The Demonists

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  She hadn’t thought she would ever be able to stop.

  The time before that, though, she hadn’t cried at all, feeling only an anger so intense that she was afraid she might hurt someone, or herself. She had locked her gun up that evening, just to be on the safe side.

  And how about now? she wondered fretfully. What kind of night would this be? With what she had immersed herself in tonight, she feared the sadness but wasn’t quite sure how she was feeling.

  All she knew right then was that she had to look.

  Brenna moved the hard files aside and slowly stood, all the while staring at the contents of the bookcase, eyes riveted to one particular area. She could just about make out the binding.

  The book was calling to her.

  Managing to tear her eyes from it momentarily, she went out to the kitchen again. In one of the nearly empty cabinets, she found what she was looking for in the form of a bottle of Irish whisky. Perhaps a few sips to take the edge off, she thought, pulling down the half-empty bottle—or was it half-full? Depended on the kind of night it was, she thought, finding an appropriate glass and rinsing it of dust in the sink. Unscrewing the top, she poured herself four fingers of the golden liquid, her keen sense of smell picking up on the strong aroma as soon as it started to flow into the glass.

  She thought of whisky as the great equalizer, putting her brain in such a place as to make it easier to accept the emotions that the book would conjure. Bringing the glass up to her mouth, she took a good swallow, letting the burning fluid flow down her throat to her stomach, feeling the warmth already starting to spread.

  Her husband had been right, she was such a lightweight.

  Taking her glass, she left the kitchen again and went to the living room. There was no hesitation now. She went right to it—to the bookcase— eyes scanning the multiple titles. She had everything in there: how-to books, self-help, home improvement, biographies, embarrassing fiction, an encyclopedia of dogs when they were considering getting a puppy before . . .

  She took another long swig from her drink, letting the whisky do its thing.

  Her hand went right to that particular book, the tips of her fingers running along the thin binding, as her eyes read the title as if it were something new, as if she’d never read it before.

  Freddie Fox Plants a Garden. She’d bought the book at a grocery store when she was only three months along.

  It was to be the baby’s first.

  Brenna slowly—carefully—extracted the book from the shelf, afraid that if she was too rough it would somehow be irreparably damaged. The cover of the book always made her smile, the cute Freddie Fox in his blue overalls, tending his garden.

  Clutching her prize to her chest, she returned to the couch and sat down, placing her half-full—or was it now half-empty?—glass down on the floor at her feet. Laying the book flat upon her lap, she continued to stare at the cheerful cover art, remembering the story inside with distinct clarity.

  But it wasn’t Freddie’s story she was interested in. There was another story inside, a true story filled with so much love, and eventual sadness. A story that belonged to her.

  She was amazed that no matter how many times she’d done this, her hands still trembled. It was almost as if she was afraid that somehow they wouldn’t be there anymore when she opened the cover.

  Brenna pulled back the cover and opened Freddie’s adventure with gardening and found her own sad story in the shape of photographs.

  There weren’t all that many, just enough to paint a beautiful picture. The other pictures, the ones inside her head—and they were many—were for her, and her alone.

  Opening the book, listening to the familiar cracking sound of the binding, she was careful not to let the pictures fall out. They were in a specific order; a special order.

  The first picture always made her smile. She hadn’t known it then, but it was the most perfect of times. She carefully lifted the photo from its corner, staring at the moment frozen in time. In the photo she saw a much younger, and prettier, version of herself, her husband, Craig, and their newborn son, Ronan. Her mind drifted back to the moment, remembering the sounds and the smells. It really was remarkable what the photograph could do; it was just like being back there again.

  When things were good.

  Perfect.

  Before it all went wrong.

  She didn’t want to think of that yet, moving on to the next photo of her beautiful baby boy. He’d been less than a month when the picture was taken, so small and helpless, but so full of life. He was a loud one, that was for sure.

  Brenna held back the sudden emotion, the urge to cry, as she heard the ghostly echoes of the past—her baby’s cooing, and tiny cries of hunger—from inside her head.

  She paused for a moment, reaching down to the floor for her glass. She needed more equalizer. The whisky went down without the burn now.

  Feeling more in control, she went back to pictures. The next was of Ronan’s room. They were so proud of the job they’d done decorating it. The crib was front and center, and seeing it she could not help skipping ahead— No. Not yet. There was still so much good to remember. So much happiness.

  She could feel the love coming from the photos. It was always there, the love that they had had for each other as husband and wife, the love that they had had for their baby boy. She could see it on their faces in each and every picture. So much love.

  One of the next pictures always triggered a reaction. The pumpkin. It was to be Ronan’s first fall, his first Halloween, the first official holiday after his birth in August.

  Happy Halloween, Ronan, the pictures said. Pumpkins and cartoon ghosts and witches. They’d decorated the house substantially. They’d said it was for the baby, but they knew better. The baby was just an excuse for Craig to embrace what he called his favorite holiday. Brenna had some more of the whisky, not wanting to go to the next photos. There weren’t all that many left and she knew that once she went beyond them, the other pictures, the ones inside her head . . . it would be their turn. She thought about stopping here, closing the book, and putting it back on the shelf until next time.

