Aisle of the Dead Read online

  Joseph E. Wright 81,000 words

  AISLE OF THE DEAD

  by

  Joseph E. Wright

  Copyright 2009 by Joseph E. Wright

  All rights reserved

  Cover Design by Joseph E. Wright

  Smashwords Edition March 2009

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Author.

  CHAPTER I

  “When you and I talked this afternoon, Father,” Pat began after their waiter placed drinks in front of them, “you were… well, it’s no exaggeration to say, frantic. You told me about some very strange things taking place at Saint Alban’s.”

  They were seated at a table in Oscar’s Restaurant. Pat Montgomary was in his mid-thirties, deeply tanned from the past two weeks at the seashore, and visibly concerned as he stared at the priest across the table from him. Phillis Toner, Pat’s half sister, was her radiant self this evening with her equally deep tan. She was ten years younger than her brother. She too was studying the third member of their party. This latter was easily in his sixties (she guessed)‎, his face pale and drawn. He was dressed in black with a Roman collar.

  “I guess you’ll think I am foolish,” the priest began hesitantly. “You might think I’m not responsible for my actions when I tell you why I asked to meet you. And, the more I think about it, the more I begin to believe that perhaps… perhaps it was wrong of me to impose upon you. It really is nothing. If I could beg your forgiveness and let it go at that….”

  “Father, something is bothering you,” Pat continued, a sternness creeping into his voice. “If ever I saw someone with a problem, it’s you. I hope you’ll pardon me for being so blunt, but frankly, Father, you look to me as though you need professional help. You look as though you have not been sleeping well. Your hands are shaking. Are you an alcoholic or been drinking heavily lately?”

  “Good heavens, no, although I must say I admire your frankness.” Father Victor Sieger nervously brushed back his thinning white hair. His eyes, a pale, almost washed-out blue, old from seeing so much of life for so many years, searched the faces of his two dinner companions.

  Pat nodded. “Okay, then from all I’ve seen in the short while we’ve been together, it’s my guess that you are a man for whom all is not well. Either you have a serious physical problem or something else is bothering you. Since the three of us are here at your request, why not tell us. Keep in mind we know the importance of confidentiality.”

  “I’m sorry,” the priest apologized. “You are right, and please do forgive me for not trusting you, but you see, it is precisely that: a question of not trusting. Don’t get me wrong. It’s certainly not you whom I do not trust. It is… myself. I feel I can no longer trust my own judgment, my own… grasp on reality. That’s why I hesitate to tell you, even now after imposing upon you and coming this distance. It’s all so… so juvenile; I should never have asked you. I should not have.…”

  “Why don’t you just say what you originally intended to say and we’ll take it from there,” Phillis spoke up. Her voice was softer, warmer than her brother’s. She leaned forward, closer to their guest.

  The priest nodded. “Yes, that might be wise. Maybe… maybe just being able to tell someone about it might help. I do that all the time, you know, listen to other people, and I know that by just listening, sometimes not saying a word, I help others. Maybe you can do that service for me now.” He looked down at his hands, the fingers intertwined and the palms facing upward, and he was silent for a few moments, then he spoke, slowly at first. “It started, I would guess, about nine, ten months ago. A few utterly simple, unimportant things, nothing concrete, nothing even worth mentioning, and I would not mention them now except that eventually, in the totality of happenings, they began to take on serious, even sinister, meanings. A couple of times things were missing and would turn up in unexpected places, foolish, trivial items: car keys the first time, then, unless my memory too is failing me, things like cash, food, clothing. Do I make any sense?”

  Pat shook his head. “I don’t know. You mean, these things would not be where you expected them to be, but you found them later? Not unusual, is it? I’m forever forgetting things myself and I’m--”

  “And you’re much younger than I am. Is that what you were about to say, Pat? It’s all right. I don’t mind. But please do not think I am getting senile. I truly do not believe that. What I am trying to tell you is that things, gradually becoming more important with the passage of time over the next few months, would disappear and sometimes suddenly reappear, all with no semblance of logic. A few times I questioned Father Paul, our assistant at St. Alban’s, and Grace Everett, who runs the church office, and they could shed no light on the things that had happened. Then those things suddenly stopped just as abruptly as they had begun. I was relieved, as you can well imagine, and for a couple of weeks or so everything was quite calm, and I chalked it all up to a series of coincidences and forgetfulness on my part and the part of others, and I foolishly went about my daily business thinking all was over.”

  “And, I gather, all was not over,” Phillis said and leaned back in her chair. “What happened next?”

