The Spirit Is Willing...

This is my entry for the 2024 Pandemonium event.

Please enjoy.

+

The scene might have been taken from any one of dozens, hundreds of detective vids.

Dust motes gleamed in the few thin beams of stale sunlight squeezing their way between almost-real Venetian blinds. The presence of a closed Murphy bed behind faux book shelves was disclosed only by a corner of a wrinkled sheet leaking between 'Bonfire of the Vanities' and Marcus Aurelius' 'Meditations'.

Filing cabinets full of ancient case histories, childhood memories and problematic laundry lined one wall. A lethargic coffee maker coughed sporadically in one corner next to a bottled water dispenser. A computer monitor slept peacefully, undisturbed by messages or files. A smudged tumbler sat on a convenient side table, next to the obligatory half-bottle of bourbon. Beside the table cowered a trash basket overwhelmed by a small massif of cans, empty bottles and take-out wrappings.

A lean figure could be seen slouched back in a chair in the middle of the room, booted feet crossed atop a heavy wooden desk. The posture of the figure suggested that it had been a long time since the last call to arms.

Sometimes that's a good thing, but the bills never stop. Fill in the blanks...

The telephone rang. Almost sighing to itself at the affrontery of someone daring to interrupt a mid-morning nap, a hand – yes, mine – reached out, acknowledged the call.

"Acme Pest Control. To whom may I direct your call?"

That latter was pure show, for A.P.C. consisted in its entirely of one individual – me – plus one office, one telephone and the contents of one rather battered valise normally stored in a bottom filing drawer.

"Um, I don't know," said the caller. "You

do

handle... arcane pests, yes?" The word 'arcane' was stressed, as if it was distasteful even to say; the woman's voice on the other end was concerned, uncertain.

"Our specialty, ma'am. Perhaps I can help you. What sort of pest are we talking about?

"It's... it's complicated."

"They often are. Arcane pests, that is."

"This is awkward. Should I be talking with...?" She paused.

"Somebody with a collar, you mean?" I prompted.

"Yes, I suppose."

"Ma'am, as I suspect you already know, ever since the

Saluti Omnium

bull issued by Pope Anne 37 years ago, it doesn't require an ordained priest or priestess to conduct an exorcism."

"Yes, but..." There was hesitation, embarrassment almost to the point of anxiety in her voice now.

"I can assure you that we are both board- and curia-certified to deal with all manner of arcane infestations."

"I see."

I could feel her slipping away. Time to step up the game.

"It's often best to discuss these things face to face," I said.

There was a significant pause, then, "I suppose."

From experience, I knew it would be better for me to go there. Too many potential clients changed their minds

en route.

"Where can we meet?"

She was silent for a moment, then gave me an address in an infamously upscale small town on the city's outskirts.

"Is this a house or an apartment?"

I could tell she was almost offended by the question.

"It's my house."

"I can be there... let me see," I said. Too soon would make it seem as if I had nothing better to do. "Yes, I am free after lunch. Would it be convenient for me to call at two this afternoon or is this an emergency?"

I smiled as I said that. Emergency calls could be higher-billed.

Sometimes they were even interesting.

There was a pause at the other end. "Yes, that would work. I can be here at two."

"I'll be there," I said. "May I ask your name, ma'am?"

"Nora. Nora Frost," she said.

"Until two, then, Ms. Frost."

+

The neighbourhood was impressive, stately houses set well back from the road and separated by large patches of trees for privacy. The house in question was old enough to have accumulated a fair bit of ivy on its walls, giving it an almost regal grandeur.

A uniformed maid answered the door and led me down a long hall lined with Ancestral Portraits. One painting was particularly striking -- a most handsome couple, a man with dark, dangerous eyes and a roguish smile standing behind a strikingly pretty seated woman, her soft hair in a long-passé style and her hand over his on her shoulder.

"That's Mr. and Mrs. Frost," the maid said. "Not recent, of course. Soon after they were married, I think."

She knocked on a heavy door, waited a moment, then opened it and gestured me in.

A white-haired, bird-like woman in an overstuffed chair smiled in greeting.

"Ms. Frost? I'm Joel Hadding, from Acme Pest Control."

"Please sit down, Mr. Hadding," she said. She seemed about to dismiss the maid, but paused.

"Would you care for tea, Mr. Hadding?"

