The Chapel
by Tedbiker
Copyright© 2026 by Tedbiker
Supernatural Story: An orphan purchases a derelict chapel. There's more to the story than might be expected. Intended as a Halloween entry, but didn't fit the criteria
Caution: This Supernatural Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Paranormal Interracial .
The old chapel had been built to serve a dissenting congregation over two hundred years before. They flourished until the first World War – some members died, others came back disillusioned by what they’d experienced. They struggled on, through the second World War and after. A new minister was appointed, covering several similar chapels. The fact that he was black came as something of a shock, but his personality, his eloquence and compassion soon won them over. The membership grew a little, easing the pressure on their finances, and the little group was unaffected by the ‘liberal’ ideas permeating the Church during that period.
A mild scandal occurred in 1955 when the teenaged daughter of one of the elders told her father that she wanted to marry the minister. In those days, despite all the members of the congregation appreciating the minister’s qualities, intermarriage was not acceptable, and he refused permission. The minister’s term ended a few months later, and he left. The girl disappeared too.
The end for the little church came in 1971, when the congregation ceased to be viable, and the chapel was closed. The denomination attempted to sell it, but found no takers. The utilities, such as they were, were cut off, and the windows and doors boarded up. Nature took over, and the little building almost disappeared in the jungle that resulted.
Richard Burnett:
Born in 1956, I was fostered. I knew nothing about my history, other than my name and a birth certificate naming my parents, who weren’t married. It’s something, I suppose, that my father acknowledged his part, but, as I say, I didn’t really know them. I was very lucky in my foster parents, though; I was loved and cared for. Got a decent education, even a degree. While I was at College, my fosterers died during a flu epidemic, and I was shocked to find I was their sole heir. I suppose I’d been, effectively, their son for fifteen years though I was never adopted. Anyway, I graduated with a double first, Bachelor’s in History and English, in 1978. What do you do with those degrees? Yup. An extra year for a teaching certificate had me heading for a midlands city and a job in a secondary school. Lucky, again, to be placed in a school in a pleasant suburb on the outskirts, with a rented flat less than a mile from the school. Traffic in the city was appalling. I had a car licence but there was no way I’d take a car into that mess, so I jumped through the relevant hoops and ended up with medium sized motorbike. That gave me some freedom to explore the country nearby. As a probationer, my first year of teaching was quite demanding though the kids were fairly well-behaved.
In my explorations I noticed – I still don’t know why – the old chapel, virtually hidden by a near jungle. I was drawn to it, researching the place and its history. It was still for sale, though even at six K there were no takers. Perhaps it was stupid, or perhaps fate, I wouldn’t know, but I offered four K, and it was mine.
My first year at the school ended and I was a full-fledged teacher. It was during that summer I found that old chapel and began to hack through the jungle even before the sale was complete. It took the whole summer break to even begin the job and reach the building. I spent the two thousand pounds I’d saved from the purchase on tools – chainsaw, for example – and the work clothes and protection I needed. A heavy crowbar enabled me to lever off the board covering the door. The key fitted, but was very stiff and required some jiggling before it would turn. The latch lifted with a loud clack, and the hinges groaned as I pushed the door opened.
Well. I doubt if anyone had been inside in the previous decade. Other than a thick layer of dust and some evidence of water ingress ... let’s be honest, sunlight was showing through some holes in the roof ... but nothing had been changed. Box pews. Altar bearing tarnished brass vases and a cross. Behind the altar, I’m not sure of the proper name; a sort of balcony for the preacher. I wouldn’t call it a pulpit, but what would I know. To one side a small pipe-organ, to the other a door which opened onto a vestry, papers and books still scattered on a desk. A safe. I left it all as it was, left the building and locked the door behind me.
Clearly, the first priority had to be the roof, at least, once I’d cleared enough vegetation around the building to get to the roof...
By the time I returned to work, I had a contractor replacing the roof, replacing any timbers that needed it, and filling the space between the rafters with insulation. A surveyor reported that the rest of the building was surprisingly sound. The furnace, though, was an old coal-fired beast which had been converted to oil, but was beyond practical restoration. I added a fireplace and chimney, but had gas central heating installed.
The wiring was unsafe, too, and the water supply was through lead pipes. All the time I was spending my weekends clearing the grounds, finding gravestones. I hadn’t realised the place actually possessed a graveyard. I had over half an acre of land around the old chapel. It took some clearing.
It took most of the school year to clear the grounds, during which I got the wiring fixed (just using conduit and surface fittings) electric and water connected, and the boards off the windows. They were – to my surprise – mostly intact, just needing a little TLC, a couple of small panes, and paint.
I wasn’t sure about the burials. Not that I’m superstitious or anything, you understand. No, the burial ground had several dozen tombstones leaning at a selection of angles, one or two actually flat. I decided to lay them all flat and flush with the surface. In the process – roughly halfway through, I came across one stone with the engraving as follows.
Elsie Joan Burnett
Beloved wife and mother
17th June 1916 – 2nd July 1966
Also
James Charlesworth Burnett
Devoted husband of the above
20th September 1915 – 2nd January 1970
A coincidence, of course.
