A Document Concerning the Ritual Beneath this Church...

To understand this story in its entirety, please read 'To Whom it May Concern' by clicking on the story link. However, this story is also a stand-alone.

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A Document Concerning the Ritual Beneath this Church...

Part 1

The church had been rebuilt and reformed over one hundred years' ago and, looked like it had not been touched since. The leakings in the pipes dripped with an almost humming sound, the roof was creaking as though someone inhuman was walking upon it in the dead of night and the priest who went to hold mass every now and again was still interested in its architecture. The town and the church were roughly the same age with the town being built around it, outwards, upon borrowed ground. There was definitely something there before but he didn't know what. He looked out of the stained-glass window over houses that looked as though one had been built on the foundations of another that didn't quite fit, farms that had been once abandoned and then regrown as they were strewn with grass both old and new and finally, the crumblings of the hospital that were swept underneath the new foundations as if they hadn't happened.

He could see all of this from the stained glass windows that sort of overlooked the town in a half-above way which meant you were very aware how many stairs led up to the church when you were locked in on a Sunday morning. "It's filthy down there..." he almost didn't see another priest coming up behind him. His church was under inspection from the men at the top and so, his cleanliness was also being inspected and that was never good. "Too many papers, too much dust and too much rubbish...It must be cleaned immediately..." At least it gave him something to do on a Monday when nobody ever came in to pray or do anything. People barely came in on a Sunday. He bid the inspecting priest goodbye and promised he would get right to it. "See that you do..." the inspecting priest started. "I will be sending another next week to inspect that you've done the job I set you." Murky churches don't make for good atmospheres for modern prayer and that was probably true, he thought to himself as he grabbed thr broom and walked down the stairs and into the darkness of the mausoleum.

The mausoleum was a large space where recently deceased priests were buried, some were his friends and others were there before he was born. There weren't a lot of them but they had all died within the last one hundred or so years since the church had been rebuilt. Many of the graves were above ground, white with black tombstones and well-kept with burnt-out golden candles and old, dusty photographs of the deceased next to them. Each had a golden plaque next to the coffin with the name of the priest engraved upon it as if they were a king. He thought about his own grave once he was gone and how he wouldn't like to be celebrated with an above-ground tomb below ground. Was is above, or below? He thought and thought but found no answer. The air was thicker and muskier when he entered the older rooms at the back of the church, the older rooms that had been remnants of the older church that once stood before.

The bricks became darker and rustier with jagged cuts on them instead of the nice pristine cuts that were part of the mausoleum. The heavy air became colder and it got stuck in the back of his throat, causing him to cough and wheeze. There was no more natural light and so, he lit a candle and just as he did so an amass of papers and scrolls appeared before him. He wiped his brow with his other hand thinking about how he could get rid of all of this and ran his fingers over the manuscripts. Some of them were Medieval at least, but some were more recent, written on paper or in diaries. He picked up one of the diaries which was bound in a leathery substance that was not quite leather. It felt less polished than leather. It was blackened as if it were dirty but he couldn't wipe off the dirt - it was coming out of the diary, not on it.

Unwrapping the cover, he unbuckled everything and turned to the first page which read: 'a document concerning the ritual beneath this church...' It was written as if someone were trying to write it quickly and didn't want to be caught. As if they weren't supposed to be there. The handwriting felt like a secret in someone's throat and it cast a dark shadow on to the already sepia-toned pages. The diary itself looked as though it must have been at least 75 or 80 years' old. He had never heard of any weird ritual and yet, he had been a priest for about 20 years now and even though he had entered late, he thought someone may have said something to him about it.

He knew he was looking on to something that could change the course of his life. He kept reading the diary for clues and yet, he found very few that were relative to what actually was the reason for all of this, though the words 'sacrifice' and 'screaming' did appear as part and parcel of the ritual itself. It was not until he got on to the tenth page that he gained access to a detailed description of the steps taken in the ritual. This person had kept coming back and yet, kept themselves to the shadows the whole time.

The Diary Entry

A Document Concerning the Ritual Beneath this Church Part 3, Day 6.

I have found out about the steps to the ritual and as I write this, I am witnessing the final stages I will record at the end. This is to be the last thing I am to write as I do not wish to return to this cursed town much longer. I wish to use these documents in an investigation into the supernatural for a radio show and it will be the greatest drama the world has ever listened to on their machines. I will win awards for this.

