The steepled roof of the church is split in places, letting in drabs of cold rain that clatter down onto the rotting pews and stacks of holy books that have turned to mush. The damp and the cold permeates through the worn mortar and grey stone. Each footstep rings in the great, empty space. Dreary light seeps through the giant, cracked window above the altar, the faces and bodies of saints mauled where the coloured glass has been poked out of its lead fastenings.
The cellar door opens with a creak, it’s wooden surface scratched with obscure, devout wards. The lamplight extends only a few paces into the claggy dark. Descending the narrow stone steps, you feel a sudden warmth billowing up from below. The walls are wet with condensation. The heat comes in pulses, washing its sticky air over your braced body. Like great breaths, coming from deeper darkness.
Paddy Dobson
7th October 2020