"Erick's entire new wardrobe - You want to try him on, son?" Uncle John said with a laugh.
"Okay, can I use your bathroom to change, Uncle?" Erick asked.
"Sure, but why don't you use Luke's room, there's more room in there to move around, and he has a full-length
mirror if you need to make any adjustments," Luke's dad said happily.
"Dad?" Lukw whined.
"Come on, Luke, let's put you on," Erick said grabbing Luke's cock and leading him to his own room.
"Oh, I get it," Luke said, "You're all putting me on!"
"No, just Erick is putting you on. You belong to him, and from now on you'll be anything he wants to wear, so
he'll be wearing you practically 24/7, and I won't have to buy him any more clothes," Uncle John said merrily,
"Isn't that great, bro?"
"Sure is, John. Oh, and I guess since Erick will be wearing Luke, Marge and I won't have to buy his clothing
any more. Let's see last year we spent nearly $2000 on clothing for him including his sports gear and team
uniform. That's enough for that Hawaiian vacation we've been putting off, Marge!" he said pleased at the
thought.
"Hawaii would be nice..." Marge said in a distracted voice. Something was bothering her. She had barely
talked all night. She couldn't figure it out herself, but everything seemed to feel wrong. She was sure that
John wasn't even her husband's brother - no he was, but somehow he wasn't. It wasn't like he was a pod person
or anything like that, but when she concentrated hard on remembering him from the past the memories didn't
seem right, they were like a badly spliced movie. Normally, Marge's memory was crystal clear. She even
remembered details from when she was barely five, but she all her memories of John were blurry like he had
been edited into them and didn't belong. She glanced at her son's retreating bare ass. He should be wearing
something, not being worn. Still being Erick's clothing for a while would probably do him some good. Luke
could be so thoughtless sometimes, and helping Erick out this way should make him more thoughtful and caring
in the future. John had said something about male bonding, at least she thought he had, but she couldn't
actually recall him saying it. She rubbed her temples, and muttered, "I think I need an aspirin."
John frowned as Marge disappeared into the kitchen. His spell was perfect, but somehow she was fighting it.
How?
"So, bro, I think Erick mentioned something about Luke's mother's side of the family going back to Old Salem
back at the witch trials?" he asked. Maybe she was a distant cousin.
"Oh, no it wasn't Salem, Massachusetts. I understand the confusion. Her family were witch hunters in Salem,
Germany near Baden. It was back in the middle ages. I think one of her and Luke's ancestors wrote the
"Malleus Malediction" of something?" he said.
"The "Malleus Maleficarum"? The "Witch's Hammer"? The handbook used by the Roman Inquisition?" John said
with a gasp.
"Yes, Maleficarum! That's it "Malleus Maleficarum", so Maleficarum means Hammer in German?"
"The title is Latin. Malleus means hammer, and well Maleficarum, well it does exactly mean witches, but evil-
doers maybe, but it meant Witches, and in German it was called Hexenhammer," John said as he remembered the
fires, and the tribunals. He shivered. Then he smiled. That was all in the past, and this was a fitting
revenge for the descendant of one of those inquisitors.
In the former Salem Abbey, a church bell rang of its own accord. A shadow moved in the wrong direction toward
the light. It was otherworldly, and it moved with purpose. It hadn't written the Malleus Maleficarum, but it
had in life been the source of much of the material in the book. It had a definite purpose, and it had miles
to go before it rested. It sensed the Enemy. The Enemy had escaped it once in life. It had fled to Holland,
and then on to England. It was too far to pursue then, it seemed to be farther now, but without frail flesh,
the witch hunter could move tirelessly and the sea was no longer an impediment. Johannus would finally face
his trial for all the human lives he had destroyed. The shade would not be stopped by any creature of the
night this time, its mission would be a success. Divine justice would be done.