The ritual is as follows:

1) The members of the congregation begin by standing in a line going from the door to the other side of the room, they are equally spaced

2) They chant a prayer in Latin, I do not understand what they say but they hold their hands above their heads as if they are trying to stop something from dropping on to them

3) They then turn to face the door and the one closest to the door cuts their hand, smearing it on the door handle - the door is then locked from the inside

4) The one closest to the opposing wall then says in plain English, 'and the great teeth came down like claws and ate him alive...'

5) They all begin to scream

6) The person in absolute middle of the line has their throat cut and is sacrificed. It was horrifying but I will spare the details for my show if the radio will allow it.

I regret not taking photos.

End of Diary Entry

The priest wondered about whether this person had survived the ordeal, the rest of the pages were completely blank. The fact that the diary had made it here means that whoever wrote it probably didn't take it with them. He pocketed the diary and kept searching in and amongst the newer-looking documents for something that may turn up something about this strange ritual and whether it made it on to the radio.

There was nothing else though. After around two hours, the air had become too heavy and, like a man drowning, the priest made his way back through the glorified graveyard and back up to the surface of the church. He breathed in the crisp and clean air, cleaning his lungs of the dust and grit beneath the ground. He resolved that he would ask his mentor about what happened as he was a much older man and therefore, would probably have information on the church that he himself did not know.

That night, on his way to his mentor's house, he became agitated with the thought that maybe he didn't want to know what was happening though, his curiosity would always get the better of him - he felt like he had to know. He felt as if it were his duty to cleanse the church of this satanic terror that once was. He knocked upon the door with a great echo in the darkness reciprocating the sound.

His mentor was a small man with a hunched back from age and time spent over a lectern. "How nice it is to see you... What can I do for you, my boy?" Resenting being called 'my boy' as it made him feel like a child though he was a fifty-year-old man, he explained that there were things he had to know about the rebuilding of the church. The mentor's smile disappeared slightly, thinking he would never have to explain it. He invited his student in for the evening, pouring himself a glass of whisky in preparation to tell him what is a terrifying story of greed and power. The mentor sat down in his rocking chair, ushered the priest towards him to sit on the reddened sofa, took his glass and dropped his voice to a hardened whisper...

The Mentor's Narrative

To explain this story properly and help you understand the ritual recorded in that diary, I'm going to have to take you back about one hundred and fifty years or so to before the rebuilding of the town and even, before the demolition of the previous one.

You see, the church alone was not demolished - the town was completely decimated. It was torn apart as if someone had ripped its bleeding heart open, chewed it up and spat it back out into the mouth of hell.

Here are a series of blueprints that depict where the original town was and what was built on it. The church now is the same as the church before, being resurrected brick by brick, all brand new with some added modernities. But, back then it was a dark place to be and a man, who believed he could control the whole town, stood right here in front - at the lectern. He lost his belief when people stopped coming to mass you know. He thought he was better than everyone else. He wanted to force people to believe. One day, in his church, he thought he saw a creature sitting on the back pews. This creature was apparently terrifying, more terrifying than the devil himself. And he had come to support the people's lack of faith by bringing them back to their church.

Or so this particular priest thought.

Legend has it, this priest kept the creature under control and kept the town in faith by feeding people to the creature as an act of sacrifice. More and more people were eaten on a daily basis until only the priest himself was left. As the story goes, the priest hid beneath the church to get away from being eaten alive and even though he wrote an entire manuscript, burying it beneath the church in haste, he could not escape his definite fate. There was nothing left of him.

The church and the surrounding town had been desecrated by the creature who had torn it to pieces in want for food to be appeased. The priest, a power-hungry man who made mistakes, had been eaten alive and the church was practically in ruins.

Sixty or so years' later, the manuscript of the priest was discovered by my father, an archaeologist, beneath the church and he wrote his own story about the incident that he passed down to me. He copied out the entire manuscript of the priest into the diary entry before handing it over to the church as a gift on his deathbed. His warning to all of us was to try to stop this thing from causing more damage.

But you see, it isn't like that is it?

This creature was created by the church to keep people like you in line. These legends created to stop priests from becoming vile and self-righteous people with their own agendas of faith. After forty or so years in service of the church, I had asked for control of the creature, believing I was entitled to it because of my years. I was declined. They didn't know where the creature was and the only thing they did know is the one thing I had learnt from my father's diaries - it was last seen in Germany.

