The Wicked

Steeple

By G. Frank
Kirkpatrick
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
WICKED STEEPLE WAS EASILY THE

BEST PROSPECT DON AND ALICE

BUTCHER HAD SEEN SO FAR, AND

THAT WAS BEFORE THEY’D EVEN

LET THE OWNERS GIVE THEM THE

SPEIL, WHICH WAS EXACTLY WHY

THEY WERE THERE, THE WICKED

STEEPLE BEING ONE OF HALF A

DOZEN PUBS THE BUTCHERS WERE

CONSIDERING BUYING OR AT LEAST

RENTING.
 The name above the door
was Louisa Robinson and the
so was the voice from their
previous telephone
conversation that cut through
the hubbub from behind the
bar. Louisa was a blonde
woman in her fifties, petite and
well-upholstered in a red
blazer and a hound’s tooth
skirt. It was clear to see that
the Steeple’s success was due,
at least in part, to Louisa’s
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 landlady’s
apparent prescience.
 “Nothing to it, I spoke to
Didi Donais at the Rectory and
she mentioned you’d had a
viewing. She spoke very highly
of you.” This wasn’t as much of
a compliment to Don as he
would have like, Madame
Donais was easily impressed,
especially by the mouldering
old inn that she had tried to
palm off onto them the week
before. But it was still nice to
know they had made such a
good impression, even if it was
just with one slightly batty old
French ex-patriot in an empty
pub.

“That’s nice.” Alice

didn’t know what else to say.

“Well. Shall we get on

with the tour?” The question
was purely rhetorical as Louisa
was already out the door and
into the beer garden. Alice
Butcher was tall, slim, blonde
and as sweet as sunshine, at
least as far as her husband was
concerned. In the four years
they’d been married, Don had
never considered any other
woman. Although, as he
turned to follow his wife out
the door, a woman sat in the
back of the common room
caught his eye. She was as fair
as the moon with smooth,
bobbed hair as dark as a clear
night sky, blue-white in the
few places it caught the light.
Her lips were as scarlet as her
coat and arched into a
mischievous smile that
sparkled in her eyes like stars
forewarning frost.

Outside, the spring sun

had broken through the rain
for now and it had lent the
Wicked Steeple a fairy tale
quality. The pub itself was a
rebuilt building of wattle and
daub, with bible black beams
and bright clean whitewash.
Its windows were of thick
leaded glass sat in dark
wooden frames, betraying
nothing of the modern pine
and polished brass interior.
Conversely, the steeple itself
was a folly of sandstone that
reared from one end. It was an
octagon of carefully fitted
stone blocks; swathed in
creeping ivy that obliterated
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-
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 replete
with scampering imps and
obscure heraldic devices set
within vaults and grotesques
scrabbled across the angled
walls and up to the
battlements and buttresses
that formed the spire of the
steeple.

A b-road, tarmac
dissolving into ditches on
either side, ran along the front
of the Wicked Steeple’s beer
garden while an overgrown
brook bounded another. At
the opposite end was a small
wood that huddled around the
antique tower and the nearby
crossroads. Picnic tables with
parasols advertising
Hoegaarden populated the
garden like lily pads in a green
pond while planters full of
spring flowers emphasised the
miniature wooden fence. At
the back of the garden, a safe
distance from the road, but far
too near to the river for Don’s
liking, 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 with
children, cyclists and people
reading the papers (if they
could find a dry enough table.
There were none of the betting
shop hounds or career drinkers
who had haunted the previous
places the Butchers had
viewed.

“...But you’re right it

hasn’t always been so
picturesque. Once the fire
destroyed much of the original
structure, the coaching inn was
built next door. The ‘Steeple
eventually got herself a
reputation as somewhere a
weary 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 vicarious
connection to her pub’s sordid
past. Alice certainly had when
they had researched various
prospective licences.

“Can’t you see me as a

madam?” She had asked him
in all seriousness. And it
wasn’t 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
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 miles
down the road, had. Stillich
itself was too much the market
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 a
resident, its only brush with
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 see’s was the
only one breaking promises,
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 she’s still seen to this
day!” Alice’s “spooky noises”
had been more endearing than
bone-chilling.

