Fragments Gallery
On The Steeple
I watched as again green lights flickered against the foggy backdrop of the sky. I knew exactly where the light came from, if not why it appeared. Deep in the mists I knew that a spire, a remnant of a medieval chapel, still stuck out of the water like the mast of a ship. It was from the tip of that spire that the light came.
The fog rolled out across the glassy surface; it formed fantastic shapes in the moonlight as it billowed against the wind. It was nights like this that drove my imagination wild. Every shape I see out there, every shadow in the corner of my eye, becomes the being that created that light. Sure, logically, chances are pretty good that the light is caused by something on the old stone out there reacting with chemicals in the mist; chemicals which are carried in from the nearby factory. At least that’s what my neighbors tell me.
I’m not so sure what to believe.
That light only appears on foggy nights, which happen to occur quite frequently out here on the moor, but that seems to be the extent of the common factors. The light is just as likely to appear if the wind is blowing towards the factory as it is likely to glow when the wind blows away. Something in that factory story just doesn’t add up for me. But, at least around the other townsfolk, I accept their explanation.
On clear mornings I can see clear across the lake, but the moment the fog rolls in I can’t even see the stone of that old chapel that rests halfway across the lake. When there is fog I see nothing out there; nothing beyond that green glow anyways.
At this moment I’m standing out on my porch, my hands pressed palm down against the rough oak railing, watching the world go by. And by “world” I mean “mist” since I honestly can’t see a thing. I keep telling myself that I should just go to bed, but something is keeping me out here. Going inside just seems out of the question and I’m not sure exactly why. Instead I listen to the world surrounding me. Maybe the monotonous noise will bring me to the point where I feel I could sleep.
The sigh of the wind is most dominant; though its howl is deadened by the damp. The trees along the road creak and groan as their branches flail around. Birds cry out faintly in the distance. Normally insects would join in as well, but on a night like this they remain silent, or at very least I do not hear them over the other ambient sounds. A distant door slams and startles me from my reverie.
Although I don’t live in town, I still live more than close enough to hear loud disturbances. That sound seemed closer though, maybe from one of my more direct neighbors. I still my racing heart and return to my observations.
Before me the air clears and the darkened silhouette of the chapel emerges as a patch of black against the softly gleaming water. My eyes narrow as I stare towards the uppermost steeple. As always the light still gleams up there even without the fog. Does that debunk the chemical theory? I’m not sure but it seems to be yet another nail in the coffin.
The remainder of the silhouette is ragged where walls have crumbled; experts have theorized that the structure will fully collapse within the next five years. As it is most of the structure remains underwater, only four spires and part of the top floor are still above the water level. A flash of motion in the dark of the chapel catches my eye and I grow still to hunt for its source.
There it was again; something was definitely moving over there. Something seemed to be climbing towards the light. Soon enough the light flashed as something moved in front of it. I really wish that the moon’s light were stronger; the light is too dim for me to keep track of that motion on the side of the spire. Who, or what, was that on the steeple? As if the elements had heard me, and wanted to prevent me from seeing more, fog began to roll back over the water. That infernal mist would soon cover the old structure once more.
“Go away,” I scream at it mentally, “I want to see what I can!”
Of course it ignored me. The green light flickers to darkness as the mists engulf the ruins. Although I remain at my railing long into the night the light does not reappear. I am left with questions but no answers.
Who was out there? Do they plant something to produce that light? If so, why?