Michael Abberton

Imagine a simple life, in times gone by. A life devoted to service and to prayer, asking for nothing other than to continue to serve, to worship, for the good of all mankind. What could interrupt such a tranquil life?

Brother Duncan, a simple monk, is about to find more than he bargained for when he discovers even reliance on duty, discipline and faith cannot protect you from the Twilight Zone.

MATINS and LAUDS

Duncan was not wakened by the tolling of the bell. He was already awake, shivering under his blankets. Cold November air was blowing through the gaps in the poorly fitted window shutters. His head was closest to the window in the cell, and he could feel the icy blast blowing on his face, turning his breath into smoke. He would have moved the bed, or even slept the other way round, but this was forbidden by the rule.  He threw back the covers and tried to work some blood into his feet before stuffing them into his well-worn fur-lined night boots. He was fully dressed, in fact, he was wearing every piece of clothing that he owned. He thought about somehow rigging a blanket under his habit, but he didn’t have time. Steeling himself, he splashed freezing water over his face and tonsured head from the libation bowl on his table. For a second, he thought that his heart had stopped – but then it started again as the icy water found its way down his back into his loincloths. 

In the corridor on the way to the cloister, he nodded in greeting to his fellow novices, monks, and the ordained, recognising them from their gait, the state of their habits, or sniffles, as all walked head-down with the hoods up, trying to keep their ears warm. 

In the church, they filtered into their respective places in the choir, and Duncan stood next to Brother Malcolm and Brother Ian. They all shared one copy of the officium divinum, the text large enough to be read when shared by more than one monk. They knelt on the hard wooden kneeler whilst they waited for the Abbot to enter and begin. Ian hissed in pain as he knelt – they knew he was wearing a cilice after some indiscretion, the spikes making kneeling and sitting particularly painful. The abbot believed that penance should be a public matter and not purely for private devotion and spiritual practice. 

Duncan looked up. Past the dim glow of the candles and a fire brazier that stood impotently in the aisle between the choir benches, the fluted and finely carved columns disappeared into the black, as if there was nothing above them but a starless void. 

There was a ripple of noise, coughs and movement from one end of the choir benches to the other as the abbot entered and took his place, and all the monks stood up. 

“Domine vobiscum,” the Abbot chanted.

“Et cum spirito tuo,” they replied. 

The chants echoed up into the dark, the antiphons call and response, the chanted Bible and psalm readings and blessing, and the monks filtered out again, some to resume the fruitless quest for sleep, some to begin their duties for the day. 

Duncan returned to his cold cell. Once the door was closed, the candlelight from the wall sconces was all but gone and the cell’s only illumination was the pale glow that eked through these very gaps that Duncan cursed so much. He said another quick prayer and this time kept his boots on as he curled underneath the blankets. 

PRIME

Duncan was woken by the bell this time. Dim light of pre-dawn filtered through the shutters. Somehow he had managed to get another three hours of sleep but it did occur to him that had the bell not done its job, he might not have awoken at all. He stripped, switching his outerwear for his day clothes and boots. 

In the chapel this time, the vaulted ceilings with their stone effigies of gargoyles and wild beasts were visible as the dawn light began to find its way through the windows. The apse and altar were bathed now in a blaze of colour from the stained glass of the south-eastern windows. 

The bells now rang for Mass, and as usual whilst the priests went out to prepare, the novices stayed in place until the novice master signalled them to take their turn in the lavatories – to strip and complete their daily ablutions. 

Duncan then quickly made his way to the kitchen and refectory, to prepare breakfast. All he and other novices of his rank had to do was divide and share the food – bread, butter, cheese and honey, with milk and small beer. The real work had been done by those on kitchen duty, baking the bread, the smell of which was making the most devoted monk’s mouth water, and the cow hands who had milked their grateful charges this morning. 

After grace, the monks ate in silence. The fare was good by any standard, but the monks ate sparingly  and though grateful for the abundance provided by the grace of God, they were not to take pleasure in the eating. 

Although Duncan also enjoyed the meal, especially the honey, when he began to clear the scraps and plates and sweep the refectory clean again, the food felt like a cannonball in his stomach. 

