Why was he doing this?
The ground felt harder with every step he took. It felt as if the ground was grinding into his feet, into his legs sapping any strength out of them. The walk had been longer than he had anticipated, the hill’s rising up and down to meet the movement of his feet. He felt a twinge in his chest. He didn’t consider himself unfit; not in the least. He played football twice a month, went to the gym when he could remember to and could be bothered to and sometime would go for a jog. He knew the likelihood of him winning an Olympic medal was remote but he had never thought of himself as some weakling, someone who would keel over because of a short walk.
Except it hadn’t been a short walk. He’d been told it would a short walk. Every source of information – Claire, GoogleMaps, the local droopy barman at the pub that seemed farther away now than Timbuctoo, had told him it would be a short walk. It had not been a short walk. The hills, semi mountains he thought, of North Yorkshire seemed to stretch out before him like a battered, bruised brick road. It wasn’t to his mind romantic in the least. If there was some romance there then it escaped him; frankly he thought of it as romantic only in the sense that like most romantic gestures it only ever seemed to be worth it in hindsight.
Sighing, he moved closer towards what surely must be the summit of the hill. He had it in his mind that if he reached it before it started raining or before he collapsed into a heap then he should give himself a medal or at least try to reward himself somehow. He wasn’t sure how he could reward himself of course – what form of reward could be found in this green and pleasant wasteland?
The sky darkened further, the shifting of the clouds obliterating any sense of proportion between the bottom of it and the top of the hills. Turning his head back towards where he came from, he tried to estimate how far it would take him, once he’d reached his destination, to be able to turn back and huddle in his rented room, the log fire blazing away and for him to let his supposed beloved that he’d done what she asked.
That was any unkind thought; there was no supposed about it. He wouldn’t be doing this for Claire if he didn’t feel her presence wherever he went, the sound of her voice in his ear, the smile on her face in the corner of his eye. He was embedded with her in every part of him – he couldn’t help but think of her and feel her within himself. Although he cursed the hard soil under his feet, he could never ever deny her anything because it would be far worse than denying himself the air in his lungs or the blood in his veins. This was for her because it was important and he would make sure that he did it, exactly as she’d told him.
He paused for a moment, stretching his fingers in front of him to try and focus his eyesight on the chapel ahead. He knew it was the chapel he’d been looking for because, what else could it be? Claire’s description of it hadn’t been exact as she’d only ever been once herself. It was the same for the barkeeper – he’d only been when his uncle had been getting wed and that, as he had waxed as lyrically as he could, had been “forty year or more.”
Although he was by no means a philistine he’d never been overawed by chapels, especially ones in the middle of nowhere. There was something slightly peculiar about them, something lingering in the air around them that he could never put his finger on. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to spend too long inside it. After all, Claire had said that it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. Then again she had also said the same thing about the walk and that had been far from true. He looked at his watch; it would, based on the distance between him the chapel take him at least another five minutes to walk there and then another ten or so to do what he must do and then the walk back to the pub. He sighed. There would be no food waiting for him by the time he got back – he’d be lucky if he could get a packet of cheese and onion crisps from the bar.
Pausing for a moment, he patted himself down to see if he could find where his phone was. If he could find it, he would at least be able to text Claire to let her know he wasn’t too far away. Fishing inside one pocket, he finally managed to pull it out. He hadn’t expected to see a 5G signal but no signal at all? Surely there could be nowhere in this great technologically advanced world of ours that had no access to any signal at all? Sighing, he shoved the phone back into his pocket and moved towards the chapel.
It stood, a strange man-made scar on the landscape, seeming to just up from the rocks around it. The top door had once held some kind of cross or something similar that was now chipped away. It was, based on his limited architecture knowledge and a quick Google, typical of its type – a Methodist/Wesleyan/some other non CoE non-conformist chapel that was as austere as it was solid. It reminded him of one of those Victorian statues that seem to crop up in every small town or city across the country – solid, respectable, both threatening and dull in equal measure.
The remains of the wooden door had splintered and rotted; this wasn’t on English Heritage’s conservation list for sure. It was an absurdity in of itself; both a natural part of the landscape and an alien intrusion; the moss that clung around its base seemed as if it had always been there. Leaning through the broken opening, he gingerly made his way inside.
He’d expected some kind of smell – maybe an animal had used it for its hiding place and not found its way out or kids had used it for whatever kids did these days, but it lacked any odour. It was neither pungent nor sweet smelling as he’d been told some old buildings could be. Looking around, he found it much less cramped that he’d been led to believe. Another thing about this whole excursion that wasn’t as he had thought it would be. The pews were in remarkably good condition considering this was a defunct chapel. Sitting down on the one nearest the door, he sighed and decided to take a moment to catch his breath.
