by Lincoln Cole
The Everett Exorcism
Book I, World on Fire
By Lincoln Cole
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lincoln Cole, Columbus, 2017
[email protected]
www.LincolnCole.net
Cover Design by M.N. Arzu
http://www.mnarzuauthor.com
“Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.”
- James 4:7
Prologue
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Father Paladina knelt in his uncomfortable position beneath the staircase, eyes closed and struggling to control his breathing. Each gasp sounded like the cracking of a tree branch, and he couldn’t fight down an occasional sob of terror. His heart beat in his ears, and his veins seemed about to burst open.
“I can smell you, Priest. I know you didn’t run far. Where are you?”
The voice came from upstairs in the local priest’s office. Niccolo couldn’t remember a time in his life when he had been so on edge and afraid. It felt like a sickness in his stomach, as all of his muscles tensed simultaneously. It made his body shake, and he worried that he might throw up at any moment.
“We both know how this will end. If you come out now, I’ll do it quick. If you make me come and find you, though …”
Niccolo struggled to control his breathing as hot tears ran down his cheeks. He reached into his front-right pocket for the single item he kept there. His rosary, which he held between his fingers and pressed against his lips, praying as hard as he could for the strength to deal with whatever was happening to him.
Not to overcome it, though. Part of him—if he were honest, a large part—knew he was about to die alone in this church, and the only thing he prayed for was the strength to die well.
After all, right now, not only his life hung in the balance: so did his everlasting soul.
“This basement has no exits. I know this church. This is my church. Not yours,” the man—if still a man—said from just upstairs. “I never thought I would actually get to kill a priest here. This is delightful!”
What is he waiting for? Niccolo wondered, in fear. Tim Spencer—or whatever controlled him—seemed to enjoy taking his time. Every muscle in Niccolo’s body ached, and he had to fight to keep from sobbing. Why is he doing this? Why is he waiting up there?
It felt like he’d been hiding under the stairs forever, but it had probably lasted for less than a minute.
“We’re having fun, aren’t we, Priest?” Tim asked.
Niccolo couldn’t contain a shudder, and the movement caused his shoulder to bump against one of the boxes behind him. The noise it made wasn’t that loud, but to Niccolo, it rumbled like an explosion in the stillness of the basement.
If his pursuer heard, though, he didn’t let on. Tim hummed to himself as he took his first step down the staircase. It creaked heavily underfoot, and Father Paladina winced when dust fell on his head.
Another step; the sound of the boot on the stairs sounded like a nail in the priest’s coffin. Tim kept on coming, humming a tuneless tone, until the father could see muddy boots in front of his face.
“Priest? You know I’ll find you. You can’t hide from me.”
Niccolo’s whole body trembled, and the man had called it true. His hiding place seemed weak and pathetic now. As soon as Tim reached the bottom of the staircase, he would spy Niccolo. The priest had backed himself into a corner and had nowhere to go.
He shouldn’t have stayed here at Saint Joseph’s Cathedral alone. Should have gone with Father Reynolds to his home; splitting up had turned into a terrible idea, and one that might well cost him his life.
Father Reynolds’s life, too, Niccolo realized. Jackson had gone home, but no doubt, whoever had sent this creature after Niccolo had gone after him as well. Father Paladina hadn’t warned his friend of the danger. He regretted that, now. Jackson had no way of defending himself and knew nothing of the danger. Niccolo had led him like a lamb to the slaughter.
Tim Spencer reached the bottom step, and Niccolo could see his back through the gap in the risers. He had nowhere to run and no possible way to get out of this. It was over. He was about to die.
He should at least face his death head on.
As a servant of God.
Easier said than done, however. His body struggled against him. The priest forced his wobbly legs to move and rose from his crouched position, stepping out from beneath the stairs to confront his pursuer. Tim heard him and turned.
“Well, then. There you are.” The man grinned and bared his teeth. He looked more feral than anything. “Well done, Priest. Found a little courage after all. Are you ready to meet your maker?”
Father Paladina opened his mouth to speak, to pray, but no sounds would come. His voice had abandoned him, and the words he’d studied and practiced for years caught in his throat.
“What? Cat got your tongue?” The man stepped closer to him and continued to grin that insane grin. “Let me get you started: Our Father, who art in heaven …”
“Vile abomination, you don’t belong here,” Niccolo muttered. “By the power of Christ, I compel you.” He held up his rosary, hand still shaking. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I order you to leave this place.”
The man stopped moving forward, his grin fading. “You think that will work? You, of all people, think that a prayer could compel me to just drop everything and leave?”
Father Paladina grew emboldened, feeling momentary strength while the words poured out of him. The demon was lying, and the words did have some impact. They gave Niccolo courage and knowledge that, despite everything, he did not stand alone. It had an effect, the power, the prayers, and his faith. They held the man at bay.
