Echoes Through the Mist: A Paranormal Mystery (The Echoes Quartet Book 1) by K. Francis Ryan
Authors: K. Francis Ryan
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silver watch pinned to the left breast of her jacket. They were as old as you would expect people dressed in such a way to be. They looked at Julian and smiled without warmth, but with a great deal of interest.
Julian trotted out his most winning smile and asked, “I was wondering if there was a boarding house or inn here in town or if you ladies would know of anyone who might rent me a room.”
“Oi’m sure we wouldn’t know of such things,” one of the twins sniffed.
“Oi suppose you could ask the Lord Mayor,” the other added. “Although finding him and finding him sober may be two different things Oi’m sure,” the first one noted curtly.
Julian smiled his thanks and backed out the door. Next to the apothecary was another pub bringing the total to three, two of which were called O’Gavagan's. A livestock feed store rounded out the commercial section of town.
The rest of the village was a jumble of houses with brightly painted doors, thatched roofs and much that needed repair. A shutter on this property hung at an acute angle, a fence on that one had grown tired and lay down in the street. The owners of these houses seemed to believe that, as with anything in life, something should always be just a bit out of place. Nothing had a right to be perfect.
Children playing in their respective yards and the main road stopped and stood in stunned silence at the sight of Julian.
Children had never been his strong suit. He always felt benign disregard was the best policy when dealing with them. For their part, the village children could not help but scrutinize his every move as Julian worked his way up the street.
He navigated the main thoroughfare and then followed some of the small lanes. A curtain would move in the breeze, a door would squeal on its hinges. All the while the children continued to follow this new specimen at a safe distance. At the far end of the village stood a Catholic church and standing adjacent was a rectory, another small attractive home and the village school.
The church seemed slight in size but sturdy in construction. The native stone of the structure rose from the ground and launched a stately spire ending in a heavy belfry. The building was laid out in the cruciform shape prescribed for Catholic churches of the era.
Heather surrounded the lower portion of the building and drifted away to a lush lawn sculpted and maintained with care. St. Michael’s – Mass Daily a sign proclaimed. Julian smiled thinking in a village of this size anyone who did not know the name of the church or that mass was a daily event would, in all likelihood, be going to hell anyway. Julian had been a Catholic at one time. He understood these things.
He tried the front door to the church and found that it moved on well-oiled hinges. He knew the children would not follow and he wanted to sit and collect his thoughts. The door closed behind him and he was enveloped by the darkness of the vestibule. The rich smell of incense and old wood filled the air.
Out of habit, he dipped his finger tips into the holy water font, crossed himself and made his way to the far end of the back pew, genuflected and took a seat. Old habits die hard and some never really die at all, but simply sleep.
The air was still and cool. A candle burned in the sanctuary. Dozens of votive candles burned in front of two plaster saints, one on either side of the transept behind the altar rail. In one niche stood a rather martial looking St. Michael Archangel, patron saint of the church; in the other stood the statue of the Virgin Mary looking kind, thoughtful and a bit sad as always.
The sights, the smells, the pervasive silence all seemed familiar to him even though he hadn’t been in a church for over twenty years. He smiled as he looked at the altar steps and remembered his days as an altar boy. Fragments of Latin returned to him.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous
Julian trotted out his most winning smile and asked, “I was wondering if there was a boarding house or inn here in town or if you ladies would know of anyone who might rent me a room.”
“Oi’m sure we wouldn’t know of such things,” one of the twins sniffed.
“Oi suppose you could ask the Lord Mayor,” the other added. “Although finding him and finding him sober may be two different things Oi’m sure,” the first one noted curtly.
Julian smiled his thanks and backed out the door. Next to the apothecary was another pub bringing the total to three, two of which were called O’Gavagan's. A livestock feed store rounded out the commercial section of town.
The rest of the village was a jumble of houses with brightly painted doors, thatched roofs and much that needed repair. A shutter on this property hung at an acute angle, a fence on that one had grown tired and lay down in the street. The owners of these houses seemed to believe that, as with anything in life, something should always be just a bit out of place. Nothing had a right to be perfect.
Children playing in their respective yards and the main road stopped and stood in stunned silence at the sight of Julian.
Children had never been his strong suit. He always felt benign disregard was the best policy when dealing with them. For their part, the village children could not help but scrutinize his every move as Julian worked his way up the street.
He navigated the main thoroughfare and then followed some of the small lanes. A curtain would move in the breeze, a door would squeal on its hinges. All the while the children continued to follow this new specimen at a safe distance. At the far end of the village stood a Catholic church and standing adjacent was a rectory, another small attractive home and the village school.
The church seemed slight in size but sturdy in construction. The native stone of the structure rose from the ground and launched a stately spire ending in a heavy belfry. The building was laid out in the cruciform shape prescribed for Catholic churches of the era.
Heather surrounded the lower portion of the building and drifted away to a lush lawn sculpted and maintained with care. St. Michael’s – Mass Daily a sign proclaimed. Julian smiled thinking in a village of this size anyone who did not know the name of the church or that mass was a daily event would, in all likelihood, be going to hell anyway. Julian had been a Catholic at one time. He understood these things.
He tried the front door to the church and found that it moved on well-oiled hinges. He knew the children would not follow and he wanted to sit and collect his thoughts. The door closed behind him and he was enveloped by the darkness of the vestibule. The rich smell of incense and old wood filled the air.
Out of habit, he dipped his finger tips into the holy water font, crossed himself and made his way to the far end of the back pew, genuflected and took a seat. Old habits die hard and some never really die at all, but simply sleep.
The air was still and cool. A candle burned in the sanctuary. Dozens of votive candles burned in front of two plaster saints, one on either side of the transept behind the altar rail. In one niche stood a rather martial looking St. Michael Archangel, patron saint of the church; in the other stood the statue of the Virgin Mary looking kind, thoughtful and a bit sad as always.
The sights, the smells, the pervasive silence all seemed familiar to him even though he hadn’t been in a church for over twenty years. He smiled as he looked at the altar steps and remembered his days as an altar boy. Fragments of Latin returned to him.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous
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