have a big case to mug up on before tomorrow morning. Andrew, you must come to a meeting soon. I’ll pick you up some evening, we’ll go together.’
And then he was gone.
That night, I started dreaming again, and each night after, for a week. Every night the same dream, but always a little more; and with the lengthening of the dream, an intensification of dread.
On the first night, I dreamed I was back on Lewis, in Stornoway, with a great wind and a black sky, the sea in torment, raised high by the storm, leafless winter trees, bent and snapping. I was running through darkened streets, the doors and windows of the houses shut fast, no light shining in any of them, as though I was running through a city of the dead.
Suddenly, at the end of the street, a great black church rose up out of nowhere, grim and vast and silent, like no church I had ever seen on the island or elsewhere. As my eyes fell on it, I awoke with a start, its black shape still before my eyes and the sound of the wind rushing in my ears.
On the second and successive nights, I ran again and again through those dark, silent streets, closer and closer to the door of the black church, a door that reared high above me, dwarfing me. On the third night, I pushed it open and saw for the first time its cathedral-like interior, forbidding and dark, lit only here and there with a few stunted candles. Just as I awoke again, the door slammed behind me, cutting off the wind, and I could hear from within a strange, mournful sound, as of many voices rising and falling in unison.
By the third night, things had begun to escalate. This time, when I opened the door and looked inside, I could hear the sound of deep-throated chanting, rising to fill the vast spaces of the vault. As I listened, I thought at first that what I could hear were the metrical psalms of my boyhood. The swelling voices lifted in dirge-like strains, mournful, filled with a dark yearning, and I was sure I had come upon a great congregation of the people of Lewis, perhaps a gathering of generations of the island’s dead in a dark cathedral beyond the confines of the real world. But as I listened more closely, I realized that the words were not in Gaelic, but in a language I had never before heard.
Night after night I returned to that place in my dreams, listening to the strange chanting, straining to make out the physical details of the vast chamber in which I stood. My eyes seemed to grow rapidly accustomed to the dark, and soon I could make out the figures of the congregation standing with their backs to me, facing a dimly lit altar at the far end of the building. Their voices were deep and sonorous, but they neither swayed nor moved their heads as they chanted. Out of sight, a priest sang out the verses of a liturgy unknown to me. Strange shapes, barely visible in the pale candlelight, lurked in the shadows of the walls all about, statues or gargoyles. Something about their outlines made me glad I could not see them more clearly.
Each night, my feelings of unease mounted. I knew, without having been told, that in the shadows some unknown menace waited. The deeper I was carried into the body of the church, the greater grew my sense of foreboding. The volume of the chanting rose constantly, and with it the certainty that something unpleasant lurked ahead of me. As I drew closer to the congregation, I saw that they were dressed in white robes that fell shroudlike from shoulder to heel, and that at their feet scuttled thin white shapes, larger than rats, and more agile.
One night, as I stood filled with dread at the heart of the black church, the chanting abruptly stopped. A chilling silence filled the dark spaces. For what seemed an age, I stood in the silence and darkness, reluctantly staring at the robed figures in front of me. Then, as if at a command, they started to turn where they stood, to face me where I waited, transfixed, behind them. As my eyes fell on their faces, I woke screaming in
And then he was gone.
That night, I started dreaming again, and each night after, for a week. Every night the same dream, but always a little more; and with the lengthening of the dream, an intensification of dread.
On the first night, I dreamed I was back on Lewis, in Stornoway, with a great wind and a black sky, the sea in torment, raised high by the storm, leafless winter trees, bent and snapping. I was running through darkened streets, the doors and windows of the houses shut fast, no light shining in any of them, as though I was running through a city of the dead.
Suddenly, at the end of the street, a great black church rose up out of nowhere, grim and vast and silent, like no church I had ever seen on the island or elsewhere. As my eyes fell on it, I awoke with a start, its black shape still before my eyes and the sound of the wind rushing in my ears.
On the second and successive nights, I ran again and again through those dark, silent streets, closer and closer to the door of the black church, a door that reared high above me, dwarfing me. On the third night, I pushed it open and saw for the first time its cathedral-like interior, forbidding and dark, lit only here and there with a few stunted candles. Just as I awoke again, the door slammed behind me, cutting off the wind, and I could hear from within a strange, mournful sound, as of many voices rising and falling in unison.
By the third night, things had begun to escalate. This time, when I opened the door and looked inside, I could hear the sound of deep-throated chanting, rising to fill the vast spaces of the vault. As I listened, I thought at first that what I could hear were the metrical psalms of my boyhood. The swelling voices lifted in dirge-like strains, mournful, filled with a dark yearning, and I was sure I had come upon a great congregation of the people of Lewis, perhaps a gathering of generations of the island’s dead in a dark cathedral beyond the confines of the real world. But as I listened more closely, I realized that the words were not in Gaelic, but in a language I had never before heard.
Night after night I returned to that place in my dreams, listening to the strange chanting, straining to make out the physical details of the vast chamber in which I stood. My eyes seemed to grow rapidly accustomed to the dark, and soon I could make out the figures of the congregation standing with their backs to me, facing a dimly lit altar at the far end of the building. Their voices were deep and sonorous, but they neither swayed nor moved their heads as they chanted. Out of sight, a priest sang out the verses of a liturgy unknown to me. Strange shapes, barely visible in the pale candlelight, lurked in the shadows of the walls all about, statues or gargoyles. Something about their outlines made me glad I could not see them more clearly.
Each night, my feelings of unease mounted. I knew, without having been told, that in the shadows some unknown menace waited. The deeper I was carried into the body of the church, the greater grew my sense of foreboding. The volume of the chanting rose constantly, and with it the certainty that something unpleasant lurked ahead of me. As I drew closer to the congregation, I saw that they were dressed in white robes that fell shroudlike from shoulder to heel, and that at their feet scuttled thin white shapes, larger than rats, and more agile.
One night, as I stood filled with dread at the heart of the black church, the chanting abruptly stopped. A chilling silence filled the dark spaces. For what seemed an age, I stood in the silence and darkness, reluctantly staring at the robed figures in front of me. Then, as if at a command, they started to turn where they stood, to face me where I waited, transfixed, behind them. As my eyes fell on their faces, I woke screaming in
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