Maybe he could get out of this alive. If his faith held up.
“You do not belong here, creature. Return from whence you came. Through the power of Christ, I demand that you leave this holy place.”
A long moment passed, the only sound Niccolo and the man’s breathing. The priest held his rosary forth, hand unwavering and back tall. They stared at each other, locked in place, as the seconds ticked by.
“Silly priest,” the man said, finally, his grin returning. “Don’t you know you have no power here?”
The man reached up and grabbed the rosary in Father Paladina’s hand. A sizzling sound filled the basement, as though flesh burned, and the priest could feel the metal heating in his hand.
Niccolo watched in horror when Tim stepped closer to him, pressing the cross against his forehead. The metal burned Tim’s skin where it touched, and he burst into a wild and maniacal laugh.
Father Paladina released his grip on the rosary and jerked back in disgust. The man let it fall to the floor, a sizzling chunk of metal, and there it lay.
“How does it feel?” The man took another step closer to Father Paladina. Still grinning that sick and toothy grin. “How does it feel to know you are truly alone?”
He reached forward, grabbing the priest around the throat and squeezing. His grip felt like iron, crushing down on Niccolo’s windpipe.
“How does it feel to know that God has abandoned you?”
Chapter 1
Two Days Earlier
Father Niccolo Pa
ladina stepped off a bus and into the chilly Everett air in the middle of the small city. Though early in the afternoon, with the heavy cloud cover it proved difficult to determine an exact time of day.
To ward off a sudden burst of cold air that washed over him, he clutched his coat tight to his chest and felt his teeth chattering. He’d grown used to winter weather and unfavorable climes but certainly not a fan of them.
He picked up his suitcase and watched as the Greyhound shuttle pulled away from the curb, leaving him on the street alone. Then he felt thankful he hadn’t packed a lot of luggage for this foray because it looked as though it would rain soon, and he didn’t want to spend a lot of energy lugging too much around the city with him.
With any luck, he wouldn’t have to stay here in the state of Washington for too long before making the trip back to his home in Italy. He hadn’t been in favor of making this trip at all, but when orders were orders, and when his superior gave him a directive, he didn’t dare refuse.
This made for only his second time coming to the States at all, and he wasn’t much of a fan. From his education and studies, the priest knew that the States spread out across vast geographical zones and climates, but so far, he had visited Maine and Washington, and even though both looked beautiful and pristine in their own ways, he doubted he would willingly make a return trip. Maine felt too cold, and Washington had quickly turned out too wet.
With a sigh, he began his trek down the road in the direction he hoped led to his hotel. The bus stop stood only half a mile from the place, but he hadn’t brought a map with him and didn’t know exactly where to go. It was dark and dreary and the streets poorly lit, a fact which further frustrated him.
Niccolo had gotten sent here on behalf of the Vatican to meet with the local priest about Church business, and not the kind of business they wanted locals to know about, which meant it stayed only between himself and the priest, Father Jackson Reynolds.
Reynolds, a young man, had charge of a new parish—‘new’ to Niccolo meant anything built within the last hundred years—and had impressed a number of higher-ups during his education and training in Rome. Jackson went to the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome and had excelled.
Supposedly, he’d made a brilliant student with a bright future ahead of him, but he had committed a critical mistake in the last few weeks. An error that had brought Niccolo here to this god-forsaken town when he could have been eating in a street market near his home: Jackson had gone over the local bishop’s head and contacted the Vatican to request help. Such a mistake should cost the priest his position and livelihood, considering the transgressions committed.
At least, that made for Niccolo’s opinion on the matter; not that anyone asked for his opinion.
To go over the bishop’s head exhibited unacceptable behavior, much less requesting an exorcist get sent to the town. The requesting of an exorcist, or even an evaluation of demonic activity like this, meant a big deal: an order of events existed for situations like this, and a chain of command through which communications went. And attempting to bypass links in that chain eroded the fabric on which the Church’s trust had formed, and the fact that Jackson’s insolence had ended up rewarded by Niccolo getting sent to talk to him irked Paladina quite a bit.
Not enough to transgress on his own, however. Niccolo intended to investigate the situation that had brought him here to the best of his abilities, of course, but he also intended to straighten the priest out about how situations like this should work. By all accounts, Bishop Glasser was a reasonable man overseeing a few Parishes in the area, and if he didn’t believe that the situation warranted Vatican attention, then it probably didn’t.
Which meant Niccolo doubted he would find anything untoward within Father Reynolds’s claims about demonic possession in Everett.
He walked past a two-story building with a sign on the front that read: Labor Temple, and then made a right-hand turn at the next corner. He was beginning to fear that he had gone in the opposite direction from the bus stop but didn’t see anyone he might ask for help. No choice but to continue forward.
