blonde hair looked as if it had received the attention of a good barber less than an hour ago. He bore a slight resemblance to the actor Dan Stevens, when he first played the role of Matthew Crawley in Downton Abbey. His cassock and surplice were spotless, and his black shoes gleamed.
He'd arrived at this church early in 2022, when the world was emerging from the global pandemic. Prior to that, St. Peter's had been in interregnum, following the well-earned retirement of its previous vicar, Reverend Ashley Dickinson. When Alice had first been introduced to Reverend Hosking, she had thought he was prim, even prissy, and she had been prepared to dislike him. She was quickly won over by his smile, by his gracious manner, and by his sincere desire to serve the church and God. He was softly-spoken and polite, he seemed completely out of place in the stressed-out 21st century. Yet, in this sleepy little part of England, he had carved out a niche for himself. Dear Lord, he was shy when it came to affairs of the heart though. He was single, nothing wrong with that of course. Reserved, almost to the point of appearing asexual. Alice, being a bit of a nosey person, wondered if he'd ever had a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend for that matter. Perhaps the good reverend was closeted? Though in these more enlightened times, she hoped that wasn't the case.
When he sensed the organist was looking at him, he turned and smiled. His smile was more sincere than the curate's, and as usual, Alice's spirits were lifted by it. He wasn't her type. But she couldn't deny that the vicar had a unique charm.
"Not many at this morning's Eucharist," Reverend Hosking said at last as he folded the papers he'd been reading and checked his smartphone. "I know the midweek one is never well-attended, but I blame the weather. You'd better get on your way, Alice, there's a dreadful storm coming. These country lanes are treacherous at times."
Alice finished putting music books away and ensured the lamp above the organ's manuals was switched off.
"Don't worry, I'm only half a mile from home. I'm sure the Sunday service will be really well-attended. It's the Feast of St. George."
Presently, the door to the vestry opened and Ray Hilton the curate, appeared. Aged forty-five, he was a stocky bloke with glasses and thick, greying hair. Neither handsome nor ugly, he made up for that with a personality which could charm women of all ages...into bed. He'd joined the church later after years of working in I.T, and had gone through two divorces. He credited his divorces with helping him "rediscover his faith" and wanting a complete career change.
Reverend Hosking raised an eyebrow as Ray began chatting to the organist. He couldn't tell what he whispered to her, but from her giggling reaction, it was obviously something obscene.
"I'll see you later then, Ray," Alice said, rising from the organ stool, trying to remain composed. The curate winked back and slapped her plump arse when the vicar wasn't looking. She gave a little yelp and scuttled down the aisle with more than a spring in her step.
"See you on Sunday, Vicar!"
"Oh yes. Take care, Alice. Thanks again for playing."
When she'd gone, he rose from the pew. "Not in the church, Ray. Please."
"God will forgive me," the curate replied. "You've got to admit, she's a good-looking lass. Curves in all the right places."
"She's also married," Reverend Hosking reminded him. He and the curate were polar opposites, and he barely tolerated this lecherous man most of the time.
"Beautiful woman like that shackled to a dullard who is always away on business," Ray continued. "I feel sorry for her."
"Then just pray for her," the vicar said, heading to the vestry.
Ray pulled a face. "I'll do more than pray," he smirked to himself. "Tonight, I'll give her a special organ to play. A nine-inch one!"
Reverend Hosking hurried to his car. The cold, wind-driven rain was falling so hard that it stung his face. By the time he reached the car, his hair was plastered to his head. Carefully, he drove home through the rain-choked country lane. The journey to the vicarage usually took five minutes. The only sounds were the whispery hiss of the tyres on the wet tarmac and the metronomic thump of the windscreen wipers. He hunched forward a bit, over the steering wheel, squinting through the streaming rain. Heading down the lane that led to the town of Clitheroe, Reverend Hosking hung back a little, watchful and cautious. He prided himself on being an extremely careful driver. Other road users were far too aggressive for his liking.
Suddenly, a young woman stepped out from a bus shelter, directly into the path of his car.
"Shit!" The vicar shouted, ramming his foot down on the brake pedal so hard that he lifted himself up off the seat. The brunette glanced up and froze, wide-eyed. The brakes shrieked, and the car missed her by a fraction of an inch.
"Oh God!" Reverend Hosking pulled up alongside and lowered the window. "I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" He was visibly taken aback when he got a good look at the woman. Mid-twenties at a guess. Though her hair was soaking wet and rain streaming down her face, her beauty radiated through. The vicar felt as if he'd had an electric shock. This stranger seemed to exert some kind of hold over him and for a moment, he was unable to speak.
"I'm fine," the woman replied. "That was careless of me! Sorry for the trouble...Reverend," she added, noticing his clerical collar.
A little flustered, he was finally able to speak. "Uh, that's a relief. Um, well I'll let you get on your way. Don't you have an umbrella?"
"No, but it's okay. I'm almost home. With all this rain, I must look dreadful!"
"Oh not at all. I happen to think you are extremely beautiful." He suddenly felt himself blushing as he said this. Damn, what a cringe comment to make in this day and age. Before he could get himself into an even deeper hole, he apologised to the stranger and drove away, his face burning. He glanced in his rear view mirror, expecting to see her walking along the pavement, but there was no sign of her.
"What? Where did she vanish to? Surely she didn't jump into those bushes? There was nothing but farmland on either sides of the road. His thoughts were disturbed by an impatient van driver coming up behind him and beeping his horn.
When Reverend Hosking reached the vicarage, the storm was in full swing. He hoped Alice, Ray and the young woman he'd narrowly avoided on the road had made it home safely. After a shower, he entered the kitchen, took a copper saucepan from a rack of gleaming utensils, and began to prepare dinner. He couldn't get the mysterious woman out of his mind and couldn't understand why she'd made such a powerful impression on him. He didn't believe in love at first sight. Lust, yes. Love was something that developed over time, surely? Not that he had any experience in either.
Then lightning flickered, and the kitchen lights dimmed for a second. His eyes drawn to the window behind the sink. On the rear lawn, the trees appeared to writhe and shimmer and ripple in the fluttering storm light, so that it seemed he was looking not at the trees themselves but at their reflections in the surface of a lake. Suddenly, another movement caught his eye, though he wasn't sure what he was seeing.
In that gloomy landscape, something abruptly darted out from behind the thick trunk of an oak tree, crossed a stretch of open grass, and quickly disappeared behind a lilac bush. For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw a human face.
"What the hell was that?" He said out loud. "Had to be a trick of the light."
