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CHAPTER ONE
THE YOUNG curate shivered in the cold and felt uneasy。 Something was wrong but it was difficult to work out exactly what。 The atmosphere for a start； when he had set out on the quarter…mile walk from his home to the church； a warm spring breeze had fanned his cherubic features and the setting sun had almost blinded him。 Now； and it could not be more than twenty minutes later； it was almost dark and very cold。 Getting colder by the second。
The Reverend Philip Owen felt slightly dizzy as he stood by the lychgate and tried to recollect his senses。 The last twenty minutes seemed to have slipped away without him noticing。 He wiped his forehead with the back of a flabby hand； his fingers came away wet and cold。 His throat was raw and dry as though he had an infection of some kind。 He was ill； he decided； sickening for something。 He was trembling slightly and little shivers ran up and down his spine。 A chill perhaps； or the flu。 He had always been susceptible to viruses。 At 31； and still a bachelor； he felt the years closing in on him 。 。 。 just like those deepening shadows all around him were doing right now； obliterating familiar surroundings and creating a previously unknown hostile world。
He tried to swallow and realised just how painful his throat was。 He should return home and go straight to bed。 No； it was better that he prepared the church for early munion now rather than face a mad scramble in the morning。 Indecision； apprehension mounting into 。 。 。 fear！
It was ridiculous； Philip Owen told himself。 There was nothing to be frightened of here； not in the grounds of God's house。 That meeting at the church hall was to blame for all this； the way a crowd of irate parishioners had vented their wrath upon him。 The vicar had conveniently found an excuse to be absent and left Owen to face the anger of those whom he had always thought to be his friends。 And； inevitably； the bishop was unavailable for ment。
You couldn't blame the people though。 The Church had deceived them； held them in contempt over this latest issue。 Philip Owen felt the guilt welling up inside him because he was a party to this deception。 It was dishonest but he hadn't the courage to tell the vicar so。 It was all so glib； like the confidence trick it was。
The whole thing had begun just after the war when Sir Henry Grayne； a resident of the village； had bought ten acres of land adjoining the cemetery and then willed it to St Monica's church in trust。 Church land forever； a last bastion to repel the spread of greedy jerry…builders； or maybe one day it would bee an extension to the graveyard。 And this might be needed before the decade was out； the way the village was growing； almost into a sprawling suburb of the town itself。 Sir Henry Grayne had been a regular worshipper at St Monica's。 He was a multimillionaire even in those days； his own grave a monument to his life。 Philip Owen felt a pang of guilt as he remembered the huge marble headstone； now green with moss and spotted with bird droppings。 Sir Henry had invested a moderate sum of money for the stone to be cleaned and maintained regularly but nobody had touched it for the past five years。 Why？ Vicar Mannering had been reticent when Philip had introduced the subject a few weeks back； murmured some excuse about the cost of labour these days。 The curate had been going to ask about the church roof too； but his courage had failed him。 Sir Henry had set up a trust for that too； so why had Vicar Mannering launched a restoration fund to try and save its sagging timbers？
Oh； the reason was obvious。 One didn't really have to ask。 The Henry Grayne Trust money had been used to support Mannering's own church； St Peter's； the 'mother' church。 The trustees were as much to blame as the vicar but there was no doubt that the money had all gone。 The Reverend Mannering would supply an explanation if anybody had the courage to ask outright： 'The Church of God is all one and the funds were needed to support the mother church because without a mother church St Monica's would have to be closed down。' Bishop Boyce would back him up and； in the end； lesser mortals would be shouted down。
Owen felt the blood coursing through his veins； anger that started his temples throbbing and an ache to begin behind his eyes。 Perhaps he wasn't well after all。 But the clerical leeches weren't satisfied with just the misappropriation of Grayne's grave and roof money； Now they saw an opportunity to grab the lot。 What use was that land to anybody？ A pittance from the grazing rights and they weren't yet ready to consecrate it。 So why not sell it while there was a boom in building land？
Owen clenched his hands until his fingernails gouged his palms。 There had to be some corruption somewhere otherwise Bishop Boyce would never have obtained outline planning permission for a hundred houses on that tract。 It wasn't until they were ready to put the land up for sale to the highest bidder that the villagers became aware of what was going on。
The young curate gulped； felt his stomach muscles contracting。 Suddenly he was the meat in the sandwich； the buffer between Boyce； Mannering and the residents of the village。 The villagers had rallied in their united protest； directed their venom at Owen； and he couldn't e up with the answers。 At one stage he thought they were going to physically attack him as their fury reached its pitch。 He wanted to blame the bishop and the vicar but his own courage had failed him and his stammerings had been drowned by their abuse； their threats。
Now he was back here in the darkness； almost relishing the task of preparing for munion because he wanted to be alone with 。 。 。 Oh God； no； he didn't want to be alone here any longer！
So dark； so cold； the whispering of the breeze through the tall yew trees a venomous hiss； clammy fingers seeming to reach out of the blackness and touch his sweating flesh。 He cowered； flung up his hands to cover his eyes and prayed that when he took them away he would see the spring sunlight； feel the gentle warmth of an April evening and find that it had all been a fevered hallucination。
It was as though some powerful invisible force grabbed his wrists； dragged his hands away from his eyes； screamed with an icy gush of arctic wind 'Look！' Oh； merciful God it could not be。 This was all a sick nightmare inspired by the illness which had e upon him with the speed of a ravaging plague。
Philip Owen could see but it was not fully light。 There was a kind of greyness as though the night had given way to dawn and a malodorous mist swirled across the cemetery turning the tombstone into hideous； unrecognisable shapes … that moved！
He wanted to run but his feet were firmly fixed to the ground as though he stood on steel plating wearing magnetic boots。 He tried to close his eyes to shut everything out but his lids refused to lower。 A scream was in his mind but his vocal chords were paralysed like the rest of his body。
They were people； at least they had a vague semblance of human shape； came at him out of the fog； reached for him with f