It was the second night before Christmas. Jimy waited at the door, his heart pounding in fear. A violent rainstorm lashed the shattered walls of the broken skyscraper. The knock, when it finally came, was barely audible above the crash of lightning and thunder.
“Wh…who is it?” he called. His voice trembled and threatened to break.
“I’m Slimecat,” came the response.
In order to catch the guarded reply, he had to hold his ear to the panel. Jimy flung the door open. A woman stood in the darkened corridor. She brushed forcibly against him in her fervid entry. “Quick! Close it!”
He slammed and bolted the door almost before she was in the room. She was a slightly darker silhouette in the almost lightless chamber. He was unable to distinguish her features, could not tell whether she were young or old. From the way she moved he guessed that she was in her late twenties or early thirties. It didn’t matter. She was ragged and stank; they all did.
Jimy was a chimney director. His occupation made him slightly dirtier than the run-of-the-mill citizen but not markedly so. People seldom bathed. Soap was almost unobtainable. The few who could read knew what soap was only from the ancient magazines they unearthed in the city ruins.
A corner of the room was stacked with cylindrical devices. They were smokeshaft bombs—a booby trap that was installed in the chimney and set off by anyone, or anything, tripping a wire across the top of the stack. The bomb discharged a column of flame that roared up the chimney and vented into the sky as a brilliant display of fire. The rest of the room appeared to be cluttered with old and moldy books in all stages of disrepair. Sometimes Jimy demanded his fee in books.
He stared at the visitor, attempting to determine what she looked like. “You barely made it,” he told her in an undertone. “Another five minutes and I would not have opened the door for our Heavenly Father…not since it’s learned to make voices.”
“I thought passwords were sure-fire,” she said. Her voice grated against his ear. He replied,
“It isn’t sure-fire. Somehow it learned them. I took a big chance in letting you in.”
“I took a bigger chance in coming.”
The storm continued to rise. It beat against the building and scoured the streets. Much of it found itself inside the skyscraper. Their only illumination was cast by the lightning. Candles were available but they were very expensive. Jimy had a couple that he lighted only on special occasions. The broken window offered no protection against the wind and rain. She added, “I want to get out of here before the demon comes.”
“You’re too late; it’s after midnight.”
“If that is so, I claim the right of refuge.”
“Of course. I did not intend to turn you out.”
She set a foul-smelling burlap sack on the floor. There was not enough light for her purpose. She said, “Start a fire. Where is she?” He indicated a corner partitioned off from the rest of the room by a makeshift curtain of rags.
“She is behind that.” He was referring to his wife, who had died in childbirth. She said,
“When did she go to sleep?”
“Two days ago. Why?”
“The mayor wants all the information he can collect on the people in his borough. What was her name? Why did she go?”
“Her name was ‘Lady.’ Don’t most women go when babies come?”
She ignored the question. “Why did it take you two days to send for me?”
“I had some jobs to do and couldn’t spare the time.”
“No job is more important than plague prevention.”
“These were.” He swept a hand at the cylindrical bombs. “I get lots of calls for them around this time. The mayor is a friend of mine. I set one of these up in his chimney. He’ll back me up if you try to make trouble for me.”
She sighed. “I guess that’s enough for the census.” She looked at the branches. “Where’s that light I asked you for?”
“I’m not using THEM. They go around my door. Pine is the only thing that will keep them out. I sell lots to the neighbors, too.”
“That’s superstition. Pine isn’t going to keep Santa out if he wants to come in.”
Jimy scrabbled in another corner. He located some sticks of firewood. By the light of the fire they began tending to his dead wife. Finally he asked her, “What’s your name?”
“I’m Merka. What do your friends call you?”
“I’m Jimy, the sweeper.”
The elements continued to battle. Lightning crashed against thunder but the noise was insufficient to cloak the new sound. Almost hypnotically, their eyes focused in the direction of the door. The sound was that of an elevator. It stopped. After a few minutes it started again, becoming louder as it descended. Jimy said, “It’s stopping at every floor. We have no fireplaces. That’s a symbolic chimney.”
