Condemned

by Christopher Renna

  The next morning Jared was his usual, happy, healthy self again.

  * * *

  With a crinkled brow, Lou said, "I can see him in the fire?"

  "I'm pretty certain that's what he said."

  "At that time, did you have any guesses about what he was referring to?"

  Mr. Smith stared at his hands as he rubbed his thumbs together. "Of course not. I chalked it up to delusions because of the sickness."

  "And now, what do you think?"

  "I think it was the beginning of the takeover."

  "The takeover by a demon?"

  For a few seconds, Mr. Smith remained silent, then he cast a disheartened expression at Lou. "Yes."

  * * *

  Mr. Smith had awakened during the night to the sound of a rhythmic thumping in the house. Thump, thump, thump, pause, thump. Quiet. Thump, thump, thump, pause, thump. Quiet.

  Out in the hall, he followed the muffled thuds toward the stairs. At the top step, he stopped and pivoted toward the noise seemingly coming from Jared's bedroom. He listened outside Jared's room, careful not to open the door too quickly. The thumping had ceased. Jared lay in bed, sound asleep. When Mr. Smith turned to leave the room, the thump returned. Except this time, he pinpointed the noise as coming from underneath Jared's bed.

  He peered under the bed but saw nothing. He sat on the floor for a few minutes but heard nothing more. Then he returned to bed and lay next to wife, pondering the source of the thump until he finally fell asleep nearly an hour later.

  But the noise occasionally returned. Always at night. And always pounding from within Jared's bedroom.

  *

  "You don't understand," Jared cried. "Stop asking me what's wrong. I can't tell you!"

  Mr. Smith and his wife knelt on the floor near Jared, huddled in a corner of his bedroom.

  "Talk to us, Jared," his mother said. "We want to know how we can help you."

  Jared sobbed, "You can't. Nobody can help me now."

  Pulling his son close, Mr. Smith cradled Jared's head to his chest. "You can tell us anything. We love you." He smoothed Jared's hair and gently rocked from side to side. "What happened? Did something happen with one of your friends? With Levi?"

  Jared's shoulders shook as he wept. "Because I love . . ."

  "What, honey?" his mother asked. "You love who?"

  Mr. Smith tightened his grip, expecting to hear his son cry out Levi's name.

  Instead, Jared muttered between desperate gasps of air, "Because I love all of you."

  *

  Psychologist Dr. Lenora Nolin consulted with Jared's parents to discuss their concerns about their son. The next day she conducted her first session with Jared in her dimly lit, wood-paneled office on the second floor of a plain-looking, stone office complex. She informed Mr. and Mrs. Smith that she found Jared to be in good spirits and exhibiting no signs of clinical depression. However, she'd detected an underlying reluctance by Jared to speak openly, which had required her to direct most of the conversation. At the end of the session, she had no clear objective other than listening to Jared and identifying possible issues through his words and behavior.

  The second session unfolded much like the first. However, Jared had expressed some anxiety about his upcoming senior year.

  During the third session Jared had revealed dismay at having to continue seeing Dr. Nolin. Clearly agitated, he spent a majority of the fifty minutes sulking.

  Toward the end of the fourth session, Jared voiced his intention to end therapy. He'd said that his parents' insistence to continue was a waste of the doctor's time. When she'd suggested that he consider at least a few more sessions before not returning, her cup of coffee slid across the end table and fell to the floor.

  Jared's demeanor had changed several minutes into the fifth session. "I don't need to be here. You're talking to the wrong person."

  She'd asked, "Who should I be talking to instead?"

  A series of loud thumps sounded throughout the office.

  She watched him closely to observe whether he was discreetly stomping his feet. "What's the banging about?"

  "That's who you should be talking to, not me."

  "Who?"

  The thumping banged under her chair, causing it to vibrate.

  * * *

  Lou dipped his chin with a single nod. "So, the presence was no longer just in Jared's bedroom or your house. It traveled with him."