The lights at the train station flickered, and several people drew their coats tight as an unseen chill seemed
to sweep past them. Iron Horses seemed to be neither iron or horse, but they would prove an adequate
conveyance and faster than the shade could move on its own. It wasn't exactly sure how it knew about trains,
planes and automobiles, but it did. It seemed to know what it needed. Perhaps the mental ability to detect
supernatural creatures had been augmented in death, and the thoughts of humans came to the shade in answer to
its own thoughts. It had waited long in purgatory, it had waited to finish its job. It had waited for
Johannus.
In Luke's bedroom, Erick stood looking at Luke, and then said, "I guess I won't be needing these anymore." He
snapped his fingers, and his clothing vanished into dust. He was stark naked. At his feet lay his wallet,
keys, a pen, and some two dozen folded magazine clippings. He reached down and picked them up.
Luke recognized the clippings as items of men's clothing from catalogs.
"How can I become your entire wardrobe? I'm only one person!" Luke protested in fear. He couldn't resist.
Somehow he knew that Uncle John and Cousin Erick could do this. He had no idea how, and he prayed they
couldn't. His voice cracked. He was on the verge of tears.
"Now don't go to pieces, Luke," Erick said, and then he paused, "Well, actually, you will go to pieces, but it
won't hurt, and father says you'll probably like it. Because well, I hope you will. I think I'll need let's
see 7 pieces - no wait 8 with the jacket, 10 with the gloves, and the hat- that makes 11. Now logically, your
head should be the hat, but I have another idea - oh wait, glad I didn't separate you yet. I forgot, I'll need
a scarf too. After all it's Christmas, so 12 pieces of present you'll be like the 12 days of Christmas."
Luke trembled as Erick touched his shoulder. He felt his joints pop, and his body parts separating. He fell
backwards on to his bed. His head rolled off his neck, across the bed, and on to the floor.
"Oops!" Erick said dashing around to pick up Luke's head, "Next time, I'll have you lie down first. Though
eventually, father says I'll be able to convert you into separate articles of clothing without separating your
body parts first."
He placed the photo of some spandex underwear on Luke's forehead. Luke's mouth formed an "O" as if to say
"no", but it remained when the head became fabric.
"Cool, this pair has a built-in c-ring to make my junk stand out and away from my body. I just slide you up
me, and slide my cock and balls through the ring into your pouch. It's like my manhood's in your mouth now.
Hope you can taste it. Hee hee," Erick chuckled as he modeled his new underwear.
Then he turned his attention to the 11 remaining body parts. It was like a Bionicle or Lego person sort of-
you had the head and the torso, hands, arms, genitals, legs, and feet. He selected the appropriate photos and
soon was modeling his new outfit in front of the mirror.
When he entered the living room, his father and uncle were sipping brandy.
"So how do you like my new Christmas togs?"
"Hm? Very nice, but you didn't use his hands for the gloves," John said thoughtfully.
"No, they make grand socks, I figured it would be like he's massaging me feet when I walk," Erick explained.
"And that's his penis around your neck?"
"Oh, that is nice," said Luke's father, "When you wrap him around your head, it'll be like you're kissing
him."
"Uh,...yes," John said thoughtfully, "Though I don't think it's cold enough to have to do that yet. Still,
it'll make a grand school tie when term begins again."
"This is America, dad, they don't have old school ties," Erick said.
"John knows that, Erick, he grew up in Chicago with me remember?" Luke's father said.
Erick licked his lips. "Yes, uncle, I do remember," he answered. He did remember that, but he also remembered
that his father had been at Oxford and later Cambridge, and Sorbonne in Paris, and he wasn't really his
uncle's brother, but he was - after all possession was 9/10ths of the law. Erick wondered if the real John was
still inside his father's body trapped and unable to act or speak or if he had ceased to be or was trapped in
John's old body. Except that was John's body, but maybe it hadn't always been or maybe it hadn't always been
called John.
"You look distracted, Erick, don't you like your new present?"
"Oh, it's great, dad," he said pursing his lips. He added, "But - well, did you put me under the spell too?
Because it's like I have conflicting memories. I mean both sets of facts can't be true, can they?"
"Ah, that's the thing about magic son. They can both be true if the magic man is powerful enough. Ain't that
right, muggle brother?"