MASS and CHAPTER

The bell rang three times for the Mass, and the monks assembled in order outside the church. They filed in according to seniority, kissed a crucifix, blessed themselves with holy water, and bowed to the rood over the choir screen before processing in. It wasn’t until they took their accustomed places, the novices and postulants closest to the apse, that Duncan realised Ian was missing. This small change in routine was enough to completely distract Duncan throughout the Mass, and this somehow communicated to Brother Malcolm, who gave him the most unchristian look when Duncan forgot to turn the psalter page. 

After mass, the bell was rung for Chapter, and they filed out into the chapter room, to sit or stand according to rank. Here, after the morning prayer and a re-dedication to the rule, transgressions were accused or admitted, and punishment given. Today, as every novice quivered in their boots, there was none— at least not until the novice-master noted the absence of Brother Ian and asked the infirmarian, Father Julius, why his name had not been read in the sick roll. 

“Forgive me, Father, but Brother Ian is not amongst the sick. He has not presented himself to me.” 

“Brother Duncan!” the novice-master roared. Duncan jumped. “Yes, Father?”  he squeaked. 

“With the dispensation of the Abbot,” he paused, the abbot closed his eyes and nodded, “you are released from chapter and parliament. You are to find Brother Ian and report back to me.” 

“Deo Gratias!”  Duncan said, bowing to the Abbot before starting to run for the doors at the back of the chamber. “AND DO NOT RUN!” shouted the priest again, as the ostiarius opened the door to let him out.

The door closed behind him, and he almost collapsed with fear. He had been thrashed once in Chapter and didn’t want it to happen again. He couldn’t even remember why he had been punished in the first place. 

So, walking quickly, he first went to the cells. Ian’s was two doors down the corridor from his, and the room was empty, but in complete disarray. What little possessions the novice had were now all over the floor, the bed upended, the wash bowl upside down and emptied. Then he went to the infirmary, just in case Ian had gone there whilst the infirmarian was at mass. Brother Luke was there – he scolded Duncan harshly before giving him any chance to explain. Without apology of any sort, he confirmed that the errant monk was not there and bid him to return to chapter at once. Duncan bowed and scraped, leaving the monk to his pitied charges, but he didn’t go back to chapter. Ian was missing, and he had been given the responsibility of finding him, not merely reporting his own failure by saying where the errant monk wasn’t. 

He went to the kitchens and asked the lay staff; he went around the farm, checking the livestock pens. He went to the scriptorium, as he knew Ian had shown interest there, the brewery, and apiary.  There he found that one of the hives had been broken open, the inhabitants angrily buzzing around it. He went to the brook, and as a last resort, though he had no specific permission to do so, he followed the path upstream to the watermill. Technically, this was outside the monastery grounds, but it was still property and run by a lay brother, Bartholomew. 

As he approached, he could see that the sluices were open, and the wheel was not turning. Brother Bart was standing to one side of the channel, directing something below. 

“What’s this then? An escaped novice? You’ll be for a flogging if Father Augustine catches you!” he said, standing up straight and stretching his back. He was a kind man and fatter than any monk Duncan had ever seen. 

“No, if you please, Brother, I’m Brother Duncan,” he said, pushing back his hood. “I am looking for a missing novice though. Brother Ian. He’s taller than me, slight, with blue eyes, and very fair hair…”

“And dressed like a monk?” Bart laughed. “I’m sorry, lad, I’m trying to make the best of a bad day. I shouldn’t laugh. Well, to be honest, I think I know the novice you mean, and he does look different from… well, the rest of you, if you catch my meaning. I’ve not seen him, sorry to say. But if he has the intention to… abandon his vocation, he would have headed the other way towards the village, and probably hitched from there to town. I’d help you, but something has jammed my wheel.”

Just then, with a loud splash and splutter, there was a call from the water below. 

“Brother!” said a young boy, though not much younger than Duncan. “There is something jamming the wheel… it looks like… a body.”

“A body? A sheep, or a goat?”

“Saints preserve us, Brother, I know not.” 

Bart clambered down the bank and offered a massive arm to the boy who took it, and then was hauled bodily from the water. “Get inside now, get warm and dry before you catch your death – off you go!” 

