The Grave of Clayton Moore
By Edward P. Shikles
❧ Rummaging through chests of old manuscripts, journals, diary entries, and personal letters can lend itself to a host of curiosities. This I discovered one cold evening whilst exploring the crannies of my new residence.
I make no habit of sorting through another’s personal effects, as a rule, save for those possessions which have been distanced by considerable time, enough to be considered antiquary. Such was the strongbox I had come to peruse. In it I found this particular tale written in a personal diary, dated Anno Domini 1928.
Often such personal accounts tend to be matters of mere trivia; a business transaction, a muse or whimsical thought that strikes the writer as worth jotting down, or perhaps the recounting of an important conversation that had occurred that day. Whatever the reason, it is often insignificant. But in this case the journal entry seemed a first-hand account of something truly notable to the author — and astonishing to me.
Whether it be a fiction, a contrivance of his imagination, what was written there truly chilled my blood; a personal historic account that seemed in earnest of its contents. Penned, it seemed, with a shaky hand, what account that was given gave all appearances of having filled its author with dread, to the point of being nearly illegible at times.
What account this was I will now convey to my reader. Yet I preface what I relate of this story with this: the supernatural nature of it is regarded by many as truly fabulous, though haunting, told by men too backwards thinking and superstitious to be accepted with any seriousness by the rational reader — especially those of more scientific bent; the self-professed skeptic comes to mind.
I, however, do not hastily consign such narratives, however imaginative, to the narrow view of being mere concoctions of the mind. For men, though often misled by the imagination, do not often speak of their own dealings with the supernatural from mere deliberate fancy. Thus, I feel this strange story’s retelling (and others like it) cannot be dismissed out of hand as simply a heap of amusing rubbish.
I shall not, then, dissect it with the cold instrument of rationalism. Nor shall I dismiss any of the numerous possible natural explanations to the events within the account. My role is one of unbias, as much as is possible, by merely relaying the tale as it is written by the author, presented to the reader for his own discernment regarding its legitimacy; to convey what this strange and forgotten tale tells plainly.
The year of it’s happening was 1903. The central figure of this story, whose name you might have guessed to be the same as that in the title of this entry, is Clayton Moore, described by the author as “a respectable man, simple and humble, but quite poor; a man of the most cheerful disposition and Christian generosity.”
Little else is relayed by the author about this old man Clayton; where he was born, his marital status and occupation, and whether or not he had any children are entirely glossed over. One might gather, however, that he never married nor had any children.
Now, this man’s credo played a crucial role in his humble existence, for his faith was to him not a merely a pious habit or an impartial observance which he felt compelled to carry on for tradition’s sake. It was more than heritage. Rather, it was a genuine, passionate love affair, an endless endeavor. It gave him much purpose to show generosity towards others, such as the poor (those who were, at least, much poorer than he). Even to those who fared better than himself, he would not hesitate in offering to them what he could.
Clayton was Roman Catholic. Consequently, in his time he was altogether unpopular with the late 19th century Englishman, loyally Anglican — even if only by temperament. His Catholic heart gazed toward Rome and submitted itself to the complete spiritual authority of Peter rather than with the Royal crown of England; these papists, so the Englishmen would often claim, could not be considered pure-blooded Englishmen in light of this fact.
Indeed, Clayton was called a “Papist” by many, though he seemed little to mind the epithet. For on all accounts it was true; the Pope and the Church did claim his loyalty after all. Still, he considered himself a true Englishman all the same. For, as he saw it, the British crown was not illegitimate but merely a temporal authority rather than a spiritual one.
At any rate, it was the custom of this good-natured Papist of Albion to spend a couple hours each day within the confines of the old churchyard of his local parish in Sommerset. There, he would practice the spiritual work of praying for those souls who burned in that purifying fire which Papists know as Purgatory.
For many years the churchyard of St. Margaret Mary, whose walls and history were a long embroidery of tales in the spinning, had been a frequent dwelling place for Clayton, following the long days working in the fields.
