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Camp Chesterfield, Headquarters of the Indiana Association of Spiritualists
Chesterfield, Indiana
1925
Except for the light of a dim, red incandescent bulb, the seance room was shrouded in darkness. About half a dozen heavily perspiring men and women sat on a cluster of folding chairs, facing a curtained-off section at the front of the room. A silver trumpet, decorated with bands of luminous paint, bobbed above them. If one of them were to reach up and touch it, they would have felt it vibrating with the tones of the unearthly voice that spoke through it.
Or, rather, it vibrated with the tones of a second, unpainted trumpet of precisely the same size and shape, into which Madame Aziraphale, the Fabulous Medium, now spoke. The sound waves from the one caused a sympathetic buzz in the other, which Aziraphale thought was an extraordinarily clever trick. Meanwhile, the movements of the first trumpet were controlled by an entirely unmiraculous bit of string.
After all, getting people to believe without resorting to miracles was half the—no, not fun. Aziraphale knew full well how Head Office felt about that. Half the battle, that was it.
“Mrs. Payne,” said Aziraphale, struggling to maintain a tone of kindly indulgence, “the chapel, really? I distinctly remember that we discussed donating the bulk of your inheritance to the Child Welfare League.”
In the privacy of the manifestation cabinet (more of a makeshift booth with a curtain in front of it, really), Aziraphale had let his voice drop into its customarily deeper timbre. He now spoke not as Madame Aziraphale, the medium, but as Aziraphale the Principality, guardian of humanity and provider of good, solid spiritual advice. The change in his voice was his one concession to the miraculous. It hardly counted as a miracle, really, even if it did involve reconfiguring his larynx a little. The humans found the effect quite impressive, at any rate.
Getting the humans to believe that they were hearing the voice of an angel was not the issue. The problem was that they didn’t, on the whole, actually listen to him.
“Oh, but you’ve been so wonderfully inspiring, Principality,” gushed Mrs. Payne. “I simply had to give something back to Camp Chesterfield, to thank you for all you’ve done. Reverend Riffle’s been telling me about the awful state the chapel has fallen into, and how they’re trying to scrape together enough for a new cathedral, and . . . well!”
“Yes,” said Aziraphale, in measured tones, “and your generosity is surely appreciated.”
The other sitters murmured in agreement.
“One of the true faithful, our Sister Payne.”
“Amen!”
“An inspiration to us all!”
“Of course, yes, yes,” Aziraphale interjected. “Obviously, you are one of the most devoted members of our flock. But surely there are more deserving causes? Such as, for example, the, er, welfare of children?”
“Mrs. Payne,” said a gentleman in the front row, turning around in his seat, “if I may ask, how much was your donation? I feel moved by the Holy Spirit to follow your righteous example. Whatever it is, I’ll double it! Camp Chesterfield will finally have a cathedral worthy of its glory.”
“Mr. Phillips, if you please—” cut in Aziraphale, but his words went unheeded. He was drowned out in a chorus of hallelujahs and praise-bes.
The spirit horn withdrew with a jerk. Inside the cabinet, Madame Aziraphale massaged her temples with her perfectly manicured fingertips. She cleared her throat a couple of times, recalibrating the vocal cords.
“Oh, good heavens!” she cried over the din. “It seems we’ve lost our connection with the other side. Perhaps, if we all raise our voices in a song of praise, the Principality will grace us with his presence once more.”
There was a chorus of disappointed murmurs from the other side of the curtain. Wearily, she switched on the wireless radio that sat next to her in the cabinet, flooding the stuffy seance room with the turgid strains of a pipe organ churning out “All as God Wills.”
“Tough crowd?” said a velvety voice in her ear.
She gasped. “Crowley! What in the Almighty’s name are you doing in my cabinet?”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “I was sent by the proprietress of this establishment to check up on you.”
“What! Reverend Riffle sent you to—to spy on me?”
“Word’s got out that you’re encouraging the flock to donate their worldly wealth to worthy causes instead of fattening up the tithe basket. And of course, we can’t have that.”
“Infernal busybody!”
“Oi! I’m just the messenger.”
“I didn’t mean you. But what business could you possibly have in Chesterfield in the first place?”
“This and that. Catching up on the latest techniques for swindling the rich and credulous. Making sure the camp staff stay off the straight and narrow. Luring in fresh blood. My side’s been involved in this business since the beginning, you know. I knew the Fox sisters when they were just starting out. Gave them pointers on their toe cracking routine.”
“I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Nice dress, by the way.”
