“Get Out of Here, Get Out of Here, There’s Definitely Something Wrong Here…”, the Vicar Said in a Bewildered Voice Before Standing Up and Leaving Us…

My wife and I had just taken out a mortgage for a lovely flat in a brand-new estate on the edge of a quietly growing English town. The paint was still damp in patches, corridors echoed strangely, and the odd workman drifted past on squeaky lifts. We must dedicate the place! No ones lived here before, and how can you move in without asking for the Lords blessing? piped up my grandmother the very next morning, her voice tumbling like marbles down a stairwell. Quite right, we cant risk any misfortune falling upon us. We need happiness, laughter, and prosperity in our new home, my mother chimed in, somehow already clutching a cup of Earl Grey.

Despite our polite protests and awkward shuffling, the tide of family opinion swept us along. In the end we surrendered, arranging a house blessing from the local vicar.

Its absolutely essential, insisted Gran, not to be argued with. At the appointed hour, the dull hum of the doorbell echoed through the empty corridors, and in stepped the vicara tall fellow with an unruly shock of silver hair and a beard that could sweep the post. A heavy wooden cross dangled from his neck, and he brought with him a battered canvas bag and a censer swinging like a pendulum in a clockwork dream. He pressed a candle into each of our hands and began to explain, in a voice as deep as cathedral bells, how we should follow close behind him.

My dears, he intoned grandly, light your candles, and walk behind me. Duly, we formed a little procession, each clutching our candle and shuffling after him, expecting some ancient and reverent rite. But as soon as my dad tried to light his candle, the thing fought backsmoke billowed, it crackled mournfully, and stubbornly refused all persuasion to burn. After several fruitless attempts, the vicar, suddenly agitated, stuffed his gear swiftly back into his bag, snapping it shut with a metallic click.

Out, out! Leave this place at oncetheres something not right here His tone was urgent, the words strange and hanging in the air like leftover fog. In a few strides, he was gonea flurry of cassock and bootsleaving us blinking awkwardly in the unnaturally silent hallway.

Odd sort of vicar, and even odder candle, mused my wife as we noticed that, through the open door and down the corridor, the vicars own candle was now flickering merrily.

Perhaps he woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and thats why the ceremony fizzled out, my mother quipped, valiantly attempting to lighten the mood.

All talk, but he bolts at the first sniff of trouble. I bet wherever hes rushing off to, they havent installed Wi-Fi, I thought, mining the moment for some scrap of humour in this bizarre episode. And anyway, where can we run? Were tied to this place for fifteen yearsbills and all, I added, half-laughing.

So, shall we just stay put, or are we tracking down another vicar? My grandmothers voice, crisp as the morning frost, broke the spell, urging us to find a way through the strangeness that now dwelled, if only faintly, in the corners of our new home.