The boy squelched up the bank and then round to the house that adjoined the mill buildings. Duncan was envious – he wanted nothing more than to sit in front of a roaring fire with a nice beaker of mead…

“Brother!” said Bart, coming up the bank himself. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” 

“I don’t know, Brother, how can one tell…” 

Bart gave him a gentle clip round the ear. “It’s not a philosophical question, lad! Are you thinking your missing monk might be stuck under my wheel?” 

Duncan recoiled, not from the slap but from the thought. He saw himself trapped in the freezing water, in the dark, his legs being progressively crushed by the machinery as his lungs began to burn, flailing helplessly, knowing that the only release would be that first breath of the muddy water…

“Can you swim, lad?” said Bart, his face only inches away. 

“N-no, Brother. I can’t,” he said. 

“Bugger,” Bart stated. “I can’t send Will in again… it’d kill the Old Man Godwin… wait here.” Bart jogged awkwardly back towards the grain barn.

“But I…” said Duncan, to his receding back. Well, there was that possibility that he could have found his quarry – but he’d rather not be here to see that theory confirmed. The mangled body dragged out of the water onto the muddy grass, the skin marble-white, the mouth open in its last gasp, the glassy eyes wide open in sheer terror…

Bart came back with a length of rope. He took off his habit, two undershirts, and a pair of woollen breeches before tying one end of the rope around his shoulders and the other around Duncan’s waist. 

“There’s nothing to you, lad, so be aware, if I go down, so do you. But you can help me. If you feel three tugs on the rope,” he demonstrated, almost pulling Duncan off his feet, “then you pull with all the strength you and the angels possess, got it?” 

“Yes, Brother, but…” 

“Good lad!” Bart clapped him on the shoulder, and being careful not to trip over and fall into the water, he walked down the bank and after taking off his shoes, slowly stepped into the pond, lowering himself down into the black. He then began to protest the freezing cold on his nether regions in the foulest language Duncan had ever heard, whether in English, Latin, or French. And with a deep breath, Bart disappeared beneath the surface. Now Duncan was holding his breath in sympathy, until his chest was almost bursting, only brought out of this fantasy by three sharp tugs on the rope. Bart began to pull, and at first could not move an inch. He leaned back with all his weight, trying to dig the heels of his sodden shoes into the soft earth. He began to gain purchase, and though straining to the point of near collapse, he began to pull something. Bart came out of the water, but the rope was no longer attached to him, but still taught, attached to something else.

The big man was on his hands and knees, looking for all the world like a half-drowned hunting dog. 

“Keep pulling!” he spluttered, struggling upright. 

Duncan resumed his Sisyphean task, but once recovered, Bart joined in, and something began to emerge from the water. Duncan felt sick and faltering, his feet slipped out from under him, and he landed on the grass on his backside. Bart hardly noticed, as the thing was now almost completely out and on the bank.

Bart panted and coughed, before spitting something nasty into the pond where it impacted with a plop. “There’s your monk!” he said, pointing. Duncan got to his feet, almost too scared to look. His eyes followed the length of the rope from where he had dropped it to… the body of a dead sheep. 

Bart clambered up the bank and began drying himself off with his habit. 

“Thanks for the help – don’t worry, I’ll tell that old tyrant Augustine I commanded you, which is actually what I did do. You’ve helped the mill to get back in production for the benefit of all, so there’s some indulgence time for you, eh? Off you go now!”

Duncan nodded, concealing his disappointment at not being invited into the house as a reward, and headed back down the path, the way he had come. 

Duncan could hear the bells ringing as he trotted down the path, but wasn’t sure now whether that was for Sext or Dinner. That thought made his stomach rumble. Now cutting across the fields and back to the monastery, he saw two monks in the beekeeper barn, trying to salvage the broken hive. They were clothed in thick white linen habits, head to toe, with leather aprons and gloves, sleeves tied at the wrist. Their hoods were closed by a circle of fine whicker work, like the bottom of a basket, which gave them a strange, inhuman appearance, much like some bizarre, gigantic insect themselves. The basketwork was too tight to admit any of the angry bees, but the gaps, being this close to the face, did not overly reduce vision. One had a smouldering torch of damp reeds, the smoke having a calming effect on the creature’s wrath, apparently. 

