Horton paused, hands freezing, hovering just above the stack of hymn books. There it was again, a rustling sound, that sounded through the empty hall, rebounding off the walls and echoing crazily through the arched stone rafters in the ceiling above him.
He knew he was alone in the church. Father Friday had left only minutes ago, to pick up the last of the supplies needed for the Christmas Eve service.
Horton knew that he was alone, in the centuries-old church. Quite alone. Perhaps his ears were playing tricks on him. He listened intently but no further sound met his ears. With a shrug he picked up the stack of caroling hymn books and carried them into the nearest set of pews, placing a book every four feet on the seat of the pew.
Horton loved this time of year. His house was covered in colorful blinking lights and air-filled 3-D decorations crowded the lawn. But his favorite by far was the Christmas tree that decorated his own room. A Christmas tree of his very own.
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