"Um, yes, please, Ms. Frost. You are most kind."

"Well, I think I will, too. Suzanne, tea for two."

The maid, a very pretty, dark-haired young woman, bobbed a much-outdated curtsey and left. The older woman smiled at me.

"I think I'm very lucky to have Suzanne, you know. It's so hard to find good help these days, Mr. Hadding. Properly-trained ones, ones who know..."

"Their place?" I said tentatively, appalled at the words even as I spoke them.

A half-smile from the old woman told me my phrasing hadn't been entirely inappropriate for her.

"I would prefer, Mr. Hadding, to think of it as 'knowing the finer aspects of manners'."

The half-smile broadened and I realized that Nora Frost had in her youth been a remarkably attractive woman. Thinking of the painting in the hall, I saw it had taken a very gifted artist to capture such timeless beauty so well.

"Almost serendipitous when found," I said, then tried to bring the conversation back on track. "You said you had a problem, Ms. Frost?"

"

Mrs

. Frost, please. My dear Arthur may have been gone these 17 years, but I see no reason for me to be embarrassed by having been married."

"Of course."

"As to the problem, well..."

She paused, a bit confused perhaps, needing to talk but a bit embarrassed, like an adolescent trying to discuss a menstrual irregularity with a new male doctor.

She started to speak, but stopped as Suzanne re-entered bearing a tray with a small teapot, two cups and an array of sugar cubes, spoons, cream, biscuits and such.

"Shall I pour, ma'am?" she enquired.

"Please." The older woman's voice was dry.

As she poured, I looked about the room. Clearly, the Frosts had been part of the 'horsey' set, for the walls were covered with photos and paintings of horses, ribbons, the odd trophy and even a well-used but carefully-polished saddle on its own stand.

Just behind Nora Frost was a framed black-and-white photograph of her standing beside a tall horse. Much, much younger, she was dressed in breaches, boots and one of those silly-looking velvet helmets. She looked confident, sleek and utterly beautiful.

The maid finished pouring, bobbed slightly again and left, closing the door as she went.

I turned to Mrs. Frost and saw she'd noticed my attention.

"Do you still ride, Mrs. Frost?" I said, nodding at the photo. "That's a handsome horse,"

"Not for many years now, I'm afraid. And, yes, Tamarah was one of the finest. Do you ride, Mr. Hadding?"

"I'm afraid not, ma'am."

Having neatly pigeonholed me as one of the unhorsed-thus-uncultured, Mrs. Frost sighed, sipped her tea and closed her eyes in thought for a moment.

Opening them, she stared at me, unblinking.

"Where to start? Perhaps I should ask if you noticed the church on your way here, St. Godwin's?"

"Two minutes down the road on this side, with a very tall steeple?"

"That's it," she nodded. "My family has been a strong supporter of St. Godwin's for generations."

"I see." It seemed best to be non-committal.

"I am one of the Wardens now, the Priest's Warden. On the Vestry, the parish council."

"Ah."

"After Father Tim died two years ago, we had a hard time finding a replacement rector. The parish is well-enough funded, but nobody seemed interested." She paused. I sensed she was not being entirely truthful with me. Well, that was part of the territory in this line of work.

"Yes?"

"Then, almost accidently, we found Father James. It seemed like he was too good to be true at first. He's quite young – right out of seminary, to be honest – but he's very bright and preaches a wonderful sermon. We wound up getting along like a house on fire and, after a trial period, he became the Rector."

"I see. So, what's the problem, Ms... Mrs. Frost?"

I was surprised to see her blush slightly.

"Well, it's hard to express without seeming foolish. I mean, without seeming alarmist or overly credulous."

I waited. This too was very common and I was not entirely surprised when she changed the subject.

"You

do

believe in possession and evil spirits, Mr. Hadding?"

"My dear Mrs. Frost, I have a scientific education, after all. And it's the late 21st century! We're hardly the pseudo-scientific dabblers of 50 years ago. Demonology is no longer waved off as nonsensical superstition.

Of course

I believe in demons and possession!"

She seemed to relax, sipped her tea.

"Good," she said softly. "One never really knows, these days."

She took a deep breath. "I'm worried for Father James."

I waited a bit more, then decided to make a guess.

"You think he's possessed?"

"Yes! Well, no, not exactly. Maybe. It's just that..."

She shifted gears again.

