Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1)

Acolyte

The Wildermoor Apocalypse: Book One

By

Chris Tetreault-Blay

Copyright © 2016 by Chris Tetreault-Blay

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental and is not intended by the author.

ISBN: 
978-1533210210

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

For Marie, Oscar and Lorelei.

My sun, moon and shining stars within a world that is just beginning.

Acolyte

/
ˈ
a
kəl
ʌ
ɪ
t/
noun
.
1
. a person assisting a priest in a religious service or procession.
2
. an assistant or follower.

“
Do not be bound together with unbelievers; for what partnership have righteousness and lawlessness, or what fellowship has light with darkness
?”   
2 Corinthians 6:14

Chapter One

August 23rd 2001

The rain had forced him inside sooner than he planned.  He had been lingering outside for almost an hour now.  To passers-by he feigned interest in everything around him; the flowers, the notices on the board outside advertising that week’s coffee morning for the lonely and gossip-hungry, even the poster for the Carols by Candlelight service from the previous December, that would not be changed for another couple of months.  In all honesty he could not face entering the building. 

He was scared.  It had gone too far this time and he had no idea who, if anyone, could help him.  But he had to try.  Father Michaels had told him to visit if he ever needed guidance.

He stood at the entrance to the church and tried to control his breathing.  Its imposing structure appeared as a fortress beneath the ever-darkening clouds above.  St. Jude’s had stood at the heart of the centre of Wildermoor for over five hundred years with only minor repairs to the roof required in that time, along with the occasional window repair when a stray cricket ball found its way into the place of worship during a heated Sunday afternoon league game.  The locals from the neighbouring village felt an unusual sense of pride for the building.

Although Father Michaels, and those before him, had always preached the sanctity and safety of the Lord’s home, Colin Dexler still felt like he was being judged, even before he stepped foot into the small lobby at the other side of the heavy front doors.

As the rain became more intent on driving him inside, he entered, stopping short of the next set of doors that led into the main body of the church.  He did not belong there. He knew that.  It felt wrong.

The church was empty, heightening Colin’s sense of abandonment. He had been parentless for much of his life and did everything he could to escape people. At last he had found a place possessing the right vibe to make him feel comfortable and welcome.  He knew, however, that Father Michaels was there.  It was 11:00am; he had not long finished his morning mass and would not leave for another hour or so.

It was a Thursday and the cleaners had been in early that morning. The place reeked of polish and fake fresh flower scent expelled from a can.  Colin suddenly felt nauseous, but he knew it had nothing to do with the fragrance.

He hurried to the small booth and stepped behind the curtain, sitting on the small wooden bench within the confessional and trying to calm himself.  He heard small, faint footsteps patter across the polished stone floor and held his breath.  They grew nearer and then came the scrape of the curtain being pulled across from the neighbouring booth.  With a slight exhalation from the effort, Father Michaels took his place.

‘Welcome, my child,’ the priest said, ‘I only wish that the Lord could have sent us better weather this summer.’

‘Forgive me Father, but I have sinned.’ Colin spoke in a rush, taking Father Michaels by surprise.  This man was troubled, he always had been, but even by his standards the urgency seemed uncharacteristic.

‘Colin, I glad you came.’

‘It has been thirty-five days since my last confession,’ Colin continued ignoring the priest’s pleasantries.

Father Michaels let out a short sigh. He knew that this would remain business-like, as it always did with Colin Dexler.  Colin only visited the church in times of need and was otherwise a recluse.  He obviously did not want to linger or be seen to be there.

‘What has been your sin?’  There was a pause as he listened to Colin’s troubled breathing through the grated partition that stood between them.

‘I don’t know.’

‘If you do not know how you have sinned, how do you know you have?’ Michaels spoke as sympathetically as he could, realising this was going to be waste of his time.

‘Because He has returned to me, so I must have.’

Father Michaels sighed again, this time out of frustration.  Three confessions so far this year had revolved around a shadow-like figure that Colin Dexler claimed was haunting him, responsible for any un-Christian acts he carried out.  A lost boy, who had been raised without guidance from his parents or the Lord, was Father Michael’s professional diagnosis. In an attempt to extend a helping hand, the priest had reached out but Colin had declined the invitation to become a more active part of the Church.

‘He is only in your mind, Colin. We have been through this before.  You have nothing to worry about.  You are responsible for everything you do, or do not do, and you can make these choices for yourself.  No-one else.’

‘But he wants me to do things, or he says I will die.’  His voice started to break and Father Michaels detected a faint sniff as Colin tried to stifle his tears.

‘What kind of things?’

‘Terrible things.’

This is going nowhere
, thought the priest.  Sometimes he did begrudge having to be the pillar of this community, but forced the thought back down deep into his subconscious.  He would have to meet Colin on his level.

‘When does he want you to do these things Colin?’

‘Tonight.’

The priest remained silent for a few moments, pondering how best to handle yet another of Colin Dexler’s paranoia episodes.  But something wasn’t sitting right with Father Michaels on this occasion.  Each time Colin had visited him before now he had been convinced that he was just a troubled man looking for somebody else to blame for his actions.  Countless numbers of his kind had passed through the church doors in the years he resided over the Wildermoor parish. Amongst them a few had seen their lives put back on the right track and were now regular active members of Michaels’ congregation.  Some of them simply wanted to hear the word ‘forgiveness’ so that they could continue with their otherwise sinful existence, but without the added weight of guilt bearing down on them. However, Colin Dexler had always been the black sheep of the bunch.

