Midnight Mayhem

"I AM NOT GOING DOWN THERE!"

Lisa looked at me with an amused expression bordering on ridicule.

"It's an alley," she replied mockingly.

Nervously, I surveilled the dimly lit, damp, brick and stone passageway. A wall on one side and a large group of old headstones on the other caused me to hesitate.

“It just passes through the church grounds,” she added.

Darting across the other end of the alley, I thought I spotted someone running towards the church in a red suit with horns on their head - a trailing cape fluttering in the breeze. The sound of maniacal laughter briefly caught my ear. I looked at Lisa. Curiously, she showed no signs of disturbance. 

Momentarily stopping, my eyes strained through the dark passageway, searching for any sign of movement. I needed to get my bearings to process this.

Lisa tugged my coat sleeve as my tight grip kept her close to me.

“We only paid the babysitter up until 12. After that, it’s double time,” she tried to explain in a comforting manner.

“Taking this shortcut will be quicker.”

The nearby church clock began to chime its midnight ritual, a 'Für Elise' type of tune followed by twelve clangs of its cast iron bells. It had been the most consistent occurrence since our arrival to the village.

“..and what do you think of our church bells?” was a common topic of conversation.

It was a running village joke that everyone could hear it 'Für miles' (sic) every evening, disturbing so many, that a recent petition had been making its rounds in the attempt to muffle the distracting and oft considered ominous tolling of its bells.

A shiver ran down the section of my back, right between my shoulders, as the skin on my arms broke out in goosebumps. 

“It goes right through the middle of the graveyard,” I worryingly protested.

“So?”

“..So, I don’t want to go that way, ok?”

Lisa chuckled, followed by her own style of comforting reassurance only she could communicate.”

“It’s not the dead you should be scared of… It’s the living..”

I took in a deep breath trying to summon up enough courage to allay the gut-wrenching hesitation that was almost freezing me to the cold spot of earth I was standing on.

“BOO!”

The sudden explosive idiom entered my left ear and shook the foundations of my soul before exiting into the foggy evening, dissipating over a series of faint echoes, that bounced off the alleyway walls. My startled imagination conjured up moving shadows, a rush of wind, and a foreboding warning.

Lisa cheekily giggled. I frowned.

“NOT FUNNY!”

Composing myself, I looked at her. Angelic, was her expression, devilish was her tone.

“You’re a grown man,” she taunted. Seeing that I was unconvinced, she once again, pulled at my arm.

“Come on, Scaredy-Cat. Let’s take it one step at a time.”

Guiding me by the hand, she navigated our path slowly through the narrow passageway. Written names on ancient headstones identified the once existent inhabiters of this world as we passed them. Age had toppled some and movement of the soil caused some stones to lean at random angles. Time had withered many a description; however, a few dates caught my peripheral vision – 1798, 1806, 1918.

“So many, so old,” I whispered.

“So few to go,” Lisa’s whispered reply cut through me.

There was a gentle right-hand bend at the end of the alleyway and as we approached it, a streetlamp came into view on our right, in-between us and the church. Its design was reminiscent of days gone by before its conversion from gas to electricity. Black in tone and tall in stature beyond human intervention, it cast a triangular beam across the paving stones we were about to traverse.

The scene from the movie, ‘The Exorcist’ came into mind, where the priest arrives at the entrance to Regan’s house. There is a blanket of light fog drifting in the still evening. Synthesized, convoluted musical organ notes fill our ears with apprehension. A taxi drops its passenger off, then exits the scene, leaving Father Merrin standing next to a Victorian streetlamp, silhouetted by the light emanating from a house, fighting its way through the mist. He takes a few cautious steps towards the house, and as the scene draws us in, ‘WAAAH,’ the movie cuts to a close-up of Regan’s demonically possessed eyes. The demon knows that the priest is coming.