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, lowering her eyelashes demurely and smiling in spite of herself. “Thank you. It’s Parisian.” No, no, this wasn’t the right tone to take at all. After all, they were Hereditary Enemies. What’s more, they’d parted last on rather a bad note. In fact, it struck her that Crowley had some nerve, slithering into her booth and acting as though absolutely nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “I certainly hope you’re not here to muck up my good work with your demonic influences,” she added, this time with a generous measure of cold hauteur.
“Going well, is it?”
She slumped in her seat. “As a matter of fact . . . no. Oh, Crowley, what am I going to do? These people are driving me to distraction!”
He clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Not buying the act, eh?”
“Oh, they buy it,” she sighed ruefully. “Hook, line, and sinker. I hardly even have to try and put on a good show. I haven’t had the heart to use this,” she added, pulling a length of filmy muslin “ectoplasm” from her décolletage. “It just seems like . . . low-hanging fruit, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
“One of my favorites. What’s the problem, then?”
“The problem is that they take exactly what they want to hear from whatever I say. One might as well try to inspire a brick.”
“Ah. Humans are very good at that,” said Crowley, with a hint of fondness. “Truthfully, Angel, it hasn’t been going all that well on my end, either.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t think the people running this dump really need my help. They’re doing just fine fleecing all these orphans and widows on their own. Some of the really good ones go home with suitcases of money at the end of the day, and I can tell you they aren’t spending it on the betterment of mankind or whatever it is you’re peddling. And you should see what goes on in the other seance rooms! One lady was so desperate to ‘commune’ with her dear, departed husband, if you know what I mean, that she actually asked the medium to—“
“Spare me the lurid details!”
“Yes, well, my point is, I’ve got nothing to do here. ’S boring.”
Aziraphale fidgeted with her pearls. “Meanwhile, all mine are interested in is getting their names up on a plaque in the new cathedral. It seemed like such a plum assignment, too!”
Crowley pondered for a moment—never a good sign. Then, he leaned in conspiratorially. “Listen, what if I gave you a hand?”
“What?”
“Maybe if I went out there and played devil’s advocate, as it were, they’d be more inclined to listen to—what is your angle, here, anyway? Channeling their ‘guardian angel’?”
“Naturally. But . . . do you really think that would work?”
“Probably not, if I’m being honest. But these humans are gonna do what they’re gonna do regardless. Might as well have a little fun, give them a proper show, right? One last hurrah before we blow this joint. Whatever happens, we’ll at least have something to report back to our respective head offices.”
Aziraphale felt a frisson of anticipation. She’d never admit it to him, of course, but it was always delightful to watch Crowley at work. She quickly pushed the feeling down. “I-I really don’t think it would be wise,” she said, looking away. “Especially given what we discussed at our last encounter. Perhaps it’s best if we don’t continue to—”
She wasn’t looking, but she felt Crowley’s grin fade as she spoke. “Fraternize?” he finished flatly.
She started to put a hand on his wrist, but thought better of it. “Please, Crowley. You know what I meant. Anyway, maybe it won’t do any harm, this once. I would very much like to get back to London and my books.” She smiled wanly. “I’ll tell Head Office I had to cut my work short due to demonic interference.”
The grin returned. Crowley adjusted his boutonniere, ran a hand over his brilliantined hair, and rose to his feet. “Right.”
---
Crowley’s entrance was electrifying. He emerged from behind the curtain in a puff of sulfurous smoke, a cold laugh rising in his throat. He’d taken off his glasses, and his golden eyes cut swaths through the darkness like a pair of automobile headlamps.
The hymn dissolved into a chorus of panicked gasps and cries. Mrs. Payne swooned into the arms of the woman sitting next to her. The organ music on the wireless rose to a dramatic crescendo.
“What is this?” someone shrieked. “Madame Aziraphale!”
“Oohhh,” she groaned from within the cabinet, “I’m terribly sorry, brothers and sisters. It seems there is an inimical force among us. Perhaps even something . . . demonic.”
“Evening, folksssss,” said Crowley, eliciting a second round of screams and gasps.
“Now, don’t panic,” Aziraphale went on. “These things happen from time to time when we draw aside the veil. Sing, brothers and sisters! I’m sure our angel will soon return and banish this intruder.”
“Quiet, you old ssstick in the mud,” Crowley snarled. “What’re we here for today? Chatting with our guardian angel, is it? I suppose he’s telling you to give your money to the dessserving poor or some such tripe?”
“Begone, demon!” quavered Mr. Phillips. “Y-you’re not welcome here. This is a sanctuary of peace and light!”
“Now, I thought all were welcome here. Mr. Phillips, is it? I’ve heard you’re one of the most faithful members of our little flock. Your largesse is certainly wonderful news for ussss.”
“What do you mean, ‘us’?”
Aziraphale peeked around the curtain, enthralled. This was really quite good. Crowley threw his head back for another bone-chilling laugh.
