A Man and his Dog

The dog was Jess; a black lab teenager with a sunny constitution.  She loved lopping about, running after everything and anything.  The man was Ollie; thirty-something with a high-powered job, a wife and two children.

Jess and Ollie were on a short walking holiday.  It was early May: cool mornings, sun dappled afternoons, sunshine and shadow playing with the still unfolding leaves.  The walking holiday was Emma’s idea; she proposed the pair would take the May bank holiday to travel over to Ireland, walk for four days to get the cobwebs blown away and the batteries charged.  Ollie agreed.  He was a little hesitant to take Jess along but it had proven to be great decision.  Jess was well behaved on the leash.  She carried her own backpack with a doggie blanket and doggie supplies. When she was off the leash she ran to catch a blade of grass swept away by the wind; she chased squirrels and lost and only yesterday she had an unfortunate encounter with a hedgehog.  Hedgehog one, dog nil – and she only wanted a good sniff.

This was the last day of their holiday.  Ollie had scanned the map during breakfast and thought he would know the route by heart.  His compass was all he needed.  They set out early in the morning. 

A few hours in the forest changed.  It became denser and darker.  Birdsong had ceased; it was quiet apart from Jess’ breathing and the cracking of the twigs they tread on.  The path was more difficult to follow; fallen trees blocked their way, brambles everywhere.  It must be one of those patches of ancient woodland he had been reading about, Ollie thought.  He shivered; it was noticeably colder here as well.

He heard a bell clanging.  It didn’t sound right – the bell was broken; one of the saddest sounds to hear.  Ollie went over a mental map of the walk – there was a ruin they would pass but as far as Ollie could remember there was no village or anything else between here and their final destination.

They came upon a clearing, of sorts.  An old, squat building sat in the middle.  It was made of stone and blackened by fire.  Around it was a graveyard; a jumble of stones stood and lay on the moss.  The whole structure lay in a hollow of sorts – the sun would never be high enough to touch the ground even in the middle of summer.  There was no steeple but there was a sort of cupola from which the clanging came.  Ollie made some pictures but he was confused.  This church, if it was a church, was not supposed to be there.  Jess was not happy.  She pushed herself against Ollie and was trembling and whining.

‘It’s ok, Jess, I will just have a look and then we will on our way again.’

Ollie walked to the door.  He heard a faint chanting.  Surely there was no service going on?  He pushed the door open.  Jess became mental and nipped his hand, tried to prise him away from the door.

‘Down, girl, I’ll be back soon.  You have to stay and watch the backpack!’

Jess tried to push herself through the door but Ollie managed to shut it in her face.  It was very dark inside and he found it difficult to orientate himself.  There was only a handful of people in, all dressed in black.  He couldn’t see their faces. Nobody looked at him or acknowledged his presence.

The priest wore red robes.  Ollie was raised a catholic and knew that this was not the time to wear red on the altar.  The priest was droning on in what was probably Irish.  Ollie didn’t understand a word.  The place was infused with incense.  It was a thick, cloying smell that made Ollie dizzy and sleepy.

He started and opened his eyes.  He heard Jess outside, barking and scrabbling against the door.  He was alone.  There was nobody in the church and no indication that there had been anybody.  There was only the musty smell of something uninhabited, with a faint whiff of incense underneath.  Ollie scrambled for the door and took a deep breath.  Jess was beside herself.

‘Calm down girl, I am fine. Did you see anyone come out?’

But Jess was just happy to see him.  Ollie packed up his backpack and they walked along the path, towards the village where they would stay that night.  He looked back and couldn’t see anything anymore – not the church, not the graveyard nor the clearing.  The forest became less dense and he heard a woodpecker and the call of a wood pigeon. Without realising, he breathed a sigh of relief.

That evening, after a hearty meal, Ollie and Jess went off to the pub.  Ollie was keen to find out whether anyone knew anything about the church and where better to find out than over a pint of the black stuff.  The first people he spoke to were too young or were not from there.  He approached a table of older looking folk and explained what he wanted.

‘Are any of you local?  I would love to know a little more about that church in the woods.’

‘Is no good asking about that, son.  Some things are better left alone.’  And as one man, they stood up, downed their pints and left.  Ollie was puzzled.

When he was standing at the bar, an elderly man walked up to him.

‘You wanted to know about that church?  It is a bad business, son.  Are you sure?’

Ollie nodded and signalled for two pints.  Jess settled herself on his feet.

‘Well, it was over fifty years ago.  There was this priest, called Father Melchior.  He was of the hell-fire and brimstone sort.  No-one was good enough to go to heaven – we were all destined for the fires of hell.  He fulminated against everything in society – speaking English, short skirts on women, working women, women in general – he was not a pleasant person to deal with.  Naturally many parishioners eventually went elsewhere.  It wasn’t that there was a shortage of churches and priests in those days.  The parish got poorer and poorer but Father Melchior just went on – mad as a hatter if you ask me.  One day he wanted to give his parishioners an idea about the fires in hell.  He filled the church with incense and set fire to the building.  Several people died, including the priest.’

He made the sign of the cross.

‘The church was closed and fell into ruin.  People here don’t like taking about it, as you can see.  They believe that Father Melchior is still around somehow.’

Ollie told him what he had experienced that morning.

‘You are a lucky man.  There have been accidents there and nobody wants to come near the place.  Mind how you go now – and if you notice anything out of the ordinary, go to a priest.  Immediately.  Preferably a very strong one.  I am serious here.’

And with that, he finished his pint and went. 

Jess and Ollie walked back to the hotel.  Ollie was slightly perturbed about what he had heard but as he had walked all day and downed three pints, he fell asleep quickly, Jess beside him on her own blanket.

Ollie dreamed.  He dreamed that there was someone after him, shouting and screaming.  Someone constricted his chest.  He woke up finding Jess sitting on top of him, waking him up.  She was whimpering and he stroked her muzzle.  He heard some commotion downstairs.  Drunks, he thought.  They feel asleep again.  At the back of his mind was that he would have to clean his fleece – the smell of incense was clinging to it. 

At breakfast he heard that the commotion was because of a small fire in the kitchen.  It was caught quickly and there had been no damage.

A train and a boat later, Jess and Ollie were home.  Emma picked them up and at home they are all  looking at his photographs.  The photographs of the church hadn’t come out well – they were dark and it was impossible to make out the shape of it or any of the details.  The photos of the graveyard were declared ‘very spooky’ by Ollie’s daughter.

‘I must do this again,’ Ollie said that night in bed. ‘We should farm out the kids and do it together.  With Jess, she is great company.’  Emma was fast asleep and Ollie drifted away as well.

He was wakened by Jess’ bark.  There was no mistake this time: there was a smell of incense in the room.  He got up and put his dressing gown on.  Downstairs he switched on all the lights and his computer.

Google gave him the answer: his nearest Catholic Church.  He hoped the priest was strong.