The worst part about his trip here? When he reported such news back to the Vatican, they would, no doubt, give the young priest a slap on the wrists and forget his transgression had ever occurred. In many similar cases, such a wayward priest would get significantly more than a slap on the wrist, but his powerful friends merely wanted him to get chastised for his mistake rather than dealt with harshly.
It bothered Niccolo but, to be honest, it remained none of his concern. The only reason it bothered him right now was that he felt exhausted, hungry, and cranky. Small droplets of rain pattered against his skin, and it concerned him that his jacket would get soaked before he made it to the hotel. Half a mile hadn’t seemed so far to walk, but just now, he wished he’d simply paid for a cab. The only thing he cared about at this moment was checking into his room, finding food, and warming up for the evening.
He stopped walking and stepped under an awning when the rain suddenly came down in earnest, certain now that he had made a wrong turn at some point. Niccolo had glanced at his map on the bus, but he wouldn’t consider himself familiar with the city by any means. Fairly sprawling, many of the streets looked alike. He set down his luggage and dug the map out of his pocket.
The wind whipped by every few seconds, flushing his long strands of black hair into his face and obscuring his vision. A frown creased his features as he brushed away his tangled mane. The cold rain ran down the back of his coat, wetting his skin. He had an umbrella packed in his bags, but the thought of digging it free only to be blown about by the wind didn’t appeal much to him.
Focused on the map, he traced his finger across the streets and realized his mistake. He had turned too soon and gone a few blocks off-course. The good news was that he now stood only a short distance from his hotel and just needed to backtrack a little.
Carefully, he folded the map and slipped it back in his pocket before walking once more. He nodded politely at a passerby, who happened to be out, but the man refused even to spare a glance his way. He stared at the ground with a blank expression on his face, hurrying and leaning against the wind. This man, like Niccolo, just wanted to get out of the rain.
A few minutes later, he arrived at his hotel. A two-story brick building with faded red paint and a tired looking welcome sign out front. It looked old and worn and not at all aesthetically pleasing. He despised the exterior but found himself warming up to the place when he stepped inside the antechamber. It felt toasty and comfortable and appeared quite clean. For a moment, he stood just basking in the warm air, letting the water drip off him.
A red-haired woman sat on a stool behind the check-in counter with a magazine open in front of her. She stood when he approached, folding her hands in front of her on the counter, and smiled at him. She had long hair and dimples and looked just over five-feet tall.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“I have a reservation,” he said, setting his bag on the carpet and pulling out his wallet. He removed his ID.
“Name?”
“Last name, Paladina. First name, Niccolo.”
She looked at the book in front of her. “I don’t have any reservations under that name. Are you sure you have the right place?”
He bit back his annoyance, reminding himself that he just felt tired and hungry. “Father Jackson Reynolds prepared the reservation, so it might be under his name.”
She scanned again, taking an inordinate amount of time to look over two pages of names, and then nodded. “Yes. I have a room under Father Reynolds. Looks like it is reserved for three days with a note that it might need longer. Is it just you tonight?”
“Yes,” he said. Three days would give more than enough time to handle his business, he hoped. In fact, he hoped to get done in a day.
The woman turned around and pulled a key from a wall of hooks. She handed it to him.
“You’ll find your room on the second floor.
Two-oh-nine. Do you need any help getting your luggage up the stairs? We don’t have an elevator, unfortunately.”
“Not unfortunate,” he said, accepting the offered keys. “Quite fortunate, actually.”
She tilted her head to the side, confused. “Sorry, what?”
Niccolo doubted she’d ever heard anyone show happiness at the idea of a hotel not having an elevator, but in his estimation, the idea of putting something so wasteful in a two-story building seemed a travesty. Exercise and health had gotten lost with the new age of innovation.
He clarified, “I have no issue with your hotel’s lack of modern privileges.”
“Ah. We sort of have a reputation in the area for being old-fashioned, and it’s not usually considered a good thing. Would you like help moving your bags up to your room?”
“No,” he said. “I have just the one bag. Thank you, though.”
“Of course.”
“Would it be too much trouble to ask that you set an alarm for me?”
“Of course not. What time in the morning would you like for me to set it?”
“This evening, actually. I’ve had quite a long flight and would like to take a nap, but I have a scheduled engagement I would rather not miss. Would seven-thirty be acceptable?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll set it in the system, and you will receive a call.”
“Pre-recorded?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“Would it be possible if a human calls me instead? I’d rather get woken by a person than a machine. I, myself, am considered rather old fashioned as well.”
She pursed her lips, visibly annoyed and trying in vain to hide it. “No trouble at all. It will be after my shift ends, but I’ll leave a note to have Donald call you.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry to be such a bother.”
She smiled her most pleasant customer-service smile, one which Niccolo could tell wasn’t genuine. “No trouble. Will there be anything else?”