Flash Fiction #4 Halloween

Newton Gourdbatch's Comprehensive Guide to Exploring Abandoned Churches

your_local_charlatan
(inspired by Tumblr user rocky_mountain_gothics's post about exploring abandoned churches)

Newton Gourdbatch's Comprehensive Guide to Exploring Abandoned Churches was published in 1876 and did not survive to see a second printing. Out of one thousand books, one hundred and ninety two books were sold. Those that did not make it off the shelves were burned.

When the craze for the occult gradually started to subside in the mid-1900s, people who no longer had time for such excursions sold their books to second-hand stores or vintage shops. Those went out of business and the books were packaged off to forgotten antique stores that were nestled away in the very back alleys of small towns.

It was pure chance that one such copy of this book landed in the hands of one such as Possum Cavle, a bored student with a gradually developing interest in the occult. He studied it, handled it so much that the tattered hardcover became threadbare, and the ragged pages became dirtied and dog-eared with use. He found it fascinating. When he showed it to his library group, they had something more practical in mind.

Which is why all five of them stood together, staring up at the looming gates of the deserted church just out of town, a little after 11pm on a Halloween that had been, up to that point, fairly uninteresting.

~~~

"Put away that flashlight," Possum hissed, glaring at the eldest of them all, a jumpy fellow called Nate. He pocketed the offending item with a guilty look.

It was the first rule stated beyond the preface: Never bring a flashlight. You'll see things you don't want to.

If the graveyard was creepy, the actual church was worse. Far too big, far too empty, and far too many echoes for the amount of people in it. The leering gargoyles didn't do anything to soften the hostility of the ruins.

"Alright, all, listen up," Possum raised his voice a little to be heard over the shuffling of feet on stone and whispered secrets, "Don't go into the confession booth. The man there is not the priest and you don't want to know who he really is. If you see someone praying at the altar, don't approach them. If they approach you—"

"—Don't talk to them and leave immediately. The water isn't holy anymore, we get it. You made us go over this four separate times."

"For your own safety, Connor."

Connor gave a non-committal grunt.

"You can go and explore now just remember the twenty main rules. We're all getting out of here without any eldritch abominations accosting us and making us grow second heads or twelve arms or anything like that."

Some muttering arose from the small group before they dispersed to wander around the church, mostly poking around for interesting artifacts. Possum looked up at the shadows circling them. Like he was prey. Like they were moving in for the kill. He shook his head to rid himself of the paranoia and looked down at the ground. He could have sworn there was carpet a few minutes ago...

Behind him, wood clattered on stone. Possum swung around, looking up again, but there was nothing. By his feet, however, was a rosary. He stooped to pick it up, and the beads sat heavy in his hands.

If you find a rosary, don't put it on. It won't help.

Possum put it in his satchel. He could not help but notice that the small vial of holy water he had brought with him was missing from its usual compartment. A momentary panic passed him. It faded. They had obviously wanted it. There was no use looking for it—it was not worth his life.

The scuffing sounds of the library group had muffled a little, but he could still hear them, which meant they were safe. He wandered over to the statues of the angels, their palms all spread towards the heavens. The features were fine, yet stern. An archangel of some sort? The plaque describing who each of them were was rusted from age, and claw marks had gouged out most of the fine carving anyway. He looked up at what was perceived to be the face again.

"Hey, can I drink this communion wine?"

Possum couldn't tell who at the altar had spoken behind him, too transfixed with horror at what the statue before him had morphed into. There was some shuffling and murmuring behind him.

"I'm pretty sure there was a rule that said we could drink only if we wanted to leave."

Newton Gourdbatch's Comprehensive Guide to Exploring Abandoned Churches dropped from his trembling hands and slammed to the floor. A layer of dust plumed from the impact.

"Well I don't know about you, but I want to get out of here... This place is starting to give me the creeps..."

It was all blurring: his head felt numb and he wanted to scream but the sound was trapped in his throat. His fingertips prickled with unknown energy. The thing leered down at him, lips drawn back. It had teeth where there shouldn't be teeth, and eyes where there shouldn't be eyes. It grinned. Hissed.

"You should probably check the book again, just to take sure because I, for one, remember it specifically stating not to drink or eat anything from here."

They needed to get out.

"Why don't you ask Possum, he's the one that's studied this front to back, back to front after all. Isn't that right, Possum?"

Out.

"Possum?"

Where was out again?

"Can we have your book for a moment please?"

There was the sound of shuffling, fingernails scraping the stone floor, and a stifled cough followed by the pages flicking from one to the next.

"...'Chapter fifteen: Drink the wine if you wish to never leave'... Drink the wine if you wish to never leave— Connor, stop! Put it down! Connor? Connor!"

And it was then that the screaming began.