{"id":2855,"date":"2016-09-18T21:22:01","date_gmt":"2016-09-18T21:22:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/?p=2855"},"modified":"2017-03-27T15:19:27","modified_gmt":"2017-03-27T15:19:27","slug":"revenance-the-devil-by-daylight","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/revenance-the-devil-by-daylight\/","title":{"rendered":"Revenance: The Devil by Daylight"},"content":{"rendered":"

What do you do when neither cross nor crescent can bar the door? There are such things as come by day or by night, and those that can bear the bright sun may be far more dangerous. So today’s piece is an early moment in a series of tales vaguely called Revenance<\/strong>, which concerns a threat which is not easily stopped, contained or thwarted.\u00a0 No traditional vampires, no siring, romance or classic vulnerabilities. Just those who have been Returned…<\/p>\n

\"churchw1\"<\/a><\/h1>\n

<\/p>\n

Southwark<\/h1>\n

\u201cWhat are you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Hoarse, defiant. Father Martin raised his cross, kissed the silver and thrust it out before him as if he were holding a flaming torch. His companions held back, clutched their rosaries and prayer books, waiting…<\/p>\n

The church of St. James, Southwark. November 1798. My first exorcism.<\/p>\n

I had been found in a London slum the week before, crouched over a woman\u2019s body. She had been dying of tuberculosis, though it was not called by so tidy a name back then. Even at that point in my revenance I could scent disease and distortion within those around me. She was a wasted creature in a filthy room, and drawing out her life had been a shameful experience, but that had not stopped me. I ached for something that I could not find.<\/p>\n

When Father Andrew walked into the house, I had finished with her and was searching for anything of value. My clothes were rags, and drew attention even in the slums.<\/p>\n

\u201cKeep back.\u201d I let the distorted body slide to the floor. For some reason the slim arms were intact, but the hands had withered at my touch, and were now little more than two grey claws, clutching the unwholesome air.<\/p>\n

The priest had a Catholic mission in Southwark. I\u2019d seen him around here before, though I hadn’t expected him to be in the area so early in the day. He was in his sixties, tall, neither frail nor strong in appearance. There was horror in his face at that moment, but also intelligence.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you want to do this, my son?\u201d<\/p>\n

He seemed to think me another unfortunate starveling, driven so low that I would rob the dying. There was nothing to show that I\u2019d killed the woman. I shuddered, edged back into the corner of the room. The floorboards were close to giving way with rot; the walls were covered in crumbling plaster.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2026 I don\u2019t know,\u201d I said. \u201cNo, not this\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

There was no fear in him as he knelt over the woman\u2019s body. He closed her eyes, and with perfect patience went through the rituals of his faith. At any moment I could have snapped his neck. Instead I listened to the Latin pouring out of him, steady and confident, and for a moment I had hope. When he was done, I plucked at his sleeve.<\/p>\n

\u201cHelp me.\u201d<\/p>\n

I had no way to speak of what I was. He saw only a desperate man whom he believed in need of redemption. I have often thought since how extraordinary Father Andrew was, especially in those times of hypocrisy and easy condemnation.<\/p>\n

St. James’s, Father Andrew\u2019s parish church, had two priests. I was presented to his junior, a slight young man with a withered arm, as a case for charity. Father Peter was dubious, but had only recently been ordained and was too junior to Father Andrew to complain. He watched me constantly, though, and read something more than poverty in my face.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have sin inside you,\u201d he would whisper as we passed in the corridors of the parochial house. \u201cYour soul in is peril.\u201d<\/p>\n

And I was willing to believe him. I believed him so much that when he introduced me to the visiting Father Martin, I tried hard to listen. Father Martin was held to be very learned, I was told. I had no idea of what my faith might once have been before the grave, but the Catholic practices were entirely unfamiliar to me. I knew what Latin was, and a little of what it meant, but only at a distance. Book-learning, it seemed, not faith. This confirmed the fathers\u2019 belief that I had some troublesome background. An educated atheist – or worse, in their eyes, a Methodist.<\/p>\n

Father Peter found his own answer in the parochial house kitchen a few days later, when I was peeling potatoes. The housekeeper was at market, and I had been pressed into doing something useful. The understanding was that I might stay there a week, sleeping in an empty servants\u2019 attic, and then be found a place in a mission hostel.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is how we pare a man\u2019s soul,\u201d he said, sipping his tea. \u201cWe scrub, and we peel back the sins he has gathered round him, until something clean is found.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stared at the potato in my fingers. It was rotten under the skin, a brown-flecked mass. I tossed it aside, and in taking up the next one, the knife slipped and sliced open the back of my left hand.<\/p>\n

A little pain. No blood.<\/p>\n

The young priest caught my wrist, held my hand up to the gaslight. The open wound, two inches long, was already starting to close.<\/p>\n

