The Devil's Lullaby

by Chris Scalise

  “Let me try one more time. I think I got it. Is it...Andrew and Kelly?”

  “Nope,” Olivia shouted.

  Aren shook his head. “When you can't even trust a woman with a fake Romanian accent trying to sell you psychic training videos at three in the morning, who can you trust? Oh well. Moving on.”

  When the laughter subsided, Aren turned toward the dollhouse just behind him and gestured toward it. “Olivia, how do you like my dollhouse here?” he asked.

  Olivia nodded. “It looks good.”

  “Thank you, Olivia. That really means a lot to me. You see, when I was in high school, my friends would always make fun of me. They would attend heavy metal concerts and go on raucous joy rides in the city, and all I wanted to do was sit in my bedroom and build beautiful dollhouses like the one you see before you.”

  More laughter from the audience.

  “Do you think this is a beautiful dollhouse, Olivia?”

  Olivia shook her head. “Very beautiful.”

  “Really? Damn, you’re right. I wish I built it. But no, I had to give up my dollhouse-building dreams to become a stupid Vegas headliner.”

  More laughter, albeit more muted this time.

  “But I digress. Olivia, please take a look inside this dollhouse and tell me what’s missing.

  Olivia turned her head and looked at the house. “Dolls,” she said.

  Aren followed her gaze to the house. “Well, I was going to say indoor plumbing, but don’t ask me how I know that.”

  Many in the audience laughed, but Allison rolled her eyes.

  “You are correct, though. There are absolutely no dolls in this inferior dollhouse that wasn’t built by me. So maybe we can do something about that.”

  Just then, one of Aren’s main gorgeous assistants—the brunette, not to be confused with the dancing blonde—walked onto the stage carrying a large woven basket. She wore a sparkling blue dress that accentuated her prominent curves. She handed the basket to Aren and smiled coyly at the audience as she returned to stage left and disappeared backstage.

  “Okay,” Aren said as he held the basket in front of Olivia. “In this basket, we have a selection of lovely dolls crafted by the talented inmates at Clark County Detention Center.”

  The audience laughed.

  “I’m only kidding, of course. These are, in fact, lovely action figures crafted by the talented inmates at Clark County Detention Center.” He reached into the basket. “As you can see, we have a ballerina, a police officer, a farmer, some kind of wannabe Barbie…” He looked up at Olivia. “Olivia, why don’t you go ahead and pick out a doll. Any one you like.”

  Olivia leaned her head toward the basket and studied the dolls carefully. Then she reached in and grabbed a doll that resembled a cheerleader in a pink uniform with pom-poms. She waved it in front of the audience and then handed it to Aren.

  “Very good choice,” Aren said. “I thought for sure you’d go for the construction worker.” He placed the doll in the living room of the dollhouse and then spun the house 180 degrees, revealing the front of the house and concealing the rooms inside. “Okay, Olivia, are you ready to have your mind blown?”

  Olivia nodded enthusiastically.

  “Okay, here goes. Is it...Tim and Melissa?”

  Everyone laughed, and Olivia once again shook her head.

  “Goddammit!” Aren exclaimed, shocking some members of the audience with his first real use of profanity during the show.

  Just then, the high-energy EDM soundtrack kicked in again, and the stage was drowned in the pulsating illumination of rapid strobe lights. Aren swiftly moved to the left of the dollhouse and stretched his hands toward the Victorian-inspired replica. About five seconds later, the roof and walls of the house burst open, revealing the gorgeous blonde assistant dressed in a pink cheerleading uniform, complete with pom-poms. The crowd went nuts.

  The assistant jumped to the floor and took a bow. As she departed the stage and the music faded out, Aren stepped over to the dollhouse and retrieved a small envelope. He read the front of the envelope and then handed it to Olivia. “I think it’s for you,” he said.

  Olivia grabbed the envelope and studied it. She then broke the seal and opened it to reveal a small yellow sheet of paper. She unfolded the paper and read it, and almost instantly her excited expression turned to one of shock and confusion—almost fear.