Duncan re-entered the monastery proper and here in the cloister, could smell lunch, which made his stomach rumble all the more. As yet, the cloister was still empty – the community would either be in parliament or at the office. 

He was stumped as to what to do next. He was loath to go back now, having failed and also probably having gone beyond the extent of his warrant, and so he slowly turned on the spot, waiting for some inspiration or…

In the corner off to his right were two doors, one that led upstairs to the cells of the senior monks, the other was always closed and locked. Locks were expensive and for a door to have a lock was something extraordinary. He remembered the first day he had come here and been shown around the building with his father and some other boys. The monk that had been giving them the tour (who hadn’t been Father Augustine) had simply not mentioned what the door led to, and so had been questioned by Duncan’s father. 

“Oh, that door… shall never be opened. It is always locked.”

“Why is that, is it the fabled monastery treasury?” his father had said.

“No, that’s the harem!” another had said, causing other ribald jokes and comments whilst the boys looked at their smirking fathers and brothers with incomprehension. 

Whilst he had been at the monastery, indeed the door had always been locked, and people always went past it like it wasn’t even there. It was easy to miss, the wood of the door was heavy and darkened with age, the door was also strapped and hinged with fittings of blackened iron. 

Duncan walked up to the door. Inside, it was dark, the winter sun not high enough to reach this part of the cloister.  There was a musty smell emanating from it, mixed with burnt tallow and a trace of incense. Perhaps Ian had taken a wrong turn and gone in here instead of the door to the infirmary. Which was in the same place in the opposite corner of the cloister. There were two heavy, rough stone doorsteps which Duncan now carefully ascended. Inside, on the floor, was a milking stool, on top of which was an old-fashioned tallow lantern and a tinderbox. Without considering possible consequences, Duncan used the tinderbox to light the lantern. The box on the floor he could now see contained replacement tallow and some candles. Taking up the lantern, Duncan could see a stone-flagged passageway terminating in a spiral staircase that descended anticlockwise into the dark. Thinking of Augustine’s cane on his backside, he set off down the stairs. 

As he turned the corner and was intent on keeping his footing on the worn stairs, he didn’t notice the heavy door silently swing closed. 

Duncan descended into the darkness. He felt strangely terrified but excited at the same time. Exhilarated. The stairs were wide and thankfully dry of any moss or mould. Similarly, as he steadied himself with one hand on the central column, he could feel and see the quality of the stonemasonry. The stone was as well-finished as any in the church. After a while, he began to lose track of time, the steps spreading away out of sight with no way of seeing what was ahead. “May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,” he said to himself, as he carried on down. 

Presently he began to see a glow of reflected light, and after a few more turns this brightened into a doorway on his right, the stars continuing downwards. He stepped into the room to take a break. It was small, no more than an antechamber. It was lit with a large candelabra on a table in the middle of the room, and a couple of candle sconces. There were two rough chairs, and in opposite corners at the rear a well, covered with a wooden lid, and another narrow doorway. He went over to the door and opened it to find a privy, though not using a bucket, the seat was over a hole that extended to he didn’t know where. He decided to avail himself of the amenities before checking the well. The well smelled sweet somehow, and there was a small metal bucket on a length of rope. Next to this on the floor was an earthenware jug and some beakers. He lowered the bucket down only a few feet before he found the surface, and with some messing with the rope, managed to retrieve the bucket with some water in it. In the flickering yellow light the water seemed remarkably clear. He smelled it, and then tasted a little. It seemed to be cool, not cold, and pure. He suddenly realised he was desperately thirsty and so filled the jug before decanting some of the water into a beaker. He repeated this three times before he was satisfied, sitting on one of the chairs as if he owned the place. 

“Deo Gratias,” he intoned, toasting the empty chair. 

Strangely re-energised, after trimming the wick of the lantern, he continued down the stairs, after a couple of turns coming to a wooden door. He opened it, and was immediately in a small chapel. It had about half a dozen wooden prayer kneelers, the altar immediately before them slightly raised to delineate the sanctuary space. Brass candlesticks gleamed from the altar, all lit, the guttering tapers showing evidence of a few hours of use. On one side of the altar were the sacred vessels and offerings for mass, covered with a spotless white linen cloth. The altar cloth was similarly spotless, and the altar was dressed in heavy black silk with a cross motif picked out in golden thread. 

