Septembre Angel
| The trouble with St. Septembre's Cathedral was that it was haunted, what was worse, the unknown spirit did not content itself with merely appearing at the bedside of the afflicted person who saw it, but persisted in remaining there for one mortal hour before it would disappear. It never appeared except on Christmas eve, and then as the clock was striking twelve, in which respect alone was it lacking in that originality which in these days is a sine qua non of success in spectral life. The archdiocese of St. Septembre's Cathedral had done their utmost to rid themselves of the lubricating lady who rose up out of the best bedroom floor at midnight, but without avail. They had tried stopping the clock, so that the unknown spirit would not know when it was midnight; but she made her appearance just the same, with that fearful miasmatic personality of hers, and there she would stand until everything about her was thoroughly saturated. Then the archdiocese of St. Septembre's Cathedral caulked up every crack in the floor with the very best quality of hemp, and over this were placed layers of tar and canvas; the walls were made waterproof, and the doors and windows likewise, the proprietors having conceived the notion that the un exorcised lady would find it difficult to leak into the room after these precautions had been taken; but even this did not suffice. The following Christmas eve she appeared as promptly as before, and frightened a visiting priest of the room quite out of his senses by sitting down alongside of him and gazing with her cavernous turquoise eyes into his; and he noticed, too, that in her long, aqueous, slender fingers bits of dripping whitish ectoplasm were entwined, the ends hanging down, and these ends she drew across his forehead until he became like one insane. And then he swooned away, and was found unconscious in his bed the next morning by his host, simply saturated with an array of bodily fluids and fright, from the combined effects of which he never recovered, leaving the church four years later of nervous prostate at the age of seventy-eight to marry a 21 year old vixen he had shamed in her earlier years. The next year the bishop of St. Septembre's Cathedral decided not to have the best spare bedroom opened at all, thinking that perhaps the unknown spirit's thirst for making herself disagreeable would be satisfied by haunting the furniture, but the plan was as unavailing as the many that had preceded it. The unknown spirit appeared as usual in the room -- that is, it was supposed she did, for the hangings were dripping wet with clear viscous liquid the next morning, and in the parlor below the haunted room a great damp spot appeared on the ceiling. Finding no one there, she immediately set out to learn the reason why, and she chose none other to haunt than the bishop of the St. Septembre himself. She found him in his own cozy room drinking whiskey -- whiskey undiluted -- and felicitating himself upon having foiled her unknown agenda, when all of a sudden the curl went out of his hair, his whiskey bottle filled and overflowed, and he was himself in a condition similar to that of a man who has fallen into a viscous water-butt. When he recovered from the shock, which was a painful one, he saw before him the lady in white of the cat-like eyes, blond wavy locke's, translucent bodice, white fishnet stockings (!) and translucent ectoplasm covered fingers. The sight was so unexpected and so, uh, "terrifying" that he fainted, but immediately came to, because of the vast amount of semen in his hair, which, trickling down over his face, restored his consciousness. Now, it so happened that the bishop of St. Septembre was a brave man, and while he was not particularly fond of interviewing unknown spirits, especially such quenching unknown spirits as the one before him, he was not to be daunted by an apparition. He had paid the lady the compliment of fainting from the effects of his first surprise, and now that he had come to he intended to find out a few things he felt he had a right to know. He would have liked to put on a dry suit of clothes first, but the apparition declined to leave him for an instant until her hour was up, and he was forced to deny himself that pleasure. The thing of it is - all that beautiful spirit had to do was stand there and breathe; that was mystifying, other-worldly pleasure enough. The bishop knew he wasn't supposed to allow himself that sort of pleasure, but every time he would move she would follow him, with the result that everything she came in contact with got a royal dunking in the fluidic ectoplasm. In an effort to warm himself up he approached the fire, an unfortunate move as it turned out, because it brought the unknown spirit directly over the fire, which immediately was extinguished. The whiskey became utterly valueless as a comforter to his chilled system, because it was by this time diluted