“How long will it take to get here?”
“It’s hard to say. Sometimes it spends an hour on one floor, sometimes only a few minutes. There’s ten floors between us.”
“Then we got time to get out. Maybe he won’t come this far down.”
“Maybe the moon is made of green cheese. We’ll go by way of the fire escape. I’m not going to leave Lady to him.”
She continued to work. Suddenly he raised a hand to stop her. “Listen!” He cupped his ear and looked upward. They heard the thunderous reports of iron slamming down a corridor above them. “That’s Santa. They say he wears iron shoes. Maybe we ought to stop for awhile and hide on the fire escape. They say it never goes outside in the rain.”
“It had to go outside in the rain to get here.”
“No! It just vows itself to be here and it’s here.”
The elevator doors crashed open.
“What about your wife and baby?” Merka asked. “If we leave them behind it will be satisfied with them and not come looking for us.”
“No demon is going to take my wife and child. We’ll take them with us. We can use the subway.”
“Even if we make it, you know the streets at night are alive with wild dogs. We’d have to spend the night on the fire escape.”
“Maybe the dogs won’t come out in the storm. The thunder hurts their ears.”
“It isn’t likely the storm will keep them away. They’re too hungry.”
He worked his way onto the fire escape. Merka held the rigid burden to him. He took it out the rest of the way. They worked as quietly as possible, trying not to evoke the metallic shudder of the rickety ironwork. A violent gust of wind struck the side of the building and momentarily threatened to blow them into space. They clung desperately to the railing. In spite of their efforts, their movements set up a clatter that traveled up and down the length of the fire escape.
“Maybe Santa will think it’s the storm,” Jimy said, knowing full well the elements were not enough to cover the noise they made. The thing in the elevator seemed to have supernatural hearing. The doors banged shut and it descended to their level. Jimy and his companion moved cautiously. The ramshackle fire escape responded to the least move they made with a tremble. Metal vibrated against itself like iron hands applauding a concert of steel. It was almost as if the iron and rust were anxious to betray them.
Between them, they managed to carry the rigid bodies of Jimy’s wife and baby to the next lower level. Then Jimy was forced to put it down. Rain made the grating slippery. He was afraid of dropping the body and following it over the hand-rail. He started upward again.
“Where are you going?”
“To listen at the window. There are three rooms before it gets to mine. It will knock on every door.”
She followed him back to their floor. It was not because he attracted her or that she felt any loyalty to him as an employer, but because she was curious and afraid of remaining alone with the bodies. She clutched at his ragged coat as they ascended.
“You’re crazy. Let’s work our way down to the first landing and wait there for morning. The collector will come around and we’ll be able to get rid of the bodies right away. It will be safer than here.”
He pretended not to hear. They made it to his room and perched on either side of the window. “Listen! Listen!” The elevator stopped. The doors crashed open. Something stepped into the hall. Jimy whispered, “It’s Santa.”
Above the gigantic thumps of the footsteps they were able to hear the subdued noise of something being dragged across the floor. “It’s his sackful of ‘presents’ for good little boys and girls.”
The corridor shook. Each time they impacted with the floor the footsteps drowned out the violence of the storm.
“I’ve heard them before,” Jimy said in a fear-clogged voice. “Always at Christmas….whenever there was a storm. Every time, it would kill someone and drag them away.”
Merka turned away from him. Her head was in the window and lightning silhouetted her on the far wall. Her voice trembled. “The footsteps have stopped.”
“It is at Molly’s and Petey’s room. They’re in the country looking for mushrooms. They’re not back yet.”
A voice came. “Let me in or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your door in.”
“You heard that! That means that he thinks they have been bad children and he’s going to take them away.”
An interlude of intense silence followed the demand. There was a horrendous thunderclap against the silent door. But then it lurched away from the door as if, suddenly, it was aware that its intended prey was absent.
