The Brass Church, Assembly at the Crooked Chapel Print

We weren’t meant to look, but we did again didn’t we… Me and Wren crept up bogside, behind the half-dead, watching the congregation all go in quiet-like. Not a word between, just shuffle boots on stone, hiss of wet wire dragging across chapel floor. Heads down, like were scared, or sorry?
Inside all dark, except two burny-red eye light down front. Folk kneelin’ in mucky water, whispering to summat what weren’t there? or maybe it were? Up front, that tall shadow stood still, wires cominh out back like been plugged in.
Then we saw birds, it was Flamingos this time? Three of them, pink and wrong. Picking water where summat floated. Might’ve been meat might’ve just been cloth. Wren reckons it had face.
No vicar. No hymns here. Just the wires, and that voice in your head telling you to hush.
Meri say we not to speak of Brass Church. Says it’s not there. But we seen it, didn’t we?
We seen all praying to summat else…