to a proportion of ninety percent of clear viscous liquid. The only thing he could do to ward off the "evil" effects of his encounter he did, and that was to swallow ten two-grain quinine pills, which he managed to put into his mouth before the unknown spirit had time to interfere. Having done this, he turned with some asperity to the unknown spirit, and said: "Far be it from me to be impolite to a woman, madam, but I'm hanged if it wouldn't please me better if you'd stop these infernal visits of yours to this house of God. Go sit out on the lake, if you like that sort of thing; soak the water-butt, if you wish; but do not, I implore you, come into a room of this man of faith and saturate him and his possessions in this way. It is damned disagreeable." "Bishop Franklin Friday," said the unknown spirit, in a polyphonic, soprano voice not exactly of this world, "you don't know what you are talking about." "Madam," returned the unhappy householder, "I wish that remark were strictly truthful. I was talking about you. It would be shillings and pence -- nay, pounds, in my pocket, madam, if I did not know you." "That is a bit of specious nonsense," returned the unknown spirit, throwing a quart of indignation into the face of the bishop of St. Septembre. "It may rank high as repartee, but as a comment upon my statement that you do not know what you are talking about, it savors of irrelevant impertinence. You do not know that I am compelled to haunt this place year after year by inexorable fate. It is not my pleasure to enter this house of God, and slime everything I touch. I never aspired to be a receptacle of lust, but it was my doom. Do you know who I am?" "No, I don't," returned the bishop of St. Septembre. "I should say you were the young lady in waiting, or Little Septembre of whom this cathedral was named in sainthood." "You are a witty man for your years," said the spirit. "Well, my humor is drier than yours ever will be," returned the bishop. "Surely, my hands are never dry, but this goo isn't mine. I am the spirit of this cathedral, and dryness is a quality outside my grasp at the moment. I have been the incumbent of this highly unpleasant task for two hundred and thirty years tonight." "How the devil did you ever come to get elected?" asked the bishop. "Through suicide," replied the specter. "I am the unknown spirit of that fair maiden whose likeness hangs within the vestibule. I should have been your most great aunt if I had lived, Franklin Fallon Friday, for I was the consort of your ancient grandfather." "Consort? What are you suggesting? What induced you to get this house into such a predicament?" Her tone changed from pleasing to pungent, "I was not to blame, sir," returned the lady. "It was my father's fault. It was he who built St. Septembre's Cathedral, and the haunted chamber was to have been mine." Bishop Friday faintly remembered, "There was an infamous folklore about that: The archbishop back then, supposedly, adopted a child - a daughter from a young mother out of wedlock. She had raised her daughter until her pre-adolescent years. Then her daughter came looking for guidance this cathedral..." "HAH!" The spirit snapped. Her words roared in shrill resonance through every fiber of Bishop Friday's being as loud as Niagra Falls, "GUIDANCE?! I came looking for my so-called faaather and I Found Him! Years later after he violated my Mother I FOUND HIM!... He desired me in a way that no man should ever desire his daughter - especially a man of the cloth! He did unspeakable things to me in this room! He made me believe it was my fate! He defiled the House of God! Then he formed an evil cult! Each priest of the Q would take turns defiling and abusing me - and their vows to The Lord! I had no choice but to take my OWN LIFE in the hopes that I was, somehow, saving them from the eternal fate of their treachery!... and myself..." With each unholy revelation she spoke her figure shimmered out of phase with the physical world to different places in the room as if to reveal the unholy past. "Am I to believe that the founder of this cathedral was a devil worshipping pedophile?... Th-th-that's awful," said the bishop of St. Septembre. "THAT - IS - IRONY!" screamed the spirit as the windows rattled, "that I should die for THEIR SINS," as the spirit spoke in harsh and utter disdain. "If I had known what the consequences were to be I should never have sought out my so-called faaather; but I really never realized what I was doing until after I was... was. I was in clear skys for a moment when an angel came to me and informed me that I was to serve God forever afterwards, adding that it should be my destiny to clean St. Septembre's Cathedral for one hour every eve of Roman celebration throughout the rest of eternity. I was to cleanse that room on such eves as I found it inhabited; and if it should turn out not to be inhabited, I was and am to spend the allotted hour with the head of the cathedral." "What do ya mean, `cleanse?