Merka drew closer to Jimy. She trembled so violently that it was only with difficulty that he heard what she was saying. “What will it do next?”
“It will forget Molly and Petey for a year. Now it will go on to Billy Blacksmith. The next room is his. But it won’t be able to knock his door down so easy—it’s made of solid iron. Billy made it himself. Besides, he isn’t home either. Then it will be Grace and Ordie’s turn. And after them, US!”
The heavy iron feet lurched in their direction. Jimy counted the strides. Fifteen footsteps later they halted. He said, “It’s in front of Billy’s.”
Again they heard the dreadful voice but the demand was different. “Open this door and let me in! I have something nice for you. Slimecat! Slimecat!”
Jimy whispered, “I told you that it knows the passwords almost as soon as we do.”
There was no response from the blacksmith. Jimy repeated, “He ain’t home either.”
Metal reverberated against metal but these blows were light, almost deferential compared to the one inflicted on the first door. There was a pause as if it awaited an answer and when one was not forthcoming, there was a renewed series of gentle taps.
“He’s not trying to knock it down,” Merka said.
“That means Billy has been a good boy.”
There were rapid taps in series as if a nail were being driven into wood. “It is leaving Billy a present hanging on a nail in the lintel above the door,” Jimy said. They heard a merry jingle and a hearty “Ho! Ho! Ho!” and then silence. “He’s finished with Billy.”
The footsteps came in their direction but stopped before reaching Jimy’s room. He said, “Grace and Ordie ARE home. The Good One help them! Sure wish WE had an iron door.”
“Let’s hope the pine boughs will keep it away. The Evil One must hate trees. I heard Hell has none.”
“They hate people who use pine branches to keep them away, too.”
“Can’t they get out on the fire escape too?”
The footsteps halted before the adjoining room. “No! They haven’t got a window to get out of.”
The voice thundered, “Let me in! Let me in! Or I’ll blow your door in!”
Jimy thought he heard a scrabbling noise through the flimsy wall separating the rooms, as of mice scurrying into the woodwork. He said, “They haven’t got a chance.”
The ringing crash of iron on wood smote their ears. This was followed by the splintering of a door and the high-pitched scream of a woman in mortal fear. Jimy turned his face to hide the shame he felt. “There’s nothing I or anyone can do to help.”
The second scream stopped as if cut off with scissors. A man cried out and cursed his helplessness. They heard things being thrown at the intruder. Objects clanged and rebounded off an iron body. Jimy listened in impotence and fear. There was a tremendous uproar and then silence. Merka whispered, “It will come here next. Let us get away while we can.”
“It isn’t necessary. It takes only one family a floor. We are safe now, until next year.”
When the visitor had departed, Merka asked, “Has anyone ever seen Santa and lived?”
“I don’t know. Somebody may have. There’s all kinds of stories. Some say he’s taller than the tallest man and all black. It’s got horns on its head and machine oil in its veins. Some say it’s death to look on him.”
Their torch cast a fitful glow as they went through Grace and Ordie’s room to see what they had left. There was nothing there worth taking. A body hung outside Billy’s room, his present for the year. Last year he had left Santa a pair of iron shoes, which it was now wearing, and this year he had left it an iron hat, which it had taken. Grace and Petey’s door was almost smashed in. Another blow would have opened it, but it must have sensed they were not at home. How did it get this information about them?
They returned to his room. Someone called, “Jimy, is that you?” A doorway opened, disgorging a dark ragged outline with a giant crucifix swaying against its chest. Jimy introduced them.
“Father Doane conducted the exorcism…”
“That failed so ignominiously. At least it didn’t get as far as your room. I did everything correctly. The undertaking was blessed by our bishop, but it failed.”
Merka wanted to know what procedure was necessary for an exorcism. The priest said, “Every demon answers only to its own name. An exorcism intended for a specific horror is useless against another. I was very careful. We’ve always known the name of the monster that afflicts this building.”