“What about the ghostly

nun, Louisa? Have you ever
seen her?” He knew he should
know better, that he should be
asking about turnover, staff
retention and cellar
temperatures, but the ghost
story had amused Alice so
much.

“Well, there is a reason

why we don’t use the steeple
itself. You see, the stories say
she was mostly seen in there
and there were...
disappearances: farmhands,
shepherds, almost all young
men. 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 reach
into hell itself. I’ve never really
explored them, but there was a
health and safety review about
twenty years ago and it’s been
padlocked shut ever since. It’d
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
brewery’s responsibility,
though, so don’t worry about
that...” Alice raised her eye-
brows and did her best to seem
concerned. It wasn’t fooling
anyone; she was obviously
smitten with the place and it
would take a plague of rats or
endemic rot to dissuade her
now. Don wasn’t that worried
about it himself; the tower was
all locked up and had stood for
almost a thousand years, it
would take a significant
disaster to bring it down now.
A fire had failed to do it, there
was a lightning rod fitted and
the area wasn’t exactly prone
to earthquakes. It would take
gunpowder- and a lot of it- to
bring the steeple down.

They went back in

through the kitchen, around
the back and on the steeple
side. It looked like it was a
capable facility, currently
tasked with washing dishes,
making sandwiches, frying
chips and prepping for the
main meals and Sunday lunch
rush. Louisa was rattling off
figures of how many courses
would go out, when the peak
times were, how long the staff
had been with them. The
Butcher’s were learning the
important lesson of not
wearing dress shoes in the
kitchen, Alice was struggling in
her 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
stairs that lead to the guest
accommodation. While they
were researching prospective
pubs, Jim and Alice had had a
look at the Wicked Steeple
website and been quite
impressed with the rooms.
There were four in total, two
doubles, two with pairs of
single beds and a spare double
mattress and pair of folding
beds for when one had to
double as the other, which was
fairly frequently according to
Louisa. It made a fair amount
of sense, Stillitch was handy for
the motorway, but it wasn’t
somewhere for the travelling
executive, with its stolen cars
and smashed windows, so
Ormley made a nice
alternative. The upstairs
retained the old wainscoting,
panels of dark wood from floor
to ceiling, for the length of the
hallways. There was still no
sign of a carpet, either,
although the wood laminate of
the bar had given way to well-
maintained, sanded boards of
various vintages.
 The ladies were already
ascending a second set of
stairs, apparently to the private
quarters of the pub, when
there 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 than
expected. The brunette from
the common room was
immediately behind him, in
stocking feet and the same
mysterious smile, stepping
from one of the rooms into the
hall 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, away
from the stairs and toward a
door in the stone wall of what
he had thought was the
steeple. It couldn’t have been,
though, because Louisa said it
had been locked up and this
door 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
was an opportunity to look
behind the curtain of the
Wicked Steeple, to have a peek
at the parts Louisa wasn’t
expecting them to see. As
striking as this woman was, she
wasn’t Alice. The two were as
different as the sun and the
moon. Still, if he hadn’t been
married... If he didn’t have a
future planned with Alice...
She was already on the other
side of a small landing and
leaning back against the
doorframe when he reached
the door. Her legs were
crossed at the ankles beneath a
long crimson dress with a
surprisingly modest neckline.
Their eyes caught briefly, along
with Don’s breath, and then
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
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 hands
seemed to be the order of the
day. The air was heavy with
the smell of unwashed and
overly warm bodies. There was
little natural light in the smoky
gloom, but what there was
came through a series of
stained glass windows, each
depicting a, presumably,
biblical scene: A hand, formed
from a kaleidoscope of cut
glass angels, reached out from
Heaven and held a burning
giant into a lake of fire. A
naked man and woman stood
back to back with their arms
raised in praise of a swarm of
angels, this time forming the
illusion of a patriarchal face. A
dragon rose to snap at another
plague of angels who were, this
time, busy sacking a city. The
lady in red passed from a
staircase opposite and crossed
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 he’d get more sense out of
the woman who had brought
him here than any of the
rakehells or doxies around
him. Crossing the floor
wouldn’t be as easy as the
woman had made it see.
Couples were dancing drunken
reels 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 in
response before the two of
them burst into laughter and
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
Butcher was deafened by
silence. This was broken into
splinters by the sound of tiny
bells. From the landing he
could see the men and women
of the Steeple had been
replaced by a smaller assembly
of figures in black monastic
robes. They had gathered
around the edge of the circular
room to observe as one of their
number stood over the naked
body of a young woman, dead
or asleep, Don was too shocked
to tell. The figure in the centre
drew back his hood, revealing
one thick brow that spanned
both eyes, a nose broken on
more than one occasion and
hair that had been cut using a
bowl as a template.
 “In nomine Dei nostri
Satanas Luciferi Excelsi.” The
man’s words seemed initially
seemed somewhat familiar, but
he was unable to follow much
of what came after. At well
rehearsed pauses, the robed
congregation would call out in
reply: “Ave, Satanas!” On the
balcony, Don was paralyzed
with fear and loathing. A toad
was placed on the woman’s
belly. A black cockerel was
brought out of a bag, its throat
slit and blood spilled over the
woman and toad. Each
blasphemy was stranger than
the last. His knuckles went an
anaemic white as Don gripped
the rail, all that separated him
from ritual, a scant dozen feet
below. Another hand, finer
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, the
finger she trailed left the rail
and she passed through the
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
source of light. Not only that,
but if Don’s bearings were
correct, it they should have
been in the canopy of the trees
behind 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 the
width of the Steeple with nine
walls instead of eight. The lady
in red seemed to float over the
floor, but her snowy stocking
feet clearly met her reflection’s
ghostly counterparts in the
marble beneath.

