The Wicked Steeple

8/7/2019 The Wicked Steeple

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The Wicked

Steeple

By G. Frank

Kirkpatrick


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THERE WAS NO WAY AROUND IT.

THE PUB WAS PACKED TO ITS LOW

SLUNG RAFTERS AND IT WAS ONLY

LUNCHTIME. MOST OF THE

CROWD LOOKED LIKE REGULARS,

TOO, WITH WALKERS AND

SATURDAY AFTERNOON TRAFFIC

MAKING UP THE REST. CERTAINLY

A PLACE WITH POTENTIAL, THE


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The name above the door

was Louisa Robinson and the

so was the voice from their

previous telephoneconversation that cut through

the hubbub from behind the

bar. Louisa was a blonde

woman in her fifties, petite and

well-upholstered in a redblazer and a hounds tooth

skirt. It was clear to see that


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the Steeples success was due,

at least in part, to Louisas

enthusiasm.

Hello! You must be the

Butchers. It took her no time

at all to cross the crowded pub.

Well, yes. How could

you tell? Said Alice, clearly

confused by the landladys

apparent prescience.


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Nothing to it, I spoke to

Didi Donais at the Rectory and

she mentioned youd had a

viewing. She spoke very highlyof you. This wasnt as much of

a compliment to Don as he

would have like, Madame

Donais was easily impressed,

especially by the moulderingold inn that she had tried to

palm off onto them the week


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before. But it was still nice to

know they had made such a

good impression, even if it was

just with one slightly batty oldFrench ex-patriot in an empty

pub.

Thats nice. Alice

didnt know what else to say.

Well. Shall we get on

with the tour? The question


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was purely rhetorical as Louisa

was already out the door and

into the beer garden. Alice

Butcher was tall, slim, blondeand as sweet as sunshine, at

least as far as her husband was

concerned. In the four years

theyd been married, Don had

never considered any otherwoman. Although, as he

turned to follow his wife out


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Its windows were of thick

leaded glass sat in dark

wooden frames, betraying

nothing of the modern pineand polished brass interior.

Conversely, the steeple itself

was a folly of sandstone that

reared from one end. It was an

octagon of carefully fittedstone blocks; swathed in

creeping ivy that obliterated


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the ground floor windows and

was beginning to parasitize the

main building, too. The pub

itself was no small building,being three stories tall with an

overhang on the second and

third floor, but the steeple was

a full two further floors above

that. On the higher floors,peeping through the ivy at

first, were windows of multi-


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coloured glass, their designs

lost in de-resolution over

distance. There was a wealth

of flushwork over the tower:Lombard bands crawling with

carved vegetation and

processions of figures, blank

faced through erosion,

Rayonnant traceries repletewith scampering imps and

obscure heraldic devices set


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within vaults and grotesques

scrabbled across the angled

walls and up to the

battlements and buttressesthat formed the spire of the

steeple.

A b-road, tarmac

dissolving into ditches on

either side, ran along the front

of the Wicked Steeples beer


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garden while an overgrown

brook bounded another. At

the opposite end was a small

wood that huddled around theantique tower and the nearby

crossroads. Picnic tables with

parasols advertising

Hoegaarden populated the

garden like lily pads in a greenpond while planters full of

spring flowers emphasised the


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miniature wooden fence. At

the back of the garden, a safe

distance from the road, but far

too near to the river for Donsliking, was a play area. Despite

the fact that it had been a dull

and drizzly day until a few

hours ago, there were a fair few

people outside: families withchildren, cyclists and people

reading the papers (if they


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could find a dry enough table.

There were none of the betting

shop hounds or career drinkers

who had haunted the previousplaces the Butchers had

viewed.

...But youre right it

hasnt always been so

picturesque. Once the fire

destroyed much of the original


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structure, the coaching inn was

built next door. The Steeple

eventually got herself a

reputation as somewhere aweary traveller could get a bed

for the night and someone to

warm it up as well, if you get

my drift? Louisa obviously

enjoyed her vicariousconnection to her pubs sordid

past. Alice certainly had when


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they had researched various

prospective licences.

Cant you see me as a

madam? She had asked him

in all seriousness. And it

wasnt that she was a prude,

but she was far too sweet a girl

to ever be a successful flesh

peddler. Indeed, the rowdiness

of pub was not an environment


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he would have expected her to

have welcomed, which was

why they were looking for a

family pub with roast dinners,rather than a tavern with spit

and sawdust or a nightclub

with dubstep and alcopops.

Stillich had seemed ideal, or

rather Ormley, a few milesdown the road, had. Stillich

itself was too much the market


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town hell, all M6 black spot

and pint-and-a-fight Friday

nights. Ormley was a quiet

little village with a newsagent-cum-post office and The

Wicked Steeple as its

community hub. In fact, apart

from that horrible writer who

had killed his wife as aresident, its only brush with


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the dark side was The Wicked

Steeple itself.

