Our new vicar had asked me to take some photos of the church in a neighbouring village, so I walked there on a path through the woods one very hot afternoon.
The church was small and built of red sandstone, which was somewhat decayed in the tower which stood at the western end. I stood in the churchyard to the south to take my pictures, but found the view was interrupted by a number of ancient gravestones. One of them, facing the south-west corner, was the size and shape of a cabin trunk and covered in moss; its inscription left quite illegible. I climbed on top for a better view of the church, saying to the unknown occpant as I did so, "Please excuse me for this indignity; the vicar asked me to do it. I promise to say a prayer and put some money in the collection-box when I'm done!"
I took several pictures from this position before dismounting and walking to the church door. I noticed high up on either side of the entrance two peculiar faces carved in the crumbling red stone. The right hand one was clearly a cat, grinning, but the one on the left, being somewhat decayed, was so grotesque as to be neither clearly human or demonic. It had its mouth open in a snarl, revealing a scattering of teeth. I took a photograph of it, and made a mental note to ask the vicar about it, before entering the church.
Inside it was rather dark, but I couldn't see any way of switching on lights. There was a rather heavy rood screen, beyond which was an altar with no cross on it. The silence was absolute. I attempted to take a photograph, but my camera was dead. The battery must have expired, and I had forgotten to bring a spare. Damn!
For no good reason, I felt increasingly uneasy. In consequence I muttered even the most perfunctory prayer before retreating, and on failing to find any collection box for my promised offering fled the building in a somewhat ignominious manner. I took one glance backwards as I walked out through the churchyard. The cat was still grinning at me; not, I thought, in a very friendly fashion.
As I passed through the gate I heard a bell toll, to sound the hour, I supposed; and an unpleasing sound it was; less a deep tone than something resembling an old saucepan being struck with a ladle.
My uneasiness persisted in my journey home through the woods. I kept glancing back to see if anything was following me, though I never saw anything, nor did I meet a single person, and I was glad to reach home intact.
That night I dreamed that a hooded and shrouded figure was standing beside my bed and leaning over me. I could not tell whether it was a man, a woman, or some creature that was entirely unhuman. I dreaded that the figure might throw back its hood, revealing the grotesque face I had seen on the church, opening its mouth wide and grinning with anticipation of a bite. In a cold sweat of fear I woke up and sat bolt upright.
"It's not my fault!" I exclaimed out loud. " I didn't mean to insult you! The vicar asked me to take a photo! It was the only way I could do it!"
