It’s abnormal for a new pastor—fresh out of seminary and immediately upon accepting his first post—to lead a Christmas Eve service. I’ve often wondered why this is the case. The annual candlelight service leaves very little room for creativity—and consequently, error—making it ideally suited for a novice. I suspect it has much to do with the aversion to novelty that the holiday engenders; no one wants a new face intruding upon their cherished traditions.
Regardless, such was my circumstance in the December of ’87 when I found myself, very suddenly, the pastor of this small rural church.
It sits in the middle of nowhere, an ancient building composed of rough stonework. The ground floor is occupied almost entirely by a sublimely old-fashioned sanctuary. Intricately carved wooden beams, dark with age, support a high, arched ceiling. Between these, the walls are punctuated by tall, narrow windows of stained glass. Above the pews hang suspended candelabras, regally wrought in black iron and fitted with electric bulbs. My first impression of the place, when one of the deacons gave me a tour, benefited greatly from the seasonal décor: Christmas trees glistened in every corner, wreaths stood sentinel over the doors, and every window was illuminated by a stout candle.
Less picturesque, however, is the basement. That utilitarian space is divided up into sunless Sunday school classrooms and locked closets, with a single musty corridor running down its length to connect them all. Modern renovations entangle with the ancient foundations to produce a rather unpleasant effect. Natural stonework bursts through as if something else has fallen away, while the white drywall is never quite white enough to shake a sense of corruption. When I first laid eyes on it, someone had tried to cheer the atmosphere with garland and ribbons; but even these, in the dim, artificial light, seemed like mournful remnants from a happier time long forgotten.
Perhaps that description is unfair. I admit, my feelings concerning the basement have been colored by knowledge I’ve gained since. For instance, although the deacons had informed me that my predecessor had died, it wasn’t until later that I learned it had happened rather suddenly, right there in the building. He had stayed late by himself one Sunday night, and when the cleaning lady arrived the next morning, she found him lying dead at the end of the basement corridor. A heart attack, I was told.
But I was ignorant of these details as I ascended the pulpit that Christmas Eve. I knew only that this congregation was eager for a replacement—so eager that they had insisted on my starting as soon as possible, rather than waiting until after the holidays. I, a young man desperate to begin my calling—and to start earning a living, I confess—did not object.
My first candlelight service went as well as I could have hoped. I read from the traditional passage in Luke, and punctuated key moments by leading the congregants in the traditional Christmas carols—a traditional service through and through. Around us, the air of the sanctuary glowed warmly against the icy flakes that fell thickly outside the windows.
At last, the overhead lamps were darkened, and the candles were lit. As the final carol of the evening—Silent Night—reverberated through the air, there spread before me an inky lake full of flickering stars and ethereal faces. In the darkness, the sanctuary sounded larger than it actually was. Every breath seemed to pass unhindered beyond the close, stone walls of the church to echo off others far, far away; echoes that didn’t die, but drifted on so that the space between notes seemed alive with a continuous, disembodied sigh, as if from some immaterial being outside all material barriers.
Once the song was finished, I uttered a brief benediction. And then, as one, the congregation snuffed out their candles.
The sanctuary was plunged into absolute darkness. Darkness thick with invisible wraiths of candle smoke. Darkness astir with the last, tremulous notes of Silent Night, which hung lingering in the fragrant oblivion like motes of dust under moonlight.
And then the electric lights returned, breaking the spell. Below me in the pews, my new congregants were gathering their belongings, replacing the enchanted silence with a low, excited chattering as they exchanged holiday wishes. I closed my Bible—I’m fairly certain I closed it—and descended from the pulpit to set it on the front-most pew. Then, I made my way briskly to the doors so I could bid everyone goodnight as they departed for their homes.
The last to leave was Errol Greenwood, the oldest of the deacons. He had been instrumental in getting me situated in my new post. It was Errol who had first offered me the position, Errol who had given me my tour of the building earlier that week, Errol who had tutored me in the church’s traditions. As he clasped my hand, he asked, “Want help closing up?”
I shook my head. “I can manage, thanks. It’s just a few lights and locking the door.”
Errol nodded, but didn’t release my hand. He lifted his eyes toward the arched ceiling, swept his gaze across the carved beams and down the colored windows sparkling darkly. “This building is old,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on something which I could not be sure lay within the confines of the stone walls and stained glass. “Very old. It can hold its own, as long as we don’t interfere.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Errol’s gaze settled on me once again. His grip felt cold and papery. Then a thin smile banished the ominous expression in his eyes, and he finally relinquished my hand. “Don’t stay too late. Lock up quickly. Get home safely.” With that he wished me a merry Christmas, wrapped himself in his long overcoat, and swept out into the snowy night.
