As part of this ongoing project, I'm aiming to write over successive days. I'm aware of mistakes being made - no Catholic priest would ever go by his last name, but for the sake of consistency I'm continuing as I started - but the most important thing is the continuation of the story. Let me know what you think. Your continued support is appreciated.
In the House of Reason
Part Two
The Sworn Statement of Father Michael Nichol, dated 18th October 188_
I first realised something was wrong when I called on the Goodalls at Halfhill Hall at the end of June. It had long been my custom to call on the deceased Mr Goodall on a Thursday evening. He was one of the first to greet me when I was given this parish, and had long been a friend to St Luke’s. I counted myself as not just his counsellor in Christ, but also as his friend. Despite this, it was rare to see him in the congregation on a Sunday morning as he did have some difficulties with his legs, having returned from the Crimea with wounds sustained in the course of battle.
On his return from the east, Mr Goodall met and married a local girl. Anna was not of his social status, and I am told by many locals that it was a minor scandal when he chose to marry the local shop-keeper’s girl. I did not bear witness to their early years together, but I am told they were very happy together. Their first child, a son called William, after his father, was born not long after the marriage took place, and some whispered that the marriage was one of duty that then grew into a lifelong affection. I know for certain that when Olivia, the couple’s second child, was born more than ten years later, Mr Goodall lamented the loss of his companion in life and has never truly recovered, although his daughter gave him great joy and you would not know the depths of despair he felt unless you truly knew him. In recent years I have been a friend and confidante to Mr Goodall, and he said to me that the loss of his wife was the greatest regret of his life, although he could not be blamed for it. I have given him many words of comfort down the years.
I have also become the confidante of Olivia Goodall. I have known her as a child and as a young woman, and I hope I do not exaggerate my influence on her life when I describe her as being the flower of modern youth. However, she is afflicted by the melancholy that her father never succumbed to, and she has had bouts of woman’s mania, taking to her bed for days at a time, locking herself away from the world. I have tried to encourage her out of these episodes, but to no avail. She has, at times, refused to see me and speak to me, but when we have spoken she has admitted her guilt over her mother’s death to me. For all my words, for all the times she has cried on my shoulder, I doubt she has ever taken consolation from anything I have had to say. Seeing Olivia like this was hard on her father, especially as some of her sadness also comes from her caring for him in his later days, when his wound prevented him from walking more than a few steps at a time, and particularly in his last days of madness. It is her own delicate mind that makes me worry this affliction has been passed on, particularly as she has been hidden away from my comfort by her brother since the father’s death.
When I called on the Goodalls at the end of June, I expected to find nothing out of the ordinary. It was our custom to take a late tea, and myself and Mr Goodall would sit up and talk while Olivia read in another room. I would take confession from Olivia - although she rarely attended Mass on a Sunday she would often insist on confessing what few sins she had - and discuss life in the village with Mr Goodall, who felt increasingly isolated from what he called ‘a normal life.’ On this evening, he was out of temper. He was usually of a calm disposition, but from time to time his leg would pain him and I believed at first that it was one of those nights. It was when Olivia took me to one side and whispered that her father had been muttering in his sleep that I started to become concerned.
“What has he been saying in his sleep?” I asked.
“He has been praying, I think, but not to God,” she responded.
A little more probing gave me answers. Many things he had been saying were incoherent, but at times he would cry out, as though in pain. Olivia was unable to sleep many nights while listening to his cries, pleading for mercy. For later, that is what he was doing. Whatever he was pleading for mercy from was unclear, but it was clear to her that her father’s prayers and pleas were not for our Lord and Saviour. She asked for secrecy from me until she had heard more. When I went away that night, my sleep was troubled and broken with visions of the old man’s pain.
On my next visit a week later, Olivia confided in me again. She spoke of fits. The Tuesday before my visit he had collapsed at breakfast and gone into spasms of agony. She spoke of how he screamed and spoke in tongues, and how a cold chill had taken her completely. She had sworn the servants who witnessed the fit to secrecy, and debated with herself what to do. It seems now this delay has had devastating consequences to her. It was on this day that Mr Goodall seemed most unlike himself. He was more than merely irritable; he was bad-tempered, and before long I found myself leaving his company. I regret this now. I never saw him alive again.
I missed my normal call the following Thursday, although my housekeeper begged me to go. It was no use ending old friendships over angry words, she said, and she was right. I heard nothing from Mr Goodall, however, and I assumed he was not sorry to have not seen me. With that in mind, I did not go the following week either. It was only when I received a message from a servant that I made my way up to Halfhill House again, for old Mr Goodall had passed away. I had no idea he was so ill.
When I arrived, he was still in bed. I could see quite clearly that he had been foaming at the mouth. There were tell-tale signs of spittle around his mouth and unshaven chin. His features were stretched as though in pain and I could see there was no rest in death. His mouth hung open slightly, giving him a surprised look. Olivia stood over him, in tears. She told me he had been speaking tongues and fitting regularly in recent days. My heart was torn in twain to see the girl like that, and I did something I would not normally do and took her in my arms to comfort her. It was then that William Goodall burst in.
