Not at all roll about

Not at all roll about

In Amoa's pitch-black streets, you can only hear whispers. Never turn your back on the main street church, it is said. Especially if you’re alone. As you wander the asphalt that has been coated with a thin layer of late fall snow, the only company you will find is their cold, breathy warnings. My hair is ruffled by wind. As if telling me to stay away, the strong gusts push me into the street and I stumble. Pulling my beanie lower over my reddening ears, I right myself. Nothing is going to stop me. Neither the wind nor the whispers. Certainly not rationality. I have to know what’s in the church, why no one will pray in it but no one dares to tear it down.

I know the people here think I have ill intent. They have no faith in me. I can hardly blame them. When you live in a town that is so small that you can drive through it in a flash, having a stranger enter your familiar, comfortable life is probably not something you want. Despite the fact that I could do without the insults that were muttered and the scorching glares in my back that I was afraid might set me ablaze. And it isn’t just their obvious disdain for me that’s put me on edge. Their fear of me as well. It’s hidden in their eyes; a secret so deep, so dark, so rooted within their history, their people, that breathing a word of it could crumble the town. But what is it? Why are they guarding the church so heavily? It’s my duty to find out. I owe it to my editor to find an interesting story that could save our newspaper from bankruptcy. I owe it to my grandmother, who never allowed us to visit and lived and died in Amoa. She advised my father to leave as soon as possible and never to consider returning. For the most part he followed that, though in his teenage days he’d ventured close to the church himself and I knew he longed to do so again, to find out what really lurked there. Fortunately or not, I inherited his curious spirit.

I halt in front of the church. The tall bronze spires that puncture the night sky are surrounded by fog. On every side of the church, stained glass depicts holy tales, their beautiful colors being muted by layers of grime. Under the spires, there is a huge cracked bell surrounded by smaller bells that shine in the darkness with an impossible golden gleam. Two grand oak doors with bronze knockers seal the entrance. The longer I stare, the less durable they seem to be. One creaks open. With a thud, it crashes to the concrete sidewalk. Shouldn’t the sound have woken nearly everyone on the block? No. It's as if the atmosphere has absorbed all sound. Furthermore, everything on Main Street is already closed. I can’t deny the eeriness of it all. Part of me wishes to turn back, to heed everyone’s warnings. Curiosity drowns out my sensibility. I take a step forward. Through the wrought iron gates, everything shifts. I try to recall the rules that my father required me to memorize. Never rest in the cemetery. In that case, you should show respect to each tomb. Never skip one. Not one. They will be aware. They will remember.

Don’t stop. I keep my eyes focused on the door hanging open, beckoning for me to enter. Crossing the threshold is like entering a new world. One that’s oddly warm, omniscient, unforgiving. My shoulder-mounted backpack is adjusted. When did it become so heavy? I hadn’t packed more than two bottles of water. No alcohol. My father was very adamant about that.

I itch to grab my flashlight. If you go alone, don’t use a flashlight. You’ll see things you don’t want to. I am aware of the warning. But am I not here to see things? Shed light on the shadowed secrets of the church? I turn it on. Dull yellow light floods the entryway in a thin stream. No going back now.

Dust is so thick that it looks like it's snowing inside that it floats in the light. I swing the light around, illuminating the thick cobweb covered columns of the entryway. All I can hear is the pounding of my blood in my ears. What will I see? Nothing. It’s all bullshit, isn’t it?

Taking a few deep breaths, I calm. I’ve never been one to believe in the supernatural, let alone an all-knowing god. Why start now? There's no reason for me to let the fear of it control me. I feel uneasy as I enter the sanctuary. Knots form in my stomach. I sense that something or someone is watching me. I know it doesn't exist. But I can’t help clenching tighter to my flashlight, grateful for the company of the light.

Colors refract across the pyramidic roof of the sanctuary when I shine light on the stained glass windows. How is it making rainbows everywhere? It’s breathtaking. I smile. It's possible that everyone is keeping the fictitious glass hues a secret. Something so brilliant, so enchanting would be coveted by chapels everywhere. Then the peace of their strangely wealthy town would be constantly disturbed.

I wander through the empty pews. Only rest in the sanctuary if you need to. But never on a pew. I trace my fingers across the pews' rounded tops. They come away caked in dust. I scrunch my nose in disgust and wipe my hand on my jacket. The dust is gone without a trace. Vanished from my hand, from my jacket. Strange.

In the congregational booth, chairs are still set up, as if waiting for singers to return. Instruments rest against the wood paneled wall, untouched. The piano and the organ stand side by side, somehow proud in the midst of abandonment and emptiness. My eyes cannot be separated from the organ. Half of me anticipates that it will begin playing. If you hear the organ playing when you’re in the sanctuary, know your time is running out. If the bells ring, your time is up.

I swallow over the lump forming in my throat. There are endless seconds. Everything remains silent. I shake the superstition from my mind. None of this is real. It’s just an abandoned church. A heroin user armed with a knife is the worst thing I could find here. Even though that wouldn't be ideal, it would still be a good story. Perhaps this is all a waste of time.

When my light falls on the hymnal, my rationality shifts uncomfortably. It’s not caked in dust like everything else. In fact, the leather bound book full of music looks pristine, as if it was freshly printed. Gently, I open it. The pages have a parchment-like texture and are yellowed. Despite my lack of musical ability, I can read the notes well. And I know they’re not supposed to be changing like this. Every page I turn, the ink shifts more and more. I flip through the hymnal, eyebrows furrowed, and realize it is no longer written in a language I can understand. neither one that I even recognize Something shuffles to my right. I suppress a gasp. Instinctively, I shine the light near the altar. Shadows jump out at me from every angle. I blink. They’re gone. My heart beats a little faster. I level it. Everything is fine. Fear is wrapping its spindly, manipulative fingers around my mind, distorting my perception of reality.

