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.
