The Floating Face of Saint Aldric

Last spring, I attended the Easter pageant at the old stone chapel in the town of Harlow’s Hollow. My family and I had gone every year for as long as I could remember, and this year was special because I had finally decided to commit my life to the church. The pageant was famous for its live animals and the beautiful singing of the man who usually played the lead. But this year, he was away, so they brought in a substitute from a neighboring parish, a man with a voice so haunting it seemed to cut through the cold air.

The chapel was packed, everyone bundled in their Sunday best, their breath fogging in the unheated nave. The pews were old oak, worn smooth by generations of worshippers. Candles flickered at the altar, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls, and the smell of hay and incense mingled with the damp mustiness of winter. As the pageant began, I found myself drawn into the story, the familiar words of the Road to Emmaus unfolding with a new intensity. The substitute sang with such raw emotion that I felt a chill run down my spine, as if something beyond the music was listening.

Halfway through the performance, during a moment of soaring chorus, I felt a prickling at the back of my neck, a sensation of being watched. Slowly, I turned my head, scanning the shadowed balconies and the flickering niches between the stained glass windows. And then I saw it: a face, floating in the air near the choir loft, detached from any body, its features cast in a pale, sickly light. It was the face of the lead character, the face a pale imitation of the actor on stage, but its eyes were hollow and it stared directly at me. I froze, my heart hammering, but as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished, leaving only the echo of the music and the whispers of the crowd.

I tried to convince myself it was a trick of the light, a shadow from a swinging lantern, or perhaps my own imagination heightened by the emotional significance of the night. After the service, I even walked through the loft, searching for any sign of a projection or a mask, but found nothing. That night, I knelt by my bed and gave my life to God, feeling a strange mix of peace and unease. But in the days that followed, I couldn’t shake the image. And then the presences began.

At first, it was just a feeling of being watched, a heaviness in the air when I was alone. Then, I started hearing my name, whispered in a voice that was not my own, right next to my ear, almost intimate, as if the speaker knew me deeply. It happened at school, in the middle of a math test, and I nearly jumped out of my seat. The teacher looked at me oddly, but said nothing. At home, I would feel a cold breath on my neck as I walked through the hallway, and I’d catch glimpses of movement in the periphery of my vision, but when I turned, there was nothing. My friends began to notice my jitteriness, my constant glancing over my shoulder.

As Easter approached, the family planned to attend the pageant again, but a part of me dreaded it. I knew I had to go, to confront what I had seen, but I was terrified of what I might discover. The night before the pageant, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind rattling the windowpane. And then I heard it again, not a whisper this time, but a clear, resonant voice, speaking from the shadows of my bedroom: ‘Come to the chapel.’ The voice was calm, almost gentle, but it filled me with a dread I cannot describe.

The next evening, as the pageant began, I sat in the same pew, my hands clasped so tightly my knuckles were white. The substitute was singing again, his voice soaring, filling the vast space. I kept my eyes fixed on the stage, trying to focus on the story, but my gaze kept drifting to the spot where I had seen the face. And then, during the climax of the play, as the actor sang a mournful soliloquy, the lights flickered, and I saw it again. The face was there, hovering above the congregation, its hollow eyes now filled with a shimmering, wet darkness. It opened its mouth, and a sound like the wind through a dead tree escaped—a sound that drowned out the music, that seemed to come from everywhere at once. And then, as the final note faded, the face tilted its head, fixed its gaze on me, and spoke in a voice that was a whisper and a roar: ‘You have seen me, and you will never be unseen.’

The pageant ended. The lights came up. Everyone around me was applauding, smiling, shaking hands. But I was frozen, my heart pounding against my ribs. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I turned to see the substitute actor, still in his robes, his face pale and streaked with sweat. He leaned in close, his breath cold on my cheek, and said, ‘You’ve seen him too. We all have. He walks among us now, and he wants you.’ I looked past him, and for a moment, I saw the floating face again, grinning in the shadows behind the stage, a triumph in its empty eyes. And I knew that this Easter, and every Easter to come, would never be the same.