Apparently, The

Wicked Steeple is haunted by

the ghost of a seventeenth

century nun, who having

forsaken her vows, eloped to

the then-inn to meet her

suitor. Looks like sees was the

only one breaking promises,


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Don. It seems like she was

stood up and then stayed on at

the pub, possibly waiting for

him to waltz in one day....And shes still seen to this

day! Alices spooky noises

had been more endearing than

bone-chilling.

What about the ghostly

nun, Louisa? Have you ever


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seen her? He knew he should

know better, that he should be

asking about turnover, staff

retention and cellartemperatures, but the ghost

story had amused Alice so

much.

Well, there is a reason

why we dont use the steeple

itself. You see, the stories say


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she was mostly seen in there

and there were...

disappearances: farmhands,

shepherds, almost all youngmen. It probably has more to

do with misadventure. The

cellar is a natural cavern and

there more under the tower, its

foundations are said to reachinto hell itself. Ive never really

explored them, but there was a


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health and safety review about

twenty years ago and its been

padlocked shut ever since. Itd

cost a fortune to do up,though, because the inn is a

grade two listed building and

the tower is grade two-with-a-

star. But that would be the

brewerys responsibility,though, so dont worry about

that... Alice raised her eye-


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brows and did her best to seem

concerned. It wasnt fooling

anyone; she was obviously

smitten with the place and itwould take a plague of rats or

endemic rot to dissuade her

now. Don wasnt that worried

about it himself; the tower was

all locked up and had stood foralmost a thousand years, it

would take a significant


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side. It looked like it was a

capable facility, currently

tasked with washing dishes,

making sandwiches, fryingchips and prepping for the

main meals and Sunday lunch

rush. Louisa was rattling off

figures of how many courses

would go out, when the peaktimes were, how long the staff

had been with them. The


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Butchers were learning the

important lesson of not

wearing dress shoes in the

kitchen, Alice was struggling inher heels and Don was terrified

she would pull him down with

her if she toppled.

They had better footing

once they were back in the

common room, heading for the


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beds for when one had to

double as the other, which was

fairly frequently according to

Louisa. It made a fair amountof sense, Stillitch was handy for

the motorway, but it wasnt

somewhere for the travelling

executive, with its stolen cars

and smashed windows, soOrmley made a nice

alternative. The upstairs


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retained the old wainscoting,

panels of dark wood from floor

to ceiling, for the length of the

hallways. There was still nosign of a carpet, either,

although the wood laminate of

the bar had given way to well-

maintained, sanded boards of

various vintages.


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The ladies were already

ascending a second set of

stairs, apparently to the private

quarters of the pub, whenthere came down the hall a

heavy scent of roses and

incense and matches. When

he turned to look for its source,

Don found it closer thanexpected. The brunette from

the common room was


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immediately behind him, in

stocking feet and the same

mysterious smile, stepping

from one of the rooms into thehall way. Her long red coat

trailed behind her, occasionally

punctuated by the heels of her

white stockings. She turned at

the end of the hallway, awayfrom the stairs and toward a

door in the stone wall of what


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he had thought was the

steeple. It couldnt have been,

though, because Louisa said it

had been locked up and thisdoor swung open at her

slightest touch. She pointed to

him and curled one fine, pink

finger, beckoning him to her.

His feet were moving

before he realized. After all, it


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was an opportunity to look

behind the curtain of the

Wicked Steeple, to have a peek

at the parts Louisa wasntexpecting them to see. As

striking as this woman was, she

wasnt Alice. The two were as

different as the sun and the

moon. Still, if he hadnt beenmarried... If he didnt have a

future planned with Alice...


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She was already on the other

side of a small landing and

leaning back against the

doorframe when he reachedthe door. Her legs were

crossed at the ankles beneath a

long crimson dress with a

surprisingly modest neckline.

Their eyes caught briefly, alongwith Dons breath, and then


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she turned through the door

and was gone.

When he passed through

the door, Don was surprised by

the sound and fury beyond. At

first he thought it must be the

common room downstairs, but

it was far too rowdy and rank

with the smell of sour wine and

sour sweat. The room was


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packed with men and women

both in too much make-up and

in their cups. The men wore

long shirts, high boots and old-fashioned breeches, like New

Romantics, while the women

wore cheap jewellery and

layers of long dresses. Raucous

laughter and wandering handsseemed to be the order of the

day. The air was heavy with


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back toward him on a wooden

landing above. From this

vantage, she expectantly

watched him.

Don needed to know

what was going on and he was

sure hed get more sense out of

the woman who had brought

him here than any of the

rakehells or doxies around


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him. Crossing the floor

wouldnt be as easy as the

woman had made it see.

Couples were dancing drunkenreels between the tables. One

man toppled a table and

several stools as he drew a long

thin sword. His companion

pulled a foot long knife inresponse before the two of

them burst into laughter and


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embraced like brothers.

