Chimera

They call these places Gothic. Ruined places of worship that horror movies love to shoot, in the dark, preferably during a thunderstorm. Except today was a bright blue gem of a day, not a thundercloud in sight. If it wasn't for the decayed body of a man found in the ruins of the crypt, it would've been the perfect place for a family picnic. 

Flashing my badge at the cop on guard, I ducked under the black and yellow exclusion barrier. It could be an accident. Most likely was. It was my job to make sure either way. 

The body had a tale. Most bodies do, but this one's tale was on tape. The solid type, a card that holds digital recordings. An 'action camera' the kids call them. He was one of those kids, an 'urban explorer'. Full of enthusiasm and ignorance. Both those things got him the third thing he was after. Fame. Posthumous fame.

The old church was a mess. Years of neglect, now bought for repair and renovation. Somebody with more money than sense intended this to be their new and special home. Given what's been found, maybe that's not the case anymore.

Outside, around the roof, gargoyles stared down impassioned, as they had for over three hundred years. Inside, more statues, built into the fabric, sitting high atop supporting pillars, many in torment, some offering blessings. Between them, a mythical Chimera glared. All the scene needed was a thunderclap. Instead, a crash of falling masonry provided a good alternative.

The cracking of crumbling stone was all the warning I needed. One of the statues near the roof line above my head broke away, started its fall. An instinctive dive into the surrounding debris saved me. As the dust cleared, I sat looking at a creature staring back at me from Hell. The statue was much bigger now, up close and personal. The Chimera. I didn't like it's malevolent stony grin. Or its home in this place, blue skies or not. After hundreds of years, it chose this moment to fall to earth? I don't like coincidences. Especially ones that could kill me. I scanned the roof line. There was no one there.

'You okay?' The cop from outside shouted as he came running in.

'Yeah, I'm okay. A little dusty, but okay.'

'Ya gotta watch your step detective, this place is a death trap. I don't like it.'

'I don't much either. I'll be more careful.' I told him, dusting myself off.

I looked up at all the other statues. Were they grinning? Waiting their chance? Was it also just one accidental fall, one that had maimed and killed the unfortunate urban explorer. Okay, maybe. Two though is pushing things. I don't believe in religion or ghosts. Yet things can't always be easily explained. The mind plays tricks. That recording of his last moments, it needed more than a second look.

The camera had long died when found. The body too had decomposed mostly to dust and rags. But the SD video card had survived. The file had been recovered and played. It offered no clue apart from showing the dire results and stupidity of exploring abandoned and dangerous buildings alone. But that was the kick. The hook. His public craved horror, he had given them what they wanted.

In falling through the crumbling floor, he'd dropped the camera. It came to rest giving what was to be a terminal and upside down view of what was to be his final resting place. Just a small part of his leg was visible in the video. That's all. There was no sign of a second person. Clearly an accident, nothing more. I wasn't yet convinced.

Sound was recorded through the cameras mic. His lavalier microphone having been torn away, the quality was not as good, low, thin and tenuous. The battery must have been fresh, the video lasting almost one hundred minutes after the fall before it too, had died. Even at that point he was still alive, his leg twitching, twisting. For the first half an hour, all that could be heard was mostly cursing, along with sounds of struggling, trying to escape and free himself. Then the screaming began. For the pain, for help, before more swearing between sobbing. Rinse and repeat. It wasn't an easy listen.

As the minutes dragged on, he subsided into a monologue with himself, accepting he was trapped, and help was not likely coming. Having landing badly, breaking his leg and back, bleeding heavilly, it was only a matter of time before he lost the battle for life. He knew it. Eventually accepted it.

For the last ten minutes, his voice became almost inaudible. Whispering his last words to his family and friends, with his mom mostly, and what sounded like a priest. Unintelligible, it seemed he was being the priest, answering for himself in a kind of back and forth conversation. A confession? Was there actually someone there? The thought hit me hard. It couldn't be possible.

I cranked up the volume, and listened again and again. The sounds of scuffling, his leg moving? Yes, his good leg scraping against the heavy stone block over his pinned and broken leg. But there was something else there. Towards the end, the tone in his voice was different too. A flater lower monotone, unlike earlier. Was that two overlapping sounds? No, I was making things from nothing. Who knows how a person deals with a slow, painful and lonely death. Madness was taking him. Nothing more. Yet I wanted to have one more look at where he fell. First thing in the morning. I hit the sack but awoke before the dawn. It wouldn't wait.

There were no guards at the church, just the police warning tape, fluttering, barring entry. Of course it was still dark, no blue friendly skies this time. No electricity either. I flicked on my torch and made my way inside, careful to avoid anything dangerous. No easy task. I'm used to dark places. Shadows and the night do not scare me. What did scare me was how treacherous this crumbling ruin was.