I shut the door. Its deep thud echoed off the high ceiling and diffused through the air behind me, stirring the last remnants of candle smoke before merging with the silence. I turned slowly to take in the magic of the decorated sanctuary one last time. It seemed a pity to rush off without savoring that festive blend of stone and timber and greenery, to neglect basking—just for a moment—in the gleam of miniature stars that shone from between the pine needles. I had no family waiting for me, no reason to hurry. So I slid into one of the pews to admire the sights and inhale the woody scents they offered. Emptied of worshipers, the space seemed to take on a holier aspect. All was silent save for the occasional creak—a settling timber in the floor below, or perhaps one of the crooked doors in the basement shifting on its hinges. I gazed up at the distant ceiling, where the curving beams grew ethereal in the shadows beyond the glow of the candelabras. They seemed to extend forever, merging with the night sky. I wondered, if I stared long enough, if I might begin to pick out constellations. Unconsciously, I began to hum the tune of Silent Night.
A thump from somewhere in the building jerked my attention back to the ground. I caught sight of my watch and realized it was nearly eleven o’clock. The service had ended at ten; I had sat there for almost an hour!
My sudden knowledge of how late it was began to alter my perception of things. No longer did I feel wrapped in sacred solitude; instead I felt keenly alone. Without others to enjoy them with me, the cheerfulness of the Christmas tree lights waned; they shone for no one, and unsettled me.
So, rising from my pew, I dealt with them first, unplugging each tree in turn. I then checked the basement for any stray lights; finding none, I hurried back upstairs and shut the basement door, sealing the musty air below.
I thought, as I strode once more through the sanctuary, that I was beginning to understand the intent behind Errol Greenwood’s odd parting remarks. Devoid of life, silent save for my own hushed footsteps, the church felt different. The wreaths that hung above the doors seemed to droop. The stained windows, looking out on the nocturnal winter, relinquished their color to a darkness that yearned to smother the last of the lights. I found myself almost running toward the bank of light switches that would at last plunge it all into oblivion.
A click, and the shroud of night came crashing down from wherever it had been hiding so high above the rafters. For a moment, as I turned, I lost all sense of place. I was adrift in the void, the invisible floor beneath my feet my only anchor to the material plane.
And then, as I completed my turn, even that anchor gave way.
There, hovering at some distance amidst the blackness, flickered a single orange light.
A candle flame.
It hung there as if held by an unsteady hand—although no hand could I see, nor face, nor anything illuminated in its feeble glow.
“I’m sorry,” I called out to it, “I didn’t realize anyone else was still here.”
The silence I received in response was more profound than any I had ever experienced. The candle did not move.
“Hello?” I called again uncertainly. “Just…just a moment, let me turn the lights back on.”
I flipped one of the switches, and a single of row of candelabras came to life, dimly revealing the sanctuary, empty.
I stood paralyzed for a moment, staring down the vacant air between the pews. It had been there, right? I had stared at it too long to have imagined it—could still picture it so clearly in my mind. And yet nothing now remained as evidence—no person, no extinguished candle lying on the carpet, not even a whiff of candle smoke. There was only a demanding absence.
My thoughts, grappling with this mystery, were interrupted by a low, drawn out creak. I looked toward the source, toward the corner, toward the door that, before my eyes, swung slowly closed on the basement stairs.
“Wait—wait a moment!” I called.
But once again, no reply. Only the soft click of the door shutting itself.
“Wait…” I repeated, though mostly to myself now. Whoever it was had returned to the basement. Returned, because they must—I could think of nothing else in the moment—have come up from the basement to begin with. True, I had checked down there already, but only cursorily, just long enough to determine if any of the lights had been left on. Could I have inadvertently shut someone in the darkness below? But then why didn’t they call out? And why, after emerging with only a candle to light their way, did they go back?
Ultimately, I felt it was my duty to check once more. So I re-crossed the sanctuary and opened the basement door. A frigid, earthy smell rushed up the stairs to meet me—but this, I knew from my handful of previous descents, was nothing unusual. It did, however, further enhance the uncanniness of the faint, flickering light that disappeared around the corner at the bottom.
I did not call after it this time. Logically, I assumed the candle bearer would not break their silence now, not after having refused to do so twice before. But my true motive was likely something deeper and more primal than logic. I set my foot upon the top step, which groaned loudly beneath my weight, and noted coldly that I had heard no such sound going down ahead of me.
Before descending farther, I switched on the light for the basement corridor. It seemed dimmer than it had earlier in the evening. When I reached the bottom, its tenuous illumination revealed an empty hall. There was no sign of the furtive candle bearer who had led me down. Still, I performed my due diligence. Making my way slowly along the corridor, I peeked into every classroom. I noticed, halfway through, that the garland which hung in heavy waves above my head was swaying slightly, as if disturbed by an earlier passage.
At last I came to the end. The corridor terminated, as far as I could determine, somewhere beneath the pulpit in the sanctuary above. Before me rose a closet door, locked. I knew this from my tour with Errol earlier, but still I tried the knob. I then considered the ring of keys with which I’d been entrusted—but there was no reason to try them.
Not, that is, until I saw a faint orange glow flickering from under the door.
Moistening my dry mouth, I ventured once more to communicate: “Who’s in there?”
The light sputtered. Went out.
I fumbled the keys from my pocket and began fitting them to the lock until I found the correct one. The door resisted at first; then, with a strained groan, yawned outward. I peered into the dark portal to find not a utility closet, as I’d expected, but rather a set of rough stone steps leading deeper down and vanishing beneath the gloom.
