Collection that evensong had been poor. The vicar was charitable, allowing that it would be better on the morrow of All Saints Day. The weather had turned away all but the most devout villagers. Even now, as the vicar counted the meagre offering in the chapel, the wind howled around the building like a demon escaped from Hell. The stained-glass window depicting the raising of Lazarus shattered the lighting into multicoloured shards, and the following thunderclaps shook the candles in their sconces, making the long shadows dance.

Sighing, the vicar tucked the few coins away and retired to his chamber, nodding a cursory greeting to the verger on the way.

‘Devil of a night, vicar.’

‘Yes, yes it is. Go home, your wife will surly be worried.’

‘Thank you, I will go after I just check the locks on the back gate. I have seen that vagrant prowling around for a number of nights past.’

‘Very well, the Lords work should be dispensed, not taken. Good night.’

‘Good night vicar.’

The vicar opened the door to his bedchamber, and a gust of chill wind blew out the candle he was carrying. In the dark, with the afterimages bursting on his eyes, he was sure he saw something disappear from the window. Aided by a searing lance of lightening he found his way to the open window and dragged it shut against the weather, but not before glancing out to see if there was anyone there. He saw the verger coming back from the gate, bent almost double battling against the rain. As he pulled the window closed there was a crack of thunder as though God was trying to do away with the world, and he jumped with shock. It may just have been his imagination, as when one is awoke from sleep of a sudden and a hanging coat becomes a man, but for a second he saw a hunched figure loping along the path in the footsteps of the verger.

With the storm locked out, and the church safe the vicar began to disrobe. He came across the purse of money from the collection. He decided to go and put it in the chest for safekeeping. So, putting on his slippers, he walked like a blind man through the deserted church. He had trod those corridors many times, but the darkness made a mockery of memory. His breathing became shallower, and he glanced around at the faintest noise. Between the howls of the wind and the bass rumbles of thunder he heard dogs barking in the village and a baby crying somewhere. Then another almighty crash made him yelp in fear. Mentally berating himself for being so foolish he steeled himself and walked a little faster, but his knees felt weak.

He emerged into the main church, the lofty ceiling lost in darkness. Only the long candles burning around the crucifix cast any light as he walked hastily over the cold stone floor, his gown trailing behind him. When he was halfway across, the wolves of the storm crashed against the very gates of his sheepfold. The doors at the opposite end of the church burst open, and the candles blew out casting the hall into gloom. The vicar dropped the bag of coins, and ran, slippers flapping, to shut the doors.

As he struggled against a wind that seemed to get stronger as he pushed harder, he found he was muttering the Lords Prayer under his breath. The second time he asked the Lord to deliver him from evil the storm ceased. He fell forward as the opposing force was removed. As he sat on the cold stone floor, wondering why the storm had simply stopped it’s furious battery he gave thanks to God. And, letting out a cleansing sigh, he closed his eyes.

The scream rose from a low foreboding to shrill terror in the space a heartbeat. It echoed through the empty church, taking hideous advantage of the acoustics deigned for praise. It ended as it had begun, in a low tone of resignation. The vicar’s eyes snapped open, and he leapt to his feet, looking in blind panic around the dark shadows in the church. The grace of God had not gone as far as lighting the candles. A dry, leaden terror settled on him. He knew not who had screamed, nor if he was now alone in the church. Against his panic stricken better sense he slowly walked in the direction of the scream, peering forward like a spiteful schoolmaster over an unruly child.

The darkness gave nothing away, and his mind filled it with monsters seen only to St John. He almost wished for the return of the raging storm, as the eerie silence was worse. It frayed the nerves with the remembrance of the last noise heard. His steps slowed, and his teeth chattered. He knew he was walking into danger, and had neither the strength of Samuel or the courage of David to see it through.

In the pitch darkness he felt he had emerged into a room. He saw the back door of the church, open a crack. In the soft moonlight, he saw why it was open a crack. A foot lodged it open, a foot belonging to the verger. Making sense that the door led outside, and therefor to civilisation, the vicar trod carefully. As he pulled the door open, the light was cast on the verger. He was lying face down, hands outstretched to the joints in the flagstones. His nails were ripped, but there was no blood. He had been dead before they had time to bleed. The vicar, in the longest second of his life, looked at the dead man. There was no obvious damage which would have killed him. No evidence of violence on the body or head.

The vicar ran. He didn’t look back, and he only vaguely looked forward. There had been a beast at the church, lackey of Satan sent to sabotage the Mass of the Saints. The church was never used again, desecrated as it was with the blood of a murdered man. No one ever even returned, so no one missed the small purse of coins.