Above the altar, was a large wooden crucifix, far too big for this space. The Christ figure was more than life size, and would have been a giant if real. The thing itself was more detailed, more bloody – in fact more realistic than any depiction Duncan had seen before. The face was not one of benediction or in the peace of death, but hideously contorted in agony. Blood gushed from the wounds in wrists and feet, in places the skin peeled back showing tissue and fragmented bone. The crown of thorns was brutal also, some thorns six inches long, some penetrating the skin of the forehead to re-emerge from the skin at another point. The body though massive was thin, not the classical musculature of common depictions, that gave Christ the appearance of a crucified Apollo. There was no wound in the side. And there was no loincloth, the figure entirely naked. 

Duncan automatically fell to his knees in front of the spectacle. He could see why the effigy was not in the church, but the quality of it— it must have been very expensive to construct and clearly was not originally meant for this space. The cloths, everything in the chapel, was of much higher value than anything in the monastery— even that kept aside for high feasts and the visits of dignitaries. This could only be the private chapel of the Abbot— but then he couldn’t imagine the old man climbing down all those stairs, or for that matter, climbing up them with such a long way from the first respite to the entrance above. 

Crossing himself, and not daring to either look up or turn his back on the Christ figure, he backed out of the chapel and closed the door. He continued on. 

Another couple of turns and he began to smell something odd, like spices. At first it reminded him of Christmas, but there was something else behind that smell, something with a sharp edge. Another door presented itself, which he opened. This room was bigger than the others, with a couple of doors at the rear and three chimney breasts, one for a fire that was currently unlit and two terminating in large angel heads, both with their mouths open – for ventilation. There were four tables arranged across the room, parallel to each other. But these were not dining tables. The wood, though polished, was stained black and dark brown, runnels that would direct the flow of fluid down the legs and into drainage holes in the floor. One wall had shelves filled with glass and pottery jars and bottles, and arranged on a sideboard beneath was an array of tools – knives, saws, picks, spoons, forceps, and some things that Duncan did not understand. At the end of the room furthest from the door was a stack of boxes… not boxes… coffins. An embalming chamber? He went to one of the doors and opened it slowly. An immediate smell of ammonia assaulted his eyes and nose. There were metal baths in the room, and though not really wanting to see what they contained, he approached slowly, covering his nose with the sleeve of his habit. 

In the closest bath was what could only be described as a meaty soup – but this was dissolving human flesh. At one end, a partially denuded skull floated, some of the scalp still attached, and one yellow eyeball. 

He quickly turned and suppressing the urge to vomit, he stormed out and closed the door behind him, retreating to breathe fresh air from the mouth of a nearby angel. Was this where all the monks came when they died? Why have they kept this so far underground?  

He made his way out back to the stairs. He had no idea now what time it was, and surely they would be sending novices out in search of him too. Despite all he had seen so far, he felt drawn further down, and so he set out again. Almost immediately, he found another door, ornate, with a polished brass cross in the middle. He opened it, expecting it to be heavier than it was, and fell over the lintel, the lantern skidding out of his hand. And that saved his life, as a spring-loaded blade fell across the doorway, and two crossbows fired, their bolts thudding into the door. 

Duncan sat up. Repeatedly crossing himself. The room was lit, and now carefully standing, he could see candlesticks and three tombs, each with the figure of an abbot or bishop on top. From the door, these looked grand and richly done, but on closer inspection, he could see that indeed they had no substance, being made of nothing more than painted wood and plaster. A trap then, to kill or maim any thief who ventured this far? He recovered the lantern, stepped over the blade in the doorway, and went further on.

