Announcement
Hello everyone!
Recently, I shared a snippet of a short story I've been working on titled Father Gawain & The Curse of Church House Hollow.
Today, I'm releasing the alpha version exclusively for paid subscribers. You are the first to read it before it undergoes final polishing for a select group of beta readers and eventual publication.
This story is set in the Shadow Appalachia Universe, a mythic world running parallel to Historic Appalachia. While it shares much of the same lore and history, there are notable differences. Timelines vary, and though names and places are similar, they’re not exact. It's essentially a re-imagined Appalachia—an upside-down version no one has encountered before. Inspired by Appalachian Gothic and Lovecraftian tales, this story firmly belongs in the horror genre and may not be for everyone for that reason. However, let me say, it’s not horror for the sake of horror, but a means to reveal deeper truths about our world, and eventually for the purpose of turning it on its head as the story unfolds.
With that being said, here’s the kind of feedback I’m looking for from alpha readers.
General Feedback: Notes on pacing, character development, and overall engagement.
Revisions: Notes on any necessary revisions to enhance the story's flow and impact.
Proofreading: Notes on any lingering grammatical errors or typos.
I've greatly enjoyed writing this story because many elements are based on real experiences. Fiction writing stretches my skills in new ways, as I primarily focus on contemplative, theological writing rooted in the church. Occasionally, I'm inspired to integrate these elements into fiction, so it’s something I’m growing into. This is my second complete short story, with several other Father Gawain stories in various stages of completion. With this origin story nearing its end, I hope to release more Father Gawain tales in the future.
I hope you all enjoy it as well! Let me know what you think in the comments.
Advent
As winter's first chill crept through Church House Hollow, Father Gawain stood at the yard's edge, twilight casting long, foreboding shadows over the landscape. The quiet of the evening was broken only by the distant call of a bird, adding to the sense of anticipation in the air.
"It was the strangest thing," Ann said, twisting her hair with nervousness. "As I crossed the yard, I heard Rae yellin’ at Misty from the porch. Her voice was so clear, it sent chills down my spine. But when I looked, she wasn't there."
Gawain leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "Did you hear the voice anymore after that?"
"Yes. Right after I looked and didn't see her, I heard her shout at Misty again, this time from the garden. It was like she had somehow moved from the porch to the garden in seconds. It didn't make any sense."
"Did you respond?"
"No. I was about to, but when I realized she couldn't have moved that far that fast, I knew something was wrong. It felt like something was mimicking her. So, I hurried back home, my heart pounding in my chest."
"You were right to be cautious," Gawain reassured his mother-in-law, a serious look on his face. "The important thing is, whoever you heard, it wasn't Rae. She and I were both still in bed, asleep. Usually, there’s a reasonable explanation for this kind of thing, but in this case, there isn’t. I’ll have to think about it more."
Ann gasped, making the sign of the cross, her eyes wide with shock. Father Gawain noticed the hairs standing up on her arm, a clear sign of her fear. He placed his black capello back on his head, feeling the winter sun beat down on his brow as it climbed higher in the sky.
"Don't worry," he said with a sterile calm. "I'll figure out —."
About that time Ann cut him off. "Don't worry?" Ann's voice rose like a thermostat. "Something was mimicking my daughter, your wife! I’ve said it for years. This place is cursed! Oh dear, heavens me!”
"Oh, Ann. Sometimes we let our fears create curses where none exist. There's always a rational explanation. And remember, should you begin to lose faith, the Epiphany Blessing is still protecting our homes."
Ann nodded, trying to find comfort in his words. "I am grateful, Gawain. But can yesterday's blessing shield us from today's darkness?"
Gawain sighed, frustrated by her insistence that she encountered something dark and supernatural, but still wanting to be pastoral. "That’s the hope in some ways, isn’t it?"
Nodding slowly as she overcame her fear, "Yes. Christ died for our sins 2,000 years ago, and that sacrifice still has the power to save sinners today. You're right, Gawain. I'm sorry."
Gawain placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It's understandable, Ann. You were frightened. But remember, God, Immanuel, is with us. We are not alone in this. And again, I’m certain there’s something going on here that can be explained. Perhaps it was Janeen playing a joke on you. You know she loves that sort of thing."
Ann managed a small smile, the tension easing from her face. "Will you all be over for dinner later, dear?"
He smiled warmly. "As always, Ann. We'll be there."
Gawain turned and walked back toward his home, shaking his head. The light of the distant winter sun cast a golden glow upon their red door. He reached for the doorknob, feeling its familiar coolness in his palm, and as he stepped inside, he glanced up at the Epiphany Blessing etched in chalk above the doorway: "20+C+M+B+24." The numbers and letters, though simple, seemed to hold a powerful significance in the fading light.