I remember going to see it at the Swiss Cottage Odeon in London when it was released after its debut in the USA. News reports from Hollywood, described people fleeing from the cinemas possessed by evil spirits, causing an “Exorcists R US” hotline to be set up for those requiring demon expulsion. The ‘Hype’ by the movie distribution companies was so effective that the British Board Of Censorship gave it an X rating and limited it to a select few cinemas – and only to those that had a small seating capacity – just in case there was a mass outbreak of demonic possessions needing to be locked inside the cinema. 

The scaremongering worked so well that some screenings in the UK resulted in a few audience members suffering fits, fainting, and vomiting during their viewing. Undeniably, its scenes of projectile vomiting, levitation, and demonic mind games were unnerving and took you out of your comfort zone; however, I’m sure that the misfortunate sufferers at the time, may have had other underlying medical issues occurring within their bodies – a small detail the media left out to increase newspaper sales.

I recently watched it again on a ‘Screaming’ channel and although life had presented me with real horrors since the year of its initial release, I found it to be just as impactive and timeless. 

“Why have you stopped?”

Lisa was now tugging on my coat sleeve.

I had been transfixed by the glow emanating from the old streetlamp, almost hypnotized by its time-travelling beam. 

I’m a movie buff with a sense of the extraordinary and my imagination frequently conjures up images and scenarios of dramatic tension for my own entertainment. Undeniably, I’ve watched too many ghost and horror films; however, Lisa is right. Let’s quickly get back to the safe and warm comfort of home.

“The light caught my eye,” I quipped.

“Did I ever tell you the joke about the man who thinks he’s a moth, so decides to go and see a Psychiatrist to help him with his problem?”

Lisa looked at me with an exaggerated ‘Yes.’ It was something we shared, almost telepathic – perfect synchronisation with each other’s gestures and facial expressions. Sometimes, we could talk to each other without the mechanical practice of actually speaking. A few gestures here and there, and we knew where we stood with each other.

I accepted the gesticulated invitation.

“Well, he is so stressed about his feelings of being a moth, he rushes into the medical practice building, down a hallway, bursting uninvited through the first door he sees, halting at the room’s only desk; abruptly declaring,

‘Doctor, I think I’m a moth, I need help.’ 

Startled, the doctor sits very erect in his chair.

‘I’m not sure I heard that right… you think you’re a..’

‘..MOTH!’ exclaims the man.

The doctor takes a breath to digest this unusual medical condition, then realising the moment, he advises,

‘You don’t need my services, I’m just General Medicine. You need the Psychiatrist – next door.’

Motioning towards the next room with his stethoscope, the doctor unwittingly irks the man, resulting in a facial manifestation of immediate contempt.

‘I know that,’ replies the man, agitated.

‘I was headed that way.’

‘So, knowing that,’ the exasperated doctor asked.

‘Why did you come in here?’

The man darts a discernible glance towards the doctor, while pointing to the ceiling.”

‘Your light was on…’

Lisa kindly chuckled at my joke. Yes, she had heard it many times from my own lips but I was getting better at telling it, which she acknowledged by actually giggling, then reaching up; she lowered my arm from its rigid, arrow-like point towards the old streetlamp globe.

“Let’s get you home, Moth Man.”

Buoyed by the courage of humour, we continued following the path, around the church. Certainly, this was much quicker than walking through the village and with the night breeze starting to clear its foggy blanket from the ground, visibility was improving. 

Just as we reached the front entrance to the wall of the church, I noticed a light emanating from one of the slightly open, double doors, filtering through the dissipating mist. Once more, I was transfixed. Its warm and welcoming glow, stretched out onto the cobblestone walkway that led from the iron gate to the church ingress, adjacent to our position. The image was artistic in presentation, almost cinematic in its choice of light mixed with shade mixed with the warm glow of candlelight.