The next chamber had no door, which Duncan was at first thankful for – but not when he looked through the doorway. Inside was a large, well-lit room, with passageways that continued on at the rear. But Duncan was not inclined to explore them. This was an ossuary, on a scale that Duncan had not seen before – and went someway to explain the hideous acid baths upstairs. The ceiling was vaulted much in the way that those in the monastery main buildings were, but here the columns and bosses were made of bleached human bones. The arches were picked out with vertebrae, the central boss of each a skull, grinning down with sightless eyes. The walls were studded with them, but there were also tableaus, where skeletons in moth-eaten habits and vestments performed daily duties, were kneeling at prayer or saying mass. A choir of monks stood, holding dusty psalters, their mouths open with disjointed jaws, forever praising the almighty even in death. Walking further into the room, the depictions took an unexpected turn. A monk embracing a woman, her long, dry hair untied and loose about her bony shoulders. A cat with what appeared to be horns stood on his shoulder. The ground in the tableau appeared to be paved in a way that the others had not been. And Duncan recoiled in horror when he realised what had been used – the large-eyed skulls of babies and children. Scores of them. Other depictions followed, seemingly one each for all the deadly sins, in each the monk was tempted by a cat, some sort of rodent, or the burned skull of a goat. An entreaty then to beware the dangers of vice and maintain fealty to the rule and order. But the children? 

Duncan went out and sat on the stairs, which seemed to be increasingly a place of refuge. Once his heart had calmed again, he went further, but now he could see brighter light and he realised he had finally reached the bottom of the crypt.

Beyond a high vaulted arch was a wide chamber, with vaulted ceilings and pillars, no doubt to support the great weight above. In contrast to the ossuary, the vaults were highlighted in red and gold, the intervening triangles painted dark blue and covered in golden stars, like a depiction of the night sky. 

Lined up along the nave of this chapel were tombs, varying in detail and design from those nearest the door to those closest to the altar, betraying a passage of time if not wealth. 

Duncan extinguished his lantern and left it by the door; the space was so brightly lit that he no longer needed it. The floor felt uneven at his feet, and he saw that this was also tiled, each tile bearing the design of the Jerusalem cross. As he walked up the aisle, he could see that the walls were now bedecked with rich, colourful tapestries depicting scenes from the life of Christ and the saints. There was no rood screen; the altar was in the centre of the nave between the transepts. The transepts had ranks of benches of a deep rose wood. Before the altar on the sanctuary dais stood three chairs, the centre one being an episcopal throne, the high back topped with a carved and painted depiction of a mitre. Sitting in the throne was Brother Ian, naked, the pale white skin of his body striped in dark  blood. 

Duncan staggered and fell to his knees. The head of the corpse was lolling back on the shoulders, the mouth open slightly. There were wounds in the wrists and ankles, as if it had been crucified. And it had a stab wound in the side, but unlike the usual depiction of Christ, this wound had flooded with bright red blood that had streamed down the body and down the left leg to a puddle on the floor. 

A shadow moved against the candles in the right transept. Duncan quickly staggered to his feet and hid behind one of the pillars, peeking out from behind it. 

The shadow continued to move down the transept to the nave, and then stepped up to the throne. It was the shape of a tall man, though bent as if with age. He was wearing vestments, as if prepared to say mass, the chasuble in black silk with gold thread, like the altar dressing he had seen in the other chapel. It reached out and lifted Brother Ian’s face, holding it by the chin, turning this way and that as if studying it or checking for signs that life remained. Then it let the head fall onto the chest. 

Duncan noticed now that the altar had a chalice on it, standing in the middle, large, shining gold, encrusted with gems. The priest stood in front of the altar, his back to the nave, and lifted the chalice as if at the consecration. Duncan almost bowed his head automatically. But now the priest upended the chalice over himself, and what it contained clearly wasn’t wine – thick, coagulating blood poured slowly and slimly out, splashing over the bald head, covering it. The priest quivered and gasped in pleasure as he drained every last drop, before throwing the chalice over his shoulder. It hit the floor and bounced with a metallic clatter before rolling and coming to rest not two feet from Duncan’s hiding place.  A little blood dribbled out of the golden cup. 

Duncan looked back at the priest. But this was no priest. As it turned, he could see the stubs of horns on its head. Its red eyes were slanted like a cat’s, and the mouth, too wide for any human mouth, was filled with needle-like teeth. It slobbered and slathered as it licked every remaining dribble of blood from around its lips with a long, forked purple tongue. It smiled now as it turned its attention back to the body, and grabbing one of the arms began to suck noisily at the wrist wound. 