“You wouldn’t believe

how long I’d waited.” Her
voice was as cool and smooth
as the strange black stone.
“For him, for you, for all of
them, I waited so long.” The
room had a strange manner
with sound, a sort of natural
ventriloquism. “The oaths I
broke, 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
lost and lose those who would
guide others into the lie of the
Kaleidoscope. When they
burnt the antagonist’s fane, I
was 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 to
the landing. And now, I am
here and I can be yours...” She
spread her arms and stepped
forward to embrace him.
Don’s feet felt fused to the
obsidian floor. He felt cold; his
head seemed too small for all
the conflicting thoughts
buzzing within it. He wanted
her, no matter what nonsense-
if it was nonsense, and he had
his doubts- she was spouting.
But it was all so strange, rooms
within rooms within spaces
that shouldn’t be. He wanted
to be back with Alice, but
would he even be able to go
back, 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.
 But it wasn’t her face.
The face that looked up at him
was as crimson as freshly
drawn blood and a hairless
hybrid of wolf and goat.
Incongruously, the same
longing violet eyes looked back
up at him, all the more hideous
for this strange new
configuration. Butcher’s
stomach lurched; the fire of
fear burned the length of his
spine and pushed the she-devil
to the floor. He could see her
closing on him in the glassy
walls 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.
 From the landing
beneath, the robed
congregation looked up at his
sudden entrance. The nude
woman 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 had
thrown back their hoods,
revealing callous eyes and
archaic haircuts. A screech
from the doorway drew all eyes
back to the woman in scarlet.
Between the woman and
worshippers beneath, Don only
had one chance of escape and,
really, it wasn’t that far. He
tossed one leg over the
banister, closed his eyes and
jumped at where he thought
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
either covered him or lay in the
ruins of their clay vessels. The
men who had previously been
seated at the table had stood
now 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
the same porcelain mask as
when she had seduced him.
There was a manic edge to her
voice and it seemed to echo
strangely 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 was
a glassy pain in his ankle, but
he was able to reach the door
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
scuttled backward across the
hallway, jumping out of skin
when his shoulders touched
the wall. Alice looked on in
shame and disbelief.

“We won’t be making an

offer.” There was no shame in
Don Butcher’s quivering voice.