  “How did you…” The more stunned she appeared, the more amused Aren became.

  “What does it say?” Aren asked.

  Clearly bemused, Olivia held up the unfolded sheet. “It says, ‘Tristan and Isabelle.’”

  Aren took the paper from her hand and studied it. “That’s weird. Who are Tristan and Isabelle?”

  “M-my grandson and his new wife.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Aren said. “Do you know what this means?”

  Olivia shook her head, clearly still trying to process it.

  “I am the greatest...freaking...psychic...ever!” The crowd exploded with applause.

  Everyone in the audience appeared shocked and dumbfounded—everyone, that is, except for Allison Lockwood. While waiting in line prior to the show, Allison couldn’t help but notice that the usher was taking a suspicious amount of interest in the lives of the ticket holders, asking them questions about where they were from, what they were doing in Las Vegas, and what other activities they had enjoyed in the city so far. It was the same sort of subtle, unsuspecting data accumulation that Allison had mastered in her own line of work. Most likely, Olivia had already told the usher everything she needed to know before the show even began.

  As a generous prize, Aren handed Olivia two free tickets to the High Roller, the massive observation wheel that towered above the center of the Vegas Strip. He then kissed Olivia on the cheek and had one of the ushers guide her back to her seat.

  When the applause died down, he began to speak once again, but there was a much more serious look on his face. “Let me get real with you for a moment,” he said, “What you just saw was a magic trick. An illusion. If I told you how I did it, you’d roll your eyes at how stupid and simple it is. Unfortunately, though, there are people in this city, and in cities throughout the world, who perform this kind of trickery and then tell people that the magic is real, that they’ve been blessed with some divine or supernatural power.

  “For a price, they’ll tell you that they can tell you your future, reveal your deepest hidden fears, or even communicate with your dead Aunt Lisa. As someone who’s dedicated his entire life to studying the art of deception, let me tell you right and here and now that it’s all a con. Your future is what you make it, and your Aunt Lisa isn’t sitting in some ethereal phone booth waiting to have a chat with you. Apologies to the kids in the audience who have no freaking idea what a phone booth is.

  “Everything you’ve seen here tonight has been carefully and exhaustively designed to mystify you. It’s all illusion and deception. After you pack up your things and go home, I hope you always remember the sense of wonder and amazement you felt here tonight, especially during those times when less scrupulous con-artists try to take advantage of you. Question everything, and take nothing at face value, because quite often, even the most convincing presentations are just smoke and mirrors.”

  At that moment, a massive cloud of smoke emerged from beneath the stage, and Aren segued into his final trick of the night. It was an impressive amalgamation of several classic magic tricks involving swords, mirrors, quick changes, fire, and straitjackets, but Allison was hardly paying attention.

  The paranoid part of her mind was fixated on his lecture about deception. Could it have been directed at her? Is it possible the usher had recognized her and given Aren a heads-up before the show?

  She finally shrugged it off. Aren was passionate about skepticism, and so it seemed more likely that he gave this speech at every show.

  When it was all over, Allison and Kristen joined the huddled masses across the narrow center aisle and
into the lobby, where Aren Anzalone was waiting to greet the attendees and pose for photos.

  Kristen was already headed for the escalator when Allison grabbed her wrist and said, “Hold up. Don’t you want to meet the star of the show?”

  “Not as much as you do,” Kristen said.

  Allison had to admit that she was smitten. As she turned her head toward Aren and watched his interactions with fans, she was both delighted and frustrated by the fact that he was much more gorgeous in person. His dark hair just seemed thicker, his eyes bluer, his impressive muscle tone more pronounced. The trench coat was gone, and he wore a form-fitting black T-shirt that accentuated all of his best features.

  “This is only going to take a couple of minutes,” Allison said as she pulled Kristen toward the line of eager fans.