‘Go home, Colin.  You will see that there is nothing to be afraid of.  It is your home; everything in there is yours and is familiar to you.  There is nothing – or no-one – who is going to harm you there.’

Another bout of sniffling came from the booth as Colin tried to regain his composure.

‘You don’t understand Father, there are people in my house.  I don’t want them there.’  His voice was trembling more so now.  Father Michaels could hear him shivering.

‘Tell them to leave,’ he advised.  ‘You have every right to do that. It’s your home and no-one else should be there if you don’t want them to be.’  Father Michaels felt like a parent telling their child that there was nothing living in their closet or under their bed.  Colin Dexler was a grown man but his mind had not matured over the years.  He still possessed the same infantile fears he had carried throughout his life.

‘I can’t.  If they leave the house, I will die.’

This is hopeless
, the priest thought. 
We are getting nowhere fast
.  The priest had expected the poor man to visit him again but Michaels had dreaded breaking the bad news.

‘Colin, I’m glad you came today as I’m afraid I have something to tell you.’ There was no response from Colin’s side of the confessional box but Michaels could see that his eyes had shifted to look at him directly through the partition.

‘I am going away for a while.’  Before he could continue he was met with desperate pleas.

‘No, No…’ Colin shook his head frantically, the tears starting to stream as he lost the ability to hold them back.

‘There will be a new priest standing in for me, from the city,’ Michaels soothed, ‘You can talk to him.’

‘No!’ Colin yelled defiantly.  ‘He won’t understand!  Not like you do.  Please, Father, I need your help.’

‘You’ll be fine Colin, really.  You can survive without me. I’m not saying that I will never return, one day I will.  I just don’t know when.’ The priest carried on attempting to calm Colin down, knowing that it was against practice to leave his box during a confessional.  He wanted to shake the man and tell him to get a grip.

Hearing Colin’s cries brought forth a rising feeling of fear, apprehension and doom within Father Michaels.  He was doing the right thing, getting away from here.  He had not been feeling well in the last few weeks. Something was building – within him and across the village and it was about to snap.  In that moment he realised the source of his tension was Colin Dexler.  Something about him was making him fear for himself and it was getting stronger every moment.

‘Please, Father.  Stay.  I will do anything.  I can’t talk to anyone about…Him…Not like I can with you.’

‘Colin please.  You will be fine.’  Michaels was struggling to hold his nerve together.  He wanted to tell Colin to man-up but most of all he wanted to be as far away from him as possible.  His own hands were starting to shake uncontrollably.

Suddenly a clanging came from the other booth as Colin stormed out, clattering the curtain against its rails and knocking over a hymn book stand situated next to the box on his way out.  By the time Father Michaels managed to exit his own side Colin was beyond the first set of doors and through into the small lobby.

‘Colin!  Wait!  Just calm down, we can talk about this!’  Guilt now joined the affray of emotions coursing through Father Michaels while his whole body began to tremble.  The shadowy figure lingered in the lobby, Colin’s features dulled out by the glare of the sun shining in through the doorway behind him.  The drone of the words he shouted echoed through the empty walls of the church and remained with the priest for many weeks to come.

‘Just don’t blame me!  I asked for your help, Father.  Remember that!’

Before Michaels could take another step forward, Colin was gone.

Dexler dragged his slightly overweight form home in the only ungainly sprint that he could manage.  Father Michaels remained still for a few moments, letting their exchange repeat over and over in his mind.

He had to leave and it had to be now.

He rushed to his vestry, removed his robes and hurriedly put them away in the small wooden wardrobe behind the door.  He picked up the receiver of the telephone on his desk and dialled out.  He stamped his foot impatiently, waiting for a voice to answer at the other end.  At last it was answered with a stern greeting.

‘I’m sorry.  I know this is out of protocol, but we need to meet…No, you come and pick me up, it would be quicker…My things are here with me…No, no-one suspects anything. I have told them already that I am taking a sabbatical.’

He looked at his watch in response to the directions given to him by the voice on the other end.  ‘Very well, please hurry…Yes, call the others…I believe that the time is near.’

Thirty minutes later, Father Michaels was standing anxiously by the back door to the church, which exited through his vestry.  He held a suitcase in his hand. All his worldly possessions fit into the one case. Having lost all that meant more to him three years prior, when his wife of forty-six years was taken from him, nowadays he travelled light.

He stepped outside when he saw the black Mercedes pull up to the side gate at the far end of the cemetery.  Hands still shaking – more so now – he locked the door and deposited the key beneath a plant pot on the third gravestone to the left of the gravel path.  He transferred a kiss from his lips, with his hand, to the top of the headstone. 

‘Please forgive me,’ he asked of the slab, which bore the engraving
Anthea Michaels 1935 – 1999.’

His head was bowed as he walked away and got into the car.  He did not look back as the car sped off before he had even been able to secure his safety belt.