Duncan, transfixed with sheer terror, was unaware of his own hot piss running down his leg and into his boot. 

Having drained one arm, it dropped it and took the other, but before it began to drink, it stopped stock still. It lost interest in Ian’s body and stood up, sniffing, looking this way and that. Duncan moved back behind the pillar and became aware of the rapidly cooling wetness down his leg. Had it detected him? He peeked again. The thing was coming down the altar steps, its head turning left and then right, scanning, snuffling. 

Duncan waited until it was looking the other way and scooped up the chalice off the floor, and flung it with all his might back towards the transept before collapsing quickly into a ball, praying for all he was worth. The chalice landed with a resounding clatter, having hit the metal frame of a votive candle rack. The thing turned and ran in that direction, and not missing his chance, Duncan ran for the door and up the stairs. 

Now he had no light, and it wasn’t very long before the glow from below completely gave out. Up he went, going more by feel and guesswork than anything else, his breath rasping in his throat and his heart pounding in his ears. He could hear nothing and did not dare stop to check whether he was being pursued. He carried on past the doors and doorways of the other rooms and straight on up. It didn’t seem as far on the way back, and before he knew it, he was at ground level again. The door was closed, however, but thankfully finding it was not locked, he swung it open and then closed it behind him. 

And at that point, darkness surrounded his vision and encroached up on him, and he passed out. 

THWACK!

Duncan’s face stung from the impact, and he tasted blood, the slap having torn his cheek on his own teeth. 

“Where have you been, you worthless dog?” roared Father Augustine, standing over him. Duncan realised that he was being held upright by two other monks, one on each arm. 

“Please, Father…” he croaked, flinching as the burly priest wound up for another hit. 

“Let him speak, Father,” said the voice of the abbot, from somewhere out of sight. 

“Very well. Then speak, boy! Enlighten us with your wisdom!”

“I…I was looking for Brother Ian as I was instructed and…”

“Don’t bother telling us about your antics at the mill, we know all about that,” said Father Augustine. 

“Oh… I came back to the monastery and I saw that this door, this door behind me, was open, and I thought the Brother had gone inside…” 

“Impossible! This door is permanently locked. Don’t you dare lie to me!”

“Again, Father, for the love of Christ, let the boy speak!”

Augustine visibly deflated at the public scolding.

“Go on.”

“I saw many strange things inside, some horrors I dare not recount. An ossuary, an embalming room. A grand chapel crypt. And… I found Brother Ian, slain by some foul demon.”

Duncan flinched again, expecting another hit. But when none came, he opened his eyes. Augustine and the Abbot were conferring quietly. 

“Let him go,” someone said, and Duncan was released, wobbling at first, before turning back to the door. He was pulled out of the way as the abbot produced a key from the sleeve of his habit and a loud clunking noise, turned the lock, and opened the door. The door creaked as if it had been closed for years. Nevertheless, the light from the cloister penetrated the room beyond enough to reveal a storeroom full of junk furniture and rags, and sprawled on the floor, Brother Ian’s body, fully clothed and obviously dead for some time. A bloody knife was in his right hand. 

There were gasps of horror and shock, some monks looking at Duncan for answers as if he had any, but he was just as shocked as anyone. And after recovering from his initial surprise, he wondered what his punishment would be, as there were no stairs going down, and from the evidence of their own eyes, he had lied to the assembly and the abbot. 

The abbot knelt over the body and gave it extreme unction, before instructing two of the brothers to take it up and lay it out in the chapter house. He then closed the door and locked it again, returning the key to his sleeve. He looked at the novice master and then to Duncan, before blessing him and kindly cupping his face. 

“No punishment for this one,” he said to all assembled, “and there is to be no talk of this again, either in general or in chapter. Brother Duncan, go and rest. You have dispensation to eat if you are hungry. And I would like you to lead the chant at vespers, if you would be so kind.” 

“Deo Gratias! Thank you, my Lord Abbot!” said Duncan, the relief visible on his face, before he fainted. 

Who knows what dark secrets lie at the foundation of our religions – whether they keep the darkness at bay or somehow feed it to sustain their purpose of being, only through the window of the Twilight Zone can we know the answer.