Dim Hafan

Good day my friend, I trust you are well? I am well aware you don't know me, but let us not keep that from being a factor in our relationship. You don't need to know my name as it is...unimportant. Perhaps. Regardless, it would distract from what follows.
         These are no stories, no tall tales of intrigue, horror and the ilk. No, that is not why we're here. These are snap-shots, mere moments in the lives of a plethora of people that could be of some interest for you. If you accompany me then we shall take a journey through the township of Dim Hafan, a most peculiar place populated in much the same way as all towns, cities and other assorted settlements are. Normal people wishing to live normal lives. I speak of the town as being the peculiarity and not the inhabitants as I truly believe there is something about the place itself that is, at least in part, responsible for the strange goings-on that have permeated it since its inception. Before going on I think it best to give a – hopefully, for the sake of time – brief overview of its history.
         Reverend Siorus Priddy (CE 1609 – 1673) had grown tired of his duties overseeing the religious well-being of his congregation in an unknown village somewhere within the southern valleys of the country. What little can be gleaned from the scraps of information available say that his devotion to the Lord did not wane, it was his parishioners and their lackadaisical attitude towards worship that instilled increasing bitterness in the man of God. It was in CE 1649 on the 21st of March that he decided he needed a clean break. It was the day after his 40th birthday, he conducted the usual Sunday morning rituals and was being congratulated by his flock. A witness to this later wrote:

“...always known as a somewhat stoic individual, when seen with the congratulatory congregation I could not dislodge the nigh overwhelming sensation of apathy flowing from this man of our righteous Lord; he had eyes of emptiness and a smile that struggled against the grimace lurking behind,”