`" inquired the bishop. "I am to cleanse every filthy sin and disgusting habit committed by so-called `men of faith` by wiping it away, spiritually, and returning it to them, physically, in the form of this plasmic reticulum,..." as the spirit let it drip from the fingers of her out stretched hand. "Oh, I see," retorted the bishop, "and what do ya mean `Roman celebration?` This is Christmas Eve." The Spirit stood quiet for a moment as if stunned, rolled her eyes and ticked her face with her hands at her hips. "Bishop Friday," she retorted, "Jesus Loves You. At the very least, you should read..." a ghostly bible popped out of nowhere to float in front of her as she flipped with damp, milky fingers through the pages, "...Revelations Chapter 12, verses one through five in the Old Testament. We go by the Jewish Calendar - not Roman. Figure it out for yourself,.." then she threw the gold-leafed phantom onto the archbishop's lap with a juicy splat. "Ah, I see," replied the wet and gooey bishop wearing a nervous smile, "I'll sell the place." "That you cannot do, for it is also required of me that I shall appear as the deeds are to be delivered to any purchaser, and divulge to him the awful secret of this cathedral." "Do you mean to tell me that on every eve of... Roman celebration that I don't happen to have somebody in that guest chamber, you are going to haunt me wherever I may be, ruining my whiskey, taking all the curl out of my hair, extinguishing my fire, and soaking me through to the skin?" demanded the bishop. "You have the stench of iniquity and (sniff) quinine about you, Friday. And what is more," said the Septembre Spirit, "it doesn't make the slightest difference where you are, if I find that room empty, wherever you may be I shall douse you with my spectral pres--" Here the clock struck one, and immediately the apparition faded away. It was perhaps more of a trickle than a fade, but as a disappearance it was complete. "By St. George and his Dragon!" ejaculated the bishop of St. Septembre, wringing his hands. "It is guineas to hot-cross buns that next, uh, Christmas there's an occupant of the spare room, or I spend the night in a bathtub with plenty of soap." But the bishop of St. Septembre would have lost his wager had there been any one there to take him up, for when "Christmas eve" came again he was in his grave, never having recovered from the cold contracted that awful night. St. Septembre's Cathedral was closed, and the bishop's heir was in London, where to him in his chambers came the same experience that his uncle Friday had gone through, saving only that, being younger and stronger, he survived the shock, albeit, he was less sinful in his ways he definitely answered for his earlier days. Everything in his rooms was ruined -- his clocks were rusted and sticky in the works; a fine collection of watercolor drawings was entirely obliterated by the onslaught of the beautiful Septembre Spirit; and what was worse, the apartments below his were drenched with the seminal ectoplasm soaking through the floors, a damage for which he was compelled to pay, and which resulted in his being requested by his landlady to vacate the premises immediately. The story of the visitation inflicted upon his family had gone abroad, and no one could be got to invite him out to any function save afternoon teas and receptions. Fathers of daughters declined to permit him to remain in their houses later than eight o' clock at night, not knowing but that some emergency might arise in the supernatural world which would require the unexpected appearance of the Septembre Spirit in this on nights other than "Christmas eve," and before the mystic hour when weary churchyards ignoring the rules which are supposed to govern polite society, begin to yawn. Nor would the maids themselves have aught to do with him, fearing the destruction by the sudden incursion of aqueous femininity of the costumes which they held most dear. So the heir of St. Septembre's Cathedral estate resolved, as his ancestors for several generations before him had resolved, that something must be done. His first thought was to make one of his servants occupy the haunted room at the crucial moment; but in this he failed, because the servants themselves knew the history of that room and rebelled. None of his friends would consent to sacrifice their personal comfort to his, nor was there to be found in all England a man so poor as to be willing to occupy the doomed chamber on "Christmas eve" for pay. Then the thought came to the heir to have the fireplace in the room enlarged, so that he might evaporate the unknown spirit at its first appearance, and he was felicitating himself upon the ingenuity of his plan, when he remembered what his uncle had told him -- how that no fire could withstand the lady's extremely contagious dampness. The problem is Uncle Friday never