And the smell…that earthy smell I’d noticed before…rose stronger and colder than ever.
I shivered—not just in my limbs, but in my very marrow, and deeper still. I backed away from the door, began to shut it.
From the impenetrable darkness below, a frail, faraway voice sang: “…s-slee-eep in h-he-heeavenly peeeace…”
The infirmity of the voice caused every muscle in my body to shrivel away. But I mastered myself. Someone was down there, and it was my duty to see them safely out so I could lock up the building. I felt around inside the door for a light switch, but found none. Fortunately, I was in the habit of carrying a small flashlight with me. This I produced, and by its light crept down the staircase.
The steps were narrow, as if carved for a child’s foot; I had to descend in an almost sideways fashion to keep from slipping. They went on and on, lower and lower into the earth. All the while my ears were alert, but I heard nothing save the scuff of my shoes.
At last, I reached the bottom. The floor of this second, deeper basement was loose dirt. I swept the narrow cone of my flashlight around, searching for the owner of that sickly voice, and observed that I was in a small, square chamber, walled in by stone. There were no other doors or passages. It felt—I could think of no better descriptor than that which leapt immediately to mind—like a tomb.
An empty tomb, for there was no one else inside. In fact, nothing else at all, save…
There, in the exact center of the room, a low, stone box. Roughly two feet wide, six feet long. Lidless.
I crept carefully closer so I could peer inside. The interior of the box was hidden in shadow so deep that my light seemed to draw back from it. The blackness held a suggestion—no more than that—of shifting slightly, as if disturbed. And here, I found, was the source of the cold odor that had permeated the subterranean levels of the church. It pierced through my chest, dealing a wound that rent my will into two antithetical impulses: to preserve myself from seeing what might lie within that umbral nimbus, or to stand in unblinking vigil lest it strike against any perceived weakness in my resolve.
These warring urges of watch and run drove me into a compromise. Without unfastening my gaze from that expectant darkness, I took slow, halting steps backward. Dry, icy air was sucked into my shivering lungs, much as all my attention was sucked into the darkness of the box, attention not fixed on my mechanical movements. Not noticing, until my knee struck the stone edge of the box, that I was walking—not away, but toward it.
Leaning into it.
Bringing my face practically to break that ill-defined border of shadow.
With a shout that echoed far behind and above me, I reeled back from the box. Then, as the last ghost of my terrified cry died away, I heard it answered.
From within the box.
From far beneath the darkness that filled the box.
A gossamer sound, threatening to form—not singing—but something that suggested an attempt at singing. I prayed I would not be able to discern the lyrics. As I did, I had the sickening impression that something beneath the reach of my light was stirring, pressing against the sides of the box, drawing itself up—
My terror outpaced it, severing whatever hold the darkness had on me. I turned and ran.
At the top of the stone steps, I slammed the door shut and locked it. And again at the top of the main basement stairs—how I wished that door had a lock as well! Somehow, despite my panic, I remembered to turn off the basement light. Then I sprinted one final time across the sanctuary, switched off the last of the candelabras, and exited the building.
Once I had locked the front door, my breath came easier. The freezing winter air, though it stung my lungs, was pure and bright. Snowflakes kissed my face. My hand still rested on the doorknob which, beneath my palm, twitched from the inside.
With a gasp, I jerked my hand away and staggered back, my eyes transfixed by the knob as it rattled back and forth. There was a brief pause before the entire door began to shake. Then, against the inside of door’s highest parts—far higher than I could have possibly reached—three deliberate bangs.
I held my breath until I was sure it was over. The door stood still. The windows stared outward, utterly black. Nothing stirred within. My eyes traveled up the steeple to where the church bell hung, draped in icicles. I somehow dreaded the thought that it might begin to move—I didn’t think I could bear to hear its somber knell, rung without hands. But silence reigned.
I made my way across the snow-covered parking lot to my car, stuffed myself into the driver’s seat, started the engine. The radio crackled immediately to life, and through the static came the thin, warbling voice of some long-dead singer, crooning the lyrics of Silent Night. I hastily turned it off. Then, in silence, I guided my car out of the parking lot. As I accelerated toward home, I noticed that my dashboard clock read just past midnight. Christmas morning.
It wasn’t until the sun woke me from my troubled dreams that I realized, in my hasty departure the night before, that I had forgotten my Bible in the church. Upon returning the morning after Christmas—by daylight, of course—I found it just where I expected, lying at the end of the front-most pew. What I had not expected was to find it lying open—and not to the passage in Luke from which I had read that Christmas Eve. Rather, in the moment before my shaking hand snapped the cover shut to hide it from view, my eyes beheld a certain chapter and verse in 2 Peter.
This comparatively innocent sequel could, perhaps, be attributed to faulty memory and nerves. Perhaps I had neglected to close my Bible as I descended from the pulpit that night; perhaps a winter draft had disturbed the pages. And yet, as I sit in my office recording these events, I cannot banish from my mind thoughts of nameless beings wrapped in chains of darkness.
Darkness. Night has fallen as I wrote this. I should be getting home.
O mercy…that singing in the basement…