I carried on. The pews had to go. I wanted the space to live in. After a lot of reflection, I left the pulpit, or whatever, and the organ. I am not a musician, but I had a few piano lessons and I always liked the sound of an organ. It was, the organ was, a longer-term project and I’d need to research it. But, as I say, I left that end of the little chapel largely intact, just building in a kitchenette to one side, next, in fact, to a side door I had not really noticed before. With the roof up to spec, windows repaired where necessary, water supply restored, I had a contractor instal a septic system. Simple stud walls subdivided the west end of the building into bathroom, bedroom and a small box-room which could, at a stretch, be used as a bedroom.
Mains electric, solar panels, a battery. Phone line, internet. Three years after I completed on the purchase I had a satisfactory, if remote, home in the country. I was established in the school. I gave up the lease on the flat, moved everything that was mine out to the chapel.
As a historian, I am blessed, or cursed, with an undue level of curiosity, so I continued to explore the history of the chapel, and those names. The chapel belonged to a small dissenting denomination, and records were sparse. I did have birth, marriage and death records, and census records too. Eventually, I found that Elsie Burnett had died in an outbreak of influenza. There was a daughter, born in 1940, but she seemed to have just disappeared. There was only the record of her birth.
Any old building talks, mostly to itself. I was aware, I could hardly help but be aware, of the clicks, groans and occasional muffled bangs as the chapel warmed or cooled. I expected that. I did not expect a feeling of ... presence, I suppose. Okay, I attended church with my foster parents, but it’d never been a major part of my life. I supposed that I’d been Christened, but I had no record of where or when. Reluctantly, I began the process of seeking out the records from my past, locked up in bureaucracy. For some reason, local social services are reluctant to part with information about such as me.
Meanwhile, and I don’t think I’m particularly superstitious, I sometimes woke in the night with a sense of not being alone, somehow. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. But the bogey can’t get you if you’re under the covers, can it?
I don’t know why I did it, but the next time I was in the village – I’d walk there every so often, just for the exercise, and often would buy fresh vegetables, or a bottle of beer, perhaps – the local mini-market had flowers for sale. It was October, and they had fresh flowers for sale. I bought a bunch. Mixed flowers. I didn’t even know what they were. But I carried them home, and when I got them there, put them in a vase on Elsie Burnett’s grave.
That evening, I woke in the small hours. A soft movement of the air touched my face, and a faint floral scent touched my nose. A soft sound, not just a creak from the old building. Perhaps it was a dream, but a woman’s voice. “Thank you for the flowers, grandson.”
I’ve said I’m not superstitious. However, I’d have to admit that my experiences were disconcerting, to say the least. Towards the end of October I was vaguely aware of the approach of Hallowe’en. It’s hardly possible not to be aware with the shops full of orange stuff advertising the event. But out in the sticks as I was I didn’t expect any visitors begging for treats.
However, I did have a visitor. A young woman about my age, rather pretty, modestly dressed, knocked at the door. A small car, a 2CV for goodness’ sake, stood in the drive behind her. “Mister Burnett?”
“That would be me,” I said, “Richard Burnett.”
“Um ... I’m Charlotte Mason. My mother was friends with Jennifer Burnett before she disappeared.”
Jennifer Burnett? My mother?
“Won’t you come in?” I asked, “I’ll make tea. Or coffee, if you prefer. I’m interested to hear from someone who knew anything about my mother.”
I made coffee while Charlotte sat on the edge of a chair. Coffee and chocolate digestive biscuits. We sipped and nibbled in silence for a few minutes.
“I’m afraid,” she began, “you’ll find what I have to say unbelievable.”
“Try me,” I suggested. “Since I’ve been here It’s stretched my credulity considerably.”
“I’ve had dreams,” she said abruptly, “a woman claiming to be Jennifer Burnett told me her son was living in this old chapel, and asked me to visit. I spoke to my mother, who described your mother to a T.” She looked at me very carefully. “You don’t look,” she hesitated, but went on, “coloured. Sorry.”
I nodded. “I know that my father was black, but it’s never really registered. Most people think I’m white.”
“Your mother,” she said, nodding, “was ... very taken with Reverend Jones. When he left, she followed. Her father was furious and disowned her. I don’t know what happened to her.”
I nodded. “I’m waiting for a freedom of information request. Authorities are very reluctant to part with information about children taken into care. I do know I never knew my mother, though my birth certificate bears her name.”
“How do you come to be here, anyway? Sorry. I don’t mean to be nosy. But it’s odd, don’t you think?”
“Tell me about it, Charlotte. I didn’t know I had any connection with the place until after I bought it, and found my grandparents’ graves. I was just fascinated by this derelict place in the middle of nowhere, all overgrown. I thought the names on the gravestones was coincidence.”
“Weird. Don’t you mind? I mean, living here, graveyard?”
“Um.” I thought about it. Say something? “I’ve,” I hesitated, “had moments. But I haven’t felt bad, exactly. I...” hesitated again, “I bought flowers in the village. Put them on Elsie Burnett’s grave. It was imagination, of course, but I felt she said ‘thank you, grandson’.”
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