A long, animated shadow appeared in the entrance, slowly approaching us. Without warning, both doors swung fully open, framing the shadow-casting figure in their cradle. Through the swirling, disturbed mist, I alarmingly identified two protrusions from its head. The colour of red flooded the doorway. Wagging behind this monstrosity was the appearance of a... tail.

Extraordinarily, my sense of hearing instantly changed, quietening the church chimes. My ears suddenly felt clogged, like a change of pressure in an aircraft. 

Lisa was unperturbed.  What bravery she possesses.

Abruptly, my attention was drawn to a voice – clear like music through headphones, it subverted my inner thoughts.

“Come,” it commanded.

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

Not being church people, we politely waved and tried to extradite ourselves from this uncertain moment.

“Sorry, another time,” said Lisa, trying to be sincere.

Taking three quick steps towards escape, we noticed the light casting itself like a theatrical spotlight onto our location. It seemed to eerily follow us and before our fourth step could be taken,

“Stop!” commanded the voice.

A choking lump formed in my throat. My stomach, now winding more tightly than earlier, sent a shiver so strong that Lisa felt it through our clasped hands, and jerked slightly away from me.

“CLANG!”

The church bells began their first strike of midnight.

I could feel myself begin to shiver and tried to convince myself that it was the result of the cold evening and not my newfound courage failing me.

Still cloaked in the doorway’s shadow, the voice deepened.

“You live in the village.”

I turned to Lisa.

“Was that a question or a statement?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Ask him?”

“What!? I’m not asking him, you ask him. I want to go home.”

A sharp dig of her elbow into my ribs told me the argument was over.

“Ah, er.. sorry, are you asking or?..”

“CLANG!” 

The second strike of midnight made me take a step backwards. My gut kept saying flight not fight; however, I was rooted to the spot – questioning our decision to leave the city.

The country village lifestyle was a long-held dream of both of us. We had become tired of the urban jungle of traffic jams, rude people, emergency vehicle sirens 24-7, and queueing for everything. Schools were becoming overpopulated and short staffed, creating a fear for the state of our children’s mental health and concern for their quality of education. Eventually, we jointly expressed our desire for a quieter life where we could be part of a smaller community in a more peaceful and safer environment. When we discovered the village of Twelve Bells, its charm and history immediately sold us on its way of life. Within four months, we had traded city strife for village life. 

Being new to the area, we were initially caught off guard when people made eye contact with us, greeted us with smiles, said ‘Excuse me,’ if they needed to get past us in the shop, and welcomed us to their world – even though we were strangers.

Situated in an idyllic part of the English countryside, surrounded by fields of barley, it seemed a perfect place to raise our family. Regretfully, the lingering air of city standoffishness hindered our ability to immediately assimilate; however, we had the desire to – just not the practice.

“CLANG!”

“This way, now,” instructed the voice.

Like two moths attracted to a night doctor's office, we headed trance-like towards the church doors, tightly clutching each other’s arms. 

“CLANG!”

“Hurry,” commanded the voice.

“You only have until the twelfth strike.”

I suddenly felt a trickle of wee run down the inside of my right leg. Impending doom paralysed my will to escape, silencing my desire to cry for help or mercy. I thought I could feel Lisa starting to swoon but no, it was me. What was this place we had moved to? Have we the devil’s disciples living amongst us? I want to go back to the city. There, at least, people would hear our screams.

Not wanting to face an oblivious end; I stood defiantly shaking, face to terrifying face with this dark terror, this devil in disguise, this demon.

“What.. what happens.. what happens at the strike of twelve?”

“EYES DOWN!” Boomed the shadowed voice. 

Recoiling, we waited, heads bowed, our gaze averted, waiting for the wrath that was about to descend on us in epic, hellish proportions. 

