The Resurrectionist

by Michael Gesellchen

  Justin was holding up his end of the bargain. He had distributed flyers advertising the services of his group. He even made a special door-to-door visit to the old farm house. Despite his skepticism and general lack of caring, the old man agreed to let Justin and the group do an investigation in a few days’ time.

  The boy was growing increasingly unstable with the occurrences in the house, but I still hadn’t cracked him. I still hadn’t gained possession. I needed to turn up the heat, blur the lines of reality. Without the safety of a human host, a cleansing would do me in. The mere thought of being a plaything for the demons sent me into a crazed panic. The farmhouse, the boy, they were mine now. I was prepared to fight for my life.

  One evening the boy walked into the living room after heating a can of Campbell's Chunky on the stove. He carried the pot with him, unable to find a bowl. Piles of dirty dishes filled the sink.

  "Have you noticed anything weird going on in the house, dad?" The boy asked his father who had been staring at the same TV channel for the past six hours.

  "No," was the old man's only utterance.

  "Really? The other night, I could have sworn I heard someone walking down the hall around 3:00 am. There were footsteps. Did you hear them?" The father didn't respond. "Did you get up in the middle of the night?" The boy asked, trying to make conversation with his emotionally absent father.

  "No," the father said.

  "Yeah, I didn't think so. I didn't see a bathroom light on or hear the toilet flush. Weird huh?" The father didn't respond. "Hey dad, you want some of this soup? I'm not that hungry." The father didn't respond. "I'm going up to my room. I'll just leave it on the table for you. Good night dad." The father didn't respond.

  The boy got up, placed the soup on the end table next to his father and went up to his room. It was easy to decipher that the mother was the one that provided structure and kept the family together. Without the glue they were falling apart.

  "Mom. I miss you so much." The boy held a picture of his dead mother in his hands while sitting on the edge of his bed. "I wish I was with you, you know, in that better place. I hate it here. Dad. Dad's not going to make it. He doesn't live anymore. After you were gone, all he does is sit in his chair in front of the TV. I'm sure the bank will call any day now. They'll take the house. They won't let me stay. They won't let me stay with dad. I'm not even sure I want to. Emily and Jane stopped calling. I don't blame them. They have to move on with their lives. Being at college is their chance. They just don't know how alone I am. I can't move on, not in this house. I feel like slipping. Remember when I told you about feeling like I am going to throw up all the time and how I couldn't control it. It's getting worse. People don't understand, if they truly knew how alone and awful it is, they would do anything to help. But they don't. They can't see the pain I'm in. Mom, I'm so mad! I'm angry all the time. If only I was with you, but you were taken. I'm finding it harder and harder to keep going. I just don't want to."

  Each night after talking to his mother, the boy would take the photo and kiss it three times before placing it on the pillow next to him and crying himself to sleep. His groveling and loathing were pathetic.

  The boy was obsessive to say the least. A high strung young man who in some ways resembled myself just a few years ago, anxious and worrisome. We had similar minds. Ones that were hyperactive and never quit. The boy felt God was punishing him by taking his mother away. His energy field was weak with all the stress he placed himself under. He lacked even the simplest faith. Without love and support of family and friends his energy field deteriorated. He was becoming a shut in. Crippling panic attacks rendered him unable to leave the house and go to school on his bad days.

  My plan was to wear down his already minimal faith. Fear would excite his anxiety and I could chip away like a jackhammer at his energy field. Once a crack is made, things like me can enter and take control. The fact he was anxious made us a perfect match. I almost felt pity taking advantage of someone so vulnerable, he reminded me a bit of myself, but that was a long time ago. I had grown. I was strong now. The fear was still there, but the things I had seen, the things I did, nothing scared me anymore. I stopped running. I allowed myself to feel the fear. Doing so gave me control. I learned to accept fear, stand up to it, make it my bitch. Fear gave me power in the hell I came from.

  One morning the boy was getting ready for school. He started the day well rested and determined to make the most of it. I was determined not to let him. During his breakfast I inserted a thought that he would have a panic attack in front of people at school and make a fool of himself. His adrenal system went crazy.

  “Dad,” he called out. “My stomach hurts. I don’t feel good.” The father remained unresponsive in his chair. “Did you hear me dad?”

  I leaned into the boys ear. “Your dad could care less, son. Do you really think he gives a crap that you have a tummy ache? His love for you died along with your mother.”

  “Leave me alone!” The boy screamed, slamming the front door behind him.

  The ancient battle, raging since man was first given free will was once again ignited. Good versus evil, fear verses faith. I pummeled negative and fearful thoughts at his brain. He tried desperately to banish them. He hadn’t learned that acceptance was the only way out. Fighting his anxiety gave me power. I fed off of his desperation, making my attacks hit harder.