In a hushed tone, he whispered to himself, "Christus mansionem benedicat."
"Did you say something, honey?" Rae asked, glancing up from the couch where she lounged with a steaming cup of coffee. The Christmas tree beside her was a beacon of festive cheer, its lights twinkling and a bright star adorning the top.
"No, just praying. Your mother seemed quite disturbed though." Gawain removed his capello and hung it by the door.
"Oh? What about?" Rae's curiosity was piqued as she took a sip from her mug.
"She believes that she encountered something quite mysterious that was pretending to be you," Gawain said, his voice laced with skepticism.
Rae sighed, her expression turning to one of resigned frustration. "What else is new? I've told you before, this place is cursed. Everyone just shuts it out and goes on about their business."
Gawain nodded. "Well, for a long time, I thought you just had an overactive imagination, but come to find out, it's not just you. It’s finally caught on with the rest of your family. But I am curious, what do you know about the history of this place?"
"Not much," Rae admitted, setting her coffee cup down. "My grandfather bought this place in the '70s. There used to be a church here before it was torn down, which is why it's called Church House Hollow."
“Do you know anything about it or where it was located?”
"No. But I’ve always assumed that’s what all the bricks in the creek were from," Rae said.
"Yes, I think you're right," Gawain agreed, nodding. "The bricks are stamped with 'Charleston, WV,' and marked with a unique cross symbol that I’ve never seen on a brick before."
Gawain stroked his goatee, the weight of unsolved mysteries pressing heavily on his mind.
"Maybe it’s time I finally explore the rest of the property up the holler. I’ve always respected the property lines since it's still owned by Omega Coal, but given the circumstances, I might need to venture up there. It could be for the greater good — and for your mother’s peace of mind and her mental health."
Rae shook her head with a knowing smile. "All you’ll find up there are old drift mouths full of blackdamp. There’s nothing up there that I can recall."
“You’re probably right," Gawain conceded. "But we do know that there was a parish up here somewhere. If I can locate where it used to be, perhaps I can find some kind of clue that would shed light on the history of this place, and I can use that to prove that this place is in fact not cursed and that this is all the workings of active imaginations.”
Rae laughed and rolled her eyes. "Well, it is Advent. If God can reveal His Son to the world, surely, He can reveal an old parish to you. Or maybe just send you a heavenly pin drop on the map!"
Gawain chuckled. "One can hope, I guess," he said with a smile. "Maybe that will be this year's Christmas gift."
As the evening deepened and the chill of winter settled in, Gawain and Rae gathered their two young daughters, who were already in their pajamas, their eyes sparkling with the excitement of the season. Together, they moved to the living room where the Advent wreath stood.
Gawain carefully lit the final Advent candle, its warm glow casting flickering shadows on the walls and filling the room with a soft, golden light. The family stood close together, feeling the warmth of the moment, the fragrance of pine and candle wax mingling in the air as they prayed the Advent Collect together as a family.
After a quiet moment of reflection and prayer, they tucked their daughters into bed, each child snuggling under thick blankets. Gawain and Rae kissed their foreheads, whispering goodnight before retreating to their own room, the glow of the Advent candle lingering in their minds as they drifted off to sleep.
Christmas
The next day, Gawain sat in his church office on Main Street in Madison, a few miles from his home. He pastored Holy Trinity Anglican Church, a mission church in the Diocese of the Appalachian Mountains. The parish was housed in a building that had been a community cornerstone for 116 years.
Madison, known as "The Gateway to the Coalfields," was a city suspended between history and modernity. Its streets, lined with remnants of a bygone era, whispered of a once-thriving industry. Gawain’s office, with its large arched windows overlooking the street, captured this duality. As he prepared his Christmas sermon, the mystery of Church House Hollow lingered in his mind.
During lunch, he decided to visit the Madison Library next door to the parish. He hoped to find historical records or old maps that might shed light on the secrets hidden within the holler. He grabbed his black capello, placed it on his head, and stepped out into the street, which was festively adorned with holly and pine for Christmas. As he crossed the road, the chill of the winter air nipped at his cheeks, and he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The sound of demolition echoed from down the street. His eyes flicked to the side, catching a glimpse of something moving in the shadows near an alley.
For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Gawain thought he saw a creature with a large antler protruding from its head. He froze, his breath catching in his throat, the figure looming in his peripheral vision. The Christmas lights cast eerie shadows, twisting and elongating every shape in vivid colors.
Gawain blinked, his heart pounding. The figure resolved into something more mundane—a wooden Christmas reindeer decoration, its antlers glinting under the festive lights. He let out a shaky breath, chiding himself for his imagination.