Weaving through the wine-

sodden throng, over the

mouldy reeds on the floor,seemed to take centuries, but

final he reached the stairs.

The darkness was brief

but intense as he rounded the

tiny crooked flight. Upon

reaching the landing, Don


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In nomine Dei nostri

Satanas Luciferi Excelsi. The

mans words seemed initially

seemed somewhat familiar, buthe was unable to follow much

of what came after. At well

rehearsed pauses, the robed

congregation would call out in

reply: Ave, Satanas!On thebalcony, Don was paralyzed

with fear and loathing. A toad


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and even paler than his,

appeared on the rail. She was

already walking away as he

followed her hand to her wrist,her wrist to her elbow and,

above that, the short black silk

sleeve of her blouse to where it

disappeared beneath her long

carmine jacket. Eventually, thefinger she trailed left the rail

and she passed through the


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doorway at the end of the

landing. Staying was not an

option, his questions were

multiplying.

The room beyond was

black, the polished stone

casting mute reflections over

itself. The entire room glowed

like volcanic rock under stars,

but there was no discernible


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source of light. Not only that,

but if Dons bearings were

correct, it they should have

been in the canopy of the treesbehind the tower. The landing

should have opened out into

empty air, or at least a staircase

down, but instead there was a

catoptric room, half again thewidth of the Steeple with nine

walls instead of eight. The lady


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in red seemed to float over the

floor, but her snowy stocking

feet clearly met her reflections

ghostly counterparts in themarble beneath.

You wouldnt believe

how long Id waited. Her

voice was as cool and smooth

as the strange black stone.

For him, for you, for all of


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them, I waited so long. The

room had a strange manner

with sound, a sort of natural

ventriloquism. The oaths Ibroke, the oath I made and the

vows I would never make bind

me here, to the Wicked

Steeple.

I swore to keep the way

open, to guide those who were


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lost and lose those who would

guide others into the lie of the

Kaleidoscope. When they

burnt the antagonists fane, Iwas trapped half way to hell in

this un-place. But when the

hierodules came, their bawdy

house filled this profane

geometry and the stair set tothe landing. And now, I am

here and I can be yours... She


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spread her arms and stepped

forward to embrace him.

Dons feet felt fused to the

obsidian floor. He felt cold; hishead seemed too small for all

the conflicting thoughts

buzzing within it. He wanted

her, no matter what nonsense-

if it was nonsense, and he hadhis doubts- she was spouting.

But it was all so strange, rooms


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within rooms within spaces

that shouldnt be. He wanted

to be back with Alice, but

would he even be able to goback, get away if he wanted to?

Her arms folded around him,

strong and delicate. She smelt

of coal tar soap and burnt

biscuits. She made a gentle,restless purr against his chest

and raised her face to his.


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But it wasnt her face.

The face that looked up at him

was as crimson as freshly

drawn blood and a hairlesshybrid of wolf and goat.

Incongruously, the same

longing violet eyes looked back

up at him, all the more hideous

for this strange newconfiguration. Butchers

stomach lurched; the fire of


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fear burned the length of his

spine and pushed the she-devil

to the floor. He could see her

closing on him in the glassywalls as he dashed to the door.

He was through just as she

snatched a hand with painted

talons at his neck, scratching

the nape, but no more.


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From the landing

beneath, the robed

congregation looked up at his

sudden entrance. The nudewoman was stood amongst

them with a sword in one hand

and a sceptre in the other,

blood spread over her breasts

and belly. The men hadthrown back their hoods,

revealing callous eyes and


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archaic haircuts. A screech

from the doorway drew all eyes

back to the woman in scarlet.

Between the woman andworshippers beneath, Don only

had one chance of escape and,

really, it wasnt that far. He

tossed one leg over the

banister, closed his eyes andjumped at where he thought


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the man nearest the door had

been.

But he never made it.

Instead, he crashed onto the

far end of a table, tilting it

upward behind him. He was in

the same crowded room he had

passed through earlier and had

scattered a table full of sour

wine and thin beer, which now


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either covered him or lay in the

ruins of their clay vessels. The

men who had previously been

seated at the table had stoodnow and drawn their swords

and daggers, eager for the

opportunity to trade spilled

wine for spilled blood.

Get him! The woman

stood in the doorway, wearing


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the same porcelain mask as

when she had seduced him.

There was a manic edge to her

voice and it seemed to echostrangely across the suddenly

silent room. Don was only few

steps from the door and hurled

himself against it as soon as he

had found his feet. There wasa glassy pain in his ankle, but

he was able to reach the door


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and topple backward through

it.

He landed on the

hallway, between Alice and

Louisa.

Louisa Robinson smartly

closed the door, bemused at

how Don had made such a

mess of himself in the broom

cupboard. Don himself


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scuttled backward across the

hallway, jumping out of skin

when his shoulders touched

the wall. Alice looked on inshame and disbelief.

We wont be making an

offer. There was no shame in

Don Butchers quivering voice.

The Wicked Steeple

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