Chapel Perilous

By Steve Bartholomew

The only path to safety is through the most dangerous place in this world. Men pursue Benjamin for his wild talent, which he doesn't understand. His path will lead him to imprisonment, to a gay biker chick, a gypsy, and a certified lunatic. Among his allies is a woman from another world. His enemy wants his lunch money. Now come on a journey to the Chapel Perilous.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Gopher Books
• Release date: Oct 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215429624

Steve Bartholomew

I grew up in San Francisco, joined the Army after high school. That's where I got my most valuable education. Since then I've lived in a few other places, such as Mexico City and New York. Now I inhabit a small town in Northern California, where we have a volcano and a lake. What more could I ask? I have been writing since age 9. What more do you wish to know?

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Steve Bartholomew

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual people or events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2009 by Steve Bartholomew

Dark Gopher Books

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

Printed in the United States of America

First printing, 2009

Second edition 2017

Dedication

This tale is dedicated to the memory of the late

Robert Anton Wilson, who inspired many writers.

That every stout and determined materialist, arguing his rejection of the unseeable and the untouchable, lives in a phantom existence, from which he would fade away were it not for his support by invisibles—

The heat of his body—and heat has never been seen. His own unseeable thoughts, by which he argues against the existence of the invisible.

Charles Fort, Wild Talents

Chapter 1

He recalled certain incidents of his youth, even his infancy, when he’d sometimes encountered ghosts, or spirits. He remembered, for instance, at age seven or eight, he had wandered to the basement of an old house his parents were visiting, property of some great aunt he barely knew. Aunt Celina.

Yes, he remembered: a specter in the cellar, a glowing form shaped like a lady in a long gown. She said nothing, did nothing except turn and look at him, then vanished.

He returned upstairs, not in the least frightened, and told his mother about the spirit below. She laughed and assured him there were no ghosts. Upon overhearing, the great aunt’s face grew pale and her hands trembled, but she said nothing. Later, when his father heard about it, he grew angry, ordering him never to speak such devilish nonsense again.

Strange, he hadn’t remembered that event in years. He did recall his father’s words—Devilish, he’d said. His father had been a church goer, if not a good one.

Lately, he remembered there had been other times, spirits glimpsed, shades and specters. Some had frightened him, others not. There had been the time at his uncle Edward’s funeral when he was about age twelve. Uncle Ed, his favorite uncle and a practical joker, enjoyed showing up at family gatherings wearing a top hat and tails, with a gold-knobbed walking stick. He was something of a family scandal, a sometime drinker and carouser who kept a mistress.

He remembered his surprise at seeing his uncle, wearing his top hat and tails, mingling in the crowd by the graveside while the minister prayed. He wondered if this might be another of his uncle’s pranks.

Then his uncle turned, winked at him and whispered, Benjamin, old boy, I hope you’ll lead a better life than I did. As long as you’re not too bored.

Later, he considered mentioning this incident to his mother, but decided against it. He’d never told anyone else.

As he grew older, Benjamin had decided it didn’t matter much what other people thought. He didn’t need to pretend he couldn’t see the things he saw, and he found he could visit the spirit world more often. Usually, he went there in his sleep, but not always.

At night, he often found himself wide awake, but somewhere else. Sometimes he merely floated in the air above his body. Sometimes he discovered himself in a different place, conversing with strangers. One particular individual he found again and again, not every night at first, but two or three times a month. She appeared as a young woman, but oddly unisexual, usually wearing jeans and loose shirts.

One night she said to him, You see, Benjamin? You don’t need your property, your money, your clothes, or even your body. Lose them all, and you still have everything you need.

In reality, he never gave these events much thought—before his accident. Benjamin led what many would have considered a placid life, with no major crises. This was an illusion. In reality, though he never much considered the fact, his life had been a long series of crises narrowly averted because of luck or circumstance, through no particular act of his own.

He worked as corporate attorney for a local branch of a nationwide chain that marketed clothing. The company purchased most of their goods from overseas sweat shops, paying slave wages, and sold them in the U.S. for exorbitant prices. Most of Benjamin’s cases involved minor lawsuits or Workman’s Comp claims, usually resulting in out- of-court settlements and a great deal of paperwork. He never thought of himself as connected in any way with those glamorous lawyers on television, putting criminals in prison or defending the innocent. In fact, he rarely watched television, preferring books instead. If he found excitement or danger in his life, it took an internal form, not much visible to outsiders.

But the accident gave his life a new direction.

It happened returning from vacation, a one-week camping trip to a remote area far from the noise and concrete of the city. He’d spent most of his time reading, his normal occupation anyway. The best part of vacation, he reflected, was always coming back from it. On the highway about five miles from his apartment, a small car suddenly pulled out from a side street and cut in front of him.

