 In the little town of Neston in Cheshire, England, Therese Higginson is well remembered, for it was she who had an experience so remarkable that it has made her name immortal among her fellow townsmen. Father Daniel, the priest of Neston's church, was called away to London at least four times a year, so Therese Higginson's title was more than honorary. Hers was the responsibility of seeing to it that the Holy Church remained in violence. Consequently, she was rather startled when Father Daniel summoned her to him and inquired. When I'm in London, Therese, whom do you permit to enter the church? Why, nobody, Father, nobody at all. That is what I was afraid of. There are certain persons who should not be kept out of the church if they wish to enter it. There's Father Mooney of Wickham. If a chance he should come while I'm away, it's quite possible that he might wish to go in for a while and say mass. It was just three weeks later that Father Daniel departed for London. Neston's church rested on a rather high hill at the very outskirts of town. A gravel path ran from the road up to its doors and it was there that Therese Higginson met the strange priest. He must be Father Mooney of Wickham. Good morning to you, Father Mooney. But the man did not reply. Instead, he pointed a boney finger at the keys that were tightly clutched in Therese's hand and then he pointed the same finger at the door of the church. He must want to go in. The man was obviously familiar with the layout of the building. He made his way unhesitatingly into the sacrosanct. Well, he must be Father Mooney. Who else would know his way around here? It was not until after the ceremony had ended and the priest had returned to the sacrosanct to dispose of his vestments that she began to wonder again. For time passed, 10 minutes, 15 and a half hour and he did not reappear. At length, she stepped into the small gloomy room. The vestments were there but the man who had worn them had vanished. But he couldn't have. There's only one door to this room and I was standing outside a bit the whole time. On the evening of the following day, Father Donnie returned from his visit to London. I didn't tell me he was such a queer one, Father. Who, my dear? This Father Mooney. He was here while you were gone. But that's impossible, Sir. Father Mooney was in London. Then who did I see here? Who did I let into the church? Oh, he was a priest all right. I never saw such a strange looking one. An old man he wasn't all bent over with a horrible humpback. You say he was hunchbacked? I bet he was. And he was an old man? Right. Why do you ask, Father? Because, because there was a priest here once. He was an old man and a hunchback. What did he knew the place inside and out? But what's his name, do you know? His name was Father Keller. He's been dead for 50 years. His body is buried in the graveyard behind the church. There were those, of course, in Neston who said that Theresa Higginson either lied or else she dreamed the whole affair. But there were others. And they included most of the townspeople who knew Theresa too well to do anything but accept her word. They simply accepted the incident as an incident incredible but true.