  Mr. Smith pounded his fist onto the bar three times, paused, and then pounded once more. "It was the same pattern I'd heard coming from under Jared's bed." He stood and stretched, finally removing his trench coat and carefully draping it over the stool. "She terminated the sessions that afternoon because the banging unnerved her, but also because she felt like continued therapy might do more harm than good since Jared's attitude had worsened in response to it."

  "Did you call another therapist?"

  "No. That's when I knew we weren't dealing with psychological issues. I reached out to our church and talked to Father O'Leary."

  "What did you say to him?"

  Mr. Smith carried his mug to the coffee maker. "May I use the restroom?"

  "Yeah, of course. Go ahead. I need to stretch my legs. Would you like another cup of coffee?"

  "Maybe just half."

  Lou filled the two mugs and then searched the refrigerator for a snack. Stella had allowed him to use her suite for the interview. He didn't want Mr. Smith walking into the cheaper, less updated hotel where he'd booked a room. It would have given the wrong impression. A nice-looking, spacious suite implied that Lou was a professional not out for personal gain. At least, that's the way Lou perceived it. Now he stood in the kitchenette unsure of what was available to him.

  He placed a partially eaten tray of fruit, vegetables, and cheese onto the breakfast bar. Once Mr. Smith returned, he gestured to the food. "Please, feel free."

  Mr. Smith selected a small batch of green grapes. "I researched you after getting your business card."

  "Oh. Well, I think that was the right thing to do. After all, I was a stranger walking up to you on the street."

  "I skimmed through some of your most well-known cases."

  "I've done this work for nine years. My partner, Dave would know the exact number, but I think I've conducted upwards of a hundred and seventy cases."

  "That's impressive." Mr. Smith dropped a grape stem onto a napkin and then sipped his coffee. "I didn't see any possession cases listed."

  "There aren't any. I've investigated cases where a person claimed that a spirit entered their body or somehow got into their head to manipulate their mind. But no bona fide demonic-possession cases."

  Mr. Smith's face seemed to brighten without smiling. "Hearing about Jared must be a bit of a letdown. It's not a story with violent spirits and my son acting like some crazed monster."

  Lou shrugged. "I wasn't hoping to hear wild, scary things. I just wanted to hear whatever you had to tell me. But I'm sure Hollywood would take a lot of creative liberty with your story."

  "They're not going to get my family's story."

  "So, things never escalated to a more terrifying level?"

  "They did. Once Father O'Leary got involved, Jared's behavior and things that happened in the house got worse."

  "Like what?" Lou shifted more comfortably on the stool and then looked at Mr. Smith. "I'm sorry. Please, continue where you left off."

  Mr. Smith scratched at the seeds on a strawberry. "I wanted him to see Jared under the guise of counseling him. I didn't think it would be a good idea to just blurt out that I thought my son was possessed."

  "You already believed he was possessed when you called Father O'Leary?"

  "I was willing to consider the idea because my son was no longer acting like my son."

  * * *

  When Jared was suspended from school for throwing a book at a teacher's head, Mr. Smith arrived home and marched straight to his son's bedroom.

  "Would you care to explain yourself
?"

  Jared laughed. "Explain what?"

  "Your abusive behavior at school," he replied as he sat at Jared's desk. "The abusive behavior that got you suspended."

  "Mr. Ferguson was being a dick. He's always been a fucking asshole. It's not like he didn't deserve it. If the book would have nailed him in the head, he would have fucking deserved it."

  "This isn't like you. You don't do these things. Why are you acting this way?"

  "He smacks his wife around, you know?"

  "What? You don't know what happens between Mr. Ferguson and his wife."

  "Yes, I do. He smacks her around. He's a mean son of a bitch."

  "And how do you know that?"

  "I just do."

  Mr. Smith exhaled in exasperation. "Jared, you don't know what you're talking about. We need to get a handle on your—"

  "I know exactly what the fuck I'm talking about."

  The scowl on his son's face sent an icy tingle through Mr. Smith's body. At that moment, he didn't believe he was looking into the eyes of his son. Jared didn't exist in the glassy-eyed glare.