"I guess, John," Luke's father said without conviction. He yawned, "It's been along day. I think I should be
getting to bed. Marjory's upstairs waiting for me."
"Yes, brother, I guess we should be going it's almost the feast day of that Pope Dionysius," John said
distastefully, "We want to be safe inside before that happens, Erick. We best get going."
"Feast day of Pope Dionysius? I thought it was St. Stephen's Day?" his brother said.
"Oh, it's that too. Pope Dionysius is the first pope who didn't die a martyr. He got on the good side of the
Emperor. I suspect he or his wife was a closet Christian. Do you know on Dionysius' say-so, that Emperor
ruled he could depose bishops and take the houses the bishop's church had bought for him and give it to a new
bishop!" John said in livid rage. It was as if he had been Paul of Samosata himself. He licked his lips.
Possession was 9/10ths of the law, and he had been Paul of Samosata for a while. But that was a long time ago.
Still that witch hunter had sensed it in him, had sensed the heretical nature of Johann's being. It was a very
old evil, it maybe hadn't always been evil, but it had no conscience but its own pride and hunger. Still he
had a son now, he stared proudly at Erick. John wasn't exactly sure how that had happened, but it had. Erick
had the power too. Usually, the children he fathered weren't his, just the biological outcome of his current
body having sex with a woman. But over the generations, he learned to preserve and change the body using them
far longer than their original lifespans, and then he had found Lilly, Erick's mother. She was like him, a
true lamia, a true witch. Somehow, biology and supernatural essences had combined, and a new hell spawn had
been created. Hm, he pursed his lips, hell spawn wasn't quite the right phrase, John thought as he trudged
along the cold pavement blowing puffs of white air. Still, John felt certain that Erick would do great things
in a few centuries, if nothing went wrong. Now why should he think that. He shivered. It wasn't the cold
that made him shiver or made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. It was something that had returned to the
world, something familiar to John - no to Johann. Something was hunting him. He shook his head. It was his
imagination. It was thinking about Dionysius and that stupid court or tribunal or synod or whatever. They
were like the Inquisitors who came later. They couldn't understand his profundity, his -
John's train of thought derailed as his foot hit black ice and slid out from under him. Strong hands caught
him before he hit the walkway.
"Are you alright, sir?" said the man holding him.
John stared at the man's collar. He belonged to the clergy. He seemed distracted. He glanced over his
shoulder. A young boy hung back behind him. The tall edifice of a stone church loomed behind them both. John
had been so caught up in his thoughts he actually walked across the church's entryway. He swallowed. He didn't
put much stock in hallowed ground. He hadn't noticed this church before.
"Are you alright, sir?" the priest repeated.
"Yes, yes. Thank you, just had the wind knocked out of me by that fall."
"I suppose I should say something religious, but I can't think of anything appropriate offhand," the priest
said helping John up.
"Pride goeth before the Fall," quoted the choirboy or altar boy.
John glared at the boy. It was more than a boy, there was something older behind his eyes.
"Uh, yes, I suppose, but maybe your guardian angel was looking out for you. I know I wouldn't have been here
to catch you if little Nicky here hadn't gotten himself lost, and then when recognized the church, he pounded
on the rectory door, and pleaded with me to walk him home. We cut through the churchyard and just reached you
as you slipped."
"Guardian angel?" John said. There were good and evil angels, so why not a guardian angel for a witch.
"Happy St. Dionysius's Day," Nicky said with a grin.
"Oh, you mean, Merry Christmas, Nicky. It won't be Pope Dionysius' feast day until tomorrow. I know most
churches celebrate St. Stephen's Day, but it's also St. Dionysius' Day, and this church is dedicated to him."
"St. Pope Dionysius Church?" John said backing away and staring up at the generic stone carving of a bishop
over the church doorway.
"Well, he was pope back in the 3rd or 4th century, we just call it St. Dionysius Church," the priest said
politely. "We do put on a nice mass and church festival afterward. Do stop by tomorrow, if you can. Mass is at
10, and the festival begins with a dinner at 11:30. It's buffet, so if you can't make mass, come any time
before 2 PM. There should be plenty of food. Now, I'd best be getting Nicky home. You said you live on 12th
Street?"
