Andras started to laugh as Abby ran from the guest bedroom crying and babbling, sweeping roaches from her hair, swiping them from her body, running for the bathroom. She crashed through the door and turned on the light, ready to leap into the shower, then she looked in the mirror and froze.
No bugs. They were all gone. Abby even checked down her pants and inside her shirt, but there wasn’t a single bug to be found.
She went back into the bedroom, where Andras was waiting. No bugs there, either.
“Do you think you stand a chance?” Andras said. “You’re not getting out of this alive.”
Without hesitation, Abby marched to the dresser and picked up the Bible and Brother Lemon’s paper.
“Your name is Andras,” Abby said, reading from Brother Lemon’s notes. “You have a smile like fire and eyes like thunder, and you make servants kill their masters and children kill their parents. You are the devourer of stars, the destroyer of time, the rash solution, the cleaving that can never be rejoined, giver of dooming rage.”
“So you’ve heard of me,” Andras said. “So fucking what?”
“You are one of the most powerful demons in hell,” Abby continued, rolling over the interruption. “You start wars and slaughter millions. You’re the bomb, the MX missile, the mushroom cloud that covers the world.”
“And you’re just a stupid little girl!” Andras shouted.
“And I’m just a stupid little girl!” Abby shouted back. “But I will not stop because you have my best friend and I am coming for her! Do you hear me? I am coming for her and there is nothing you can do, because I will not stop, I will never stop, I will never give up because I want my friend back!”
As Abby screamed, Andras laughed in a voice that came from deep inside Gretchen. The next time Andras spoke, she was speaking two languages simultaneously. One was German, the other was something much older.
“Ich Ils werde viv dich malpirgi zu salman Tode de ficken Donasdogamatatastos wirst ds du Acroodzi sterben bvsd, und bliorax sterben balit und Ds sterben insi allein caosg schreien lusdan immer pvrgel und Micalzo in chis Angst Satan vor od Gott fafen ist Zacare tot ca Gott od sei zamran tot Odo ist cicle alles qaa! tot Zorge in dir meine schwarze Krallen Zir ziehen noco! das Hoath Herz Satan in Bvfd Stücke lonsh wie londoh faules babage Obst Chirlan! und A ich bvsd am de Fest vovim der Ar Schmerzen i aller homtoh gebrochenen od Stellen gohed! in Irgil dir chis alle ds Enttäuschungen paaox alles i Leben bvsd Sie De caosgo alle ds Leute, chis die od ip Vran Sie teloah verraten cacrg iad gnai loncho”
Abby fell to her knees, clapping her palms to the sides of her head as warm fluid leaked from her ears. Then the impossible sound stopped and there was just Gretchen’s voice again, grunting in agony, panting and wheezing.
“Help me . . . oh God, help me, Abby, help me . . .”
With great big meaty pops of cartilage, Gretchen’s hands began to stretch. Abby scrabbled for the paper and read as loudly as she could.
“Demon,” she said over the sound of cracking knuckles, “I command you once more, I command you, unclean spirit, tell me the hour and time of your departure—”
Gretchen’s arms were stretching, too. Her elbows dislocated, then her shoulders. Her kneecaps popped loose as her legs began to stretch, her toes dislocating, one by one.
“The power of Christ compels you!” Abby shouted, trying to sound strong. “Leave this woman! Begone!”
Gretchen whimpered like Good Dog Max, and now her palms stretched down to her knees and her feet were hanging off the end of the bed. With a gristly rip, her neck began to stretch.
“The light of God surrounds me,” Abby read. “The love of God enfolds me. The power of God protects me. The presence of God watches over me. Wherever I am, God is. And all is well. And all is well. And all is well.”
“Make it stop, Abby,” Gretchen cried. “Stop . . . stop . . . stop. . .”
Her neck stretched another inch. Abby hoped it was an illusion, like the roaches. Abby prayed it was an illusion.
“Gek!” Gretchen gasped as her vocal cords went tight.
An icy wind kicked up and blew through the room, stinking of manure. The overhead light dimmed to brown, then flared, then flickered.