  "You need help, son."

  Jared stared at the ceiling and chuckled. "Pronto seré libre. Voy a vivir entre ustedes de nuevo."

  The voice was that of a full-grown man. He was confident the Spanish had not been spoken by his teenaged son.

  Mr. Smith casually retreated to the door. "I'm going to get you the help that you need."

  Jared gazed at his father and then started crying. "Where are you going? Don't leave me."

  "I'm not leaving you. I'm going to make a phone call. Don't worry. You're going to be your old self again."

  "Wait, Dad," Jared sobbed. "I said, don't leave me."

  *

  On a humid September evening, Mr. Smith walked Father O'Leary out onto the front porch. The priest stood at the edge of the steps. Raising his shoulders with a deep breath, he gazed at the sunset.

  The Father had spent nearly thirty minutes with Jared, and Mr. Smith was anxious to hear what the priest thought.

  "What do you think?" Mr. Smith asked. "What's your impression?"

  Father O'Leary ran a hand through his thin, silvery hair. "Jared is a fine boy."

  "Father. Forgive me, but I heard his reaction when you walked into his room."

  "It certainly wasn't the warmest welcome I've received. But it wasn't the coldest either."

  Leaning against a porch post, Mr. Smith said, "I apologize. He's usually a very respectful young man. He hasn't been himself lately."

  "How long has he been out of sorts?"

  "Two or three months. It started during the summer."

  "And you don't know what may have caused his turn?"

  "No." Mr. Smith sat on the top step. "Sometimes he acts like a completely different person."

  Father O'Leary sat next to Mr. Smith and steepled his fingers. "The psychologist ruled out mental issues?"

  "Basically. She decided not to see him anymore following an incident in her office."

  "And what was that?"

  "Um. There was banging on her floor. And it seemed to be caused by Jared. But he didn't do it. The banging happened all on its own."

  "Hmm." Glancing to the side at Mr. Smith, Father O'Leary asked, "Have there been any disturbances in your home?"

  "What kind of disturbances?"

  "You and your family haven't attended regular church services for a while now. When kids become teenagers, it's not uncommon for a lot of them to stop going to church. But I've seen you and your wife from time to time. And I still know you and your family." He looked at the sunset again. "You wouldn't have called me here if you didn't suspect something wrong was going on with Jared."

  "Honestly, I didn't know who else to turn to. You have a sincere interest in helping people, and you have the courage to take risks."

  When Mr. Smith had discussed calling the priest with his wife, they'd agreed that Father O'Leary's devotion to God and the teachings of the Catholic Church were among his strengths. Like Jesus, the priest had committed his life to serving the people without any expectation of reward. They believed Father O'Leary's assistance would be based on honesty and loyalty.

  "My opinion," the Father said, "is that there is something ungodly going on with Jared."

  The words struck fear within Mr. Smith but also pained his heart. He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes and huffed a sigh of relief. "So, can you help him?"

  "Does Jared speak French?"

  "No. He doesn't speak any foreign language."

  "I used to speak French. But you know what they say, if you don't keep it in practice, it slips away."

  "He spoke to me in Spanish."

  "Do you know what he said?"

  "No. I don't speak Spanish either."

  Father O'Leary brushed his knees as if his slacks were dirty. "Montrez-moi la puissance de Dieu. That's what he said to me."

  "What does it mean?"

  "Show me the power of God."

  FOURTEEN

  Conner opened the passenger door of his mother's Cadillac SUV. Once Hailey was comfortably seated, he shut the door gently and then rounded the car and jumped into the driver's seat.

  "It was nice of you to take me out to dinner," she said. "It was like our first real date."

  He smiled. "Sorry. We should have gone on a date sooner, huh?"

  "That would have been nice." She fastened her seat belt and gazed at him. "I'd never been to that restaurant. Thanks for taking me."

  "My mom suggested it."

  "Tell her that she made a good choice."

  "I will." He pressed the ignition. "So, what should we do now?"

  "I don't know. Just drive, I guess."

