by Travis Michaelis
Long had I heard tales of the abandoned church overlooking the town of Ashbrook. With its peeling wooden walls reminiscent of fingernails being pulled back to reveal putrid flesh below, and its slanted roof threatening to collapse in the final touches of the church’s death throes, it was no wonder the town’s inhabitants whispered of an unseen horror lingering in the tabernacle. Tales of sacrifice, self-mutilation, and other weird goings-on had been reported within its termite-infested halls, but no evidence had been put forth to warrant further action.
The dilapidated church had reportedly been the first building to be erected in Ashbrook, dating back to the early 1800s. A popular stop for travelers on the way to more prominent landmarks, the church quickly expanded its grounds and walls, becoming a watchful beacon on the cliff for lost souls. The priest of the holy landmark was named Wilson Cheshire, a former businessman turned man of God after a failed robbery in which he had been shot by his assailant. He had denounced humanity as animals that were better off eradicated, but knowing the futility of trying to rid the world of its most numerous pests, he dedicated himself to teaching them of the torturous lives they led in an attempt to change as many decrepit souls as he could. As all manner of vagrants, missionaries, and, occasionally, merchants chanced upon the towering structure’s foreboding doors, a town was gradually founded below its judging gaze, the name of Ashbrook its to own, an ode to the mountain range that encircled the area. The history that follows remains shrouded in myth and obscurity, for it is said that Wilson had been keeping victims in the cellar of the church, the bodies recovered showing signs of horrific brutality and unimaginable atrocities.
I was born under the name of Allen Burks, passed down through three generations to me. I had always fancied being a writer, and one rainy day, lost in daydreams of far-off realms, I thought of the old church, visible from my house and most of the others in town. I peered up at its shadowed facade. I watched, confused, for at first glance—indeed, the only time I can remember it so—a light flickered in the church’s old bell tower. As I glimpsed the strange sight, it was quickly followed by an extinguishing of the light, leaving me to wonder if someone had been watching me. I took it for a trick of the eye and thought of churches no more as I returned to my childish imagination, but that night I was visited by terrible nightmares, horrific and ancient.
Looming shadows towered as far as the eye could see, the higher recesses of their forms obscured by a great fog that invited the imagination to horror, the ground twisting and writhing in shapes my mind couldn’t fully grasp. I walked forward through the dream world of incomprehensible sights until, from the farthest regions, a distant light softly made its way to my senses. As I approached, the object containing the light grew closer, much faster than it should have in accordance with the distance I traveled. The church of Ashbrook towered above me, pristine in its condition, no longer neglected and rotting with age. The mighty doors swung open with a violent gust of wind that had been expelled from the depths of the building, and following it was a shrill howling noise of tortured voices. My body, defying my will and better judgment, stepped into the uncanny representation of the church, greeted with the light and warmth of fire.
A communion had gathered. Religious figures decorated every pew, draped in hooded cloaks and chanting lowly some unknown verse in a long-forgotten language. No faces were visible save the figure upon the podium presiding over the ceremony. Disfigured and hideous, the priest possessed no eyes or ears, while the skin of its face had been torn away, leaving only a bloody visage of rotten muscle and white bone. Arms raised, the creature chanted, through a mouth devoid of teeth or tongue, that same undecipherable verse with chilling intent. All of the church inhabitants turned at once to me, their faces in different stages of decay and disfigurement, but before I could scream, they were erased from view by my waking.
That afternoon, I had made up my mind to investigate the rumors of the church; after my nightmare, I was morbidly curious about what might dwell in the church’s interior. I grabbed my coat and hat and, upon leaving, decided to take my revolver as well, retrieving it from its hiding place in the drawer of my study. Accompanied by a clear sky with few clouds, I walked along the old streets of Ashbrook, arriving at the church’s ivy-covered gate before the sun had begun to set. The moldering building loomed over me, seeming to watch me, as I opened the gate and walked to the front doors, an uneasy pit forming in my stomach as the memory of my nightmare replayed in my mind. This time, however, no wind blew the entrance open as I reached for the heavy brass handles hanging from the thick doors. I struck the door with a heavy knock and waited for a response. After a few minutes of no success, I tried the handle; the door swung open without resistance. After taking a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark interior, I surveyed the church’s nave and chancel, neglected beyond disrepair. The pews lay broken and splintered upon the floor, spider webs an eerie decoration adorning the majority of them, while the altar lay thrown on its side, consumed by mold. I stepped around the pews, my feet crunching on broken glass as I walked, intent on searching the bell tower that I hoped would hold an answer to my query.