\u201cHoly Mary protect us in the hour of our need\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

Father Martin was there within the hour, drawn from his preaching by a message. When Father Andrew returned from the slums, they took him into the library before he could speak to me. The three of them were in there for almost an hour.<\/p>\n

\u201cA medical phenomenon,\u201d said the old priest uneasily when he emerged. I let him examine my hand, the gash only a pale line now. \u201cA circulatory problem, perhaps, constriction of the vessels to the extremities…\u201d<\/p>\n

Father Martin, austere and hard-eyed, shook his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cPeter has been watching him. He is unnatural. Did you know that he regurgitates his food, when you are occupied elsewhere?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThose who have been starved for some time\u2026 it can be difficult for their digestions to\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEvery meal. It has been seen.\u201d Martin and Peter shared a look which frightened me.<\/p>\n

My benefactor sat down at the kitchen table, placed his hands before him.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you suggest?\u201d he said at last, his voice weaker than usual.<\/p>\n

I could hold a blessed cross in my hands. I could recite a psalm, in a stumbling manner, and kiss the bible. A spattering of holy water had no effect. They brought in a doctor, a furtive little man with thick eyebrows who examined me. He pronounced that I had no pulse, no discernible heartbeat, and he began to tremble. Father Martin gave him some coins and sent him away with exhortations to silence, on peril of his soul.<\/p>\n

Why did I endure this? Because of Father Andrew. I could smell the honesty of him, the devotion to his mission and salvation. He lived meagrely and gave any coins he could spare to the hostels or directly to the poor. He raised the subject of religion only when required. No-one was patronised, no-one turned aside.<\/p>\n

Father Martin, on the other hand, was a Dominican, a Hound of God. He intended that God would find me, whatever it cost. And when He found me, I would be judged, saved, damned – I think that it made no difference to him.<\/p>\n

They locked me in the kitchen while they conferred a second time. Had I known, I might have burst from that place with scarcely an effort, ripping the doors out of their frames. But my mind was still clouded as to what I had become.<\/p>\n

I waited there, sitting quietly like an animal which does not recognise the slaughter man\u2019s knife. At last I heard them come out into the hall, still arguing. They were using the words monster, demon, freak, making all manner of claims. The key turned outside, and Father Martin strode in.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhatever unclean thing you are, or whatever foulness dwells within you,\u201d he said in his hoarse voice, \u201cWe will purge you.\u201d<\/p>\n

My eyes sought out Father Andrew, standing grave in the corridor. He shook his head, looked away.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat will you do?\u201d I asked, lost. The Dominican had made it clear before that a priest was to be obeyed.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe will seek to drive out the taint. You can consent, or be compelled.\u201d<\/p>\n

Father Andrew pressed into the doorway.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe bishop should be–\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI have a duty to my Order and to God,\u201d snapped Martin. \u201cAnd the experience that you lack in this area. It must be done now. Letters and permissions are fine for worthy causes, not for this.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was a dismissal of the old man.<\/p>\n

\"churchw1\"<\/a><\/p>\n

I do not know if I consented to being led into St James’ that evening. It would be more appropriate to say that I did not resist. My mind was fog and echoes, the words of the priests confusing me. Worse, I had begun to feel that terrible, subconscious urge that had first walked me into the slums. The need which surpassed all others.<\/p>\n

I remember the ritual itself only vaguely. There was incense, more holy water, many prayers for my soul\u2026 and candlelight, everywhere. They bound me to a chair near the altar. Father Martin took up his vestments, crossing himself and placing a purple stole across his shoulders. The chanting was distant to my ears, though he was no more than five feet away from me…<\/p>\n

Crux sacra sit mihi lux<\/em><\/p>\n

Non draco sit mihi dux<\/em><\/p>\n

Vade retro satana<\/em><\/p>\n

Numquam suade mihi vana<\/em><\/p>\n

He slid in and out of Latin as the other two priests watched, the old man anxious, the young one almost eager for some sign or result. I felt nothing but gnawing hunger. The words meant nothing. They were empty forms, and if Father Martin had hoped that I would writhe and cry out, he was disappointed.<\/p>\n

He stepped closer, the cross in his hand engraved with letters which I could not quite read.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet the Holy Cross be my light. Fall back, Satan.\u201d he said. \u201cAnd let the demon within this man name itself!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t\u2026 know my name. Please, how can I tell you\u2026 what I don\u2019t know?\u201d I gasped, turning my head in an appeal to the old man. Father Andrew clutched his bible and refused to meet my gaze.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo not turn away, foul spirit!\u201d Father Martin\u2019s hand lashed across my face, and he leaned forward to make the mark of the cross upon my forehead. I stared at his face, and beneath the skin, beneath the cartilage and bone, I saw the roiling essence of life\u2026<\/p>\n

