Pastor Mason sat in his office reading emails on his laptop in his new church office. He had just turned thirty and was fit, tall, clean-shaven with thick brown hair, and green eyes. Straight out of seminary, he had originally been in charge of the chapel at the theological school he attended but was soon pressured by the institution’s administration to get some “real world” experience.
They had assigned him to this country church in the Big Bend region in West Texas. This is where he found himself…. seated in this dark church where the calm almost seemed unsettling. This particular parish was considered a “relaunch” as it only had twenty members regularly attending, though almost the entirety of the local town was on the membership roster. The seminary thought that the lack of attendance was due to the fact there was no minister, but Mason was finding that naive.
Email after email he read from potential or former members were rejections, some willing to drive hours to other churches to avoid this parish. The only explanation that was strange, but consistent was that the grounds felt eerie.
As he sat in his church office, which felt more like a small cluttered library study room than a proper office with its endless shelves covered in books and a single desk that featured an old telephone and his computer.
Mason was frustrated with these emails and considered reaching out to the seminary to send him elsewhere or if he could return to do other work.
As he sat in his frock, he looked out the window and was startled by snow on the ground.
“What,” he said to himself. Sure, it was wintertime, but this was Texas. Snow hardly fell, especially in the West, but it was slowly falling and covering the grounds.
Curious, he put on his thick winter jacket and headed out.
The outer office smelled like a public school with the generic cleaner the janitor used to clean it. He passed the desk of his church secretary, an aging woman who curly gray hair, glasses that hid her eyes, and a blue dress.
Her pearls shook as she looked up at him. “Going somewhere, Pastor?”
“No, Blanche” he replied in a flat voice. “I’m just going to walk around the grounds for a bit.”
She nodded as she cautioned in a smoker’s voice, “Don’t disturb the graveyard.”
Curious about her words, but deciding to ignore them, he headed out. Exiting the office area, he entered the area of the Fellowship Hall which was used for potluck dinners and events for the local teens but was now empty with heavy wooden tables creating a maze in the dark.
Entering a hallway, he passed through a dark hallway with a room on each side. One was the nursery and the other was a room for the older kids. The hall carpet was blue with a diamond design and nothing special.
A door took him to the side of the sanctuary, which reminded him of a more ancient version of the chapel. It was wide with large pews and a stage with a pulpit along with various musical instruments.
Mason looked on with sadness at this. Despite the beauty of the room itself, with its intricate windows, brickwork, and traditional style, it was designed by someone who loved the Lord, but now it seemed so dour.
The young pastor braced himself because the most disturbing thing about the church was just outside. He headed toward the other side of the sanctuary which led to the courtyard behind the parish.
He opened it and sighed, finding himself in a graveyard. Unlike most churches with dedicated graves areas, these were right outside.
Mason wondered if this was why parishioners refused to visit. A graveyard for a rear courtyard certainly did not give much confidence. They were close to the back door and seemingly disorganized. The rows were not aligned and varied in size of gravestones. That being said, they seemed well-kept even as the snow fell.
The young pastor walked among the graveyards, saying private prayers for the families of those who were buried in the ground here.
Then he heard it, the jingle of keys.
Mason spun around, but he did not see anything. The keys rattled again, so he looked around but saw nothing.
One more jingle and he called out, “Who’s there?”
When there was no reply, he began to pray as he headed back into the church, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”
As he recited the twenty-third Psalm, he opened the rear door, listening once more, but hearing nothing, he returned to the sanctuary.
Making his way to the offices once again, he found Blanche typing away about something.
“Hey Blanche,” he said. “Have you ever heard keys in the graveyard?”
The secretary looked up. “Oh yes, they call him the Bishop, the last full-time minister to serve here for more than a year. They say he was the one who installed the graveyard in the rear grounds and that he was the first one buried out there. Now they say that he walks about keeping the gravestones clean, the keys on his belt always jingling.”
“Ghost stories? We’re a church.”
Blanche shrugged. “I didn’t say I believed it.” She returned to typing.
Mason nodded and went into his office. Seated at his desk, he began to think about this “Bishop” that Blanche had mentioned.
At his computer, he searched the church name and “bishop.” Finding a single hit from an archived news website, he discovered that Bishop Nick Lee was the last minister who had served the church full-time.
It seemed that the community loved him and was even given the nickname “Old Saint Nick” for consistently giving back to the local city. Everything from food drives to school supplies and raising funds for a nearby hospital.
Bishop Lee would eventually propose turning the back acre of the church property into a graveyard for people who could not afford a proper funeral. It was during this time that it was discovered that Lee had been double dipping into the church funds to fund a lavish lifestyle that he kept hidden.
When the police came to the door, he had a stroke and died being buried in the graveyard, clutching his keys.
One line took Mason by surprise… “the only grave in the cemetery.”
Mason was taken aback by this. “What,” he said aloud.
He read it three times. “The only grave in the cemetery.”
Mason got up and opened the door, “Blanche.”
The church secretary looked up from her typing but said nothing.