"To begin with, the rectory is almost as old as the church itself. It's listed on several rolls of historic buildings."

"And?"

"There are rumours that it's haunted."

There, it was out. Part of it, at least.

"Ah."

"That has been mentioned in at least two books." She said that as if it confirmed everything.

"Yes?" I wasn't sure where this was going.

"And it has been in the news, too."

"Wait. Wasn't there a death...?" I strained my memory. People in my profession need to keep up, but some things get... minimized.

"Yes! Two actually. Father Tim... Well, the coroner said it was a heart attack, but the expression on his face was one of sheer terror. So I'm told, of course."

"Of course." I wondered how difficult it would to tell the difference between dying expressions of fear and severe chest pain.

"And before him, the same with Father Blake."

"I can see that would give people pause. What does Father James say?"

"He says he's seen no evidence of haunting or any such abnormalities. He's quite definite about it."

"Forgive me for asking, Mrs. Frost, but why not believe him? He's the one living there; surely, he would know."

She blushed again, deeper this time.

"I did believe him. Initially."

I waited. This sort of discussion was hardly atypical; victims and witnesses often needed time to reconvince themselves of their own sanity.

"Then, three nights ago, I was out for an evening stroll. I happened to be passing by the rectory and heard..."

"Yes?"

"It sounded like wild music coming from inside, almost like organ music. And a chorus of voices in a language I couldn't understand. It was all very odd, nothing like church music."

"I see. That could indeed be alarming. Did you knock?"

"No. I was too embarrassed."

"I see."

"But I asked him the next day, at the parish office, how he was getting on. He said he was sleeping very well. The country air and the quiet – very restful, he said."

"That's it?"

"Yes. Should there be more?" Again, she seemed to be concealing something.

"Where is the rectory?" I asked.

"Behind the church."

I thought about that. The church was fifty yards off the road and half-surrounded by trees. And the rectory was behind

that.

No wonder she was embarrassed, the old snoop!

"You said it sounded like organ music, Mrs. Frost. Is there an organ in the church?"

"Yes. Arthur's grandfather donated it."

Of course.

"But that's in the church and I'm sure the music was coming from the rectory."

"Ah. Might Father James have left the stereo on? Might he have been having a nightmare?"

"He says not."

I could see where this was going. Lonely young priest, a death-marked old building and an inquisitive old biddy. It was right out of a training exercise in college.

"I think I should speak to Father James myself," I said.

She seemed alarmed. "But then he'll know..."

"Trust me, Mrs. Frost. I'll have a good cover story." I thought for a moment. "Might you have a history of the church building itself?"

"Why, yes, of course." She didn't bother ringing for the maid this time, but rose gingerly from her chair. Limping slightly, she left the room, returning a minute later with a large hard-cover book held in an arthritic hand.

"I think this will be what you want."

The book appeared to be a self-published parish history, laden with photographs, portraits and etchings. Thumbing through it, the latest date I could see was some fifteen years ago.

"This will serve very well, Mrs. Frost. I will be back tomorrow to speak with Father James. Oh, what is his last name?"

"Fergusson."

"Thank you," I said, rising. "I'll be in touch."

+

The main church door was locked when I arrived the next morning. I tried the side door, which was unlocked. I thought to open it, paused and knocked instead. Muffled footsteps could be heard inside, then the door opened.

James Fergusson was indeed young. Tall, clean-shaven, with chestnut hair and penetrating eyes, the man was darkly handsome and had an air of deep intelligence to him. He was dressed quite casually, in jeans, loafers and a long-sleeved flannel shirt.

"Good morning," he said.

"Hello. Am I addressing Father James Fergusson?"

"Yes."

"My name is Arthur Pendecot, Father. I am a researcher. Well, to be honest, I am researching an old personal interest of mine, church architecture."

"Ah."

His voice was polite enough, but I could see it covered a great deal of fatigue. There were dark rings under his eyes.

"And how may I help you, Mr. Pendecot? Is it the church you wish to see? There are any number of books mentioning it, but you are welcome to come in."

He turned as if in invitation. I noticed that, half-covered by his collar, there was a bruise on his throat.

"Perhaps we might talk, Father? My interest is perhaps a bit less orthodox."

"Unorthodox?" he suddenly grinned. "That sounds intriguing. Please do come in."