This peculiar custom of his (or so it was found peculiar to his neighbors) often made him the butt of jokes by many of the townspeople. A majority of Catholics, too, including the vicar, Father Fernsby, would, with rueful embarrassment, shake their heads at this antiquated practice of the old man. (While many of the Catholics never outrightly denied Purgatory, the subject was regarded as a delicate theological one — and perhaps too seemingly superstitious to the ordinary Protestant).
The only one who ever revered the old man, wholly and simply and without a trace of mere pity, was little Peter Browning. Amidst the scorn of the townsfolk, Peter would spend time with Clayton, listening to his tales and drinking in all the curious catechetical knowledge he would impart.
Father Fernsby, who said Mass at the only small Catholic Church there on the outskirts of town, dismissed old Clayton as one of the “old variety” of Catholics; superstitious, backwards, but altogether harmless with his dated ideas and customs.
“The times are new, and notions ever-changing” the vicar would often claim from the pulpit. The modern sciences were blowing off the dust from many of the old myths and legends and exposing them for what they were: phenomena that were too little understood to be given logical explanation by the common layman. Despite the criticisms of some of his fellow priests, Father Fernsby garnered much praise within certain academic circles.
Thus, the aging orthodoxical Clayton Moore was deemed nothing more than a reliquary of bygone traditions by this young heterodox and forward-thinking vicar. Father Fernsby had, after all, been formally trained in the numerous sciences — biology, zoology, chemistry, botany, and others — and he had received the most modern University education at seminary.
Concern was raised one Sunday in the late autumn when Clayton failed to be present at Mass. Many of the parishioners began to admit now that he had not been observed around town for some time. At the beckoning of Father Fernsby, several men set out to his home, somewhat removed from the town, to check in on him. His livestock had been left unattended to, and many began to fear the worse. Soon, to many of the townsfolk’s grief, the good Clayton Moore was discovered to have passed away several nights ago in his sleep at the respectable age of 73.
A brisk day in November and the requiem Mass, celebrated by Father Fernsby and attended by a considerable congregation of townspeople, was followed by a short eulogy and finally the interment. He was laid to rest beneath a solitary plain stone in the same cemetery that had long interred his forefathers and in which he had long spent daily hours in prayer for their souls and the others. The humble words ‘Here rests the body of Clayton Moore’ were all that were etched into the stone.
Following the ceremony, Father Fernsby was greeted by little Peter Browning. This young lad had been one of the few who was truly close to Clayton Moore, the only one who trusted him unreservedly and regarded him with the affinity that only an innocent heart of a lad of ten could give. Peter slowly approached Father Fernsby about the souls of the dearly departed.
‘E’scuse me, Reverend’ Peter began timidly. He was not accustomed to addressing a Catholic priest.
‘Yes, dear boy?’ the vicar answered rather briskly, being tired and quite ready to return to the rectory for dinner.
The boy searched for the right words. He didn’t want to sound silly before the learned priest.
‘Where do souls go before they go t’heaven?’
The young priest raised his brows at the question. Then, with a sigh, he straightened his glasses and cleared his throat. How does one explain Purgatory to such a young and inquisitive Anglican?
‘Why, what makes you ask such a question?’ Father replied, half amused and half impatiently. After all, he believed the notion to be rather antiquated — or at least he had his doubts about the whole thing. Why shouldn’t God let all good souls into heaven, anyway?
‘Mr. Moore had said sum’pin about an in’between place’ the young boy stammered, unsure if he recollected rightly what Clayton had taught him. He thought that’s how it went.
Father smiled and gave a dismissive nod. Childlike curiosity! Patting Peter on the shoulder he began to explain.
‘Mr. Moore thought many things, dear boy. Why, outdated principals and superstitions they — they just don’t quite hold up like they used to.’
The boy’s face grew visibly saddened.
‘Now, cheer up, little one! T’is no matter to be downcast. Why, Heaven is real, no doubt! And no doubt Mr. Moore is there right now. But that place in between— that is a painful place, an awful notion and, why, don’t you think God would want all souls to be with him rather than suffer such torments?’
The boy thought for a moment. Yes, it did seem a reasonable idea. So good a God must want so good a man as Mr. Moore to live so happy forever with him and the angels.