Watching my steps, I proceeded to the stairs that led to the belfry, casting wary glances in each room along the way, at one point passing the door to the infamous cellar of old Wilson Cheshire. I ascended the stairs that thankfully were intact, save for one step that had crumbled with age, until I reached the forlorn bell still hanging in its home, ready to signal the arrival of the next procession. A melted candlestick lay on the window ledge, burned down only slightly, a few drops of wax collected in its drip pan. Someone had been here, just as I had suspected before I had foolishly dispelled the notion. I descended the stairs and made for the door to the old cellar.
Upon reaching the door, I saw that an old chain and padlock lay broken and rusted on the floor, hastily destroyed by someone seeking access to the mysteries beyond. I opened the splintered door, its rusted hinges responding with a piercing screech. I stood frozen in terror, but when no sound greeted me from the staircase leading down into the cellar, I ventured farther into the unknown. I had no light source, the candlestick in the bell tower being of no use without flame, so when I stepped down onto a protruding nail, I lost my balance and plummeted down the stairs with a scream.
My vision blurred as I touched the back of my head, my fingers coming away wet with blood. I blinked, dazed for a moment, before realizing that I could see. I positioned my feet below my body before standing with great effort, the pain of my foot screaming in the back of my mind, while my arm supported me on the structure of the wall. The sight I was assaulted with was horrific beyond belief, hideous in its existence, for before me stood a mass of beings dressed in the robes of my nightmares: skinless, eyeless, and as grotesque as I had dreamed. The figures stood staring at me, silent and ominous, faces a mockery of expression without skin to humanize them. Looking around the immense cellar room, I saw bodies strewn about, dimly lit by firelight that flickered on faces immortalized in masks of terror and desperation.
My heart hammered in my chest as my eyes flicked around the room, desperate for some way out. But the staircase behind me—the staircase that had been there moments ago—was gone. A figure parted the crowd and walked forward, its face more twisted and vile than the others. The priest. His mouth, gangrenous and swollen, parted as he muttered in a language that wasn’t meant for this world, and the sharp gleam of a wickedly curved knife flashed from his sleeve.
The others, their faces now mere blurs in the shadows, joined in, and a low monotone chant crawled into my mind like insects, relentless and grinding. I could feel my legs tremble as I stumbled backward, my body pressed into the cold, damp wall of the cellar. My hands, shaking, scraped uselessly at the uneven floor.
The priest stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. I could smell the stench of him now, thick, rotten—like death itself had made him its vessel. My breath came in sharp gasps, but I couldn’t look away, couldn’t tear my eyes from him, as my mind seemed to unravel at the seams.
I froze, panic gripping me, before I was stricken with a comforting reminder. The revolver. I could still feel its weight in my jacket pocket. The priest’s smile grew. And then, just as I began to question if I would be lost in this nightmare, I heard the unmistakable click of the revolver’s hammer.
My memory is hazy concerning the rest of the events from that horrid day. I was told I had been found by some youths outside of the gate to the church, screaming as I thrashed about on the ground. The local authorities had been summoned to retrieve me and bring me in for questioning, but when I arrived, I babbled on about a cellar and blood for hours before I was coherent enough for conversation. When I finally came to, they asked me many questions, such as whether I had entered the church and what had caused the bleeding wound on my head. I told my story, leaving out none of the terrible events, but when I finished, they informed me that a group had entered the church based on my ramblings. The cellar was chained shut, and upon entry, only rotting wooden crates lay within. They mused that I must have stepped on a nail outside, lost in my delirium, before falling on my head. They released me late that evening, casting wary glances, and upon returning home, I examined the revolver. It was missing a single bullet.
When I finally slept that night—and every night thereafter—I was greeted with peaceful sleep, free from the nightmare of that unreality. Every once in a while, though, I imagine I see the light of the church’s bell tower, lit once more.