Come on now, only a few more moments and then you can start back to that pub, and this time tomorrow you’ll be back home to see Claire and it’ll all be over. That’s what you just have to think. It’s the only thing you can think…
As he sat there, he began to think how much history was around him. How often had there been men and women who had sat where he was sitting now and contemplated their relationships? Not just to God but to themselves – to their loved ones, to the ones they hoped to love and hoped loved them. It’s a fallacy, he mused that all those intricate and passionate love affairs just happened in the cities and towns…
A creak behind him made him start from his thought and turn back towards the door. There was nothing there – no sign that he could make out of a human or even an animal’s presence. Sighing, he turned back towards the front of the church. There was a window directly opposite the door, the only ornately decorated window in the church. Laura’s description of it had been the only part of her instructions that seemed to be totally accurate. It was in stained glass of a most vivid and seemingly unearthly colour. How it had not been covered either with moss or some other kind of local foliage he wasn’t sure. Or why whatever had broken the door down hadn’t shattered it?
The glass glittered brightly and perfectly fitted the scene it was depicting. In blue and red and a gold like he’d never seen before, the window showed the crucifixion. Christ on the Cross with Mary Magadalen and the Virgin Mary to his left, what he took to be John and two or three Roman soldiers looking sombrely at the last moments of the son of God. It was a fairly typical design for one exception that Claire had explained as being the result of a poor attempt at conservation some fifty years before – Jesus was upside down. The head of Christ was facing downward with the rest of him and the cross itself jutting upwards. He’d wondered about this for some time before he’d seen it and still couldn’t understand it. How could you end up getting the crucifixion upside down? Claire had battered away any question as it just being some mistake and nobody had bothered to correct it but he still wasn’t certain how it could have been allowed to happen. Surely it was too obvious, too big of a mistake to be left as it was?
It wasn’t important at the end of the day. They were getting married in a registry office anyway.
Looking at the floor, he felt that he didn’t exactly want to kneel. He wasn’t sure how they’d done in previously and Claire wasn’t herself – she’d only seen it happen once or twice when she was younger so said she was vague about the details of whether there was a rug or something to kneel on. He felt that this might have been useful give the floor was covered in dirt. Ah well, at least I can always clean my trousers later…
Kneeling down, he shoved his hand into another pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper he’d written down the oath on. Oh wait – no; he needed to set the phone up. Damn.
He reached into his other pocket and pulled it out as well as a small tripod to put it on. He’d invested in the mini tripod a couple of weeks before when the idea had been first floated to him. His friend Ben, someone well versed in matters of the heart had suggested it with the jokey throw away remark that “he’d do anything for love but he wouldn’t break his iPhone for it.”
Placing the tripod opposite the window and placing his phone exactly at the centre, he pressed record.
“Okay, well I’m doing it now – hope you’re happy.” He screwed up his face before turning to the window and looking down at the piece of paper lying gingerly on top of his bent leg.
“Oh heavenly father I beseech the to honour the commitment I make unto thy daughter of Sedfick, Claire Arthwaite, to keep her as my own and trade all I have for all she has and make this commitment one in blood.” This was the part he was a bit squeamish about and the part he thought was far from romantic. Putting the paper down, he reached back into his pocket and pulled out small penknife, he flicked it up. The knife itself wasn’t the sharpest but as it cut into his flesh it felt hard and sharp, like a razor cut that had gone deeper than it should have done. The red trickle started slowly before it became more than a gush. Holding his bleeding hand up in front of the window, he said the last part of the damned oath that he had managed to memorise.
“With this blood of my hand, I do swear it before all here in the chapel.” He closed his eyes for a moment. What a stupid thing to say especially when he was the only one here!
Getting up off the dirt covered floor, he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a disinfecting wipe. Wrapping his hand around it he turned back to his phone, pulled another face and stopped recording. Shoving the phone into one pocket and the tripod into the other, he wrapped the wipe tightly around his bloodied hand and turned back towards the door.
It was true what they said – going downhill never felt nearly as hard as going up hill. The route down didn’t feel nearly as bumpy as it should have done; maybe it was just relief and knowing he had to get back to the pub before it was a fully locked up. The bartender had promised that he’d not lock him out when he knew where he was going but he didn’t fully believe him – he’d already paid his bill upfront and the service didn’t exactly scream out “We desperately want you to come again.” He’d messaged Claire with the video once he’d got to a part of the route that seemed to at least have 5G (or that’s what his phone suggested it had) but he’d had no response. Typical – she was probably enjoying herself, preparing for the big day whilst he was stuck with a hand covered in blood half falling down some mountain in the middle of nowhere. I guess, he idly thought, this was what love was truly about.
