At Seven Steeples

John Fogarty 3635 Chateau Lane Indianapolis, IN 46226 E-mail: [email protected]

1200 words All Rights © 2007, John Fogarty

At Seven Steeples By John Fogarty

“Horrible,” muttered my guest, Mr. Raven Row, upon scanning the evening headlines. “Perfectly horrible.” We were seated in the parlor of my Indiana home at the close of an unusually warm November evening, enjoying port and cigars. I had turned up the gaslights for our visitor, though I refrained from adding another log to the fire; the parlor was quite snug enough. Margaret, my dear wife, had just brought us a plate of cookies (which Row called “biscuits,” in the British fashion). He was president of an English shipping firm with which my company did business, and was here in the States on vacation. “This ‘Ripper’ fellow is nothing more than an animal — a beast!” he announced, glancing up from his newspaper. “Skulking about slashing prostitutes to pieces, then disemboweling—” “Please, Mr. Row,” I said, “it’s all most upsetting to my wife.” Row blinked, embarrassed. “Oh. Sorry, old chap, didn’t mean to —” “No need to apologize,” I assured him. “It’s just that Maggie has a weak stomach, poor thing, and that story has dominated the press of late. Frankly, we avoid the newspapers altogether.” I hoped I hadn’t insulted our guest. After all, Raven Row was a valued client, one whose supplier, The Ten Bells, provided him “a steady diet of cheap material,” as he put it, which he’d promised my firm. We stood to make a tidy profit.

At Seven Steeples

—2

An uncomfortable silence ensued. But Maggie, brave girl, stepped into the breach. Proffering our guest her most winning smile, she said: “I propose a change of subject.” “Hear, hear,” I said, puffing my cigar. “To what, my dear?” “A picnic.” “A picnic? At this hour?” “Yes, darling. Oh, I know it’s late, but the weather’s so lovely tonight.” “Jolly idea,” Row said, tossing his paper aside. “And I know just the spot — Seven Steeples.” “The lunatic asylum?” I asked. “I hear it’s lovely there,” said Row. “The woods, the pond, the —” “— The swans!” Maggie chimed in. “Oh, yes, darling, do say we’ll go.” Despite my misgivings, the idea did have merit. The grounds were beautiful there. But a picnic? At the local madhouse? It seemed a bit macabre. Still, anything to get away from the newspaper’s lurid accounts. I loaded the picnic baskets Maggie had already prepared (sly girl) into our coach, along with a bottle of champagne. It seemed on odd excursion — picnicking at night — but Maggie and Raven were much younger than I, and more adventurous. Perhaps I was an old stick-in-the-mud, as Maggie often claimed. Our carriage clattered along the cobblestone streets until we reached the National Road. This led three miles to the Central State Hospital for the Insane, an imposing gothic monstrosity built in 1845. Now, in 1888, it is better known as “Seven Steeples,” due to its tall arches, vaults and buttresses. A more ghastly place I cannot imagine.

At Seven Steeples

—3

Tales of brutality and horror there are legendary. Torture, suicide, murder and more all are part of the local lore; a catalogue of infamy. Why my dear Maggie would want to picnic there on a November night was more than I could fathom. I reined in the horses and climbed down from my seat to help Maggie from the coach. Row, gallant man, offered his assistance as well — an English gentleman to the core. When I reached for the picnic baskets and champagne, he stopped me. “Please, old fellow, let me carry those,” he offered. “Oh, no,” I demurred. “They aren’t that heavy, and I — A sudden scream shattered the darkness. It was a horrible, withering, soul-shrinking sound, coupled with a hint of depravity. The effect of that scream, there in the darkness, was completely unsettling. Then it came again. Somewhere, some poor soul was howling into the night. “One of the patients?” I asked. “Or, worse,” Row countered. “One of the nurses.” “Oh, darling,” Maggie whimpered. “I’m frightened.” “Now, now, it’ll be all right,” I said. “I’m not so sure,” Row said. “There are legends, I understand.” “Legends?” He nodded. “Of ghosts.” “Oh, Raven, really . . .” Maggie shivered beside me, glancing toward the horrible edifice. “Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.” “Ghosts,” Row repeated, “of the damned.”

At Seven Steeples

—4

“Nonsense,” I replied, grasping the picnic baskets more firmly. “You’re only trying to frighten us and it won’t work. We Yanks don’t scare so easily.” Row burst out laughing, the young rascal. “Very well, dash it. I was only trying to lend some atmosphere, what?” “What, indeed,” I said. “You two go on ahead, I’ll get the goods and catch up in a moment.” “No, darling, please . . .” Maggie tried. “Never fear, my dear,” said Row. “No bogeymen will get you tonight.” He offered her his elbow, and they stepped into the night. I clutched the baskets along with the champagne and glasses. But when I turned around to follow them, they were gone. I saw only darkness and the woods beyond. To the left of that was the frowning eminence of Seven Steeples. Presently a light appeared up ahead, near the shore. Row, stout fellow, must have brought a lantern. I trudged toward the light, determined to make quick business of this picnic, then return home with all haste. As I approached the lantern, I saw the outline of a bent, shadowy figure. I quickened my pace, hoping the light wouldn’t vanish before I reached it, all the while wondering where Maggie and Raven could be. When I got there, I found only an old night watchman, clutching his lantern and gazing into the darkness. “Excuse me,” I said, panting. “Did a young woman and a man in a dark cloak just come by here?” The old fellow cast a rheumy eye at me. “No one comes here.”

—5

At Seven Steeples

Panic rose in my breast. “But, surely my wife and my friend, Mr. Raven Row, came this way. You must have—” “Raven Who?” asked the man. I blinked, wondering what Row’s name had to do with anything. Either the watchman had seen him and my wife or he hadn’t. “Raven Row,” I answered, with some hauteur. “He’s a prominent British shipping executive, owner of The Ten Bells.” The old fellow now turned to face me, holding up his lantern as he did so. “Likely story,” he muttered. “Don’t you read the papers?” “No,” I replied. “Besides, what do the papers have to do with this?” “Raven Row is the name of a street in London. Whitechapel, actually, where those Ripper murders are going on.” My jaw fell open. “Wh-wha—” “And The Ten Bells is no shipping firm, either. It’s the pub where Jack the Ripper goes hunting for his victims. Don’t you know anyth—?” Another scream pierced the night, this one far worse than the last. And in a voice, dear God, in a voice I knew all too well. . . I dropped the baskets and champagne and raced toward the source of the screams — screams that were fading out and choking off in a horrid, gurgling sound. When I got to where the corpse of my poor Maggie lay leaking in the shadows, I could hear the fading footfalls of the fiend I thought my friend, as he vanished into the woods at Seven Steeples.

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