Jimy stepped over the branches and entered his room. Merka and the priest followed. A grubby gray dawn was sending exploratory fingers into the room through the broken masonry. The storm had turned into a gentle rain which promised to cease when the sun was fully awake. “One more night before Christmas,” Jimy said. “One more visit from Santa.”
Father Doane asked, “What are your intentions?”
“First, I must bring my wife and baby down the steps and into the street for the collector. Then we shall see.”
“Would you like me to recite a service over her?”
“It won’t hurt. You might say a few words over that poor fellow in the corridor.”
“Of course! Of course!”
Merka said, “Can we have a cup of hot water before we start? I’m so tired and I’m perishing with hunger.”
Jimy nodded. He drew a bucket of rainwater into the room from the fire escape. Merka knew from many visits to such rooms that there was little or no food to be shared. Even the once-abundant rats and cockroaches abandoned the buildings for safer environments. But a conscientious host at least offered a guest or visitor hot water. Jimy surprised them by sharing a piece of bread.
Father Doane excused himself for a few moments to pray over the tortured remnants of what had once been a human being. “The Good One take your soul,” he said, tracing a religious symbol in the air with his crucifix. Then he joined them on the fire escape. He and Jimy lifted the corpse of his wife and Merka put the baby into a sack. They began their downward journey.
The rain ceased entirely by the time they reached the first landing. They sat on the grate to await the collector, instead of dropping into the street where they would be at the mercy of two-footed and four-footed predators. Dawn did not always banish the animals back to their lairs. Now sunshine parted the curtain of clouds, for which they were duly grateful.
A voice was raised in the distance. It compelled their attention. It was the one they had been waiting for. A procession came toward them from a side street. The voice became distinct.
“Bring out your dead, morning collection.”
The collectors traveled in bands as protection against dangerous animals and humans who did not respect the legal strictures regarding the use and disposal of the deceased. The wheels on the cart were mismatched. It turned a corner and approached them. The cart was drawn by six brawny, almost naked men. The leader, who was on the outside right, wore a rope around his neck. It was held by an individual who, from the splendor of his uniform and air of authority, could be none other than the collector himself.
The human dray animals were preceded by four marchers who clashed their grotesque cymbals together and raised their voices to the sky in simulated howls. The resultant cacophony was enough to drive away any wild animals that might consider attacking them. The tail of this column was safeguarded by ragged men armed with clubs. The collector chanted his endless message through a tarpaper megaphone. A rope belt girdled his waist and from it jangled an assortment of rusty tin cans. Pieces of shining metal and bits of colored glass were sewn onto an ancient swallowtail coat. An arrangement of plastic and aluminum pieces were stitched across his chest and down the sleeves. He saw them waiting for him.
“You! Up there! Do you have any dead?” Jimy held up two fingers. “Got their fares?”
“One of them is a baby. She should only have to pay half fare.”
“Full fare! Full fare! What do you think we are, a charitable organization?”
He guided the cart under them by pulling on the rope around the drayman’s neck. He saw Grace and Ordie in the cart. “The rat catchers found them in the cellar of your building,” the man said. “Sanitary laws say we have to accept them. You should pay their fares if you know them.”
“I’m no reliefer. I’m a professional man.”
“All right, then. Just tip yours into the cart.” He was wanting a tip. They got the bodies into the cart and Father Doane intoned a few words and motioned with his cross. Jimy paid the fee with five metal washers, shined well because rust depreciated money. He added two more as a tip.
“Divide them fairly.”
“I always do.”
Business concluded, the procession left the street. Merka remarked caustically, “That hullabaloo ought to scare any self-respecting hyena out of its skin.” He paid her for her work and she asked him, “Do you want to take up with me?” The men weren’t surprised at the offer, for Jimy had a trade and that made him a desirable catch in the matrimonial market. He agreed, took her hand in his and faced Father Doane.
“I pronounce you man and wife,” he told them.