“Uh, this might sound strange,” he said. “But how many graves are in the cemetery?”
She shrugged. “It’s been growing.”
Mason swallowed. “Yes, but I found a newspaper article that said…”
“Don’t go believing them newspapers,” she interrupted. “They would have you believe the calm around this church is haunted.”
Mason nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
The young pastor returned to his office and headed to a window. Opening it, he looked out upon the graveyard and he heard it again… the ringing of keys together. He immediately slammed the window shut.
That Sunday, Mason preached on the story of Peter walking on water after Christ called out to the Apostles, “It is I, don’t be afraid.”
The twenty or so congregants seemed engaged in the sermon and he even got his first “amen” since he had come to this West Texas church.
Still, he could not shake the feeling that something did not feel right, especially with this business involving a long-dead Bishop.
As he shook hands with the parishioners, he heard it again.
The keys jingling were now at the entrance of the church. Pastor Mason tried desperately to ignore it, but they would jingle at every single person who would shake his hand. Consistently citing Psalm twenty-three would keep it at the back of his head, but he could deduce that the parishioner knew something was off based on their awkward goodbyes.
Still, Pastor Mason continued to shake hands and wish blessings on his congregation, but the ringing of the key chain was very distracting.
He realized that the ringing stopped after closing the sanctuary doors behind him. Curious, he went into his office and could tell that it was gone.
Mason was curious if someone could provide him with some insight. Heading to the bookshelves, he searched for something until he came across the old church directories. He found the last one published from before he was the pastor and flipped through it until he came to his predecessor Pastor Weathers.
This man looked like a typical pastor you would see in a cheesy Christian novel. He had a beige suit with arm patches, a bald head, a thick gray beard, sunken eyes, and was plump. To his surprise, he found a cellphone number.
Heading back to his desk, he found the old swamp green rotary phone that he was surprised still worked.
Dialing the number, he heard a ring before he heard a baritone answer, “So you called me like I called my predecessor.”
“You know who I am?”
“Of course,” said Weathers. “I take it you’ve heard the keys jingle?”
“Yes,” said Pastor Mason. “What did you do about it?”
Weathers laughed. “Do? When I realized what it was, I resigned. Heck, I left ministry altogether. I sell life insurance now.”
“Wait,” Mason said in shock. “You didn’t even try to stop it?”
“None of us did, kid. Listen, praying for people is fine, but this is the real thing. There is nothing we can do about it.”
Mason shook his head. “What? No, my God is greater than some spirit that jingles keys.”
“And maintains a graveyard that does not seem to have a registry,” Weathers said in shock. “Look, kid, just get out of there.”
Mason asked, “And what about the souls here?”
“Souls? Souls? What about my soul? No, thank you. Look, you’ll figure it out and get out of dodge soon enough,” he said. “Good luck.”
A click was followed by an empty dial tone.
Mason sat at his desk and reached for his Bible. Turning to Psalm 23, he found the fourth verse which read, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me…”
Mason took a deep breath and grabbed his Bible. He headed out the door and walked out into the graveyard.
At once, he heard the keys jingling. Mason was nervous and he could feel his skin crawl as they grew louder.
Clutching his Bible, he stepped into the graveyard, and almost at once, a green mist began to form around him. He pressed on even though it felt like it was getting heavier to walk and even breathe.
As he reached a clearing, he could see an empty circle of dirt with a single gravestone that simply read “the Bishop.”
Then it happened, an apparition appeared before him. It was a person in a Bishop’s frock, no, not a person, but a living skeleton, green like the mist. The thing held out its index finger and held out a set of keys.
Mason said, “You. I don’t believe in ghosts, but whatever you are, you are not welcome here.”
The being jingled the keys again, but they seemed louder, almost threatening.
Mason felt sweat, but he stood tall. “As Michael said to the devil, ‘may the Lord rebuke you.’ I say the same to you! Begone! This is a house of the Lord Jesus Christ and you are not welcome!”
The apparition charged toward him, but Mason held up his Bible and when the skeletal hand reached out, it began to fade. As it did, he let out a gasp and the keys jingled one last time.
In a green smoke, the being faded away and the mist began to dissipate away as well.
Mason stood for a minute, at first stunned by what he had just witnessed. Then he looked at the gravestone when it had a birth date and death date before saying, “Here Lies Bishop Nick Lee. May He Rest In Peace.”
Pastor Mason whispered, “Thank you,” to God. When he turned around, the graveyard was gone and all that was left was melting snow.
On Sunday morning, Pastor Mason welcomed his congregation, which had almost tripled in the last week.
He shook hands and gave a few “God bless you” as they entered the Church.
Blanche approached him and shook his hand. “Thank you. The calm is no longer unsettling. It feels peaceful.”
Mason shook her hand back. “Yes. Glory be to God.”
She smiled and said, “Thank you for not listening to me.”
Mason just smiled back in response and helped her into the sanctuary. He then looked to the back where the graveyard once sat.
Snow no longer pelted the ground, but now green grass was starting to grow. Seeing Mason could not help but smile as he saw the life grow where death once rested.