As he reached closer to the road that led back to the pub, he could feel something behind him. A presence seemed to tingle at the back of him. He turned to look for it. The landscape behind him was much the same as it had been before; dark, desolate and jutting towards the sky. There was nothing there that could easily be said to resemble anything that had any real life in it. He continued downwards, walking as he had done before not quickly but not haltingly either. Still he felt the sense that there was something behind him. He turned again. Again, the landscape was as barren and bleak as he thought it would be. There was no sign of anyone or anything that could disturb him.
Still, the feeling of being watched was still tingling at the back of his mind. Walking further down the road he began to increase his speed. His brain was telling him he was being stupid but his heart was thumping inside his chest, the sound seeming to echo in his ears as he moved quicker and quicker. The faster he moved, the more he could feel the presence behind him seemingly getting closer and closer and closer until it was almost on top of him. He ran and ran and ran down the last part of the road, he neck constantly twisting behind him to see if whatever it was still seemed to be behind him. He knew he had to keep moving and he wasn’t quite sure why. If he stopped, he thought as he hurtled forwards, he’d never move again.
The door of the pub wasn’t locked. He opened it and almost fell into the entrance. The fire, burning in the corner, seemed to radiate an intensity of heat that it hadn’t before. He realized as he stagged close to it that he was already sweating and the heat from the fire was only making it worse. Falling into the nearest chair he ripped his coat off and stared into the flames of the fire. The heat wasn’t the only thing he felt. As he looked deep into the embers, he could see something flickering in the flames themselves – a kind of burning intensity that seemed to echo the feeling he had when he’d been coming back down the path from the chapel and felt that… that thing behind him.
“Are you alright son?” a voice cut into his thoughts and he turned in the chair to look at the bartender.
“Me? Oh I’m fine thanks.” He knew he must look awful but given the man’s inability to be helpful earlier he was damned if he was going to look foolish and unburden himself to him now. He turned around to see who else was in the pub. Only a few locals who looked they’d been glued to the same spot as when he had left them several hours earlier. God, what a dull place this was. Surely, they would have to move at some point? How could anyone contemplate spending for ever here of all places?
Turning back towards the fire, he examined his hand. Peeling the wipe away from it, he was already anticipating the sight – blood bubbling beneath the surface, a neat little scab forming over where he had cut himself so deeply. Cut himself, again for love. Hell, was this love or was it just masochism? Or was there much difference between the two?
As he took the wipe away and held his hand out so it could be seen in the flickering light of the fire, a horrible feeling gripped him. It was one that he sensed, in some strange way, that he had already anticipated. Looking at the hand, turning it over one way and then another way, he found that there was no blood. No scab. Nothing to indicate that he had in fact cut himself at all. He looked at his hand, turned it over again. Had he done it on the other hand and for some reason, the shock, the need to get away from that husk of a chapel, he had bandaged the wrong hand? He looked down at his other hand. Turning it in the bright, burning firelight he could see… nothing. Not even a scratch. Blinking he turned towards the bar, where the bartender had been staring at him for the last few minutes.
“Are you alright lad?” The bartender moved from behind the bar and around to where he was sitting by the fire.
“I’m… I’m doing okay. Thanks.” He turned to look at the bartender, his eyes fixing on the bartender’s face. It wasn’t especially young but nor was it old; the creases in the face seemed to be the result less of age and more of a lifetime of bitterness. Age caused more by the bleakness of being stuck on some accursed outskirt at the end of the world that nobody else seemed to care for. There was something haunting in his face – not in the way he expressed himself but rather in the lack of expression in it; his moods and life seem permanently etched upon what could once have been a handsome face but was now one that looked as if all joy had gone from it. The bartender seemed less droopy now, less hound dogged and more hollowed out as if all of his inner self had been sucked out of him.
The bartender muttered something and turned away, moving back behind the bar. Staring in the fire, he realized that he had to get out of here. Ring Claire or anyone he could. Somehow, anyhow, it was crucial that he managed to get out of this place. It had been a hellhole when he first came here but now things were just getting weird. What did he really know about these people? Only what Claire had told him and her information could be out of date. It was a good thing, he smiled to himself, that he’d paid in advance. He could easily get out of here, just pack his things, walk out of the pub and then… just keep walking. The train station wasn’t that far away and even if there weren’t any trains running now, he’d have somewhere he could sleep for the night that wasn’t here. He just had to get away, to feel freedom and safety once again.
Standing up, he looked at the fire that still continued to burn with an unnerving intensity. Thank goodness it would be the last time that he’d have to see it. Picking his coat up, he nodded at the various doddering inhabitants of the bar, at the bartender behind the bar and walked towards the stairs. Opening the door that led to them, he was soon up the stairs and walking towards his room. He’d quickly change out of his sweat covered clothes, shove some others on and then get a move on away from this place. His room was at the end of a corridor, lined with pictures of previous visitors to the pub. He passed them as quickly as possible, wanting to avoid looking too closely as them. Each picture was clearly old – they were all black and white and the people in them seemed to have been celebrating a wedding of some kind; all the men were dressed in groom’s outfits and had the stiff appearance of the typical Victorian bridegroom. There was something odd about them he felt but he let that go – he just had to get out of there.