He was an angry man, although he is not that young. He has a wife and family of his own in London, or so I am told, and he has left them for the time being to care for his blood relative in Halfhill Hall. I commend him for his attitude toward his sister, but not so for his actions towards myself. Within moments I found myself thrown out of the house, on his say-so. I tried to plead to be allowed to intercede for his father, the old friend of St Luke’s, but he told me that I had no place there. “In the house of reason,” he said, “there is no reason for your superstition.”
I returned the following day, only to be barred by the servants from entering. I was told that William had no time for the Catholic Church and that I was to stay away from the family. Old Mr Goodall would be buried in the Church of England churchyard after an establishment funeral. I felt nothing but despair at this news, for it was not what Mr Goodall would have wanted. Besides, I worried for his eternal spirit. In life I had, through my own arrogance, failed to find out whether his spirit had been possessed by a demon as I now suspect. If he had been so afflicted, the lingering remnants of the demon that killed him would stay in his soul, forever trapping him in Purgatory at best. No man of the Church of England would ever consider performing an exorcism of the spirit, and his soul could be lost forever.
More pressing is Olivia. She was present when he died, and the demon’s soul may have adhered to her. She is already delicate in her spirit, and I fear that any demon or devil would find her easy prey without her spiritual guidance. I have not heard how she is since her brother barred my passage into his so-called house of reason. Nor do I know what plans he has for her now their father is dead. The house has become his, and I hope he decides to leave it to her, but I fear he plans to take her to London with him and allow the house to moulder.
Over the last few months, I have been open around the village about my suspicions. My congregations have fallen off. My housekeeper has left. Many feel that I should not be investigating these matters, partly as I am a mere priest and William Goodall is the new lord of the manor, partly as it is meddling in forces that mere man should not touch. I object to this. It is my duty to protect the souls of St Luke’s whether the people wish to be protected or not. As a result, I have become something of a pariah around the village, with only a few prepared to speak to me when I make my way to the shop or when I pay a visit to one of my congregation.
So far as I am aware, no doctor performed a full post-mortem examination of old Mr Goodall. I have been told he died as a result of a fever brought on by old age and sadness, but I believe the physical signs of possession would not have been seen by any qualified doctor unless they knew what they were looking for under spiritual guidance. As I was not present, and Mr Goodall now fades to dust beneath the ground, this cannot be proven other than through taking the statements of those present at the end of his life.
Signed:
I first realised something was wrong when I called on the Goodalls at Halfhill Hall at the end of June. It had long been my custom to call on the deceased Mr Goodall on a Thursday evening. He was one of the first to greet me when I was given this parish, and had long been a friend to St Luke’s. I counted myself as not just his counsellor in Christ, but also as his friend. Despite this, it was rare to see him in the congregation on a Sunday morning as he did have some difficulties with his legs, having returned from the Crimea with wounds sustained in the course of battle.
On his return from the east, Mr Goodall met and married a local girl. Anna was not of his social status, and I am told by many locals that it was a minor scandal when he chose to marry the local shop-keeper’s girl. I did not bear witness to their early years together, but I am told they were very happy together. Their first child, a son called William, after his father, was born not long after the marriage took place, and some whispered that the marriage was one of duty that then grew into a lifelong affection. I know for certain that when Olivia, the couple’s second child, was born more than ten years later, Mr Goodall lamented the loss of his companion in life and has never truly recovered, although his daughter gave him great joy and you would not know the depths of despair he felt unless you truly knew him. In recent years I have been a friend and confidante to Mr Goodall, and he said to me that the loss of his wife was the greatest regret of his life, although he could not be blamed for it. I have given him many words of comfort down the years.
I have also become the confidante of Olivia Goodall. I have known her as a child and as a young woman, and I hope I do not exaggerate my influence on her life when I describe her as being the flower of modern youth. However, she is afflicted by the melancholy that her father never succumbed to, and she has had bouts of woman’s mania, taking to her bed for days at a time, locking herself away from the world. I have tried to encourage her out of these episodes, but to no avail. She has, at times, refused to see me and speak to me, but when we have spoken she has admitted her guilt over her mother’s death to me. For all my words, for all the times she has cried on my shoulder, I doubt she has ever taken consolation from anything I have had to say. Seeing Olivia like this was hard on her father, especially as some of her sadness also comes from her caring for him in his later days, when his wound prevented him from walking more than a few steps at a time, and particularly in his last days of madness. It is her own delicate mind that makes me worry this affliction has been passed on, particularly as she has been hidden away from my comfort by her brother since the father’s death.