His office was surprisingly neat, but then he was newly-ordained and had had little time to collect the clutter of ecclesiastical books, binders and knick-knacks that seem to fill most clerical offices.

"I've just made myself a tea," he said. "Would you care for a cup?"

"That would be delightful. Clear, please."

He stepped out of the office, returned a moment later with a spare cup and a teapot. Having poured and handed it to me, he sat down with a smile behind the desk.

"So? What can I do for you, Mr...?"

"Pendecot, Father. I know this may sound odd, but as you mention, St. Godwin's has indeed been described in a number of works. In my case, I am less interested in the church itself as I am in the rectory."

"The rectory?"

I nodded. "Perhaps I might put it this way, Father. There are any number of books about barns, yet hardly any discussing the farmhouses beside them. We look at the obvious and ignore those structures in which farmers spend almost as much time.

"Rectories and church halls have been an integral part of parishes as long as anyone can remember, yet they're almost ignored. To me, they're an almost hidden part of church history."

"I see."

"I don't wish to be intrusive, Father and I would certainly be willing to come back another time if you think you need to tidy up or something."

"Hide the whisky bottles, you mean." The grin was broader now and I returned it.

"Only if you wish."

"Interesting. Well, why not? I've certainly nothing to hide, so why not now?"

"I don't mean to put you out."

"Not at all. I could do with a break." He led me out of the church, pulling on a light coat against the October chill.

"I believe the rectory was built in 1852?" I said as our feet waded through ankle-deep scarlet maple leaves along the path.

"You

have

done your research, haven't you? I must confess I don't know the year, but it is certainly very old."

The building was, I supposed, of Cape Cod style, with a steep roof and a central chimney. The door was unlocked and he escorted me in. I haven't spent much time in such buildings, but there was little to be surprised at.

The ceilings were lower than in a modern building and the rooms smaller, but it was hardly cramped. There was a small sitting room, one bedroom, a bathroom with an old clawfoot bathtub and a small but perfectly adequate kitchen. A flight of stairs led up to what I presumed to be some extra bedrooms; when the house was built, it would have been expected that the rector would be married, and that meant children.

The place was spotlessly clean and, while anything but luxurious, it was comfortable, warm and had obviously been well-maintained over the years.

"May I take some photos, please?"

"Of course."

"Is there anything you would wish me to not photograph?"

"No, no. Carry on."

I moved through the small house, the priest trailing me. There was a very modern wooden crucifix over the headboard of the double bed, hanging just slightly askew.

As expected, there were two small rooms upstairs, one of which had been converted to a study. There was, asides from a theological bent for decoration, little to distinguish it from any other house of its size, of any age. I noticed however neither television screen (odd how these terms linger, isn't it?) nor any kind of music system.

"This is wonderful, Father," I exclaimed. "I am very grateful. Might I ask you some questions about how it is to live here?"

He looked at me, puzzled. "How do you mean?"

"Every building has its own character, Father. We shape the buildings with paint, flooring and decorations, but in turn they shape the occupants, wouldn't you agree?"

"I suppose." He seated me in a comfortable chair downstairs. Opening my notebook (yes, I can be atavistic at times), I began to question him.

The heating was modern and the plumbing was hooked into the county system. The floors did creak, but the structure did not, even in the strongest winds; perhaps the surrounding trees helped. The roof was sound and the place was peaceful, suitable for, he said, a contemplative mind. Yes, it was his first charge as a priest and he felt himself doubly blessed by having both a good parish and a lovely place to live. He always slept well, no doubt it was the quiet and country air. The crucifix over the head of the bed was his.

I scribbled away energetically.

"How about ghosts?" I asked, not looking at him, trying to make it seem just one more question.

"Ghosts?"

I looked up at him, found his expression hard to read.

"Why not? Many old buildings have had claims made of supernatural affairs. Do either the church or the rectory have any rumoured history of such?"

I could see his expression change -- suspicious now, almost wary. I hurried to sooth him.

"I'm sorry, Father. I didn't mean to upset you. It's... well, the tragic demises in this house in the past few years are hardly a secret, so it's almost a standard question. Forget it, please. Is the hot water system electrical or is there a more modern method?"

We moved on and I saw his concern gradually fade.

I wrapped it up 15 minutes later.

"Thank you, Father. I appreciate your time. If I have any further questions, may I give you a call?"