explained to him from whence it came. So he continued in this line of thinking with steam-pipes. These, he remembered, could lie hundreds of feet deep in water, and still retain sufficient heat to drive the seminal ectoplasm away in vapor; and as a result of this thought the haunted room was heated by steam to a withering degree, and the heir for six months attended daily the Turkish baths, so that when "Christmas eve" came he could himself withstand the awful temperature of the room. The scheme was only partially successful. The Septembre Spirit appeared at the specified time, and found the heir of St. Septembre prepared; but hot as the room was, it shortened her visit by no more than five minutes in the hour during which time the nervous system of the young bishop was well nigh shattered, and the room itself was cracked and warped to an extent which required the outlay of a large sum of money to remedy. And worse than this, as the last drop of the Septembre Spirit's ectoplasm slowly sizzling itself out on the floor, she whispered to her would-be conqueror that his scheme would avail him nothing, because there was still "slime in great plenty from the source," and that next year would find her as exasperatingly saturating as ever. It was then that the natural action of the mind, in going from one extreme to the other, suggested to the ingenious heir of St. Septembre the means by which the Septembre Spirit was ultimately conquered, and happiness once more came within the grasp of the house of Friday. The heir provided himself with a warm suit of fur underclothing. Donning this with the furry side in, he placed over it a rubber garment, tightfitting, which he wore just as a woman wears a jersey. On top of this he placed another set of underclothing, this suit made of wool, and over this was a second rubber garment like the first. Upon his head he placed a light and comfortable diving helmet, and so clad, on the following "Christmas eve" he awaited the coming of his tormentor. It was a bitterly cold night that brought to a close this twenty-fourth day of December. The air outside was still, but the temperature was below zero. Within all was quiet, the servants of St. Septembre's Cathedral awaiting with beating hearts the outcome of their bishop's campaign against his supernatural visitor. The bishop himself was lying on the bed in the haunted room, clad as has already been indicated, and then -- the clock clanged out the hour of twelve. There was a sudden banging of doors, a blast of cold air swept through the Cathedrals, the door leading into the haunted chamber flew open, a splash was heard, and the Septembre Spirit was seen standing at the side of the heir of St. Septembre, from whose outer dress there streamed rivulets of viscous ectoplasmic fluid, but whose own person deep down under the various garments he wore was as dry and as warm as he could have wished. "Ha!" said the young bishop of St. Septembre. "I'm glad to see you." "You are the most original man I've met, if that is true," returned the Septembre Spirit with a crooked smile as if to burst into laughter, "May I ask where did you get that hat?" "Certainly, madam," returned the bishop, courteously. "It is a little portable observatory I had made for just such emergencies as this. But, tell me, is it true that you are doomed to follow me about for one mortal hour -- to stand where I stand, to sit where I sit?" "That is my delectable destiny," returned the lady. "We'll go out on the lake," said the bishop, starting up. "You can't get rid of me that way," returned the Septembre Spirit. "Water does not affect me." "Nevertheless," said the bishop, firmly, "we will go out on the lake." "But, my dear Sir Friday," retorted the Septembre Spirit, with a pale reluctance, "it is fearfully cold out there. You will be frozen hard before you've been out ten minutes." "Oh no, I'll not," replied the bishop. "I am very warmly dressed. Come!" This last in a tone of command that made the Septembre Spirit ripple. And they started. They had not gone far before the Septembre Spirit showed signs of distress. "You walk too slowly," she said. "I am nearly frozen. My knees are so stiff now I can hardly move. I beseech you to accelerate your step." "I should like to oblige a lady," returned the bishop, courteously, "but my clothes are rather heavy, and a hundred yards an hour is about my speed. Indeed, I think we would better sit down here on this snowdrift and talk matters over." "Do not! Do not do so, I beg!" cried the Septembre Spirit. "Let me move on. I feel myself growing rigid as it is. If we stop here, I shall be frozen stiff." "That madam," said the bishop slowly, and seating himself on an ice-cake -- "that is why I have brought you here. We have been on this spot just ten minutes; we have fifty more. Take your time about it, madam, but freeze, that is all I ask of you." "I cannot move my right leg now," cried the Septembre