Benjamin, startled, slammed on the brakes to avoid a rear-end collision. He never felt sure of exactly what happened next, except that he felt the car lurch sideways. He heard a screech of steel—an impact like a hammer blow as his body hit the seat belt, and the air bag exploded against his face.

Then he found himself floating somewhere. He knew not where, except that he felt warm and comfortable.  A soft, warm light surrounded him.  He sensed himself floating underwater, with sunshine filtering from above, as if he had become some sort of fish. The silence sounded like music.

He could have floated there forever, content and happy, not even curious.

But then a voice spoke close by his ear. Not your time yet, Benjamin. You don’t get off that easy.

He recognized the voice of the young woman he had met in other dreams.

Who are you? What do you want with me?

Questions. Call me Carlotta. You can’t stay here, Benjamin. You have to go back.

He floated, enjoying the warm bath of nothing. The light appeared blue, then golden.

Why can’t I stay here?

Because you still have a job to do, she said. A quest, if you like.

He felt only half interested. What sort of quest?

That, you will have to discover for yourself.

Then he heard a thud and a terrible crash. Someone screamed. He hung upside down in his seatbelt, staring at a shattered windshield.

A woman shouted, There’s someone still inside! And he’s dead! Oh, shit, Benjamin said. That’s me!

IT SEEMED A LONG TIME before the ambulance arrived, though in reality it took less than twenty minutes. As it turned out, Benjamin sustained no serious injuries. He had some scratches on his face, as well as minor whiplash. But no broken bones or damaged organs. The doctors sent him home from the hospital later that afternoon with a neck brace and pain killers. He took a cab, since his car, of course, was totaled.

After thinking it over, he decided to take a day or two off from work. He seldom needed to use sick leave, so that wasn’t a problem. He felt okay, but something bothered him. He felt he needed a day or two to think—about what, he wasn’t sure. He decided to see his doctor for a checkup, just to be safe.

HIS DOCTOR OBTAINED copies of his X-rays from the ER, poked and tapped him, and told him he was in good shape. He asked him if he needed something to help him sleep. Benjamin declined. He went home and tried to read.

But he couldn’t concentrate. He stared out the window for hours, thinking of nothing. Most of the time he couldn’t remember the accident at all—then it would come back to him in a painful flash, especially about Carlotta and what she had told him. At night he didn’t dream at all.

The day or two of sick leave turned into a week. The next week he forced himself to return to his office and a stack of paperwork. It was worse there. He found himself overwhelmed by blind panic, without reason or cause. He went to see his doctor again, who referred him to a psychiatrist.

BENJAMIN HAD TO WAIT a week before he could get an appointment with Dr. Mellan, the psychiatrist. In the meantime, he decided to put in for a leave of absence. He didn’t really need the income; he realized that with his modest life style he could survive indefinitely on income from investments. He spent most of the week going for walks in the park and staring out the window.

Every now and then, another buried memory would come back to him, moments of his childhood and even infancy. He recalled a time, around age eight, when he was invited to a boy’s birthday party. It was someone he scarcely knew, but an important family in town, pillars of the church. The party was to be held in the church basement—a fancy catered affair. At the last moment, Benjamin found himself overcome by terror. He refused to go, screaming and throwing himself on the floor. His father was at first disgusted, then afraid he might be having seizures. Benjamin’s mother finally called someone to apologize that Benjamin wasn’t well and would have to stay home from the party. Benjamin’s present was sent along in the care of another adult.

Twelve children at this catered affair ate spoiled ham. Four of them died, including the birthday boy. Benjamin’s mother wept for days. His father wouldn’t speak to him, as if it might be somehow his fault.

DR. MELLAN ASKED HIM if he had suicidal thoughts, which Benjamin denied. Dr. Mellan told him that he, Dr. Mellan, was a Freudian, which meant little to Benjamin. He asked Benjamin to talk about his childhood. Benjamin told him about the birthday party. Dr. Mellan seemed to listen carefully, but made no comment. He set an appointment for the following week.

Benjamin’s daily walks in the park became more extended. He walked for hours at a time, nearly to exhaustion, then went home to sleep. Oddly, he was still not dreaming. He had doubts about Dr. Mellan; it seemed good to talk about his thoughts, but the doctor never explained anything to him. Benjamin didn’t understand the process.

One day on his walk, he noticed a pleasant-looking neighborhood tavern. It looked like the sort of place where college students or yuppies might hang out. Benjamin rarely drank alcohol, but the day burned hot and he was thirsty. He went in, sat at the bar, and asked for a beer. There was no one else there except for the bartender, who wore a name tag: Luke.

You’re not the owner, are you? Benjamin said. How did you know?

Benjamin pointed at the name tag. If you owned the place, you probably wouldn’t be wearing that. I’d guess someone told you to put it on.