Jimy said, as soon as the priest lowered his crucifix, “I want us to do a little talking when we get back to our floor. Remember, there’s still one night before Christmas.”
They returned by the same rickety, unsafe iron steps. Each floor was governed by a different clique that required passports to travel from one floor to another. But the fire escape was free to everyone at all times. They entered Jimy’s room through the window. The priest asked, “What is it that we have to talk about?”
Merka busied herself around the room surveying her new domain. She eyed the books critically as if they took up more than their share of space. Jimy said, “We are going to get at least one more visit from Santa. Santa is a symptom of how we now live. It is the embodiment of illiteracy, disease, starvation, superstition, and fear. We created him out of our despair. Why didn’t your exorcism work?”
“I have already admitted I don’t know. It just didn’t. I studied the ritual for a month before Christmas. I did everything right but it was of no use.”
“Have you never come face to face with him?”
“Of course not. No man can face a demon and live.”
“Do you still have the ritual the bishop gave you?”
“Yes. It is in my room.”
“Go get it! In return, I will treat us all to a dinner. I have a friend who runs an eating place.”
The offer made Father Doane scurry out of the room. He came back with a closely-written sheet. Jimy studied it. “Who wrote this?”
“His Excellency, the bishop.”
“His handwriting is a bit shaky.”
“He’s quite old. In his forties, if I recall. But he explained it. I made no mistakes.”
“I’ve got to compare this against the original. There IS an original, isn’t there?”
“It is in a big red book. He copied this from it.”
Merka, conscious of her new capacity as a wife, reminded her husband, “We got to get food before it’s dark.”
Jimy gave her two stainless steel washers. Her eyes widened. Then she complained, “I can’t go alone. I’ll get killed on the streets.”
“You can go out with Father Doane and myself. We will be leaving in a few minutes. You can shop along the way.”
The priest asked, “Where are we going?”
“To visit your bishop. I must find why a supposedly fool-proof exorcism failed. How well can he read?”
“Better than me but probably not as good as you.”
“I take it that he actually copied this banishing ritual from the big red book and instructed you as to how the exorcism should be conducted?”
“Yes, he took pains to make it as simple as possible so that I would not err.”
They waited on the bottom landing of the fire escape, as they had for the collector. When an armed patrol went by, they fell in behind them. The short column of two dozen people traced a predetermined route through the city. Some fell out when they reached their destination, to be replaced by newcomers who had completed their errands. Jimy would have preferred to go directly to the bishop’s palace but kept his promise to Merka and the priest. He waved them out of the column when they reached the burnt-out shell of an ancient streetcar.
Black, greasy smoke rose from the improvised stove. Water boiled in cauldrons converted from oil drums. Bits of meat and vegetation, stirred up by the cook, roiled to the surface and sank again. A soiled waiter in rags ushered them to an overturned box with a wave of an unclean hand. A stained square of cardboard protruded from under his arm. “Today’s menu, sir.”
There was but one selection on it. Jimy held up four fingers to indicate the number of orders. He said to the waiter, “One to go!” and explained to his companions that the extra order would be used to soften up the bishop.
The bishop’s palace was a number of boards leaning against an inside wall of a demolished church. The boards were covered with tarpaper to keep out the rain. The old man stood on a nearby street corner soliciting food with a bowl extended to passers-by. He brightened visibly when Jimy gave him his offering. They talked under the lean-to while the bishop ate.
When finished, he thanked Jimy. “I am grateful to you. The fact that you are accompanied by Father Doane leads me to suspect an ulterior purpose to this visit. I am at your service.”
Jimy outlined his problem. The bishop nodded. “You merely want to compare the ritual of exorcism I gave to the good father against its source.” He pointed to the large red volume protected from the elements by a wrapping of oilcloth. “Please help yourself. I will answer any question you may care to ask.”
It wasn’t what they wanted. Jimy inquired about Father Doane’s petition and found it was being used as a bookmark. The bishop drew it out of a battered Bible and handed it to Jimy. The chimney director was electrified. “Are you sure this is what Father Doane gave you?”