  She reached into her handbag and retrieved a business card to give to Aren. The moment she looked at it, though, she realized that the card was emblazoned with the logo of her New Age store and boasted of her psychic mediumship services. This was most certainly not going to score her points with Aren Anzalone, so she shoved the card back into her bag and pulled out an old receipt and a pen.

  By the time she and Kristen were ushered over to Aren to take a photograph, Allison had scribbled her name and phone number on the receipt.

  Aren smiled warmly at Allison and Kristen as they approached, but Allison was still at a loss for what she was going to say. She decided the best approach would be simplicity and directness.

  “I liked your show,” Kristen said to Aren as the photographer posed her beside him.

  “Thank you,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad you had a good time.” He placed his other hand on Allison’s shoulder. “Did you enjoy the show as well?”

  “Yeah, most def,” Allison said, feeling an excited shiver as his firm hand touched her shoulder. Most def? What the fuck was that? Am I back in high school or something?

  The photographer counted to three and took a series of photos on his DSLR camera. Allison forced a smile, but she was distracted by the long line of mostly women who were eager for her to get out of the way so they could have their turn. Allison would need to act quickly.

  When the photographer lowered his camera, Aren thanked his two guests and removed his hands from their shoulders.

  Without wasting another moment, Allison turned toward him and handed him the wrinkled receipt. “Look,” she said, “you don’t know me, but I think we could really help each other out. I’m working on an assignment that could bring down the Las Vegas Exorcist once and for all, and I just need a few minutes to pick your brain. Can you just give me a call as soon as you can? I promise not to take up more than ten minutes of your time.”

  Aren studied the phone number on the receipt. “Are you a cop or something?” he asked.

  “More like a sort of private investigator,” Allison said with a slight stammer.

  Aren grinned as he folded the receipt. “Like a sort of private investigator?”

  Allison cocked her head back and saw that the fans behind her were growing impatient. “I better get out of the way,” she said. “If you just call this number, I promise I’ll explain everything. You once said that you were looking for the smoking gun to finally bring down the Las Vegas Exorcist. I think I have exactly what you’re looking for. Just promise you’ll give me a call.”

  “You want my advice?” he said. “Stay away from the Las Vegas Exorcist. People who get too close have a tendency to end up dead.” He then crumpled up the receipt and handed it back to her. “Thanks for coming out to the show.”

  12

  Cassidy pulled into the parking lot of the Galleria at Sunset, a sprawling shopping mall in the heart of Henderson, Nevada, about twenty miles east of the Vegas Strip. Despite a series of 21st-century upgrades intended to make the mall appear less dated, it still looked like a relic of nineties mallrat culture. The interior walls, arched ceiling, and tiled floors of the two-story shopping complex were uniformly white, and the exterior walls were a bland off-white as well. Palm trees and assorted desert trees lined the main entrance of the mall, and additional palm trees grew inside the mall itself, spanning almost the full height of the building up to the massive skylights on the ceiling.

  Cassidy exited her vehicle and made her way toward the main entrance, which was shaded by an enormous metal awning. She was here to meet Marlene Rossi, one of the only people in the world who understood her horror. She hoped and prayed that Marlene would be able to guide her toward the long-term deliverance for which she was so desperate, but she was beginning to lose hope.

  Originally, Marlene had tried giving her guidance over the phone, but the line would mysteriously disconnect every time. Finally, Marlene was able to remain on the line long enough to arrange an in-person meeting. She insisted on driving out to Las Vegas, noting that it would be extremely dangerous for Cassidy to make the long-distance drive to L.A. while being stalked by such an aggressive demon.

  Marlene had originally suggested meeting somewhere on the Strip, but Cassidy vehemently refused. Her father owned multiple restaurants on the Strip and had relationships with most of the big hotel executives. If her face showed up on any of the thousands of security cameras that covered every square inch of the Strip casinos, she suspected that her father would be tipped off immediately. She might even be held in custody long enough for her father to come and collect her. Then, he would undoubtedly bring her home and teach her a lesson. And so they settled on the Galleria at Henderson.

