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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.
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