  I tagged along with the boy on the school bus. He had developed gastrointestinal problems due to his anxiety. He was fearful he would panic and not be able to make it to the bathroom in time. His stomach clenched with the fear of messing himself in front of everyone. I reached in and twisted even harder. He clung to his bowels for dear life. When the bus arrived at the school he jumped off and ran into the bathroom to explode, barely making it in time. Sweat poured off his face as his stomach tightened and release its contents. “You’re pathetic. You’re going to crap your pants all over the school if you don’t get a grip on this,” I whispered into his ear.

  The boy was developing a clinical depression due to his anxiety disorder. My relentlessness was making it worse. I drove home thoughts and images of a life of loneliness and suffering. I tormented him day and night, telling him how much of a loser he was and how people would laugh if they knew the truth. He was becoming sicker and sicker. The dark cloud that hung over him became too much for his energy field to bare. Like a glass dome cracking under the weight of a heavy object, so too did his field break. Thick black smoke flooded through the crack and I rode in like a surfer chasing a tidal wave.

  He was sitting in math class the next day when a bead of sweat dripped from his nose and onto his test paper. “Oh no, please no,” he whispered to himself. Mr. Wilson didn’t allow anyone to leave during tests. If they did he would fail them. The boy tried desperately to focus and hurry though the test. It was an impossible task. I crept down into his intestinal area and caused unbearable physical pain. The boy ran out of the room and towards the bathroom. He didn’t make it.

  He didn’t return to school. He locked himself in his room and became isolated. Isolation is a thing like me’s best friend. He would sit in his room for hours on end, writing the thoughts I put into his head. Perched on his shoulder like a vulture, I would sit and stare at his journal entries, whispering them back into his listening ear. “I hate them all. I hate them for laughing. I hate dad for not caring. I wish mom was here. I’m so lonely. I wonder where she is. I wonder what it is like to die. I wonder if anyone would even care. Dad won’t. He’d be glad to get rid of me. He makes me so mad. Just sitting in his chair all day long. All day and all night just staring at that stupid TV! I wonder if there is just nothing when we die. I hope so. I don’t belong in heaven. I don’t belong in hell. I don’t belong.”

  Justin and Corbin arrived the next day to conduct their investigation of the house. They found the boy locked in his room.

  "My name is Justin. This is Corbin. I know you've been through some tough times. We'd like to talk to you
about some of the things going on in the house." Justin said to the boy as I gripped hard on his vocal cords rendering him unable to speak. Justin squinted his eyes towards me before looking back at Corbin. A look of concern fell on both of their faces. Justin gave me a scolding scowl and shook his head ever so slightly so that Corbin wouldn't notice that I messed up. Muscle rigidity and catatonia were signs of possession. I had to let go. I had to let the boy speak.

  "Yes, ever since my mom died. I've been so anxious and angry." The boy said.

  "Angry at who?" Justin asked.

  "Everyone. My dad."

  "Does your father have a history of depression?"

  "I don't know. Not that I know of. Not since before mom died."

  "I need to ask a difficult question but it will help us identity the best way to help you. Would that be OK?" Justin asked.

  "I suppose so, I guess."

  "Do you see or hear things that other people don't?"

  "Yes."

  Corbin reached out and squeezed Justin's shoulder, indicating the interview was over. I overhead Justin and Corbin discussing their observations.

  "I don't think it's possession, Corbin. The boy is just depressed, an anxiety disorder maybe."

  "Are you joking? What about the hallucinations, the visions and voices. Oh yeah, not to mention the inability to speak for several minutes." Corbin said.

  "He was probably just nervous. Besides, people with schizophrenia can experience periods of catatonia." Justin said.

  Corbin took a stern look at Justin. "You know this boy isn't schizophrenic." Justin lowered his head, unable to respond.

  I writhed inside the boy, scratching and screaming at his insides. How stupid could I have been! The hallucinations gave me away. They were not a product of faulty brain wiring. They were not the product of a schizophrenic mind. They were the product of evil. The product of devilish malevolence.

  Calm down. Maybe Corbin didn't notice. Maybe he won't try an exorcism. It's going to be ok.

  I calmed myself enough to return to a rational mind. It was supposed to be an inside job. I was supposed to take control of the boy and then kill Corbin with the father’s hunting rifle. I would lead the police to the boy’s journal. They would see his hatred towards his father and it would go down as just another reckless tragedy. Another soul lost to this cruel and confusing world. I could cling to the boy, free to move through the jail cells that would contain him for as long as I desired. The oppressive and opposing energy of a prison would be a safe haven for my darkest desires. If I blew the interview it was over. Paradise slipped through my fingers.

  A kind ear was all it took. The fact that someone cared enough to talk to the boy and acknowledge his pain gave him a sense of hope. Hope, its vibration cut me sharper than any torment I had ever known in hell.