  Maybe it was just paranoia. It probably was. But a lifetime of abuse has a way of inspiring extreme caution in a person.

  Cassidy made her way along the second floor of the mall, past trendy clothing stores, assorted trinket shops, and one store that specialized in medieval battle armor and weaponry. That store had been in the mall for years, and yet the sign in the window forever read “Going Out of Business.”

  Cassidy’s destination was the food court. That was where she and Marlene had agreed to meet just before the phone line cut out again. When Cassidy reached the massive second-story food court with its two dozen tables, she scanned the area hoping to find some hint of Marlene’s presence. At that moment, she realized she had no idea what Marlene even looked like.

  Most of the tables were vacant, but a few were occupied with laughing high school kids and families. She imagined Marlene to be around her own age, but she couldn’t find any twenty-something women sitting alone at the food court. She checked the time on her phone and realized that she was about ten minutes early, so she decided to take a seat and just wait.

  Before she could even make her way to the seating area, she heard a soft female voice call her name. The voice couldn’t have come from more than a few inches behind her.

  She spun around and saw a middle-aged woman in a pink sweatshirt and jeans. Her blonde hair was thinning at the roots, and a single gray streak of hair was visible from root to tip on the left side of her head. Her warm smile revealed heavy wrinkles at the corners of her mouth, and Cassidy was surprised to see that the woman was probably in her mid- to late forties.

  “Are you Marlene?” Cassidy asked.

  The woman nodded. “It’s good to meet you. Why don’t we sit and chat?”

  Marlene led Cassidy toward the rows of tables that were bolted to the dirty tile floor. Marlene’s arms were thin and frail, making her appear even older.

  “Thanks for driving all this way,” Cassidy said, following her. “Honestly, we could have done this through email.”

  Marlene shook her head. “You saw what happened with the phone line. Technology is not our friend here. The only way to have this conversation is face to face in a crowded spot.”

  Marlene chose a table, and the two of them sat across from one another. “The demon knows me very well,” Marlene continued, “and he’s not going to appreciate me telling you how I got free.” She leaned forward toward Cassidy. “You have to promise me that you’re gonna act quick.
Do exactly what I tell you, and don’t waste a minute. Now that you’re talking to me, Abaddon is gonna see it as a threat, and he’s gonna get more aggressive.”

  Cassidy shook her head. She could feel herself beginning to tremble. “Just tell me. Please. I heard the song again this morning. It came on in broad daylight. That’s four times now.”

  “Have you started sleeping during the day?” Marlene asked.

  Cassidy shook her head.

  “That’s why. Abaddon refuses to be outsmarted. You can’t make it go away by hiding from the dark.”

  “So how did you make it go away?”

  Marlene leaned forward. “Have you ever heard of the League of St. Michael?”

  Cassidy shook her head.

  “Well, it started as a group of excommunicated Catholic priests who were removed from the priesthood because they were a little too serious about demons and demonic activity. They would do exorcisms that weren’t sanctioned by the church because they knew that if they waited too long, people could actually die.

  “The church leaders didn’t like it because their authority was being undermined or whatever, but let’s face it, most churches take a pretty cynical view of exorcism. They treat it like a last resort because they don’t want to be laughingstocks. Demon possession is seen as kind of a joke, but people like us know it’s not a joke at all.”

  “So this group, the League of St. Michael, they just got together and decided to completely focus on possession and demons. They studied all these old books about demon hierarchies like The Lemegeton and Malleus Maleficarum. With or without the church’s support, they decided they would help people being tormented by demons. That would be their mission. They got their hands on classified books and documents straight from the Vatican and traded information that most people just don’t have access to. I mean, including most exorcists. If you want to get rid of this thing, you have to talk to a priest from the Order of St. Michael. Right away.”

  Cassidy nodded vociferously and retrieved her phone from her handbag. She turned on the phone and began to type “Order of St. Michael” into her Notes app. Before she could finish, Marlene reached into her own handbag and pulled out a stapled stack of papers.