“In the name and authority of the Lord Jesus Christ,” Abby shouted into the wind, “I renounce all the power of darkness which exists in Gretchen Lang. I bind all evil spirits assigned to Gretchen Lang and forbid you to operate in any way, Andras. The power of Christ compels you!”
Gretchen screamed louder. And then her body retracted, limbs snapping back into place in a flurry of popping joints and grinding cartilage. The cold wind continued to blow. Abby used two hands to hold the paper flat so she could read it.
“I command you, unclean spirit,” she read. “along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, that you cease your attack on this child of God and begone.”
The walls of the room fell away, the wind was stronger, and Abby and Gretchen were no longer in the beach house; they were somewhere ancient and dead. Far off in the distance, Abby saw a man standing with his head on fire, his skull completely engulfed in flames that burned but did not consume. Behind a half-open door, a shape was watching her, hungry for her body.
Then Gretchen began to gabble, began to scream.
“The power of Christ compels you!” Abby attempted.
“Stop!” Gretchen cried over the wind. “Abby, he won’t stop until you stop. Please!”
“The power of Christ compels you, Andras!” Abby shouted. “Leave this girl alone!”
Gretchen’s screams were cut off as fingertips emerged from her mouth, crowned with dirty nails. The hand pushed out of Gretchen’s mouth, slick with spit, her lips working helplessly against its knuckles.
“I command you, unclean spirit,” Abby shrieked into the wind. “The power of Christ compels you!”
Gretchen’s face was stretched tight. A hairy wrist followed the hand, then a thick forearm. Gretchen’s shoulders heaved as, inch by inch, the hairy arm forced its way out, stretching her lips wider and wider. Gretchen’s jaws locked at their maximum width, and still it pushed on.
“Leave this girl!” Abby screamed. “The power of Christ compels you!”
The arm kept coming, and now the skin around Gretchen’s mouth was splitting. Gretchen sobbed and gagged. The arm was almost exposed to its elbow, and now it bent and placed its palm flat against Gretchen’s chest and it began to push itself out, tearing Gretchen’s face in half.
“I can’t!” Abby shouted, and she felt all the strength drain from her legs. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Gretchen, I can’t . . . I quit, I quit, I promise, I quit.”
She collapsed onto her butt, and the second she hit the floor the wind stopped, the light quit flickering and the arm retreated inside Gretchen. And Gretchen finally, mercifully, lay still. It was quiet. The room was a room again, with bare walls again, a wooden floor again, a wicker headboard and wicker dresser again, and Abby dragged her broken body against the wall and slumped there.
Defeated.
They lay like that for a long time. Gretchen’s breath rasping, Abby’s shoulders shaking as she cried. She had failed. She had failed, and soon they would come for her and there were no more chances. It was over.
After a while she was aware of breathing in her left ear, very close, wet and thick, and with it came a guttural whispering that only she could hear. It was the greedy sound of triumph and victory, and the words polluted her brain and covered her skin in filth, and they pushed out her own thoughts until her mind was swimming in pus.
Invisible hands touched her, running possessively over her body—strong, bony hands, plucking at her hair, picking at the scabs on her face. Humiliated, she lifted her head and saw Gretchen’s limp body on the bed; the in
visible hands were fondling her, too. Gretchen’s clothing moved as the hands ran over her breasts and between her legs, pulled at her shorts, and the breathing in Abby’s ear grew hungry.
Abby wanted to fight, she wanted to resist, but the spark inside her was dead. They both belonged to Andras now. Abby gave up and let the hands do what they wanted. The whispering in her ear got greedier. She had failed. There was no more Abby, only a body that was pinched, and squeezed, and mashed, and violated.
That’s when the drums started, deep down inside Abby’s head. Deep, deep down—so deep that at first she couldn’t hear them over the obscene whispers. But then they were there, faintly, and something in Abby’s heart kicked over. Inside her skull, a piano and a guitar were banging, and her heart began to beat with the sound of hundreds of roller skates.
“. . . freedom people . . .” she whispered through her cracked lips.
The hissing voices grew louder, angry and vile in her ear. Something slithered across her lips. The hands squeezed her breasts so hard they left bruises.
“. . . marching on their feet . . .” Abby mumbled. “. . . Stallone time . . . just walking down the street . . .”