"Sixth Street, father, apartment 13 at 66 6th street," Nick answered.
"Six, Six, Six, number thirteen?" muttered the priest unconsciously crossing himself. "That's only three
blocks from here."
"Dad, are you alright?" Erick asked.
"I just slipped, but luckily this good priest was here to catch me. In front of St. Dionysius of all places,"
he said with the grin of a man who just escaped great injury and knew he shouldn't have.
The boy Nicky stared with his eyes wide open and his mouth gaping. He hadn't expected this. He wasn't even
sure what this was. He saw Erick clothed in living human body parts. They were distorted to fit like garments,
but no glamour would ever make him see a dismembered human body as anything but that. Strangely, the separate
parts weren't bleeding, and they were obviously and unnaturally still alive. He said hurriedly, "My mum will
be worried, Father, please take me home now."
Nick kept looking nervously over his shoulder at the retreating father and son. He had seen a lot of things
in his existence, but this made the short list. He contemplated sticking around to see what would happen.
Maybe he could accuse the priest of molesting him or-
The priest had stopped. It had been only 3 blocks. They stood at the brownstone number 66 on 6th Street. The
priest pushed the buzzer for apartment 13.
"Hello, it's Father Tim from St. Dionysius, I seemed to have found your little Nicky, and just wanted to make
sure he made it home safely."
"I'll be down to get the boy. Thanks for bringing 'im ome," said a throaty female voice.
Thirty seconds later the door flew open. A tall haggard looking blonde woman in a frilly negligee stood there
holding a cigarette in one hand and a martini in the other.
"Nick, where ya been? You shoulda been 'ome hours ago," she said in an odd accent pronouncing the H in hours.
Then she looked at the priest and said, "Thanks for bringing him home, padre. You want to come up for a
nightcap?" she asked with a wink.
"Thank you, but no. Though, if you'd allow it, I'd like to bless you both and your home."
"Sure, why not? Bless your heart out, padre?"
Nicky suppressed a snicker. Then he noticed the faint scent of roses. There weren't any roses here. As the
priest raised his hand to make the sign of the cross, they both saw the stigmata. Nicky grabbed his mother's
hand, perhaps their combined powers could...
It was a simple blessing, the simplest exorcisms were the best. The entire apartment house had been exorcised
in the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Nicky stood clutching the skeletal succubus' hand as
the cold fires of hell burned all around them.
"His mother" looked at the hand which formerly held the martini, and looked mournfully at her empty hand.
"I could really use a drink right now!" she shouted squeezing Nicky's hand hard with her other hand.
Nicky just flexed his hand, and the bones of her skeletal hand went flying. She shrieked in agony.
"You forget your place, mum. I have a report to deliver," Nicky said shaking his head. He still looked like
the little boy he had found in the river Thames during the Great Plague. He had animated that corpse ever
since, and his own form clung to its shape out of habit.
The sight was disquieting to the succubus who had been the boy's mother before she had drowned him to keep him
from catching the plague. Nick had explained to her that her boy had the gene that made him immune to the
plague same as she had, but murder was a cardinal sin, especially an unnecessary one. She had stared at what
she perceived as the corpse of her son returned from his watery grave to punish her. That he had done, he
transformed her into a succubus. She had been cast down to hell, but whenever he needed a mother, the demon
or fallen angel or whatever it was would summon her back to earth to possess a human woman and use her body,
and allow her to feed on whatever men she could seduce. Possession was 9/10th's of the law, but she had been
dispossessed. But this time Nicky had been cast down with her, so he wouldn't be summoning her out of hell
any time soon. She had expected him to look like Cthulu or an imp or anything but her drowned son. It was
very unnerving. She really did need a drink, but this was hell, and it was dry as Utah during prohibition.