  But she couldn’t do it. If she’d come this far, she had no choice but to go forward. The whole story needed to be told, not just the good stuff. It was just how she was. She needed to go through to the end, from the past to the now. That was the story.

  The next picture she loved, but hated. It filled her with happiness, and bone-crushing despair. She let the happiness come to her first as she looked at the image of her baby boy, propped up on the sofa, still too young to sit up on his own, dressed like a pumpkin. She remembered how Craig and she had laughed hysterically over the outfit, making up a story about how Ronan had been found in a pumpkin patch, retrieved from inside a broken gourd.

  It had been a good story. Would have been a nice companion piece to Freddy planting his garden if somebody could have written it. Her whisky was gone and she considered getting up and going for more, but she was almost done here.

  The next pictures were of the inside of the house decorated for the holiday. Lots of orange lights and fake spiderwebs.

  Brenna spent a little too much time on the photos of the house, not wanting to go to the last picture.

  But she had to.

  It was of Ronan’s room, also done up for Halloween. It was a picture of him, still dressed in his orange pumpkin pajamas, sound asleep in his crib.

  Staring at the picture, feeling the familiar sense of absolute dread return, she wondered again if there was something she could have done.

  Something she should have noticed, and reacted to, to save her baby’s life.

  The picture that followed—the first of the ones that were inside her head—was very similar to the last one.

  Trick-or-treating was over, the lights outside had all been turned off, and she’d gone into Ronan’s room to check on him before going to bed herself.

  Brenna had known something was wrong almost immediately u
pon entering the room. There had been a feeling in the air, a badness that hadn’t been there before.

  He looked as though he was sleeping, lying there in his pumpkin onesie. Something had told her to go to him, to make sure that he was all right. Brenna had done this countless times since he was born. If she had added up all the time that she had spent watching him sleep, making sure that he was breathing . . .

  If she could only have that time back again—with him.

  The tears welling up in her eyes were scalding hot as they tumbled down her face. She was careful to not let the tears land on the photos. She didn’t want to ruin them.

  She remembered how she had gone into the room, careful not to make a sound, and had stood over the crib looking down on her son, searching for signs that he was fine—deeply asleep and fine.

  But this time she couldn’t find any.

  It felt as if hours had passed as she had stood over the crib, her eyes desperately looking for movement. She remembered how she’d berated herself for thinking such things. Of course he was all right. Of course he was just sleeping.

  Brenna tensed with sensory memory.

  Remembering how she’d reached down to take his tiny hand in hers.

  It was so cold. Like plastic. Like a doll’s hand.

  Her first instinct was to rub his skin, to try and get the circulation back. It must have been too cold in his room, she’d guessed.

  But then the realization began to dawn, and the panic like jagged bolts of electricity to sink in.

  He wasn’t waking up.

  Ronan wasn’t waking up.

  Brenna braced herself to the torturous memories, setting the pictures back into the front cover of the storybook and closing it. She set it down on the couch beside her, letting the remembrances come.

  She didn’t really know how long she had tried to wake him up, snatching him from the crib, bouncing him in her arms. She remembered that she had begged him to wake up, to not scare Mommy that way.

  It hadn’t been long after that when she had begun to pray. She’d never been religious, but then, at that moment, she was as devout as any holy man on the planet.

  She’d promised God anything and everything if He (She?) would help her son to wake up.

  The screaming and crying started not long after she realized that God wasn’t listening, the only one to hear her cries being her husband. And he was as useless as God.

  The memories that followed were a blur: EMTs, hospitals, doctors explaining about SIDS, the autopsy— They had cut her baby open to find out what had killed him, and the answer had been less than satisfactory. There was something wrong with his breathing, something completely unnoticeable, something that had become a problem that Halloween night.

  Something that had decided to act up and end his life.

  Picking his tiny coffin was the next, strongest memory. Imagining her baby being placed inside that box and being put into the ground. The day Ronan was buried, a large part of her was buried with him.

  The part that cared about going on, about continuing with her life.

  The breakdown nearly took her, and at the time she wouldn’t have cared. She had been hospitalized for nearly six months, and during that time as they struggled to heal her, her world continued to die.

  Craig left three months into her hospital stay. He said that he couldn’t do it anymore, and that he was sorry. She didn’t have the strength to argue, and they sold their dream house, and he went away. There were divorce papers that she barely remembered signing, and that was the last time she’d heard anything about him.

  She still wondered where he had gone, and whether or not he had found some semblance of peace.

  Brenna placed the flat of her hand on the book cover, sealing the memories away once again. She got up from the couch and returned the book to the shelf, sliding it back into the open slot.

  Until next time.

  Her mind was a jumble of images and emotion, and she considered her options at the moment; she could most certainly do some more work, or she could try and get some sleep.