Bibles. There has to be something in there. Weaving my way through every pew, I pick up the stray bibles, each one more worn than the last.

I haven’t confessed. Since entering, I have not spoken. That is why they’re blank. Until I avow, nothing in this church will open up to me. At least, that is what my father told me. Say anything, and I believe it will be swallowed whole by the suffocating silence. My secrets will become one with the structure. The thought of that is unnerving. I hate how much hold this place has over me. Like every minute I spend here, more of my rationality chips away. Soon, I will not have any left.

Confession room. Surely there’s secrets hidden there. I'm not going to give up on this hellish journey. There is a story somewhere in this. I just have to find it.

I pass the centuries-old wreaths atop the taller crosses. Metallic, earthy aromas waft beneath my nose. How can they still smell fresh? I catch a glimpse of something shifting in the corner of my eye. The crucifix. Has it moved? I swear it was to the left of the wreath adorned with blue flowers. To the right, not. The door to the confession room is slightly ajar. The sanctuary is filled with creaking, and the sound is so audible that I'm sure it had to wake up anyone who might be sleeping here. Inside, bowls of sweet incense so overpowering that they make my eyes water are surrounded by candles. As the air swirls around them, the delicate orange flames flicker. I kneel down on the cushion beside the mahogany latticed screen. On the other hand, nobody is there. I breathe a sigh of relief. For just a moment, I can take a breather. I am able to whisper the truth about my sins and everything that is hindering my spirit. As the words pass my lips in breathy murmurs, the candles flicker faster. I'm feeling better. The air is heavier.

I open my eyes. The flames seem stronger. Warmer. My mind is clear, my thoughts so precise, it’s dizzying. It feels like my body has changed when I stand. Have my sins really been absolved, my spirit replenished? I shrug my shoulders. The world moves water. No. Confession does nothing. I am the same person I’ve always been. This is only the unnerving atmosphere leading me to delirium.

I keep my balance against the wall. I know it’s time to go. I am clearly tampering with fire here, and if I’m not careful something will explode. I’ll find a story somewhere else. Something concrete. Reliable. Rational.

I head for the doors I came through, guided by the light in my hand. It is then I hear the quiet resonance of the organ. I shine my flashlight on the instrument and the music swells so loud I can’t hear myself think. The next notes are more tranquil. There is no one playing. The keys move of their own accord.

I glance at the altar. Kneeling before it, hands clasped together in prayer, is the silhouette of a figure that doesn’t seem quite human. They seem to blur the lines between reality and something much darker, constantly flitting in and out between this world and one completely hidden from me.

If you see someone praying at the altar, do not approach them. If they come up to you, don't say a word. Leave immediately. Calmly.

I turn off the flashlight. I know it is a straight shot to the doors outside. The last thing I want is to draw the attention of this creature. Holding my breath, treading lighter than I ever have before, I walk agonizingly slow through the sanctuary. They pay me no mind.

I exhale slowly. Almost out. I pass the baptismal fountain. Its waters are opaque. I'm drawn there by a deep desire to be one with it, an unseen force. As I lean closer, whispers fill my mind. Each voice different. All divulging dark secrets no one should know. All laced with terror.

Drink the baptismal water if you wish never to leave.

I jolt away from the fountain, hardly aware that I’d cupped a handful of the warm water, held it a breath away from my lips. With wide eyes and trembling hands, I stumble back. Would I have been trapped? I don’t dare find out. I have to leave. I have to run.

When I look over my shoulder, I see that the person at the altar has vanished. Turn back towards the door, and there it is, standing before me. Two gaping holes in the ever changing shadows of its face lock with my eyes, fill me with a cold so deep, so encompassing, I fear I’ll never move again. Bells ring, a resonant, beautiful song above my head. I shriek. The shrill sound of it shatters the still aura of the church. Everything seems to come alive around me. Despite the light, the shadows rise as the candles light up. Tears blur my vision as I sprint through the doors. I don’t stop in the graveyard, I don’t spare any of the quaking tombs a glance. I want out.

I collapse to the sidewalk as soon as I pass the gates. Once more, nothing is saying anything. The wind wraps around me like an incorporeal hug. I focus on the gloomy church. It looks the same. However, the atmosphere is eager. It wants me to come back. I can sense it. I shakily get to my feet, supporting myself with the iron fence. Lights are on all across main street now. It has passed midnight. Yet houses are awake. I turn to see townspeople are staring. There is nothing in their eyes. Nothing but a cold, tired malice. My lips are shaking. All the intrigue and mysteria. They must have created it. A lure for poor souls like me. She was correct, my grandmother. I should have stayed away.

But the most important thing is to never, ever leave the church. I discover my error too late. Wealth comes with a heavy price. Amoa expects me to pay it.

Something pulls me back through the gates. I fight harder than I've ever fought before, I struggle, I scream, and I grasp at the gate, desperate for something to hold on to. My hands slip.

my chest is being scorched to a crisp. I look down to see my jacket drowning in my blood from five puncture marks on either side of my body. I can't see fingernails holding me in place and digging so deeply that they scrape my bones. My vision swims. Darkness descends. I’ve never felt colder in my life.

After that, I experience nothing at all. All is still in Amoa.

Contact me :-

Deen, Mohammed

Email : [email protected]

Mobile # + 8801576891317