Yet that Mr. Moore could be so mistaken did not sit well at all in the tender heart of the loyal young Peter. So honest and simple a man had Mr. Moore been, so wise he had been in his advice and precise in his words during his life that Peter could not help but feel there was no error on his departed friend’s belief.
‘Well’ Peter began, ‘All th’same I think I prefer Mr. Moore’s idea better.’ Even if it was not the case, that souls were not witheld from immediate eternal salvation after death, Mr. Moore was too dear a fellow and too good a man to convince Peter otherwise.
The priest frowned with a mild scornful frown at the boy’s insistence.
‘Now boy, plenty of quarreling ideas already exist. I’d suggest you trust me on this matter. After all, I’ve devoted countless years to learning about this sort of thing.’ The young priest gentled his face now and smiled.
‘Ah, but I know you were close to him — indeed he was a generous man and never missed the collection plate. But realize, child, that for all his kind heart and earnest devotion some notions don’t bode well with contemporary thought. Do you understand?’
Peter nodded, though he did not know what contemporary meant. Yet his mind was made up that, regardless of the vicar’s undoubtedly learned advice, Mr. Moore was no fib-teller. So, Peter thanked the priest and was soon off down the gravel street. He paused and looked toward the grave, sad to leave without a goodbye. But the day was waning and the night approaching. He would be back to visit his friend time and time again.
Weeks followed and autumn’s brisk wind came blowing through the countryside. Scarcely a parishioner at St. Margaret Mary visited the grave of that poor old man. He was loved in life in his odd but kind sort of way, yet largely forgotten in death, as the dying leaves collected about his gravestone and about those others that lie beside. The parishioners came and went dutifully to Mass every Sunday, leaving soon thereafter. Save for Peter, who never missed the opportunity to visit his friend’s grave.
In their time spent together, Mr. Clayton Moore had brightened the young fellow’s imagination with the most remarkable and inspiring stories; some Arthurian, others Homeric, and others merely the quaint wives’ tales often told among simple folk.
Peter, however, had been kept from visiting his old friend too often. For his parents feared the old papist might influence their son with silly popish notions. And though they got along alright with Father Fernsby, who never stooped to myth, old Mr. Moore was of an older variety of Popery and appealed more to the impressionable mind with his outlandish thoughts.
Despite his parents’ misgivings, enough of a friendship had been made between the two that Peter remaind Clayton’s loyal comrade in life as well as in death. On whatever occasion Peter could find he would steal away to visit the churchyard. Though he little knew how to pray for the dead, he would stand there and recollect the formula he heard his departed friend so often pronounce over those cold and lonely slabs of stone.
It was on one such visit, late in the autumn of 1903, when the days were short and the nights dark and chill, that a strange event occurred.
Peter made his usual visit to the churchyard late one evening. It was a windy and especially bitter evening, and he was considerably later on this visit than he usually was. He had planned to visit earlier that day but, due to some unanticipated chore, he was kept away. Still, he was determined to visit all the same and went undeterred by the deepening shadows and blustering winds.
Arriving at the graveyard, the time was nigh half-past ten. Peter knelt down to pray, as was his custom. Father Fernsby, who had become accustomed to Peter’s visits to the churchyard, peered out the window and was surprised by the late hour of the young vigil keeper.
As the wind began to blow fiercely, the cold growing more bitter, the young priest opened the rectory door. He hollered above the wind at the youth to come in and get warm, or else he’d catch his death. The lad waved his hand signaling that he was finishing his prayer.
Father Fernsby began to close the door when behind the lad, from a distance, his eye seemed to catch a solitary dark figure lurking between trees rooted just abutt the cemetery wall. So dark and shadowy and humanlike did it seem, so ghastly in appearance, that the priest ran out of doors toward the lad.
Fearing that perhaps it might be some madman or criminal that was lurking about, Father Fernsby stopped quickly to go back and retrieve his rifle. Yet in that same instant the figure seemed to disappear. Father Fernsby recounted the apparition in his private journal:
“What I saw was, I deemed, a man. Yet a shadow almost transparent and still dark and certain; that it was human I do not doubt. But that it was mortal — that I do. For it seemed not to flee with any movement but in an instant to evaporate, disappearing into the shadows of the woods.”
