Part One: That’s Not An Angel!
The church was tiny and made up of old stone, inside it was quiet and held a brightly lit passage. What decorated the small span were the stain-glass windows and wooden benches that were creating rows across the room. There was a scent of incense, candles and the more solidly smell of musty prayer books, along with that were flowers with a smell already set. This building was beautiful to the eye, although Amara believed it was nothing but a cage for God.
The most important job of the church today was to lobby for plain speech that used only positive phrasing. The first thing on the agenda, at nine o’clock in the morning on a Sunday, was for Amara to open up the double doors and set up the church for today’s services.
“In an hour’s time, everyone will be here,” Amara stated as she checked her surroundings. “It looks like the caretaker has been and gone.”
Switching on the stereo, the room was soon filled with calm music. This music was serene and had the power to clear the mind. She then hopped into the kitchen to make a tray of refreshments.
Smash!
Upon hearing the sound of glass smashing in the chapel, Amara quickly went to see what had happened. Nobody was present other than herself, and there was no wind. The sound appeared to be a glass cup that fell down by the sacred altar.
“Strange,” Amara muttered. She instantly swept up the mess and retreated back into the kitchen.
If anything, the refreshments better not pick up such a habit like that glass cup!
“Little paws often come into this church, so we can’t have any casualties.”
The church still felt like it had a ghost wandering about. The building was rigid, set, unable to be changed or tweaked. The wooden floorboards creaked with each step on its surface, the benches too, and the altar shared in common the same story.
However, at the mere appearance of a white ghostly figure in the kitchen with her, it was not long until Amara simply passed out without a word. That incident happened a week ago on typical Sunday; today was Christmas Day and Amara was still talking about ghosts.
‘Angels from the realms of glory, your flight over all the earth; ye who sang divine creation’s story, proclaim Messiah’s noble birth: and worship, come and worship, worship Christ, the newborn king...’
What was all that noise at three o’clock in the morning? Emma woke up with a grunt; she heard a single woman singing next door. When she faintly looked up at the window beside the bed, she saw nothing but pitch black. It was pitch frickin’ black and this woman was singing her heart out. Emma knew it was early when there was no light struggling to get passed the horizon.
“What is this, the witching hour or something?” Emma questioned.
“Plot twist: she’s dead and that’s her ghost carol singing,” Amara snickered.
“Shut up!” Emma snapped. She could already feel goosebumps just at the mere thought of Amara’s comment. “Ghosts, really? They aren’t real!” Emma was certain.
“What if they are, though? I believe in ghosts,” Amara candidly admitted.
“Oh dear god,” Emma grumbled. She struggled to fall back to sleep; she even cuddled up with the duvet and her stuffed toy pig in expressed fear of there possibly being ghosts in this three-story flat.
In just a little while, Amara cuddled up with Emma from behind, either out of love or to comfort her. She nuzzled her head into the back of Emma’s shoulder, all whilst she listened to Emma grunt.
“Do you remember that one time you passed out over seeing a ghost?” Emma snorted.
“Don’t remind me about that day,” Amara shuddered. “I was seriously scared.”
‘...Come and worship, come and worship, worship Christ, the newborn King...’
“No, I’m not going to frickin’ worship Christ and the newborn King,” Emma grumbled. “I just want to sleep.”
Amara never answered Emma this time; she just kept quiet.
With the dear angels singing their sacred song, with the mighty bells chiming along, this jolly Christmas gave them a gift of broken sleep. Not much from yesteryear’s standards, but Emma just wanted some sleep.