  Doubting very much that sleep would be attainable, she crossed the room and snatched up her empty glass from the floor. She would have a little bit more whisky while perusing her files and then . . .

  It took her a moment to recognize the sound of her cell phone ringing. Having to remember where she had left it, she went to her bag and rummaged through the multiple pockets frantically, wanting to catch the call.

  “Isabel,” she said, holding the cell to her face.

  There was silence, which made her start to believe that she was too late when somebody spoke.

  “Yeah, it’s Grinnal,” the reedy, high-pitched voice of one of the odder members of her forensics team said.

  “What’s up?”

  “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “I debated on whether or not to call, but decided that maybe—”

  “What’s up?” she asked again, letting a little petulance slip into her tone.

  “It’s the teeth,” he said.

  “The teeth?” For a moment she had forgotten one of their more gruesome pieces of evidence. “What about them?”

  There was another long pause.

  “Grinnal?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You might want to come in so I can show you.”

  He went silent, and for a moment she believed that he might have hung up.

  “I think there’s something written on them.”

  Franklin Cho had owed John and Theodora a tremendous debt. He’d never believed in the supernatural, in ghosts or anything of that nature, until he’d been confronted with something that he couldn’t explain.

  Cho was thinking of those things as he walked the corridor of the supposedly secure wing of his psychiatric hospital, on the way to check in on a patient who was also the closest of friends. Theodora had put him immediately at ease. All the fear that he had been experiencing at the time of the inexplicable events had seemed to melt away after spending less than ten minutes with the woman. He stood at the door staring through the small window at the sleeping Theodora Knight, saddened by the events that had brought her here. He still didn’t know precisely what it was that had happened but understood that it had something to do with her and her hus band’s unique area of expertise.

  Dr. Cho had been experiencing what could best be described as high-level poltergeist activity when he first met the parapsychologists who would become his friends. When it first began, he had believed that he was imagining things, that the strange events that had started to interfere with his normal day-to-day activities were just unusual happenings—flukes—that could be easily explained away. Strange banging noises, items from his home disappearing, only to be found in other locations outside the residence, furniture and appliances moving inexplicably on their own: these were just a few of the bizarre experiences plaguing him.

  And then they got worse.

  Mechanical devices breaking down, lightbulbs exploding, an overwhelming sense of being watched when nobody else was there. Cho had been at the end of his rope when the answer to his problems presented itself at a fund-raiser for cancer research, in the form of two guest speakers: celebrity stars of a very popular television program about ghosts and whatnot.

  A show that he’d never seen, nor had cared to see. He’d always been more of a PBS guy when he actually had the time to watch television. He hadn’t even wanted to be at the event, having not had a decent night’s rest in weeks thanks to a mysterious voice that cried whenever he closed his eyes, but a dear friend—unaware of his situation—had asked him to attend, and he hadn’t wanted to disappoint her. He’d planned on going, being seen, making a donation, and then leaving as quickly as he could. The TV stars had been wrapping up their talk when he arrived, allowing him to stealthily enter, make his pledge, wave to a few of his colleagues, and start to be on his way when he was stopped by the woman speaker as she left the stage.

  Theodora Knight.

  She’d s
aid that she wanted to talk to him . . . she wanted to help him with his—problem.

  Cho rapped gently on the door and stepped in to find a nurse administering medication through an IV. They were giving Theodora lorazepam, a calming agent for the overly anxious. It had been used quite successfully with dementia patients suffering from severe anxiety, and they seemed to be having equally good results with Theodora.

  “How’s she doing, Stacy?” he asked, picking up and looking at her chart.

  “She’s seems fine,” Stacy said, finishing with the IV. “Resting comfortably.”

  He heard a cough from the corner of the room and turned to see a security guard sitting and reading a magazine. There had been some kind of incident in the room the other night involving unauthorized personnel that he had still been unable to quite figure out, and thought it might be best to assign somebody to keep watch over her. Cho finished reviewing the chart and stepped closer to the bed, looking down at his friend. She looked thin, her skin an unhealthy pallor. Whatever it was that was affecting her was certainly taking its toll. He remembered how she had looked the first time they met, the vibrancy that seemed to come off her in waves.

  When she’d mentioned his problem he remembered feigning ignorance, pretending to not understand. He recalled the look she had given him then as clear as if she were staring at him now, as well as what she had said.

  “He’ll never leave you alone until you acknowledge he was here,” she’d said. He’d been even more confused then, asking her who she was talking about, who would never leave him alone?

  “Your brother,” she’d said.

  His suspicion that she was nothing more than a charlatan was verified at that moment. He’d never had a brother. In fact, he was an only child. And he’d told her so, believing that he’d seen through her performance, catching her off guard.

  But Theodora had been completely unfazed. She’d stuck to her story and even gone on to explain that he had indeed had a brother, but they had never known each other outside the womb. “I’d like some time alone with my patient,” he said softly. Stacy understood, and quickly left. It took a moment for the security guard to get the picture. “Take a break,” Cho told him. “I’ll keep an eye on things for a while.”