When I called on the Goodalls at the end of June, I expected to find nothing out of the ordinary. It was our custom to take a late tea, and myself and Mr Goodall would sit up and talk while Olivia read in another room. I would take confession from Olivia - although she rarely attended Mass on a Sunday she would often insist on confessing what few sins she had - and discuss life in the village with Mr Goodall, who felt increasingly isolated from what he called ‘a normal life.’ On this evening, he was out of temper. He was usually of a calm disposition, but from time to time his leg would pain him and I believed at first that it was one of those nights. It was when Olivia took me to one side and whispered that her father had been muttering in his sleep that I started to become concerned.
“What has he been saying in his sleep?” I asked.
“He has been praying, I think, but not to God,” she responded.
A little more probing gave me answers. Many things he had been saying were incoherent, but at times he would cry out, as though in pain. Olivia was unable to sleep many nights while listening to his cries, pleading for mercy. For later, that is what he was doing. Whatever he was pleading for mercy from was unclear, but it was clear to her that her father’s prayers and pleas were not for our Lord and Saviour. She asked for secrecy from me until she had heard more. When I went away that night, my sleep was troubled and broken with visions of the old man’s pain.
On my next visit a week later, Olivia confided in me again. She spoke of fits. The Tuesday before my visit he had collapsed at breakfast and gone into spasms of agony. She spoke of how he screamed and spoke in tongues, and how a cold chill had taken her completely. She had sworn the servants who witnessed the fit to secrecy, and debated with herself what to do. It seems now this delay has had devastating consequences to her. It was on this day that Mr Goodall seemed most unlike himself. He was more than merely irritable; he was bad-tempered, and before long I found myself leaving his company. I regret this now. I never saw him alive again.
I missed my normal call the following Thursday, although my housekeeper begged me to go. It was no use ending old friendships over angry words, she said, and she was right. I heard nothing from Mr Goodall, however, and I assumed he was not sorry to have not seen me. With that in mind, I did not go the following week either. It was only when I received a message from a servant that I made my way up to Halfhill House again, for old Mr Goodall had passed away. I had no idea he was so ill.
When I arrived, he was still in bed. I could see quite clearly that he had been foaming at the mouth. There were tell-tale signs of spittle around his mouth and unshaven chin. His features were stretched as though in pain and I could see there was no rest in death. His mouth hung open slightly, giving him a surprised look. Olivia stood over him, in tears. She told me he had been speaking tongues and fitting regularly in recent days. My heart was torn in twain to see the girl like that, and I did something I would not normally do and took her in my arms to comfort her. It was then that William Goodall burst in.
He was an angry man, although he is not that young. He has a wife and family of his own in London, or so I am told, and he has left them for the time being to care for his blood relative in Halfhill Hall. I commend him for his attitude toward his sister, but not so for his actions towards myself. Within moments I found myself thrown out of the house, on his say-so. I tried to plead to be allowed to intercede for his father, the old friend of St Luke’s, but he told me that I had no place there. “In the house of reason,” he said, “there is no reason for your superstition.”
I returned the following day, only to be barred by the servants from entering. I was told that William had no time for the Catholic Church and that I was to stay away from the family. Old Mr Goodall would be buried in the Church of England churchyard after an establishment funeral. I felt nothing but despair at this news, for it was not what Mr Goodall would have wanted. Besides, I worried for his eternal spirit. In life I had, through my own arrogance, failed to find out whether his spirit had been possessed by a demon as I now suspect. If he had been so afflicted, the lingering remnants of the demon that killed him would stay in his soul, forever trapping him in Purgatory at best. No man of the Church of England would ever consider performing an exorcism of the spirit, and his soul could be lost forever.
More pressing is Olivia. She was present when he died, and the demon’s soul may have adhered to her. She is already delicate in her spirit, and I fear that any demon or devil would find her easy prey without her spiritual guidance. I have not heard how she is since her brother barred my passage into his so-called house of reason. Nor do I know what plans he has for her now their father is dead. The house has become his, and I hope he decides to leave it to her, but I fear he plans to take her to London with him and allow the house to moulder.
Over the last few months, I have been open around the village about my suspicions. My congregations have fallen off. My housekeeper has left. Many feel that I should not be investigating these matters, partly as I am a mere priest and William Goodall is the new lord of the manor, partly as it is meddling in forces that mere man should not touch. I object to this. It is my duty to protect the souls of St Luke’s whether the people wish to be protected or not. As a result, I have become something of a pariah around the village, with only a few prepared to speak to me when I make my way to the shop or when I pay a visit to one of my congregation.
So far as I am aware, no doctor performed a full post-mortem examination of old Mr Goodall. I have been told he died as a result of a fever brought on by old age and sadness, but I believe the physical signs of possession would not have been seen by any qualified doctor unless they knew what they were looking for under spiritual guidance. As I was not present, and Mr Goodall now fades to dust beneath the ground, this cannot be proven other than through taking the statements of those present at the end of his life.
Signed:
To be continued...
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