As he approached the library, he saw a construction worker in a high-visibility vest exiting a nearby building. The man paused to wipe sweat from his brow, despite the cold.
“Mornin’, Father,” the worker greeted with a nod.
“Good morning,” Gawain replied, still unsettled. “What’s all the noise about?”
“Modernization plans. We’re demolishing the old Saint Christopher Parish down at the end of the street to make way for a new hospital for Madison Memorial. Started early this morning. Shame to see it go, but I guess they’re making way for new developments.”
“But why now? Why not wait until after the holiday season?”
“City’s orders. They want to get a jump start on modernizing this area. It’s been planned for a while.”
Gawain nodded. “I guess it’s about time. Our area has needed revitalization for a while, though I do feel for the parish.”
The worker shrugged. “I’ve been in this line of work for 20 years, and what comes after is always futuristic, soulless, and ugly. They just don’t make them like they used to.”
Gawain offered a smile and shook the worker’s hand. “Thank you for the information. Take care and God be with you.”
Inside the library, Gawain paused at the front desk. The silence was palpable, broken only by the distant hum of demolition machines. He waited, but no one appeared. Reluctantly, he rang the bell.
A loud crash echoed from a dark hall at the back of the room, but no one came out.
“Perhaps a stack of books fell,” he muttered to himself. Deciding not to waste time, he began to explore.
To his left, a row of public computers lined the wall. Among them hung a memorial to a local archaeologist, displaying arrowheads and Native American bone artifacts, each piece meticulously labeled. On the right side of the room, massive shelves groaned under the weight of countless tomes, their spines bearing witness to the passage of time. The air was thick with the musty scent of old paper and leather bindings. In the back corner, a stairway led up to more shelves, promising further mysteries to uncover. In the center of the room stood an old bank vault, its imposing door now repurposed. Above it, a sign announced its new function: “The Boone County Genealogical Society.”
Gawain made his way toward the vault. A sign taped to the wall read:
“This section of our library was generously donated by Thorfinn Erikson, founder of the Boone County Genealogical Society. Thorfinn, a grandson of Icelandic immigrants, was an early member of the West Virginia Archaeological Fraternity, where he served as president for many years and contributed numerous articles to their journal. This library is dedicated to preserving the history and heritage of the families of Southern West Virginia. Learn more about the quarterly newsletter, books in the Kith and Kin series, cemetery records, obituaries, census data, and other historical resources, including Boone County ‘Pioneer’ information and photos from personal collections.”
“Fascinating,” Gawain mumbled. He began perusing Thorfinn’s collection and soon came across an intriguing title: “Archaeological Findings in Southern West Virginia.” It was a spiral-bound book that appeared handmade by Thorfinn himself.
Opening the book, Gawain scanned the table of contents until an entry caught his eye: “Church House Holler Site.” His pulse quickened as he flipped to the section and began reading.
“The Church House Holler site proved challenging to investigate. Not only was it tucked away up the hollow and down in a mountain valley, but a creek snaked through the valley, making access difficult. Upon arrival, we spoke with the monks and discovered that the cave containing the bones was blocked by a brick wall constructed by the monastery's monks. In front of this wall stood a brick arch with a statue of a dog-headed saint.
The monks allowed us to visit several grave sites behind the monastery and an earthwork structure located on a ridge above the monastery. This serpent mound, a highly unusual archaeological find, featured a rock wall stretching 130 feet long with a massive rock, approximately 8 feet in diameter, at its head. The mound could date back as far as 100 B.C. and was likely used for religious purposes as there are a few others like it in North America. The monks believe it to be used in the worship of an ancient serpent deity named Azrathoth.
Although we found no significant artifacts at the site, its unique characteristics make it an extreme rarity, lending it considerable archaeological value. The team has been in contact with Saint Christopher Parish in Madison which also contains some records of the findings. Gary Wilks completed his study of the mound for the Geological Society and will return to Morgantown to formalize his survey findings.”
Gawain’s eyes widened as he read. “Monastery? Monks? In Church House Hollow? Bones and religious earthworks?” he muttered, scarcely believing what he had just discovered.
As he leafed through more pages, a cold draft swept through the room, sending a chill down his spine. A smell like rotting, blackened leaves in a wet wood filled the air. The lights flickered like a palpitating heart before going out completely, plunging the library into dense blackness, as if a curtain had been drawn over his eyes. He fumbled for his phone, the flashlight revealing nothing out of order.
“Perhaps they’ve cut into lines down the street,” he thought, standing from the table to head toward the vault door. As he straightened, a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness.
A voice, shrill and grim, filled the room. “You, your family, and your town are doomed, Father. The Curse of Azrathoth be upon those who disturb the ancient landmarks.”