“Certainly. All requests for exorcism must be submitted in writing. There’s his signature.”
Jimy sat on the floor. “I think I see where the error is.” He pressed his finger on a certain word in the request. “What is that?”
The bishop peered near-sightedly at the writing. “That’s ‘Santa’.”
Jimy turned to Father Doane. “The name of the demon—where did you get it from?”
“I copied it from a sign.”
“Then the writer of the sign…suppose he couldn’t write too well…?” He dropped a couple of rounds into the bishop’s ever-receptive hand. “I’m going to ask you to let me copy another ritual.”
It was dark when they returned to his room. Father Doane and Jimy pored over the new ritual of exorcism. Merka had managed to do her shopping and was boiling water.
“It’s incredible!” the priest remarked.
“I thought of the error factor when you implied that neither you nor the bishop could read well. You also said that these exorcisms, when directed against specific demons, have never been known to fail.”
Merka served hot water. “Are you really going to try again—after last night?”
“Absolutely!” the priest declared with new-found fervor. “It mustn’t be allowed to go on slaughtering people year after year. Tonight will be our last opportunity this year.”
“The Good One hasn’t been protecting us because the wrong ritual was used,” Jimy said.
Father Doane added, “I’m going to face him tonight. I’m exorcising from the hall.”
“Good luck!” They drank hot water and talked until the descending elevator brought them back to the business in hand. Jimy stood. “He’s coming!”
Father Doane stood also. “You and Merka stand on the fire escape and be ready to run. I’ve blessed some of your rope and stretched it across the hall. I don’t think it can pass that. But…well, you know…play it safe.”
The elevator stopped at their floor. Its corroded doors were flung back with a titanic crash. Iron feet reverberated on the floor. Quickly, the priest, with a candle in hand, slipped out of the room and disappeared into the hall. Jimy eased the bolt back into place. “If he fails, the pine branches will keep it out.”
Merka ran to the door and slipped the bolt back. “He’s got to have some place to run to…like he said, ‘just in case’.”
The corridor almost shook and a brazen cry of triumph rent the air. Jimy uttered three words that sounded like a peal of doom. “It’s seen him.” Iron feet slammed across the floor. They heard Father Doane raise his voice.
“Halt, you thing of filth, ill-begotten spawn of the abyss!”
They almost tasted its surprise. “It isn’t used to being talked back to,” Jimy said. He threw the door open and surged into the corridor closely followed by his wife. The light was almost blinding. Father Doane was surrounded by a blue aura. Merka cried, “The shield of the Good One.”
It was like staring into a blinding sun. With his crucifix aloft, Father Doane read from the new ritual, obtained only hours ago from the bishop.
“Go, you putrid thing! Dismay not these premises. The Good One curse you for the abomination you are and send you back to the black pit. Merry Christmas.”
His words rang out clear and challenging. The thing reeled from the impact and began to shrink. An oily gibbering inflicted itself upon their ears. It quickly became fainter as if vanishing into distance.
Father Doane stabbed at the demon with his cross. It cried in agony and whipped an iron arm across its face. Then it fell, shedding iron cogs and gears. There was no menace to them, they were just scrap.
Jimy’s voice broke the silence. “It couldn’t have happened at a better spot. Billy Blacksmith is always looking for iron.” He squeezed Merka’s hand.
The priest lowered his crucifix and turned to Jimy. “We have had a long hard day. Let us have another cup of hot water and turn in.”
They sat and talked, long after the priest had left. Merka said, “Why did the exorcism work this time but not the last?”
“The ritual Father Doane used the first time was directed against another demon. I thought all along that the trouble was in the writing. Father Doane saw an old tin sign in front of this building and he thought it read, “Haunted by Santa.” He can’t read too well. His petition to the bishop requested an exorcism against “Santa.” It should have read, “An exorcism against Satan.”
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