The young vicar was shaken. But he had soon dismissed it as shadowplay, or a mere trick of the eye.
The lad turned ‘round but had not seen it. The priest’s eyes had only seen it for a matter of moments before it was gone. The priest assured himself of the facts: the night was windy and dark, perfect for such illusory deceptions. And the eery scene of gravestones and pale-lit crosses that dotted the churchyard only gave the atmosphere an even more ghastly nature; humanly speaking, this only aided with in infusing his imagination with vivid thoughts of dread.
After being served a piping hot cup of cocoa, Peter was walked back and safely delivered home by Father Fernsby. But the night that followed proved of the most unsettling nature for the vicar.
Post his return to the rectory, he was preparing for bed when a series of unsual sounds broke the rectory’s usual quiet; bumps, slides, creaks and chattering. While the wind blew harshly, the young priest’s imagination did not rest easy during that night. Even for a man with a more serious and skeptical disposition, frightful thoughts began to cross his mind.
It was shortly after midnight when the young vicar woke up, startled by the sound of a loud thud. He shot up in bed and sat perfectly still to listen. For a while, no sound was made, except for the wind outside that continued to thrash the branches of half-naked trees.
Father Fernby put on his slippers and got up to light a candle on the windowsill. The light of the silver moon was diffused through grey clouds but cast a soft pale glow about the woods and countryside. It was in a glance out this window, overlooking the churchyard, that the priest again caught a glimpse of the shadowy figure. This time there was no doubt about it.
The priest’s eyes shot out. He gasped aloud and dropped the lamp with a crash, causing him to exclaim. But the form vanished again. Shaken, the young vicar dashed through the hall and into the main sitting room, where he heaped wood onto the fire from earlier that night, which had now reduced to embers, and stoked it feverishly.
Grabbing the hunting rifle above the fireplace, he loaded it with as many bullets as it could hold. There came a loud knock on the door.
The frightened vicar started. Turning ‘round now he pointed the barrel towards the frontdoor. Though it was locked and bolted, he spared no precaution and swiftly slid a heavy armchair in front of it. There came another knock.
‘What do you want?’ the priest demanded, his voice trembling.
Cocking the rifle now with a shaky hand, he again demanded an answer from this unwelcomed late-night visitor.
‘By jove, what do you want? I’ve a gun ready and waiting!’ he shouted, now louder as to sound intimidating.
There was no answer. And for a short while no more knocks came. A minute or two passied and all was silent. Perhaps the visitor had departed, the vicar muttered to himself.
Just as he un-cocked and lowered the rifle, relieved that the visitor had gone now, a soft rustle came from behind him. He turned ‘round now with lightening speed. His face turned pale, his blood ran cold. Against the furthest wall in the room, a faint dark shadow stood nestled in the corner facing toward him. It was indistinguishable from the silhouette of a man. Yet it was plain to see that no man stood in that room. But it was there, dark and obscure but unmistakably present.
So greatly did the apparition startle the young vicar that in his fright he discharged the rifle into the wall. Dropping the firearm, Father Fernsby dropped to his knees and begged God’s pardon and the spectre’s mercy.
‘Tell me, what do you want?’ he pleaded, hands shaking and eyes seized with terror.
The vague form stood against the wall, a shadowy projection from whence there was no visible source. The figure remained motionless. Then, like a sigh, a soft voice spoke, though it seemed as only a whisper into the vicar’s ear: remember us, the departed ones who purge in flames.
It was no more than a whisper, almost a thought even. And just as suddenly as it appeared, the apparition vanished, and the room returned as normal.
Father Fernsby remained kneeling, uttering prayers in fervent repetition, for those dearly departed ones. Indeed, thereafter every day for many following years Father Fernsby remembered to pray for Clayton Moore and for all the dearly departed, and to preach to his faithful that tenet of his religion which he himself had so long denied. With the childlike innocence of little Peter Browning, the young vicar visited daily the grave of Clayton Moore, that constantly reminded him of the reality of those souls longing for reprieve and which urged him to atone for his negligence until the day of his death, where his soul would one day beg for the prayers of the faithful on earth.