The voices paused, just for a second, and the drums got louder.
“. . . we got the beat . . .” Abby whispered, then louder. “. . . we got the beat . . . we got the beat . . .”
The voices stopped. The touching stopped, but then it resumed with a vengeance, more painful than before, twisting and punishing her flesh.
Abby slapped one hand up on the wall, higher than her head, and she pushed off the floor with all her strength. The entire planet was holding her down, something heavier than the universe forced her back, and she felt a bone snap in her left shoulder. But still she rose until she was standing, swaying, on her feet. And in her head, the whispering voices were drowned out by the same four words again and again, the same nonsense chorus:
“. . . we got the beat . . . we got the beat . . . we got the beat . . .”
She took a step toward the bed and a wind blew, slashing her to ribbons, pain exploding inside her broken shoulder. Abby bent her head down and walked toward the bed, one foot in front of the other. The hands twisted and tore at her flesh, and an invisible spike hammered between her eyes, but still she walked on.
“Tommy Cox,” Abby said. “Tommy Cox, defend me in battle. Be my protection against the wickedness and snares of this world. May Tommy Cox and his holy can of Coca-Cola rebuke you, Satan, and all your works, I pray in his name.”
She reached the foot of the bed and now the wind was howling, forcing her backward so violently that she grabbed the sheets holding Gretchen’s feet and clung to them. She looked down at Gretchen’s broken, ragged, bloody body, and she saw the invisible hands scratching and befouling her friend. She spoke in a loud clear voice.
“By the power of Phil Collins, I rebuke you!” she said. “By the power of Phil Collins, who knows that you coming back to me is against all odds, in his name I command you to leave this servant of Genesis alone.”
The wind was screaming and the house shook as the wicker chest flew into the far wall. She held on to Gretchen’s feet with one hand and kept reciting.
“By the power of The Thorn Birds,” she cried, “by the sacred strength of My Sweet Audrina and Forever . . . I deny and rebuke you, Andras. By the power of lost retainers and Jamaica and bad cornrows and fireflies and Madonna, by all these things I rebuke you.”
The wicker headboard was snatched by the wind and flew at Abby, glancing off the side of her head before hitting the wall. Blood poured from her torn ear. The wind was screaming now.
“By the mysteries and the power of Good Dog Max, and E.T. the Extra-terrible, and Geraldine Ferraro the first lady vice president ever, by the Eye of the Tiger, the Love Cry of the Koala Bear, by the passion and redemption of Bad Mama Jama, who will always have supper in the oven. In the name of Glee and Margaret and Lanie Ott, I command you to depart. By the power of the Dust Bunny and in the name of the Go-Go’s I compel you, begone!”
The wind was shaking the room and the walls were rattling, the floor was heaving, the bed was vibrating. Gretchen lay limp, shaking bonelessly.
“I love you,” Abby shouted into the storm. “I love you, Gretchen Lang. You are my reflection and my shadow and I will not let you go. We are bound together forever and ever! Until Halley’s Comet comes around again. I love you dearly and I love you queerly and no demon is bigger than this! I throw my pebble and its name is Gretchen Lang and in the name of our love, BEGONE!!!”
Everything stopped. The wind, the storm, the voices, the hands. And then Gretchen bolted upright, sitting straight up in bed, eyes snapping open, and she screamed a scream she’d been saving since birth, a scream made out of everything that had ever hurt her, a scream so shrill and so loud that the walls split, and the ceiling cracked, and paint chips rained down as Abby held on to the bed. Vile fluid poured out of Gretchen’s mouth and black tears drained from her eyes.
All over Charleston, phones started ringing and Gretchen’s scream became unbearable. Abby felt a storm of evil ideas rush through her: hollow-eyed men standing behind wire, human lampshades, the pain in Good Dog Max’s eyes because he didn’t understand what was happening to him, Gretchen stumbling naked out of the blockhouse, Mrs. Lang beating her daughter, the smell of Margaret’s bedroom, the silence at dinner tables, Glee screaming and thrashing as she was carried out of the bell tower, men laughing and cutting out a woman’s tongue, carving out her heart, burying her alive in an unmarked grave—and there was so much of it and it all hurt so badly and Abby felt it all . . . And then it was gone.