  Father Sieger was unaware that he was rubbing his fingertips against the palms of his hands. “No, all was not right. The next incident that happened, as best I can remember, caused quite a bit of trouble. It happened on a Sunday, a very important Sunday. The bishop was to be present at mass at eleven o’clock that morning and was to confirm and receive a number of people who had been studying and preparing for that day. Naturally, I arose quite early that morning so I would have plenty of time before the bishop arrived. Well, I was still not ready for him when the front doorbell of the rectory rang, and you can imagine my consternation when I discovered it was the bishop. Naturally, he was somewhat put out when he found me unready for him. I pointed out that he was at least an hour earlier than he was expected, but he insisted his watch was right. I checked--without his being aware of it, of course--with all the clocks in the rectory, even the grandfather clock on the second floor landing, and they proved me right. They all showed it was an hour earlier than the bishop insisted it was. The next thing I knew, Father Paul was at my study door, asking if everything was all right and was I ready to come over to the church. He, too, insisted it was later than the rectory clocks said it was. I was made to look the fool. I quickly got ready and hurried over to the church, which was quite filled by that time. It seemed that the rectory clocks and I had one time, and the rest of the world was going by another.”

  “Surely a simple explanation,” Pat suggested. “During the night, the electricity went off for an hour. Someone noticed the grandfather clock, thought it was running fast, and so reset it to match all the others.”

  “No, I’m afraid that won’t do. I wish it did, but you see, there were a couple of things wrong with that explanation. Digital clocks on appliances and video and audio equiptment should have been flashing twelve o’clock as they usually do whenever power is shut off. They weren’t. Granted, someone could have changed them, too, but the thing which destroyed that supposition was my watch, the wristwatch I was wearing and had on my wrist all through the night while I slept. That, too, was an hour slow. I remembered checking it just before going to bed and found it exactly right. It dawned on me that the only explanation for all that happened was that someone c
ame into the rectory and moved all the clocks back an hour and after they had done that, came into my bedroom and did the same thing to the watch that was on my wrist--as I slept. It was the following day before I stopped shaking, I was so upset by what had taken place. But that was only the beginning. There was more, much more, to come. And….” Father Sieger began to shake noticeably.

  Pat signaled Hal, their waiter, to bring them another round of drinks. “There was more?” Pat asked, to prod the priest on with his story.

  Father Sieger nodded. “It is difficult, as I’m sure you can imagine, and I must be careful not to… not to involve others in what I say or think. One can not be too….” He looked around the room, then directly at Pat, then Phillis. “I soon became positive that none of this was coincidence. There was a pattern to it all, and coincidence, by its very nature, is haphazard--hit or miss. No, this was planned. There was some kind of intelligence behind it all. Things, crazy things, would happen and continue to happen for a number of days, sometimes a couple of weeks, then stop as abruptly as they had begun, only to have some other kind of strange happening start up.

  “Take last winter, for example. I would find doors around the rectory and church unlocked when they shouldn’t be, and locked when they should have been open. At first, I blamed my own forgetfulness or the carelessness of others. Then one night something happened which convinced me none of this was my imagination, that someone, for whatever reason I couldn’t fathom, was at work. I was alone in the rectory one evening. Father Paul was away. Even our sexton, who lives on the premises, was away. I was upstairs on the second floor in my room. It was an exceptionally bitter cold night, around midnight, and I was about to get ready for bed when I happened to look out the window and saw there were lights on in the church. We are not so rich a parish that we can afford to waste electricity, and everyone knows I’m something of a fanatic on the subject of wasting electricity. I grabbed the first thing I found, a lightweight golf jacket, and threw it over my shoulders. There’s a key to the church hanging on a hook just inside the rectory vestibule. It opens the church door, but none of the other doors on the property. I took it with me.

  “As I went out through the front door of the rectory, I stopped and made sure the door button was off so that I would have no trouble getting back in. The cold wind went right through me. I ran across the garden and had the key to the church door ready in my hand. It was very dark, no moon, and not a star in the sky with the wind howling through the trees. I quickly opened the big old oak door and went inside and turned off the lights. As I left, I locked the outside door of the church. It’s the kind that must be locked with a key--you can’t just press a button--and ran back to the rectory. I was frozen. I pulled on the rectory door and it wouldn’t budge. It was locked. I was panicky, as you can well imagine. I couldn’t stay outside and I thought of reopening the church, but I realized that would do no good. There was no heat on in there, and to turn it on, you have to get into the basement, and that was locked and I did not have a key to it with me. If I had had the key to the church office, I could have gone through the church, then to the lower level where the office is, and from there into the rectory.

  “I was on the verge of freezing to death. All I could think to do was to get to a telephone. There’s been talk forever of putting a telephone in the church itself, but we’ve never gotten around to it. There’s a phone in the sacristy, in the parish hall and, of course, in the church office, but, as I said, I had taken only the old brass key which opens the front door of the church. To make the situation worse, I had no money on me. So, I hurried down to the corner and crossed the street to the Westmont Hotel. I was about to go inside and ask if I might use the telephone when I saw Grace Everett coming towards me. I told you she’s our administrative assistant. She was on her way home from visiting one of our parishioners who was sick. She walked back to the rectory with me and let me.”

  “She has a key to the rectory?” Phillis asked.

