The Case Against Satan by Ray Russell

Father Halloran. “Come, Susan, you and I will just step into my study and have a little talk. All right?”
    â€œAll right, Father,” said Susan.
    The Father’s study was a nice place, thought Susan. One of the nicest rooms she had ever been in. Cool, and quiet, and such soft lights. And it
smelled
nice. Like leather, and pipe tobacco. There were books all over the walls. Susan liked books. When the door was closed, it was as if all the noisy, garish world had vanished. She felt she could have stayed in the room forever and never want to leave. Peaceful, that’s what it was.
    Father Halloran talked to her gently, smiling. What seemed to be the trouble? Didn’t she like Mass any more? Did something frighten her? “You can tell me, dear. No matter what it is. You can tell me.”
    â€œI . . .” She shrugged in confusion and dropped her eyes. “I don’t know why I do that, Father. It’s terrible, but I really don’t know why.” Her voice was deferential. “I wish I
did
know. It’s something like—”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWell, once I was sick. The flu, I think. And I couldn’t keep anything on my stomach. The very thought of
food
just—just made me sicker. You know how that is?”
    The priest nodded. “I’ve had a touch of the flu once or twice. I know exactly what you mean.”
    â€œI walked into the kitchen and saw a big bowl of stew on the table—chunks of meat and vegetables swimming in gravy, with steam rising from it—and just the sight of it made me so sick that I couldn’t walk a step closer. I had to turn right around and walk out of the room. Because I knew that if I stayed there another second, I’d—”
    Father Halloran nodded.
    â€œWell . . . going to Mass is something like that. It doesn’t frighten me exactly, but when I see the church, when I see the spire with the cross on top of it—” She swallowed and took a deep breath. “I can’t, I have to stop. I have to go away from it. Because I know that if I go any closer I just couldn’t stand it.” Her eyes teared. “Isn’t that terrible, Father?”
    â€œNow, now. Don’t you worry. We’ll clear this up. Just don’t worry. Now tell me—”
    The phone rang and Father Halloran turned away from her to answer it. An elderly female parishioner began to unfold a long, complex and numbingly trivial problem. Father Halloran, a man with deep reserves of patience, listened to her, but told her he would have to call her back because he was really quite busy. His eyes, as he talked, were fixed on the carpet.
    Suddenly he found himself looking down at two small smooth feet, bare, the toenails lacquered a shrieking red.
    He hastily terminated the conversation and replaced the phone in its cradle. Looking up, he saw that Susan was standing before him, completely naked.
    He had never seen a naked woman before.
    In the soft light of the study, Susan’s body glowed, and the scarlet toenails—her secret adornment—were out of tune with the unpainted fingernails and face. Father Halloran’s heart contracted. She was more in need of help than he had ever dreamed, much more. The poor girl was terribly sick. Evenly, without shock or anger, he said, “Put on your clothes, Susan.”
    He looked up at her face. It was a mask of slyness.
    â€œLet’s talk,” she said, and the voice was not hers. She was a ventriloquist’s dummy and somebody else was moving her lips and saying the words. “Let’s talk, Father.” She moved closer to him. “But not about church-going. Talk about the things you really want to talk about. Say what you really mean. Tell me what a pretty girl I am, and what a sweet little figure I’ve got. Tell me all the things that are running through your mind when you look at me. Tell me. I won’t mind. You’re a man,