The room was a wreck. Abby’s shoulder throbbed. Gretchen lay on the mattress, covered in paint dust from the ceiling, head to one side, immobile. Then her chest rose and she inhaled, and her chest fell and she let out a gentle snore. Abby realized she was asleep.
And she was smiling.
Abby pulled her hand off the bottom of the bed and stumbled out of the room on legs made of wood; she winced. Full sunlight flooded the house and the ocean sparkled through the windows. They had been there all night. Abby heard muffled voices from far away, and she turned toward the front of the house. She heard a car door slam. She limped to the window.
Three police cars had pulled up in the yard, along with Mr. Lang’s Mercedes, and everyone was pouring out of the cars. And then Mrs. Lang looked up and saw Abby and pointed, and the police were running for the house.
Abby hobbled back to the guest bedroom.
“Gretchen!” she whispered. “Gretchen! They’re coming!”
She was kneeling by the bed, cutting the sheets off Gretchen’s wrists, and Gretchen was waking up. She saw Abby and smiled, and it was Gretchen again.
“Abby?” she said.
Heavy feet were pounding up the wooden stairs outside the house and everything was shaking.
“Gretchen,” Abby said. She cut the last knot and tore off the sheets.
“I could hear you,” Gretchen said. “You were the only thing I could hear and I was drowning, and you reached down and you pulled me out.”
Someone kicked in the front door, and then they were in the house, shoes thundering across the floor, shaking the walls, heading for the bedroom, voices shouting.
“I love you,” Abby said.
And she was hugging Gretchen, and Gretchen’s arms were around her.
“What about Max?” Gretchen whispered in her ear. “What did I do to Max?”
“It wasn’t you,” Abby said. “Max knows it wasn’t you.”
And that’s what Abby was saying when arms grabbed her from behind and yanked her away. She was in the air, her feet kicking, and Gretchen held on as long as she could. But then cops were pulling her arms away, and Gretchen screamed and reached for Abby.
“Abby!” she shouted as her mom hugged her.
&nbs
p; “Get her out,” said a man’s voice, and the Langs’ beach house was full of men in blue uniforms. “Get her out of here!”
“Gretchen!” Abby shouted, reaching for her friend.
Abby was being hauled out of the bedroom backward, and the police were between them, and Mr. and Mrs. Lang were there, and the last thing Abby saw was Gretchen reaching for her over her mom’s shoulders. And then they had her out of the house, and down the stairs in the cold, and they were slamming her into the back of a squad car; the engine was starting and the beach house was disappearing behind them.
She heard a faint cry: “Abby!”
Abby twisted around in her seat and pressed herself to the back window and saw that Gretchen had gotten away. She was running down the front stairs and through the yard, and they were all trying to catch her but she was pounding up the street in bloody bare feet, in her shorts and filthy tank top, her face a stricken mass of grief, and she screamed one last time.
“Abby!”
Abby pressed her good hand against the back window, and the car picked up speed, and it was going faster and taking her away and she couldn’t see Gretchen anymore. She couldn’t see her best friend, her reflection, her mirror, her shadow, herself.
“Gretchen,” Abby whispered.
Gretchen was gone.
Fast Car
They said it was a closed courtroom, but for Abby it might as well have been the middle of Marion Square: a pair of lawyers representing the Langs, two State Law Enforcement Division agents, the city prosecutor and his assistant, two bailiffs, the court reporter, and a consulting psychologist who specialized in satanism and ritual crime. The only person not in the room was Gretchen.
Abby sat on the hard wooden bench that smelled like furniture polish, her shoulder aching, her arm in a sling, stitches in her left ear, and she listened as the judge tore her parents apart. They were unfit, they were irresponsible, they should be ashamed of themselves. And they were. Abby’s mom had done her hair like she was going to a party, which made Abby extremely sad, and she chewed the inside of her cheek and stayed silent while her dad rubbed his thighs and his eyes shimmered. Then the Langs were brought in and Abby was sent out in the hall with a female SLED agent. But she could hear every shouted word, even through the closed door: the judge, the lawyers, the Langs, but never her parents. They just sat there and took it.
My Best Friend's Exorcism Page 27