“The proprietors of Camp Chesterfield, of course,” said Crowley, “and their esteemed patrons, my colleaguessss, the princes and dukes of Hell!”
As he spoke those last words, the organ music sputtered out on the wireless and an extremely disagreeable voice cut in.
“Yes, hello? What is it, I’m on lunch break.”
Aziraphale stifled a gasp with one hand and fumbled for the knob on the wireless with the other. All was silent except the confused murmurs of the sitters.
“Nyegh,” said Crowley.
“Well, what is it, then?” snapped the voice. “I haven’t got all day.”
“Oh, hey, Hastur,” Crowley managed faintly. “I, er, wasn’t actually trying to call. You know how it is with this new human technology, got to be careful what you—“
“Speak up, you’re all staticky. What’s wrong with your connection, then? Almost sounds like . . . divine interference.”
“Oh, no, that’s—“
“Right. I’m coming up.”
“What? No, you don’t need to do—”
It was too late. The room filled with the odour of evil—much like Crowley’s, but distinctly more pungent. Hastur trickled in through the mesh of the radio’s speaker cabinet and assembled himself in the booth, directly in front of Aziraphale. He yanked the curtain aside and was greeted by a fresh chorus of screams.
“What’s goin’ on?” he growled.
“Hastur!” Crowley gave him a half-hearted grin. “Gosh, you really didn’t have to drop in like this.”
“Did you just say ‘gosh’?”
“Everything’s under control here, as you can see . . .”
Hastur sniffed the air, then rounded on Aziraphale. “I knew it! Isn’t this that knob from the Eastern Gate?”
“Ah. Hello,” said Aziraphale.
“Yes,” said Crowley hurriedly, “my great adversary, the Principality Aziraphale. Aziraphale, Hastur. Actually, I was right in the middle of a good thwart, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .”
A slow grin spread across Hastur’s face. “Well, well. We’ve all heard so much about you. Truth be told, I’ve always wanted to thwart one of these smug bastards myself. What’s the plan, then?”
Clearly, the time for action had arrived. In this place, where no one would question it, Aziraphale shed his human guise. A flowing robe took the place of the silk gown. His wings unfurled, and a fiery halo blossomed behind his head. Crowley put his sunglasses back on.
“Er, be not afraid,” said Aziraphale to the cowering humans. “I banish you, foul demons, to the depths from whence ye came!”
Crowley elbowed Hastur. “Now we’ve really got him going. No use trying to do anything with him when he’s like this. Let’s go before the smiting starts.”
“What,” said Hastur, sounding more confident than he looked. “Just turn tail and run?”
Aziraphale reached beneath the collar of his robe and drew out a vial of holy water on a fine gold chain. “I suggest that you do exactly that.”
Crowley withdrew into the shadows. With a blood-curdling shriek, Hastur slithered back through the speaker of the wireless and was gone.
---
Aziraphale was both relieved and perturbed to find Crowley standing in her dressing room when she returned.
“Sorry about all that,” Crowley said as she walked in. “If I’d known you had a wireless in there—“
“Oh, Crowley,” she cried, hastily shutting the door, “I’d no idea you could communicate with Downstairs that way! Whose benighted idea was that?”
“I dunno. Some daft idiot.” He looked away and scuffed the floor with the toe of his snakeskin shoe. “Were the humans impressed, at least?”
“I should say so. The chequebooks practically flew out of their pockets. No doubt Camp Chesterfield will soon have a cathedral that puts the Duomo of Milan to shame.”
Crowley winced apologetically. “Well, I suppose I’ll get another engraved ashtray from Corporate out of it.”
“I thought Hell was a no-smoking area.”
“It is.” He sighed. “That was too close a call.”
“Yes.”
“D’you . . . always carry holy water on you like that?”
Aziraphale’s hand moved to her bosom, where the vial still rested. “No,” she said guiltily. “Only on assignments where there’s a risk of encountering agents of the occult who are less, ah, congenial.”
“Good job you had it on you today.”
There followed the kind of awkward silence that can only occur between two beings who have been honing the art of politely avoiding uncomfortable discussions for the better part of 6000 years.
“Yes, well,” said Aziraphale at last, “I’d best be packing. And, ah . . . where are you going next?”
Crowley rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Tunis, I think. Word is there’s another Crowley in the occultism biz. Figure I’d better get things sorted with this wanker before people start to get the wrong idea.”
“Well! Best of luck.”
“Thanks.”
“And, er, Crowley . . .”
“Mmm?”
Her hand closed around the vial of holy water. “Oh, nothing. ‘Til next time, then?”
“Au revoir, Angel,” said Crowley, and he slid off into the night.