I worked my way around, the light of my torch picking out the gothic church details in harsh contrast. Grinning gargoyles and beatific angels, each snarled and smiled at me from their perches high above. I concentrated the light on the flooring and the debris covered steps that led down into the crypt where he had died.

The residual outline in the dust from his body was still visible. I shone the torch around, placing it low to the floor so as to accentuate any sign of disturbance that might indicate another person had been there. There was. Too many. The scuffling of many people. Nothing new could be discerned. I knew it was a hopeless task and a stupid idea.

'Are you alright?'

I spun around to find an elderly man peering from the top of the steps. He covered his eyes at the brightness of my torch.

'Who are you? What are doing here?' I demanded, more than a little surprised. I don't like surprises.

'I'm sorry, I saw the light, and thought there was a trespasser in the church. I live next to the church, at the house back there.'

'Oh I see. No, it's okay, I'm detective Jack Spalding from the Metropolitan Police.' I said, flashing my warrant card.

'Oh. May I come down?'

'Sure, but watch your step.' My torch showed him the way as he stepped gingerly down to where I stood. Must have been nearly eighty. Thin and gaunt, a face cracked with age. White, open necked grandfather style shirt, black jacket, black trousers, surprisingly polished shoes.

'Thank you. Dreadful thing, don't you think? To die alone like that?,' he said, reaching me.

'Yes, I would think.

'Still, to die in such a magnificent place as this, a kind of honour in a way, don't you think?'

'An honour? I hadn't thought of that. Maybe. In a way perhaps.'

'Oh I think so. Definitely. I used to be the verger here, when young. These stones, they have seen so much. Absorbed so much.' Do you know this stone?' He said, his hand on a pillar.

'Limestone, isn't it?'

'Yes. Formed millions of years ago. From billions of marine creatures. Sometimes, you can find within the stone the trace of an ancient snail, its rings forever solidified and preserved. In a very real way, the stone absorbs life itself. Don't you think? It has too of course, in order to become limestone. In a sense, it's alive with death. A strange thought, no?'

'It's a thought.' I said. His voice was low and monotone. Almost soporific. Strangely familiar.

'Our poor friend here, he didn't really die alone,' he stated sombrely, while looking down at the floor.

'He didn't?' That perked my interest. What did this old guy know?

'No, not really. If you think about it, he became absorbed in a way, became one with the stone. He'll always be a part of the stone now. Part of its millennia long story. Part of the church. I like to think of it this way.'

'That's quite a viewpoint.'

'Well, yes, I'm just a silly old man. Ignore me. But sometimes, I feel we and the church, have given the stone an extra dimension. Not life of course, but a feeling somehow. You can't look at the creation of the Chimera for instance, and not understand how things are absorbed and re-created. The ancient stonemasons understood. They created them, after all. Oh dear. You must be a very busy man, it's nearly dawn, I must get home.'

'I didn't get your name?'

'Mr Pendle. Harry. I'll be getting back now.'

'Mr Pendle?'

'Yes?'

'Did you find the deceased, here, before he died?'

Mr Pendle turned and looked at me blankly. There was no surprise at my suggestion. No outrage. Nothing.

'Is there anything else I can help you with, detective?', he said, simply.

'No, Mr Pendle, not really. Goodnight. And watch your step. You understand?'

'I will and I do, Detective Spalding. Goodnight.'

My torchlight showed the way for him as he carefully stepped his way back through the dust and out of the church. The sound of his footsteps eventually fading away until I was sure I was once again alone. Shining the torch over the interior of the church, I thought about what he'd said.

The walls seemed closer. The statues more alive in the moving light and shadow of the torch beam than ever they'd been during the day. I'd never considered myself claustrophobic until that point. Now I understood. It was not a comfortable feeling. Picking my way out, I left a little faster than I came in. I didn't sleep that well.

I decided to interview Mr Pendle later that morning, formerly. I wasn't convinced he had nothing to do with the death. Turning up like that at night. That wasn't normal. If he'd seen me there, then he could also have spotted the late urban explorer. And have found him. Was that his voice I imagined on the tape? Even if he hadn't caused it, he could have saved a life. Manslaughter. Yes, I was onto something. I was sure of it.

I walked around to the back of the church to where he'd told me he lived. There was the house, just as he'd said, a cottage more like, not as old as the church, but over a hundred years at least. On the front door, was a stained plastic covered A4 sheet stapled. A local council notice. Notice of Demolition. I stepped back. It looked empty. I banged on the door. Nothing. Moving around, I found an open window and climbed inside. Every room was empty. No sign of tramps, just the usual discarded drug use, scattered around in the filth.

I've always said the mind can play tricks. Tricks we don't always understand. It came to me then. I remembered meeting Mr Pendle days earlier. I'd found him while researching the history of the church. I'd found him in the archives. Yes, he'd been the verger. Back in 1848.

Last night, I really hadn't slept that well.