A dark tale for Halloween: Read The Monastery by David Phillips
There’s just time to squeeze in one more horror story before Halloween. For this one I’ve taken inspiration from a building that I’ve visited a couple of times this year, one that is about to take on a new lease of life...but perhaps a similar building, in a different location, hides a sinister past... I call this one...
High atop the rugged cliffs, stood the silent remains of the ruined monastery, once dedicated to the great protector, St Michael. Now just a tourist attraction, and a source of income for the wealthy landowner, whose land it stood on, by day, and a place frequented by groups of wannabe ghost hunters at night, all wanting to catch a glimpse of the band of monks, that are, allegedly, often seen flitting amongst the ivy-strewn walls.
The once holy place, had a very colourful past, which added to its mystic, and only helped to draw the inquisitive crowds. Although the landowner paid for security to keep an eye on his property at night, he was too mean to shore up the place to keep out non-paying customers, who knew how to sneak in, and how to avoid any passing patrols, who weren’t paid enough to do their job properly, so they just turned a blind eye to the nightly vigils, allowing those that really wanted to encounter ghostly monks, to get on with it.
However, the legends suggest that these weren’t just any old hooded figures, continuing to carry out their holy orders, long since past the time of their untimely deaths. Their intentions were possibly a bit more nefarious, and, if still alive, they wouldn’t have welcomed such close scrutiny from nosy locals. To get the full story, you need to dive into the history of the area...
It was said that the cliff top monastery was built by an order of monks, fleeing persecution from their homeland, who wished to start a new life for themselves in fair olde England (some things never change). Unfortunately for them, as their ship neared the coastline, a storm blew up, which threatened to dash them on to the jagged rocks, hidden beneath the surface. Praying to St Michael, the great protector, for their lives, they vowed that, should he bring them to safety, they would build a magnificent edifice, in his honour, high on the clifftops, that they would use as a beacon to help other seafarers avoid a similar predicament, to the one they now found themselves in.
Their prayers were answered, and, true to their word, the monks built a fine monastery, above the rocks, where they nearly met their doom. They also kept their promise to the saint, that they would help other storm tossed seafarers, to avoid imminent disaster, by lighting a beacon on top of the church tower, highlighting the dangerous rocks below. They also placed a beautiful statue of The Madonna and Child, atop the tower, which was illuminated by said beacon, to let others know that they were also approaching a place of safety, once they had avoided the rocks.
As for the local residents, along that remote part of the coastline, they welcomed their new neighbours with open arms. Their communities felt a bit cut off from the rest of the country, so having a band of brothers come amongst them; taking care of their religious needs; offering a place of safety; and looking out for their fishing vessels, that plied their trade in such dangerous waters, was a literal Godsend...that was until good old King Henry turned his back on the church, for his own selfish ends, and ordered the deaths of all holy orders that stood against him, and the destruction of the buildings where they practiced their religion.
The king’s men eventually found their way to the cliff top monastery, dedicated to St Michael, but by then most of the monks had fled, leaving behind the sick and the infirm, who were quickly despatched, according to the king’s orders. His soldiers only made a half hearted attempt to destroy the building, by lighting a few fires inside, and once they had rode off, the locals came, and quickly extinguished them, managing to preserve the majority of the structure. They buried the dead, and, although they didn’t repair any of the damage, they vowed to preserve the sanctity of the church, in case the monks one day returned, and to keep the beacon alight to protect passing ships.
The brothers never did return, instead more unscrupulous eyes fell upon the abandoned monastery, as we fast forward to the ruthless days of smugglers and wreckers, who were always on the lookout for new ways to disguise their nefarious enterprises. One such notorious cad, was Captain Jack, who became injured out of the King’s Navy when a stray cannonball took away half his leg, now replaced by a wooden stump. No longer able to earn a living at sea, he turned to the shore, and decided that he would benefit from the misfortune of others.
Gathering together a gang of outlaws and cutthroats, Jack offered them an easy life, stripping bare any ships that came to grief on the rocky coastline within their patch, and dispatching any souls that were unfortunate enough to make it ashore. For his base of operations, he had his eye on the clifftop monastery, and its shiny beacon.
Acquiring some monkish robes, Jack went to ingratiate himself with the local villagers. Introducing himself as Abbot John, he sold them on a sob story, whereby he, and his fellow monks, had been persecuted overseas, and had fled to safety in England. Coming across the monastery on the cliffs, and finding it largely still fit for purpose, they wished to continue their holy orders within, promising to preserve it, and, most importantly, keep the beacon burning, taking that responsibility away from the villagers.