Nick's hurried pace slowed as he thought about his report. It was less of a report and more a series of
uncertain impressions and conjectures. His simple mission to protect an evil minion from slipping on ice in
front of some old church in some third rate town had proven far from simple. Oh, his mission had been
successful. Up until the point he saw a young human with an unlost soul- not exactly an innocent-but
definitely no yet damned, and not possessed, but filled with power which no true human should possess, and
dressed in the pieces of a living person. Nick shook his head, and stopped walking. That priest had been
waiting for him, Nicky had been expected. Nick had expected to knock a good long while to rouse the sleeping
priest from his Christmas brandied egg nog. But the door flew open on the first knock, and the priest was
already in his hat and coat. Nick had assumed that the priest had come outside for a smoke or to walk off his
drunk, but he was stone sober, and eager to help. Too eager in retrospect. Guardian angels indeed, thought
Nick angrily. In his anger, he forgot his shape and began to grow beyond his usual size, but from habit still
retaining the corpse boy's original shape. It was just now about 15 feet tall, and Nick realized it when he
had to duck through a doorway. Still he was too angry to shrink back. The saint - because that's what the
stigmata signified, and that's what the priest had been- had known Nick's mission and had helped him complete
it. Then, that saintly priest had exorcised not just Nick and Sybella, but the entire unholy cadre that had
called the apartments at 66-6th Street home. He had sent them all packing to hell. What did it all mean?
Nicky paused, and shrank back to his former size. It meant his master would be displeased with him for not
knowing, and his master would do what he always did in such circumstances. Nick's master would torture him to
make him remember some important detail that he had forgotten, or never knew. Of course, the torture would
continue until the evil master got the answer he desired. Nick had no answer. The torture would go on
forever. He looked around, maybe he could find a messenger to deliver his report, and take the inevitable
punishment instead of him...
Laura Stockbridge dropped to her knees, and started sobbing.
"Oh, thank you, thank, father. You saved me," she sobbed tears of gratitude. She held out her hands.
Behind her the boy sputtered and coughed. She turned to him, and her CPR training kicked in. His body was
cooling rapidly, it was like he had just drowned. She pressed on his chest and breathed in his mouth while
pinching his nose. He sputtered and coughed up water.
"Wh-where am I?" he said looking at the strange woman who had breathed life into him. His mother and the
Thames were nowhere to be seen, and everyone was dressed so strangely. He spoke with an odd accent that
sounded vaguely like a Bostonian one to Laura Stockbridge.
"Uh, you're home with your mother now, Nick, you asked me to bring you home, remember?" said the priest in a
slow kindly way. He looked a Laura Stockbridge, and said to her, "I think we'll be needing a new secretary at
the rectory, Mrs. Hanover's children have been pestering for her to move to Florida with her and she just
turned 65. How would you like the job? It doesn't pay much, but I'm sure it's enough for you and your son to
get by on. You live in apartment 13," he added helpfully.
"We do?"
"A young boy needs a caring mother, and you just breathed life back into him," the priest added solemnly.
"Uh, yes, yes, I guess I did," she said hugging Nick closely to her bosom.
Nick looked around and whispered softly with a high degree of suspicion in his voice, "Are we still in
London?"
"London, England?" Laura asked looking at him. "No, we're in America - you're in America now, son."
"Oh. Is Charles still king?"
"What? No, Prince Charles' mother Elizabeth is still queen."
"Elizabeth isn't Charles Stewart's mother, and she's been dead a long time."
"Longer than you think, Nicholas Blair Stockbridge," the priest said in a strangely firm and knowledgeable
tone, "For the year of our Lord is now two thousand and eleven, and Elizabeth the Second is seated on the
throne of England."
"It's not the year of the devil? One-six-six-six?" Nicholas asked uncertainly.
"1666?" Laura Stockbridge asked as she looked from Nicholas to the priest, whose face and hands seemed to be
glowing from within.