Do you have any idea the kinds of power one could possess if they had this thing in their grasp? He is a creature of intense rule and determination and, with each age he devours, the church's ideals become stronger and people become better human beings. I could never understand why I was not given the permission to find it and bring it into my grasp for I know the faith well enough to not be led astray by the monster.

Do you not think I would make good of this creature?

End of the Mentor's Narrative

The priest sat back on the sofa and thought about the answer to that question. His mentor had always been someone to look up to no matter how harsh and unforgiving he actually was. A little old man now, he looks far less intimidating than he once did and yet, the priest could not say the word 'yes'. Instead he whispered, almost like a child: 'I don't think anyone should have control of this creature you speak of. They do not deserve it.' And with that sentence, the mentor released him from the house, asking him not to return unless he truly respects his elders. Properly, next time. And the priest left down the road, the middle of the night drowning him in the lack of moonlight. There were no stars. The cold sank into his bones and made him shiver. He sighed into the blackening air as his breath appeared before him like a mist of uncertainty and, at the other side of it - who knows what was waiting for him.

Part 2

He found he still didn't understand the nature of the ritual and why it was being performed, it seemed like a kind of exorcism of the spirit of whatever had died down there - a corrupt priest and whatever else. He was unlocking the door to his house near the church, hearing the creaking of the church ceiling, he knew that the air pressure was changing and it would start to rain soon. The sound was almost inhuman.

Going to his bedroom, he began to hear the light patter of water outside his windows and, smiling to himself, was glad he could at least understand the weather enough to know when things were happening. Changing and climbing into bed, he tried his best to go straight to sleep but found it of little use. He would sleep for around half an hour and every time he fell into this sleep, would have a nightmare about a monster with claws and no face. Waking up not in terror, but in confusion, he would become annoyed and try again. This happened around four or five times before he woke once at 3am and saw a shadow against his bedroom wall. An inhuman shadow.

He switched on the lamp cautiously, as if he wanted to leave the shadow where it was until morning and not disturb it. He could hear its heavy breath when he listened close enough. His eyes widened with the sight of it. A large creature with claws yes, but with a jaw that had teeth so large and spiked that the mouth did not close. The eyes were like black holes of nothing, the eyeballs bulging out of its pale, pasty white skull. It was thin and frail with hands that were like several knives bound together by skin. It stood, saying nothing and doing nothing - just staring at him. When he spoke, his mouth did not move, his jaw did not move - it was like he was speaking from a voice somewhere inside his soul.

"Be not afraid."

The priest grabbed his glasses quickly from his bedside table and put them on to see it clearer, but that was even more frightening than before. "Ex...Excuse me?" He spoke in a low terror.

"Be not afraid."

"You...You are the creature of legend?"

"Yes."

The priest looked him up and down and realised the creature had not moved a single muscle since the lamp was switched on. How did he get here? Where did he come from? Did he simply appear or was he always waiting, on the roof of the church maybe? Was he the creaking or the pattering, the strange inhuman noises he heard from time to time? The priest could not make sense of it. Realising this would be the only chance he got at finding out what truly happened during the ritual, he asked about it with more extreme caution than he had ever taken knowing that not only did he not want to send the creature away nor did he want it coming any closer to him.

The creature did not make a single movement in the time that followed during that night, but the priest understood that he would not be staying here in the sanctuary of his bedroom. Instead, he got out from his bed, dressed into his uniform and ushered the creature towards the door. As if it were floating under that thick black cloak it wore, it moved from its spot in the corner of the bedroom and exited the room and then, the house. The priest going along to find out what exactly that ritual was for and, though he felt he might already know the answer, he wanted conformation from the only person (person?) that would know the real reasons: the creature.

They went back to the church and climbed the stairs. The church looked almost intimidating in the black coat of night, the thickness hanging in the air around the pews as the priest pushed the door open, his footsteps changing from silent to echoing upon the newly polished stone floor. The inspection flashed back into his mind and he remembered he had left the broom in the room where he found the manuscripts. Would the creature wonder what he was doing there? He didn't know, but the creature walked ahead of him with no caution whatsoever. Approaching the door to the mausoleum, the door seemed to open without the creature's movements or assisstance. They descended into the pitch black darkness. No light entered the floor beneath the earth.

The creature would tell the story of the ritual. His mouth would not move, his jaw would not open or close. But, the voice that came from the soul was a deep, raspy voice that almost sounded like two discordant notes layered over each other. As if someone had pressed two consecutive keys on the far left of the piano at the same time and held them there.