They couldn’t see any problem with this, so they allowed Abbot John and his men...uh, monks...to take up residence. One more important thing he added, his particular order had taken up a vow of silence, so if anyone locally had any business with the monastery, and its new inhabitants, they had to address him personally, and not disturb his brothers. He was more than happy to see to the villagers’ religious needs himself.
The agreement was made, and the monastery was brought back to life. The villagers were secretly pleased that their guardianship was over, and that the beacon was in safe hands...sadly it wasn’t...
On dark and stormy nights, once the villagers were tucked up nice and snug in their cottages, Captain Jack and his men, still disguised as monks, would lie in wait for passing ships to be blown towards the coastline, and then extinguish the beacon, making it inevitable that they would strike the rocks, leaving the crew, and its cargo at the mercy of the murderous monks. They would swarm aboard, as the vessel was sinking, dispatch any survivors with a sharp knife to the throat, and remove anything of value. The monks came with ready made coffins, to spare the villagers stumbling across their handiwork. They were filled with corpses and their booty, before being transported back to the graveyard at the monastery, and kept below ground, until such time as it was deemed safe to spend their ill gotten gains.
The monks would rescue any livestock, and any foodstuffs, that might be of use to the villagers, and present it to them, as a way of preventing them from asking too many questions. Now and again there were queries about anything valuable never being found...too heavy and lost to the bottom of the sea, and, although the villagers were grateful not to have deal with the dead, one or two did query why the monks buried them so quickly? Abbot John’s answer to this, was that they were from a foreign country, whose religious beliefs necessitated they be buried as quickly as possible. Should anyone ever notice that a grave had been dug up, Jack’s reply was that relatives of the deceased had been in touch, and the body had been repatriated. He had an answer for everything, and the ignorant locals bought his clever words hook, line and sinker...that was until one, not quite so ignorant local, got wind of what was really going on.
He was one of the village fishermen, who got caught at sea during an unexpected storm. He was able to steer a safe course, thanks to the beacon at the monastery, but his wasn’t the only vessel being buffeted by the waves, and following his course. The other was a larger merchant ship, laden down with cargo, which would be torn apart if it struck the rocks. Suddenly the guiding light disappeared, leaving the bigger ship to its fate. The fisherman, however, used to these waters, and knowing he was clear of the rocks, beached his boat on the far end of the sand, just as the inevitable sound of wood being shredded by rock, could be heard above the storm. This was followed by shouts and screams, from those on-board, as everyone began to abandon ship.
Just as the fisherman was about to run along the sand to offer assistance, he noticed movement on the path leading down to the beach. It was the monks, in their robes, silently descending, many carrying coffins, but why before they knew if anyone had perished? His question was soon answered...as survivors staggered out of the water, they were met by the hooded monks, who drew their daggers, and proceeded to deftly cut their throats...every single one. The fisherman froze, not believing what he was seeing, trying desperately not to cry out, or be sick. Everything suddenly made sense. This wasn’t harmless monks, that had come amongst them, they were a band of ruthless wreckers.
He chose another way off the beach, and ran as fast as his legs would carry him, back to the village, to tell what he had seen. Rousing as many as he could, and thinking they might be able to save some poor souls off the wreck, they armed themselves with pitchforks and scythes, and headed up to the monastery. The scene was reminiscent of a Hammer Horror film, with the peasants carrying lighted torches, and their weapons, heading towards a castle, to depose Dracula or Frankenstein...but wreckers were much more of a threat to the community, and had to be dealt with in a similar way, to how they had treated their victims...without mercy.
Jack and his men, didn’t see them coming, as they were too intent on counting out their latest haul of booty, and were easily overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. Soon all the wreckers were slaughtered, their bodies tossed into a communal grave, alongside their unfortunate victims, and their ill gotten gains, that remained buried with them.
For good measure, the villagers burnt down the main body of the monastery, so it could never be used in such a vile way again, but preserved the tower and its beacon, so it could still light safe passage to those caught in a storm, for many years to come. They were more than happy to remain its custodians.
As for our modern day ghost hunters, hoping to catch sight of phantom hooded figures amongst the ruins, I would be careful what they wished for. They might not be harmless monks, killed by the decree of Henry VIII, but merciless wreckers, intent on protecting their treasure, anyway they can...
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!