His eyes sparkled when he answered, "God works in mysterious ways. What the lord taketh away, he giveth too. A
second chance, even for the devil himself. At least that's what St. Thomas Aquinas reasoned. That prodigal
son parable was really an invitation for Lucifer to forsake his evil ways and return to Heaven's fold, at
least ways that's one interpretation. Now it's getting late, and you need to get young Nicholas properly fed
and to bed. You can introduce him to television and the internet tomorrow. He's got nearly 400 years of catch
up to do. Stop by the rectory tomorrow at 9:30 am, and we'll have you fill out the necessary paperwork, Laura.
And when the next semester starts, there will be a place for Nicholas at St. Dionysius' School. Merry
Christmas!"
He closed the door and and was gone.
Father Timothy sat up with a start in his easy chair. His eggnog sat on the table undrunk next to him. The
phone was ringing.
"Hello? Yes, Mrs. Hanover? What? Speak slower. Oh, your children sent you a one-way ticket to Florida? They
want you to fly out tomorrow? No, no that's fine. We'll make do, no worries, Mrs. Hanover. You just go. God
will provide. No, no, everything's planned for the festival. Yes, I'm sorry you'll have to miss it, but
seeing your first grandchild born is worth missing the festival. Your flight leaves in less than two hours?
Oh, they called you late last night, and emailed you your tickets? That's wonderful. You can come back next
year to visit if you like," the priest said jovially. His heart was racing, and his head was spinning. Where
would he get a secretary the day after Christmas? He felt so warm. He looked down he was wearing his overcoat
and collar. The sun streamed through the window. He glanced at his watch it was 9 AM. He had Mass at 10. He
raced into the bathroom, shaved and showered and dressed. He didn't remember putting his overcoat on. He
shook his head. He looked up at the crucifix by his bedroom door. "Oh, lord, help me get through this day," he
said. It was precisely 9:30. The doorbell rang.
Laura Stockbridge stood there in the closest thing she owned to her Sunday best. The priest blinked.
"Yes, can I help you?"
"Yes, you told me last night to be here at 9:30 to take over for Mrs. Hanover?" she said uncertainly.
"Did I? Well, I'm not sure how it happened, but I'm glad you're here. I just found out a half hour ago that
Mrs. Hanover was flying to her children and not giving the customary 2 weeks notice. She's expecting her
first grandchild and wanted to be there when she is born. You say I told you?" he asked doubtfully, shaking
his head, "Last night? But I fell asleep in my chair, oh it must have been sometime around 8 o'clock. I
couldn't have been in two places at the same time could I? Only a saint could be in two places at the same
time, and I assure you I am no saint. I am just an ordinary man, who has to get changed into my vestments or
I'll be late starting mass." Hurriedly, he grabbed a black spiral notebook from inside the office next to the
door. He thrust it into Laura's hands, "Obviously, God sent you. The church needs a secretary, and here you
are. Here's the office manual. Mrs. Hanover compiled it over the last few months for her replacement. She
said she didn't know when God would call her away, and she wanted to be prepared. I looked through it last
week, and she was very thorough, right down to which drawer the paperclips are kept in. Aha, that's it! Mrs.
Hanover sent you!"
"No, never met the woman," Laura said truthfully and nervously. She glanced down at the cleaning printed pages
of the notebook.
"Oh, that doesn't matter. All that matters is you're here. Skip ahead to the last section, she arranged it by
month from January through December, and look the 26th - it's the Festival of St Dionysius. Oh, it's nearly
10, I've got to fly," Father Timothy said brushing by Laura and out the door. He spun on his heels, "Oh,
almost forgot. What's your name, Ms. Stockbridge?"
"Yes, it's Laura Stockbridge. You knew it, see you did meet me last night!"
"Laura Stockbridge? It does sound familiar, but I think I dreamed it all. No matter, there's Mrs. Flannigan,
if I don't get into the church before she sees me, she'll talk my ear off, and I'll most certainly be late
starting Mass. The office is in there. Help yourself to coffee and whatever. And welcome to the parish, Ms.
Stockbridge."
"Thank you, Father," she said with more earnestness than the priest expected from a secretary. As he
disappeared into the side door of the church, she added, "You really are a saint, even if you don't realize it
yourself." She closed the door and sat down and flipped to December 26, 2011, and started reading.