  “Why, yes, of course. But don’t go getting any ideas about Grace. She’s as trustworthy as they come. I would trust my life with her. To show what I mean when I say someone was deliberately doing something, the next morning, Tom Benson, who’s sexton of the parish, came to my study to tell me that when he went to open up that morning, he found the front door of the church--the one I so carefully locked the night before after turning out the lights--was unlocked. And there were a couple more incidents just like that in the next few days, incidents where I deliberately stopped to check that I had locked or unlocked a door, only to find it in the opposite condition later. Then, it all stopped.”

  “Nothing more happened after that?” Pat asked.

  The priest shook his head. “No, I mean that was the end of the things with doors. For several days, nothing out of the ordinary seemed to happen. Then, they began. Messages. Wrong messages. Cruel messages. One day--I believe it was the first week in February--I had been out at the local hospital, and when I got back, Muriel, who works on a volunteer basis in the office, had a message for me. The message said a niece of mine on my mother’s side of the family, Eileen, had just had her baby, and the whole family was so excited.”

  “What was wrong with that?”

  “Miss Toner, I don’t have a niece. It could have been a case of the person calling getting the wrong party, except that he referred to me by name and even mentioned my niece’s name, ‘Eileen.’ I once had a niece by the name of Eileen, but she died a great many years ago; she and her baby and her husband were all killed in an automobile accident. That call was followed by what you might describe as prank calls, like messages about meeting someone at a certain place, only to find that the person in question had never called at all.

  “By this time, I was at my wit’s end. I wasn’t sure anymore whether I was having a nervous breakdown, becoming senile, or what. Then, the noises began. Oh, my God, I can still hear those dreadful noises in the dead of night.”

  CHAPTER II

  Father Victor Sieger had arrived in Atlantic City earlier that same day, a hot, dusty day in July. As he drove along Pacific Avenue, all that he had read about The Nation’s Playground since it had become the home of gambling palaces, he realized was true. When he was a child, his parents had often taken him to this city with its beautiful, wide beaches. Now, he recognized none of the old landmarks, the majestic hotels along the boardwalk, looking out to sea like ancient gods guarding the shore and the island. Gone, too, were the wide verandas with rocking chairs occupied by vacationers. These things had been replaced by busloads and carloads of optimistic gamblers hoping to strike it big.

  He felt out of place.

  He was out of place.

  As out of place as his meticulously pressed black suit, stiff white collar, and Panama hat as he entered the lobby of the Taj Mahal Hotel and looked around for a house phone. He found one and inquired the room number of Mr. Patrick Montgomary. A few minutes later, as he rode upwards on the elevator, he glanced down at the piece of paper cupped in the palm of his hand. It contained two names: Pat Montgomary and Phillis Toner. He stuffed it back into his pocket and got off as the doors silently opened. He walked along the hall, his feet sinking into the plush carpeting as he studied the numbers on the doors. He wondered if he had made a mistake coming here. Probably, he told himself. Probably a serious mistake. There was little likelihood either Mr. Montgomary or Miss Toner could help him. He corrected himself. There was no likelihood they could help with his problems. He found the number he was looking for and pressed the buzzer.

  The door opened immediately. “How do you do, Father. I’m Pat Montgomary,” a tall, young man with dark hair and dark eyes said, and stepped back to open the door wider. “Please come in.”

  Father Victor Sieger hesitantly held out his hand and stuttered a greeting.

  “Like something? A drink?” Pat asked. “No? Then please have a seat.” He pointed out a sofa facing an expanse of window with a view of the boardwalk below and the Atlantic Ocean
spread out before them.

  The priest gingerly sat down and cautiously placed his hat on his knee.

  Pat studied this priest. He knew he had only seconds in which to appraise the older man seated in front of him. He told himself that stereotypes called up by the black suit, the Roman collar, would have to be ignored. Here was a man, Pat immediately decided, who with his white hair and deep wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, who obviously felt out of place, had a serious problem. This latter deduction he could not take credit for, since the priest had told him as much on the telephone only minutes before.

  He’s in bad shape, both physically and emotionally, Pat said to himself. Hasn’t been sleeping, if those rings under the eyes really mean anything. Hands shaking. Alcoholic? Possible. A number of the clergy are, he remembered reading.

  Aloud, Pat said, “Well, Father, you told me on the telephone that you live in Philadelphia. St. Alban’s parish. I know exactly where it is. On Sycamine Street, right off Rittenhouse Square. Beautiful buildings. St. Alban’s, if I remember correctly, is English Gothic, right? I’ve made a bit of a study of some of the cathedrals of Europe. At one time, I toyed with the idea of becoming an architect. I find the English gems among the most exciting in the world.”

  The priest’s face lit up. “Yes, St. Alban’s is a perfect example of English Gothic. One of the finest examples of that style in this country. In England, too, for that matter.”

  For the next two minutes, Father Victor Sieger went on to extol the beauty of St. Alban’s Church: the church proper, rectory, parish house, library. Pat used the time to study the man even more, and to remember how this priest had sounded on the telephone, on the verge of tears as he spoke.