His head snapped toward the direction of the voice. The smell of rot filled his nostrils. In the darkness, he saw two circles glowing sickly green and fiery violet.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
The figure stepped into the dim light of his phone, revealing the librarian. She was down on all fours, her eyes glowing with an intense, cosmic light, her face twisted and contorted. Her mouth moved, but the voices that emanated from her were otherworldly, a terrifying chorus of malevolent sounds.
Gawain instinctively backed away, his mind struggling to grasp what was in front of him. This was no trick of the imagination, no hallucination, no diagnosable illness. What stood before him was something humanity was never meant to encounter in the grand design of the cosmos—a human being possessed by an entity from the void bent on destruction.
At that moment, Gawain's skepticism crumbled as he was hypnotized with horror. For the first time, he confronted the undeniable reality that intelligences far older and more powerful than humanity existed—just as his faith had always said. His fragile materialism shattered like a mirror dropped from a great height. His mind struggled to comprehend what stood before him, and the ancient deity mentioned in Thorfinn’s work now seemed terrifyingly real.
In his mind, he repeated a desperate line, "This can't be real. Things like this don't exist. Wake up. Wake up. Please, wake up." But in an instant, he was forced to accept the reality that he was in the middle of a real, living nightmare.
As he backed away, he muttered a prayer under his breath, clutching his capello tightly. The librarian's contorted form remained still, her eyes following him with an eerie intensity.
The demon bellied forth laughter from the librarian's twisted body. The voices echoed through the dim library, both sinister and mocking. "Observe how Azrathoth eclipses your feeble god! You falter and retreat, your so-called faith dissolving like mist. What will you do now, modern man, when your fear has been made sight? You are not a priest of old, but a mere shadow, weak and trembling!"
Gawain hung his head, the demon's words echoing in his mind. The accusation held a painful truth—he had been catechized in modernism, and now he faced its impotence. Desperation gripped him, and his fight-or-flight instinct surged. He chose flight.
He bolted from the vault, making a dash for the front door. The librarian, in pursuit, chanted a spell that caused the doors to slam shut. Gawain reached the handles, pushing and pulling frantically, but they wouldn't budge. He turned to see her charging, her face twisted and mouth agape.
Panicking, Gawain darted to his right and began to scale one of the bookshelves. The librarian snapped at his heels like a hellhound, her laughter filled with malicious delight.
"Please leave me alone! Almighty God, please help me," he cried out, his thoughts teetering on the brink of madness. The only thing keeping him from losing his sanity was the merciful veil of human flesh that concealed the full horror of the demon.
The librarian's laughter rang out, mocking his efforts as she circled the base of the bookshelf, waiting for her prey to fall. Gawain clung to the top, desperate. His human strength and reason had reached their limits. He needed divine intervention. His flesh was weak, but his spirit cried out.
"Almighty God," Gawain's voice trembled. "I believe. Help my unbelief." He began to recite prayers, seeking refuge in the only power greater than the horror before him.
The librarian's eyes narrowed, her form trembling as Gawain's words pierced the oppressive darkness. Desperate for divine intervention, Gawain whispered Psalm 24 from the Book of Common Prayer.
"Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in."
The air around him seemed to shift, the oppressive weight lifting slightly.
"Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle."
A faint, warm glow began to emanate from Gawain, pushing the librarian down to the floor.
Looking up from the floor, the librarian’s eyes flickered between green and violet. Her voice trembled, wavering between her own and the possessor’s, as she struggled to speak. “Please, help me,” she gasped, her voice a desperate plea. “It’s taken over me. I can’t fight it alone.”
Gawain realized that this battle was not only for his own survival but also for the soul of the librarian, who was locked in a desperate struggle against the malevolent force within her. He pressed on, reciting the Psalm with fervor.
"Lift up your heads, O ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in."
The librarian's form convulsed, a guttural growl escaping her lips as the demonic presence recoiled from the holy words.
"Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, he is the King of glory."
With the final verse, a blinding light filled the room, banishing the darkness and leaving Gawain alone on top of the bookshelf with the librarian collapsed on the floor, unconscious but seemingly freed from the malevolent force.
Gawain's breath came in ragged gasps as the oppressive atmosphere lifted. He hopped down from the groaning shelf and knelt beside the unconscious librarian, her form now still and peaceful. He had no idea how she had ended up in such a state. It was just one question among many now swirling in his mind. But he knew that what they had experienced could not be explained away.
The bright Christmas decorations on Main Street stood in stark contrast to the supernatural horror that had just transpired. As the librarian began to regain her bearings, Gawain helped her to her feet. Whispering prayers of comfort and protection, he watched as the eerie green glow faded from her eyes, replaced by a flicker of confused awareness.
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