Luke laughed. You got that right. On the other hand, maybe everybody should wear a tag all the time. That could end a lot of confusion. Name and occupation. Your tag could say, John—the Banker, or George—the Plumber, or Harry—the Pickpocket.

They both laughed.

My name is Ben. He’d never before introduced himself to a bartender.

He had one beer and left, but two days later he dropped in again and had another beer and a brief conversation. At that time of day, it seemed there were rarely any other patrons in the tavern. A few days later, after Benjamin’s hour with Dr. Mellan, he stopped in again. He mentioned to Luke that he was seeing a psychiatrist.

A shrink, huh? Those guys get paid big bucks for advice I give out for free.

He hasn’t given me any advice yet, Benjamin said.

Somehow, in the course of the conversation, Benjamin related to

Luke the story of the birthday party.

Well, Luke mused, perhaps you’re feeling some kind of subconscious guilt feelings because you survived and they didn’t. Maybe your father tried to make you feel guilty, and some part of your mind bought into that.

You think? But why would I feel guilty? It wasn’t my fault.

The human mind, Luke explained, doesn’t always operate on a rational or logical level.

Interesting. Did you study psychology in school, Luke? Nah, just Mixology. But I like to read.

So do I. But wait a minute. There’s something missing.

So? Luke polished a glass, waiting. Benjamin stared at his half empty glass.

Yes. You’re missing the point. Maybe Dr. Mellan is too. The point is, why did I suddenly throw a fit and refuse to go to that party? I was terrified! How did I know something bad was about to happen?

Luke shrugged. You got me there. Maybe a little bird told you. Or maybe ... something else. Benjamin decided to order a second beer.

AT THE NEXT SESSION Dr. Mellan wanted him to talk about his parents and his childhood.

Lying on the couch, another memory came back to him. I remember something about a frog... Benjamin paused, as if the memory was still coming.

Frog? Dr. Mellan prompted.

Yes. I guess I couldn’t have been more than six at the time. Benjamin half-closed his eyes. We lived out on the edge of town. I had my own room, upstairs and down the hall from my parents. During the summer I always slept with the window open. There was a pond not far from the house, with a little woods beyond that. Now and then you could hear an owl hoot, or birds singing in the morning. I remember one night I awakened in the dark to a sound I hadn’t noticed before—probably it had been there all along—but I’d always slept through it before. It was a low whoomp, whoomp. I couldn’t imagine what it was. It scared me. I couldn’t get back to sleep. "Finally, I got up and went down to my parents’ room and tried to wake my dad. He told me to get back to bed and not bother him. So I went back to my room and closed the window, but I couldn’t get back to sleep.

"Well, to make the story short, the same thing happened several times that week. Maybe not every night—I must have slept through the noise sometimes. But one night I crept into my parents’ room and fell asleep on the floor. When my father found me there, he took me back to my room, stuck his head out the window, and listened for a minute.

That’s nothing but a frog, he told me.

I wasn’t convinced and over the next several nights it kept waking me up. It sounded like some kind of monster out there. Whoomp— whoomp! I kept sneaking back into my parent’s room. Finally, I guess my dad got fed up. One night he took me back to my room, made me get in bed, and told me he was going to tell me a story. A story about a frog.

Once upon a time, he said, "there was a prince who lived in a castle with his parents, the king and queen. Every night the prince was awakened by strange sounds beyond the castle moat. The sound frightened him. It went whoomp—whoomp! The prince couldn’t sleep.

"Finally, the king took pity on the prince and explained the sound was merely a frog. He promised to show the prince if he heard the sound again. The very next night the sound started up once more. So the king got out his lantern and took the prince out one of the castle’s side doors and across the moat into the dark woods. The swamp was inhabited by owls and other small creatures. ‘No monsters here,’ the king told the prince. ‘You can see there’s nothing worse than owls.’

"‘As they walked along, they kept hearing that dreadful sound— whoomp, whoomp. ‘You’ll see,’ the king said. ‘A tiny frog can make a frightful loud noise.’

"The sound got louder and louder, closer and closer. Finally it seemed the noise was coming from a dark pool directly in front of them. The king raised his bright lantern to reveal the creature, and shoved his son forward so he would be close enough to see.

Suddenly a giant frog emerged from the water. It was ten feet long and must have weighed a ton. It opened its mouth, went whoomp! Then its long, thin tongue shot forward, wrapped itself around the prince’s waist, and before the king knew what was happening, the boy was yanked into the creature’s enormous mouth. The frog said whoomp! again and sank below the dark water. The prince was never seen again.

When Benjamin had finished this narration, a long silence spun out.

Then Dr. Mellan said, Your father actually told you this story?

Yes. I guess there aren’t really any giant frogs, are there?

BENJAMIN DIDN’T TAKE the subway often unless he had a long way to travel. He preferred the