         Once all had left the church there are no more recordings of his presence, only those stating his sudden absence the following day. What we know now from his own writings – in which he tries, almost desperately, not to name the settlement he came from – is that in the early evening of that Sunday the Reverend decided he could not bear another day amongst his followers and was in need of a fresh start. He knew of an area situated roughly halfway up the Heneb mountain that had been ignored due to the precarious route one needed to traverse in order to arrive there and its lack of any resource worth the risk. This did not deter him as he wished to build a place where only the most devout would live. With the aid of Meiron Bevan and Llewellyn Trahern, who along with their respective families were the few worshippers Priddy saw as worthy, he constructed a modest chapel and three houses that were barely more than huts along the banks of the Dechrau river. The homes on one side and the chapel sitting on the other across a small, hastily built bridge. I am still unsure why he named his new home Dim Hafan – which translates to No Haven – but he did and it has never been changed since.
         The official beginning of the new village is stated as Monday 12th April, CE 1649, when the first gathering of the New Church of Our Lord held its inaugural assembly, headed by the Reverend Priddy. Enfys Bevan, eldest daughter to Meiron and Cerys, wrote in her memoirs thirty years later that he spoke with renewed vigour, the word of God issuing from his lips with a passion that had never been seen by the two families prior to the service. He spoke of God's will, that what they began on that day would echo through the ages and be instrumental in changing the spiritual and cultural landscape of not only the country of Wales but also the world in general. In later years as the village grew, newcomers would note that his passion leaned closely to zealous fervour and that at times was believed to be possessed. These notions were whispered in his lifetime for fear of reprisal from the devoted but after his death more and more voices added to the chorus.
         It was his sudden and ultimately strange death that pushed this matter further. In CE 1673, at the ripe age of 64, Reverend Siorus Priddy gathered his then sizeable congregation in the chapel on the morning of the first Sunday of September, wherein he had promised a glorious announcement that would detail the next step for the followers of the New Church.
         Everyone from the village showed up that day, even the not-so-devout. None wanted to miss whatever the life altering declaration would be. Slowly they filed in, speaking in hushed tones amongst themselves over what might be said. At the head was the Reverend, dressed in his trademark dower clothing, looking down at the front seats where the Bevan and Trahern families waited with enraptured faces gleaming up at their leader. He stood there in silence with a blissful smile directed at his most favoured of followers until the doors closed behind the final few latecomers. All fell silent as Priddy's gaze swept over the congregation. He cleared his throat and spoke.
         “Thank you. Thank you all for coming. I have gathered you here today to say something that has, to be honest, been a long time coming. There are those of you who feel I am somewhat overzealous. That is fine. There are those of you who believe with the same passion as myself. I do not mind how you interpret your own relationship to the Lord, only that you have one. My relationship has reached a new level, far grander than I ever perceived it could be. I know the truth now, I know such things that I am embarrassed by the delusions my younger self held to be the word of God. I came here, to this mountain, with a purpose. Today that purpose will connect-”
         At that moment Siorus stopped sharply, the words seeming to stick painfully in his throat. His eyes bulged and his face contorted downwards, appearing misshapen as if parts of his skull had detached from their bony brethren and were now moving beneath his skin of their own accord.  Anwen Llewellyn screamed at the horrifying visage and moved to try and assist Priddy but before she could even rise to her feet the natural daylight dimmed to near darkness, leaving only the Reverend illuminated. He let out a gargling, wet noise that all who heard never forgot to their dying day and fell to the floor behind his pulpit. Light exploded back into the chapel with renewed fervour, dazing and temporarily blinding the assembled group who wailed in despair, confusion and fear.
         Once he had his wits back Meiron Bevan cautiously approached the prone body. Lying in a heap, partially curled up into the recess of the pulpit, the Reverend Siorus Priddy was undoubtedly dead. The skin of his face was stretched taut against the new positions parts of his skull had spread to, his arms were crossed behind him and his hands tightly grasped his forearms. His eyes were said to be the most disconcerting as they stared with what some would write as pure hatred, unabashed and vehement, looking out of a window into the cold light of the September morning.
         To add to the mystique and horror of his death there is also the thing about the black mark. Where Siorus died there was left a perfect line of some black substance that ran along the floor, up the walls and across the ceiling. Although looking to be soot it could not be wiped away, nor would it fade in even slightest after the still terrified parishioners scrubbed at it for over three hours the following week.
         As you can imagine Priddy's strange and sudden death coupled with the mark left cast a pall across the village, whole families left within days of the event and for years the population of Dim Hafan dwindled. Those who remained kept to their side of the river, never venturing even a foot onto the bridge. In 1692 it was demolished by a small group of concerned fathers who feared their children may accidentally cross the bridge whilst playing or solely because they had been told not to. In those dark days it seemed that the village would die a quiet death and become nothing more than a collection of ruins. But, in 1722, there began a slow but very steady increase in people moving into the village, firstly into the abandoned homes that littered the few streets and after they were all taken those who arrived started to buy up patches of land to build upon. The cause of this turn around is hotly contested amongst those who discuss such matters but the most prevailing explanation is that the Age of Enlightenment – wherein science was beginning to overtake religion in explaining the worlds mysteries – had seeped into Wales and the thought of dismissing a habitable area due to what was by then considered a 'superstitious tale' was quickly ignored as the silly notions of the considerably less educated.
         As the years passed and the village grew, nearly everyone had forgotten about Reverend Priddy and the black mark, the few who did remember of him only knew because of stories told by their parents when they were young. It was in 1773 on the third of September that the strangeness that now typifies Dim Hafan truly started. A hundred years to the day of the Reverend's death everyone in the village was awoken by what is described as the most tortured, soul scarring scream ever heard. It began in the early morning as the first sliver of sun became visible and came from the dilapidated chapel, carrying on continuously for over three hours. Inhabitants gathered at the river's bank where the bridge once stood and stared in disbelief at the rotten building but none attempted to venture across. After the cacophony ended and the onlookers dispersed it was noted that plenty talked about it in hushed circles for weeks afterwards but not a one of them – even those few who still knew of Priddy – dared breathe a word of mention that it might be something supernatural or of its ilk. Having prided themselves on being persons of reason they did not want to be seen as uneducated or primitive and so did their level best to ignore the niggling sensations in the backs of their minds. This behaviour is what I believe to be the sole reason that Dim Hafan became the focal point of such odd occurrences over the centuries and into the modern day, that the ignorance of those people and their descendants allowed whatever it is about the town to fester and grow.
         Even now, no matter how strange things get, people turn a blind eye and carry on with their lives. The few who can't ignore it leave and never return as it is all but impossible to be taken seriously. It is simultaneously the most interesting and infuriating aspect of the people now, but the more I think on it the more I realise there is not much that can be done. What would the inhabitants do if they were to begin believing in such supernatural events and the town's influence on its people that drive so many to various forms of madness?
         That, my friend, is the birth of Dim Hafan. You can go there today and still see the chapel across the river, condemned and rotting. The locals will tell you not to try and cross, the consecrated grounds pushed up against the wall of the mountain still hold sway over them, no matter how enlightened they try to be. If you ignore them, find a way to cross and venture inside you will see the pulpit, you will see the shattered windows, most importantly you'll see the black mark. It's still there, fresh as the day it arrived. I don't know what it is or why, and to be honest, I don't want to. Whatever the Reverend Siorus Priddy was going to say on that fateful day is not for us, for anyone, to know.