I was strangely lucid afterwards. Two grown men, well-fleshed, not the emaciated victims I\u2019d taken in the years before. I could not hide behind confused ideas of mercy-killings, or self-defence. This had been murder.<\/p>\n

Father Andrew crouched in the corner of the Lady Chapel, shuddering and muttering prayers. Even with such a need in me, I hadn\u2019t been able to turn on him.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2026 I\u2019m sorry,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n

But not sorry enough to forget self-preservation. I pillaged the church of candlesticks, a small silver cross and a thurifer. I walked away, trying not to hear Father Andrew weeping at my back\u2026<\/p>\n

I left him alive, because he was a good man. I think. Part of me said that the Dominican had caused this, driving his harsh faith into places where it could not prevail. Another part said otherwise.<\/p>\n

I had caused it, and whatever I was, I was beyond anything that the Church could devise.<\/p>\n

End<\/h2>\n

\"handw1\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\n

A seventies <\/em>Revenance story is out now in the anthology <\/em>Blood, Sweat and Fears (top right)<\/strong>, and another one should be coming from Ravenwood Quarterly later this year.<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

This week: More weird things, plus detectives and the return of Sherlock Holmes – we think…<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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So today’s piece is an early moment in a series of tales vaguely called Revenance, which concerns a … Continue reading Revenance: The Devil by Daylight<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"iawp_total_views":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1],"tags":[113],"class_list":["post-2855","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-revenance"],"yoast_head":"\nRevenance: The Devil by Daylight - greydogtales<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/revenance-the-devil-by-daylight\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Revenance: The Devil by Daylight - greydogtales\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"What do you do when neither cross nor crescent can bar the door? 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When we thought about interviewing author Gwendolyn Kiste, we realised we wanted to burrow behind her work a bit, so we went there.\u00a0 Though we centre on\u2026","rel":"","context":"In \"interviews\"","block_context":{"text":"interviews","link":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/tag\/interviews\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"SONY DSC","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/05\/And-Her-Smile-Will-Untether-the-Universe-Gwendolyn-300x201.jpg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200},"classes":[]},{"id":7509,"url":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/clarks-world-the-willvent-bin\/","url_meta":{"origin":2855,"position":1},"title":"CLARK\u2019S WORLD: THE WILL\u2019VEN\u2019T BIN","author":"greydogtales","date":"November 5, 2025","format":false,"excerpt":"We\u2019re always pleased to see a new book from Alan M Clark, not only a talented author but also, as it happens, an award-winning artist. The Will\u2019ven\u2019t Bin, just out from IFD Publishing (15th October), joins his other intriguing historically-set works, this time with a Young Adult focus and science\u2026","rel":"","context":"Similar post","block_context":{"text":"Similar post","link":""},"img":{"alt_text":"alan m clark","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/11\/EbookCover_TheWillventBin_small-200x300.jpeg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200},"classes":[]},{"id":2610,"url":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/shades-of-sherlock-holmes-pastiche-paranormal-or-piffle\/","url_meta":{"origin":2855,"position":2},"title":"Shades of Sherlock Holmes: Pastiche, Paranormal or Piffle?","author":"greydogtales","date":"August 17, 2016","format":false,"excerpt":"In which we consider the Holmes pastiche, for better or for worse... Holmes forced more of the vile Turkish tobacco into his pipe, wincing as he realised that yet again he was smoking the damnable stuff in order to keep up appearances. \u201cDespite the fact that you are secretly my\u2026","rel":"","context":"In \"sherlock holmes\"","block_context":{"text":"sherlock holmes","link":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/tag\/sherlock-holmes\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"Huty1913428","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/08\/sherlock-holmes-basil-rathbone-300x200.jpg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200},"classes":[]},{"id":7318,"url":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/scotland-the-strange-the-eyes-of-doom\/","url_meta":{"origin":2855,"position":3},"title":"SCOTLAND THE STRANGE: THE EYES OF DOOM","author":"greydogtales","date":"January 24, 2024","format":false,"excerpt":"This week, in honour of Burns Night, which celebrates Scottish poet Robert Burns (25 January 1759 \u2013 21 July 1796), our greydogtales site begins a ramble through the subject of Scottish supernatural\/horror and related cultural stuff. We\u2019ll have some classic tales, new material, guest reviews of some really bad films\u2026","rel":"","context":"Similar post","block_context":{"text":"Similar post","link":""},"img":{"alt_text":"SCOTLAND THE STRANGE","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/01\/Ben_Lomond_from_Beinn_Narnain-300x163.jpg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200},"classes":[]}],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2855","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2855"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2855\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3853,"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2855\/revisions\/3853"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2855"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2855"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2855"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}