One Christmas morning a young woman awoke when she heard the church bells ringing. It was still very dark outside. She could see that light was coming out of the windows of the village church. She assumed the Christmas service was about to start. She thought she had overslept. She dressed quickly, wrapped her head in a thick shawl, and taking a lentern to light her way, hurried off through the snow.
When she reached the church she found the door was open. The little church seemed crowded. All the worshippers were wrapped in thick cloaks. They all wore hoods. Everyone's head seemed bent in prayer. The room was filled with the soft mumur of chanting.
As the young woman made her way down the aisle, she could not find a place to sit. A figure glided up beside her and grasped her gently by the arm. "This way dear," the figure said, the voice sounded strangely familiar.
The figure guided the young woman to a per, and motioned those already seated to move over. They did. The young woman turned to thank her newfound friend. Then she stopped. The hood had fallen back, and the face beneath it was one well known to her. It was her sister--her sister who had died just a few months ago, and was buried in the churchyard. The young woman cried out in astonishment, "But you're dead!"
That broke the spell. The chanting stopped and all heads turned in the direction of the young woman. The hoods fell back. What they revealed was all the village's dead, all those buried behind the church. Those who had not been dead long, like her sister, looked very much as they had in life. Those who had been dead for years, were little more then skeletons. Those who had been dead the longest were nearly transparent.
The dead began to shuffle and mutter among themselves. "Run," hissed the woman's sister. "They have heard you now. Run, before they catch you. They will want you to join them."
The young woman got up from the pew and began to move toward the door of the church. For a moment the dead seemed puzzled and unable to move. Then they rose and went after her. Skeletal hands clutched at her dress and shawl. They were not strong, but there were so many of them.
Gasping for breath, and pushing the dead aside, the young woman finally got to the door and stumbled out of the church. At the last moment the hands tore the shawl from her head. Then a howl of disappointment rose from inside. Apparently, the dead were unable to cross the threshold of the church.
The young woman ran to the priests house. He had just awakened and was preparing to go to the church to say Christmas Mass. When she told her story, he went with her back to the church. It was empty now. In the snow, just in front of the door, lay her shawl. It looked as if it had been torn to bits by the claws of wild animals.