  Departing the downtown area of Newman, Conner steered the car toward their neighborhood of Gramercy Heights. Aimlessly cruising the streets, they didn't speak much, only stole sly glances at each other. Following a few minutes of driving, Conner said, "We can park somewhere if you want."

  She giggled. "Like Lovers' Lane or something?"

  Of course she would think that. He should have known that his words would immediately evoke the memory of the awkward moment at Adam's house. At school, he had a solid reputation as a Casanova. Tonight, he'd wanted to diminish any thoughts Hailey might entertain of him as a player. But the suggestion of parking had instantly generated the assumption he'd wanted to avoid. Now it was his duty to prove he wasn't only interested in Hailey to satisfy a sexual need.

  "I meant, we could talk. Or hang out at my house if you want."

  "Are your parents home?"

  Grinning, he said, "Yes. So you don't have to worry that we're going to get caught doing something."

  Again, she giggled. "That was so embarrassing. I was mortified."

  He laughed. "I know."

  "You weren't embarrassed, though."

  He shrugged. "Not really."

  "Did that ever happen to you before?"

  He released a hearty chuckle. "No!"

  Several seconds passed as their laughter subsided, then he asked, "Do you want to hang out at my house? Or I can take you home."

  "Um. Yeah. Okay. Let's go to your house."

  He looked out the driver's window, hoping she didn't see the wide smile on his face. "Good."

  * * *

  Trevor and his sister cleaned the kitchen and put away the dishes. When they were nearly finished, he sat down with his second slice of lemon meringue pie.

  "Hey!" Kinsley dropped a folded dish towel next to the sink. "We still gotta wipe down the stove and table."

  "I know. You do the stove. I'll do the table after I eat this."

  Her shoulders sagged as though her entire evening was ruined because her brother decided to take a break.

  "Oh, calm down," he said. "Eat another piece of pie with me."

  "Are you kidding? You know how much fat and sugar is in that? You should be eating fruit or something healthy."

  He playfully waved a forkful of lemon tart filling f
rom side to side. "Ah, c'mon. You know it's really, really good."

  She plopped onto the bench next to him. "Fine."

  Laughing, he slid the pie tin to her. "It's not like you have to eat a huge piece or anything. I mean, jeez, sit and enjoy some time with your big brother for once."

  She flashed her braces and then flicked the pink-tinted braids from her shoulders. "Just one or two bites."

  "Ooh. Living on the edge."

  "Shut up."

  He handed her a fork. "Dig in."

  She finally savored the sweet, tart dessert and then smiled.

  Trevor nudged his arm against hers. "You know how much fat and sugar is in that?"

  She rolled her eyes. When the two settled into silence once again, she seemed to ponder a thought before asking, "Is it true? You know, what people are saying about Jared."

  At that moment, Jared's alleged exorcism and resulting death took on a whole new significance. Trevor wasn't trying to convince his doubtful parents. He wasn't arguing with friends and classmates about a rumor. His twelve-year-old sister was initiating a conversation that he could either ignore or take the lead on. For some reason, her young, innocent face made him feel like he needed to protect her from wild stories and eerie details. In his mind, telling her the truth was the best way to accomplish that.

  "Yeah, it's true."

  "That's scary."

  "Yeah."

  She set her fork down and slid the pie tin toward Trevor. "I don't understand all that kinda stuff. But it's scary to think about."

  "Yeah, it is."

  "I bet is was really scary for Jared."

  The impact of her words hit Trevor like a punch to the gut. For the past week, he'd been more concerned with dismissing rumors and his own investigation to discover the truth, and then his refusal to accept his possible role in the whole phenomenon. Now, his little sister forced him to consider someone other than himself. Jared.

  He took a deep breath and then clenched his jaw as the warm tears rolled down his cheeks. He wanted to respond to her statement, but his throat burned and tightened, strangling the words he wanted to say. Instead, he murmured "uh, huh."

  Kinsley didn't move. She appeared frozen in the moment, unsure of what she should do or say. And then she rested her head against his shoulder.