Spirit, in despair, "and my overskirt is a solid sheet of ice. Oh, good, kind Mr. Friday, light a fire, and let me go free from these icy fetters." "Never, madam. It cannot be. I have you at last." "Alas!" cried the Septembre Spirit, a tear trickling down her frozen cheek. "Help me, I beg. I congeal!" "Congeal, madam, congeal!" returned Friday, coldly. "You have drenched me and mine for two hundred and thirty four years, madam. Tonight you have had your last drench." "Ah, but I shall thaw out again, and then you'll see. Instead of the comfortably tepid, genial Septembre Spirit I have been in my past, sir, I shall be cold, dark fire," cried the lady, threateningly. "No, you won't, either," returned Friday; "for when you are frozen quite stiff, I shall send you to a cold-storage warehouse, and there shall you remain an icy work of art forever more." "But warehouses burn," she cried. "So they do, but this warehouse cannot burn. It is made of asbestos and surrounding it are fireproof walls, and within those walls the temperature is now and shall forever be 416 degrees below the zero point; low enough to make an icicle of any flame in this world -- or the next," the bishop added, with an ill-suppressed chuckle. "For the last time let me beseech you. I would go on my knees to you, Friday, were they not already frozen. I beg of you do not doo --" Here even the words froze on the Septembre Spirit's lips and the clock struck one. There was a momentary tremor throughout the ice-bound form, and the moon, coming out from behind a cloud, shone down on the rigid figure of a beautiful woman sculptured in clear, transparent ice. There stood the Septembre Spirit of St. Septembre's Cathedral, conquered by the cold, a prisoner. Alas, the heir of St. Septembre thought he had won at last. He thought a large storage house in London would do justice to the frigid form of one who will never again flood the house of Friday with woe and an array of seminal fluids. Quite suddenly, without warning, the Septembre Spirit took one step forward from her frozen sculpture suffering no ill effects whatsoever from the cold she pretended to fear. She turned around to study the ice figurine. With arms folded and a thumb upon her chin she twirled back to face Friday, "I rather fancy the likeness. Don't you?" she spoke playfully in a nasal twang as if emulating an Irish leprechaun. Friday was in a heaving stupor as the life steam left his garnishs, "But... But... You... What was that show all about?! I thought ya done, forth with." "Ohh, my poor, dear, ignorant Friday. (tisk, tisk)," she shook her head slowly with a snap of her tongue, "What ever made you believe you could harm or trap a spirit?" "B-But,... Why the act?!" exclaimed the young bishop "I aspired to being an actress in the theatre before I found... my father. After I found him, I simply wanted to live... Then I wanted to leave." Septembre looked upwards and about, "How did you like the show?... Oh, Thank You! Thank You! You're a lovely audience." as she curtsied to some unseen entities in the sky. "But it's after one. How are ya still here? Are you still the spirit of Septembre?" uttered Friday also realizing that her vernacular and demeanour was different. "What are you? A referee?" retorted Septembre, "I come and go as I please. If it was my choice, I would be sliming every felonious bastard on this planet, 24/7. But I only get one hour a year to cleanse the sinful, so-called men of faith in my abode. Such was my fate." "Was?" "Yeeess. Things change. I have bigger fish to fry now,... Friday. I'll be moving on... You're the key now, Friday, so you better damn well listen. You see, I'm not the only one who suffered, is suffering, and is going to suffer the evils of pedophile priests. You will confess to the world the sins of... my father and the brotherhood of death. You will confess to the congregations. You will confess to Almighty God and beg Jesus Christ for forgiveness - or you will suffer the same fate as... my father. Or your church will suffer an even greater haunting than I ever provided - one by one, five by five, six by six, eleven by eleven they will come forward with stories of their indignation." Septembre's ghostly figure phased timelessly next to the young bishop who was beginning to feel the ravages of the sub-zero weather due to his company. She leaned towards him and popped open the front port of his diving helmet in assurance, "You had better go in now, Friday - before your heart freezes as well as your face." Then the spirit smoothly transposed next to her ice figure and struck a pose as she put her arm around its shoulders and she began to vanish, "Mark my words, Friday. As ye sow..." Then she was gone. The next day, Friday told the archdiocese what had to be done. A year later he was excommunicated and the cathedral was sold to a different religious parish. |
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