Unknowingly, we had moved to the village of the damned and angered the evil spirits. Their followers and children could only survive on the sacrifice of our souls. Our flesh would be their regeneration – a netherworld genesis. The head stones in the yard were a warning that we had foolishly ignored. The years of demise chiseled into their stone epitaphs were not years, they were the numbers of village victims throughout time. It was all a deception. The old world did not evolve into a new one. Never, were there any new generations of church congregations. The village inhabitants did not leave this world to journey to the other side. They didn't pass on. They remained in a state of malevolent flux, wandering the dark alleyways and cemeteries as mindless zombies; waiting for innocent victims like us naïve and ignorant urban migrants to stumble upon their lair, so they could devour and extinguish our very existences, absorbing them into their own depraved and unworldly practices.

“CLANG!”

Just as my fear was about to overwhelm and plunge me into depths of madness, tumbling like a volcanic boulder descending into the bowels of hell; a red hand emerged from the shadows and gently took a grip of my pale, right hand. Was Lucifer himself greeting me!?

As the blood drained from my cheeks, a face appeared from the abating shadows. It appeared to be a smiling, friendly looking, red face, silhouetted by the church lights, suspiciously masking the dark intentions of its portentous horns protruding above it.

The fallen angel has come to claim my soul.

“CLANG!”

I winced.

“Was that the twelfth..?”

“No,” replied a deceptive, gentler voice. “Not yet.”

My fate became seemingly obvious. In this life, there are some things that cannot be explained but before I willingly departed it, I wanted to know one thing.

Drawing what seemed like my last breath, I timidly asked,

“What happens.. after the twelfth.. strike?”

“Bingo!”

“…Sorry, what?”

“We need two more for Bingo tonight,” explained the new bubbly voice.

“Saw you both loitering around the church grounds pointing at things and thought you might be lost for something to do.” 

“So, you’re not here for our souls?”

“Heavens no! What a joker you are..”

Realising my air of trepidation, he corrected himself.

“..or, perhaps I startled you? I do apologise. We borrowed a spotlight from the village theatre. Adds a bit of atmosphere to our late soirees. It’s our weekly Midnight Mayhem, you see.”

“Midnight May..?”

He continued to explain over my interruption.

“We used to conduct Midnight Mass but the villagers were more interested in Quiz Night at the pub, so I came up with a solution to get people to come to church and created a series of weekly prize games and fetes.”

I suddenly felt lightheaded as he proudly carried on.

“This week’s theme is The Devil Calls Bingo. Last week was The Pope Plays Poker… I’m toying with the idea for next week. Possibly, a Jesus Jamboree to raise funds for roof repairs. Turns out, the villagers love the idea. Gives them a chance to dress up and make new friends… I’m the local vicar, by the way.”

It was at that moment, things went black (I fainted, Lisa later teased). I awoke to her lovely, smiling face looking down at mine; immediately calming me.

“Hello, Mister Dramatic,” she teased.

“What happened?” I groggily enquired.

“You need new underwear.”

“Oh…”

“..and we won a new tea set.”

I took a bewildering look around the church at the amusing scene of big devils, little devils, monsters, and ghosts with heads down, studying what appeared to be Bingo cards. 

Almost sacrilegious, was the vicar standing at the alter in his devil costume, calling out numbers drawn from a tumbler.

“All the sixes – and may I remind my parishioners in attendance, it’s from Revelations 13:7… 6-66!”

Several groans rose from the tables. The vicar’s sense of humour was fresh but in need of polishing.

“BINGO!”

Attention was drawn to a horned, elderly lady in a French Maid’s outfit – a sewn-on tail wrapped around her wrinkled neck. She stood up and swayed her hips from left to right in the attempt at a senior demonstration of seduction. After a few shakes, she grimaced, grabbed her back, then reclaimed her seat while her winning bingo card was authenticated.

I sat up on the church pew, gathering my wits. Lisa kissed my forehead - now resting on her shoulder.

“Better now?” she compassionately enquired.

I paused for a moment, taking in the warm and friendly atmosphere. It certainly was a curious sight as I whispered in her ear...

“Jesus Jamboree next week?