The vestibule has now all but emptied. Only Mum and Dad remain - on duty tonight to help reorganize the church after evening service - as well as myself and the pastor, Mr. Murray, who stands looking out onto the path that wends its way up to Old Muscliffe Lane.“Bye Pastor Murray,” we all say as we head at last toward our car. “Goodnight all,” Mr. Murray says with his usual cursory cheer. But though he normally locks up and heads straight to his home at the parsonage next door, tonight he merely stands and watches as we march down the path. Mum and Dad are already discussing dinner, but I look back and watch Mr. Murray standing still, hands behind his back, now almost entirely folded in shadow - only his glasses reflect the small light that comes from the street lights ahead. I pull on Dad’s sleeve. “What's Mr. Murray doing?” I ask, and Dad turns to look. “What do you mean?” he says. “He's gone home, like always.” I turn and look again, but aside from a faint reflected light upon the church windows there is only the darkness of night. We get in the car, and as we drive away for home I turn and look one more time and I am sure I see Mr. Murray’s glasses still shining deep within the black.

A few weeks later I’m at school talking to my friend, John. His house is right next to the church and his back garden abuts the church’s graveyard. I ask if it ever bothers him. “Not really,” he says, “but I have seen things.” “What things?” I ask. “Well… there was this one time. I mean I know it’s stupid, but… well, I saw him out there really late one night. Must’ve been midnight at least.” “Who?” “The pastor.” “Mr Murray?” “Yeah, I think so. I mean, who else could it have been?” “What was he doing?” “It was hard to tell, but his head looked… weird, like he had on a mask or something.” “A mask?” My mouth hangs open. “You should come over this weekend, stay the night. Maybe we’ll see him.”

The following Sunday I’m staying at John's house and it’s 11:30 and we’re looking out his bedroom window in the direction of the graveyard. There isn’t much light to speak of, but there in the ink of night, not five feet from the garden fence, three gravestones thrum with a warm, nocturnal summer glow.

“I don't know if I can stay awake much longer mate,” I say, but John puts up his hand: “Just hang on.” And then he stands. “What is it?” I whisper, eager not to wake John’s parents on the far side of the house. “I think there’s a fire.” “What do you mean?” “A small fire, there. Look.” I stand up and look in the direction he’s pointing and there, sure enough, a small flicker of firelight amongst the grasses, way back at the farthest end of the graveyard.

“We should go and have a look.” “What?” “Closer I mean - come on.” John heads for the door. “What if he sees us?” I hiss again. “He won’t.”

We creep into John’s back garden and up to the fence. I wish I had a torch but that would defeat the purpose. John steps slowly over the fence and toward the nearest gravestone and I’m almost beside myself concocting reasons why our pastor would be in a graveyard close to midnight on a Sunday night in front of a fire.

“What’s he saying?” I whisper. “Let’s get closer,” John says, pointing to a large entombment ahead, “behind that big one.” Wild grasses stand tall and untended all around us, so it seems safe enough, but as we make our move I actually feel my bladder loosen. Oh my god people really do piss themselves when they’re scared, I think.

John looks carefully around the corner of the ancient stone box while I raise my head slowly above, and we can see Mr Murray clearly by the light of a fire that we now realize is set within a circle of small white stones. Mr Murray himself, dressed in his usual Sunday suit and dog collar, stands arms wide over the fire wearing a mask - a mockery of a face, a bloated facsimile of humanity with two holes for eyes and another below for the mouth, and with two antlers protruding wildly from the temples.

“That’s not English,” John says. “What do you mean?” I whisper, but John puts a finger to his lips. We both peer out again and remain silent as we try to understand what Mr Murray is saying, to discern what he’s doing, and I realize John’s right: it’s not English. The voice is hollow, gutteral - barely human.

His hands raise slowly higher and it feels as if the flames are responding to his words, getting brighter, higher, changing with every moment. I’m breathing heavily as something inside my gut pangs, a kind of longing and dread all at once. I feel torn, as if I’m slowly splitting open - not pain, but a mounting pressure rising deep within my bowel screaming at me to run, to protect, to hide, and all the while the fire is growing, growing…

“Simon?”

”John and I yelp and turn to face the source of the voice. It’s Mr Murray, maskless and only barely discernible in the now fire-less dark. I gasp his name, “Mr… Murray?”

John and I turn to look at where he’d only seconds ago been standing, but there’s nothing there - no fire, no stone circle, nothing at all.

“I think it’s time to go home now, boys,” Mr Murray says.

A week passes and I’m back at church despite begging my parents to let me stay home. I’m embarrassed to tell them what I saw - or what I think I saw. The whole thing has become dream-like. I can barely admit to myself that any of it really happened, even though John remembers it all the exact same way.

Mrs Watson, the worship leader, stands and gives the announcements. Mr Murray sits behind the lectern, robed, smiling, legs folded, bible in hand. I stare at him but he doesn’t look my way. We bow our heads for prayer.

I close my eyes and try to concentrate on Mrs Watson’s words, but I feel that pang in my gut again. The urge to run, to at least open my eyes and look at Mr Murray, is overwhelming, but I’m terrified he’ll be looking at me. I know he’ll be looking at me.

I keep my eyes shut and the pang intensifies. My feet are crying to bolt and my eyes are screaming to open. But I won’t allow them. I can’t allow them.

I know he’s watching me.

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