Opening his door, at the far end of the corridor, he noticed a peculiar smell in the air. It had a pungency to it that hadn’t been there when he’d first checked in. Walking further into the room the smell’s potency increased and it soon became overwhelming. He moved towards the window to try and lift it up, get the air away from him. It was too late; the smell enveloped him. Soon his head was spinning and he fell back, his mind feeling like it was leaving his body totally, onto the bed that he’d once thought felt so hard and uninviting and now seemed as soft as a feather.
His eyelids flickered upwards. He didn’t seem to be on the bed anymore. His head glanced downwards. He could see his hands bolted to the chair, metal straps holding them in place. What…? His mind raced, trying to twist in the chair, see where he was. The room was decorated like any Victorian parlour – overcrowded, overstuffed with items that were not only cluttering it but making it feel oppressive, as if the room was half the size that it actually was. The chair, he realized, was bolted into the middle of the room. The bolts were black and yellow, worn with age. He again tried to move his arms and legs, but both were still stuck under the metal straps. Sweat began to pour from his brow. Where could he be? What, what could have happened to him? He looked down at his chest for the first time to see what he was wearing. A blue cravat hung to his chest, neatly tied around his neck, a white shirt seeming to be beneath it. Bending his head down he could not be sure but it looked as if he was also wearing a mourning suit, a waistcoat buttoned around his waist. Leaning forward his shoes were blank, shiny, the laces tied as tightly as if they were trying to bind his feet to them in much the same way as the metal straps were keeping his hands and legs strapped to the chair.
His head turned as he could hear a noise behind him. The chair’s back meant he could only turn his head slightly, unable to fully turn it to face who or whatever was in the rest of the room.
“Hello? Is anyone there? Please, someone, speak, come help me!” He could feel a choking sensation in his throat as he wondered what on earth could be behind him… the person who had trapped him there? The police, he hoped?
The noise became louder. It was the clip, clop of a pair of heels. His peripheral vision gave him a moment of clarity – it was Claire. She walked in front of him, dressed, to his astonishment as a bride.
“Claire… what are you doing here, wherever here is?! Come on get me out of here!” He shook in the chair, attempting to get her to realize the gravity of the situation as if it would be unobvious to anyone what was happening. Claire smiled at him, her face breaking into a smile that seemed to stretch out of his face and across the room. Despite its broadness it felt shallow – the smile of a cat as it is about to swallow a mouse whole.
“Oh beloved, don’t you understand? It’s our wedding day.” She giggled, turning away from him, beckoning to someone from the other side of the room. A figure moved closer to the centre of the room holding what was clearly an old camera, the kind used by the Victorians in their photography studios. The figure bent as he began to set the camera up, adjusting the legs so that they were positioned properly to capture the horror that was spreading across his face. He was stunned to realize it was the man from behind the bar.
“Oh god, Claire, what are you doing?! Is this some kind of practical joke, why, why are you doing this?” His limbs were being exhausted the more he moved his arms and legs, trying desperately to jostle them loose from the chair.
Claire turned back to face him, that same sickening smile on her face.
“I told you before beloved – it’s tradition. We do this to protect us from the moors. You know, there are some strange things lurking out there… I think you met one of them. And we have to stop them by giving them the spirit of an outsider. I’m sorry it had to be you this time – I have to say you are one of my favourite husbands.” Claire’s ecstatic smile cracked for just a moment before the fullness, the intensity of her belief shone through her ever so clean, white teeth that locked together in a truly deathly grin.
He knew it was useless. There was nothing he could do.
“Claire… please… whatever you think you’re doing, I’m sure we can get you help. We could get you to see someone… or I could have you find someone better, someone more deserving!” Tears streamed down his face. Claire bent in, a handstitched handkerchief dabbing away at his tears.
“Oh don’t worry beloved. It will all be over in a moment.” As he felt her hand on his cheeks, he felt a small throbbing at the back of his neck. He had only a moment or two to see the needle before it was all over.
Turning to the bartender, Claire became brisk and almost business like.
“Are we ready for our photograph?”
The bartender nodded. Claire stood to one side, her hand resting upon her latest husband’s shoulder as the flash captured the happy couple.
The bartender had framed the latest picture and was finding space on the wall for it. There had been so many over the years that he hoped they would be able to fit them all on together. It would be such a shame if some of the older ones had to be taken down. As he began to hammer a nail in the wall to place it on, he heard a whisper in the air. He looked around. The noise seemed to be coming from the side of the pub facing towards the moors. Turning to look out of one of the pub’s windows, he could see something in the distance. It looked like a figure, waving from up in the moors. The bartender smiled and waved back. Ah, he thought, another satisfied customer.
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