The Creature's Narrative

The ritual. It was a strange thing that happened some years after I attended to Germany. At first, I did not know what was taking place. It was innocent and without fruit. It did not matter until the journalist appeared. He began taking notes. But enough of that for now.

The ritual was to get rid of me. You would find it funny how people act in a time of crisis. They didn't understand what had actually happened. They thought I was the devil. They thought I was evil. They thought this priest of this small town was all good, because he was a priest.

Nobody is all good.

Not a single person in the world.

The ritual was created to exorcise the church of a strange entity that apparently brought everyone bad luck. That was me, or so they thought. They had never seen me and so, didn't understand what I was. They didn't know that I wasn't a demon, I wasn't the devil. What I am is something much different. You would be surprised.

I cleanse the earth.

The journalist arrived some ten years into the ritual going on every Sunday night. He wished to make it public as to what these people were doing as if they were a sideshow act. He laughed and thought religious matters were jokes. Though I did not like the prospect of being thought of as evil - I did not like the power this man thought he had over others and their acts. They were no acts of entertainment. An exorcism is a very real thing. A ritual is a very real thing. A sacrifice is a very real thing.

One night, he was captured by the people who worshipped here and they took his notes. Storing them beneath the church, they refused to give them back. This information was not his to keep. It was not his to sell. And so, the diary was lost.

I understand you have it in your pocket.

The man himself was let go once he had lost the diary. Unfortunately, on his way home he met with me and I explained why he was wrong to try to sell people's beliefs as entertainment for radio. I explained that to exploit people like this warrants a greater terror than death. I unlocked my jaw to devour him. His dying screams as I bit into the flesh were loud, but nobody would hear him.

He was eventually no more.

Your mentor's father had found out about me and had met me in the church in the midst of all of these rituals still happening. Eventually, I appeared to them all and they all understood what I had to do. For you see, I am no demon. I am a protector of people. I am a protector against corruption and greed. I devour the greedy and I punish the corrupt aptly by devouring all they corrupted. Your mentor's father was a good man.

But your mentor has not been. He has tried across the years to ask for me, to summon me and to control me. I am controlled by nobody and never will be. One may not know when or where I might strike. But, where there is corruption of belief, I will be there to reset the balance.

End of the Creature's Narrative

The priest understood. He wanted to ask an important question but he thought that it was better to keep silent at this point. The two walked up the stairs from the mausoleum and exited the church, the priest locking it behind him. The sound of the lock was almost audible for a few miles, it echoed around them. They had not been down there long and the thickness of the night still engulfed them as they entered the streets of the newer, small town with its foundations brushed under the metaphorical rug. It was not long before they were back at the priest's house.

"Once you awaken, I will be gone." The creature chose to stay outside in the darkness rather than in the house. The priest didn't know whether this was a relief or not, but was too scared to shut the door. "I will protect this house from corruption." For the first time, the creature held up his hand in promise. The priest slowly closed the door after thanking him. He went to sleep, but lay awake for hours as the sun began to rise into his curtained window. The orange glow lifted and he knew in his soul that the creature was gone from his front door.

He went downstairs and was almost thankful for night being lifted and the frightening atmospheres taken from him but he found a note at his door. It lay on sepia-coloured paper and was tied up with a string. He undid the tie and unfolded the paper. It simply read: DO NOT WANT FOR POWER FOR IT IS DESTRUCTIVE TO ALL. The key question that the priest had wanted to ask the creature before they exited the church had been answered. He frowned slightly, gathered an envelope, placed the note inside it and kept it in the inside pocket of his uniform at the same moment that he discarded the diary of the journalist into the bin. He thought that this was a far more useful thing to have on his person.

He knew what had become of the creature after all. He walked up the street and went on his way back to open his church. Whilst passing the home of his mentor, he wanted to look inside but thought it was better he didn't. He stopped to breathe in the air outside his door. It was thick and dark. It smelt of blood. The mentor was shouting for help, but nobody was answering. The priest's expression didn't move, but his legs were already walking away. Maybe the creature was right after all. Maybe we should not want for power.

He entered the church and lit a single candle by the lectern. Beginning to read a passage from the Bible about not wanting for power, he sighed out of possible fatigue. He shut his eyes for a while in want for some respite from the strangeness of the world, wishing just to look after this town and its church.

The candle went out, the ceiling creaked and the priest opened his eyes, knowing he, his town and his church were protected.