  Chapter 19

  Monika pulled into the driveway. It was ten minutes past 11:00 pm. Corbin was sitting outside on the porch talking to the farmer. A man I didn’t recognize stepped through the front door and removed his hat. My body stiffened. The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up. It felt as if I was drowning. He was dressed in all black and wore a white collar around his neck. He wasn't from Millersville. I wanted to flee but was trapped inside the house. This is where I could draw the most energy, feeding off of the father’s depression and boy’s fear. The heavy energy filled the house like thick smoke. I breathed it in. I could only stay in areas of the earth where the energy was the darkest. It was a delicate balancing act. I created as much fear in the atmosphere though my haunting as I could but it was a constant struggle to stay there. The more malicious my activities, the heavier and darker my energy became. The heaviness of my body threatened to pull me down to hell with each evil act I created. Like an addict always needing that next fix, it was the same for me. If the fear stopped, the energy in the house would lighten, and I would fall back to the demon’s hovel where the energy is so dense and heavy I would be stuck like a duck in an oil spill.

  Monika looked warm and comforting. I longed to be in her arms, for her to take away all the trouble I had created, take away all the pain. With that thought my body fell halfway through the floor. My waist was in line with the floorboards and my legs dangled in the basement. My longing for something good caused a slight shift in the atmosphere, causing me to slip. It was a warning to change my tune. It didn’t take long. I meditated on images of beating them, driving them out. I was a caged animal, life and death hung in the balance, caged animals fight back.

  "Hello father." Monika smiled faintly towards the priest.

  "Evening," he nodded. "From what I hear this poor boy has been suffering for quite some time."

  "He has father," said Monika. "To be honest I don't have a good feeling about this. The trauma the boy has been through, with his mother, his father's depression. It would bring even the strongest person to his knees. I don't know if he has the strength to assert himself over the demon.

  The priest placed a reassuring hand on Monika's shoulder just before she jerked her head to the side. "My face, it burns!" Monika screamed as she reached up and felt warm blood on her fingers. Her moment of doubt made her vulnerable. A powerful surge of dark energy coursed through me when I ripped my claw like talons across her face, causing three parallel scratches to appear on her cheek.

  "Are you ok!" The priest grabbed Monika before she fell.

  Monika could feel the pain of others and I used it against her. Balling my hand into a fist, I pounded against the boy’s head. Monika let out a sharp groan and grabbed her head.

  The priest ran to her aid. “Are you alright? Is it attacking you?”

  Monika took a deep breath. “I think so.”

  The priest placed his hand on her forehead and gave a blessing, forcing me to let up. Monika looked into the priest’s eye, both knowing full well what they were up against. The blessing was painful, it opened something within me. I ran into the bathroom and starred into the mirror. For a second my humanity was restored. I appeared as I once did on earth. "You're supposed to be dead! I killed you!" I screamed, pounding my fist into the glass and shattering it.

  "Everyone stay calm," the priest yelled as if he could control the situation. "It's a game. It's just broken glass. The demon is trying to excite our fears. Don't let it!"

  The priest was wrong. This wasn't a game. Not to me. Monika's discomfort was unbearable, knowing I was the cause of her pain. This wasn't part of the plan. I was capable of horrendous evil, but never to someone I cared about. I was slipping. I thought of the demons down below, waiting for me with open arms, waiting to cut them off. I beat down the voice in my heart that told me I loved her. I beat it to a bloody mess.

  "You two going to let a little old ghost get the best of you?" Justin smiled as he walked in. His smug arrogance increased my rage threefold. The maliciousness I couldn’t hold towards Monika I directed towards that traitor.

  "What the hell! Oh God!" Justin fell to his knees clutching his stomach. He slowly got back up and scanned the room with a look of betrayal. He knew I was there even though he couldn’t see me. I walked up beside him and whispered in his ear.

  “Guess you shouldn’t have made a deal with the devil, huh?”

  “Justin. Justin! Are you ok?” Monika rushed to put her arms around him and helped him up. He didn’t respond.

  “We need to hurry,” said the priest.

  The group made their way upstairs to the boy’s bedroom. I crept behind. The priest called out. “We are here to cast you back into the fires of hell, thou unclean spirit.” It's a toxic, volatile mix when they clash. When fear and faith wage their battle. Anger ragging within, I leaned into the priest’s face. "You better do it before I kill you.”

  I directed the dark energy in the house to cause a strong gust of wind to blow through the room.

  "Don't worry, it's just wind, just a trick." The group was shaken but the priest quickly and calmly took control, reassuring the group to continue their prayers.
r />   The priest leaned into the boy, "do you consent to the ritual of exorcism?"

  "I do." The boy whispered.

  The priest began the ritual with a protection prayer as well and prayers to strengthen the group. Once the blessings were given he lead them in reciting the Lord’s prayer, and walked around the room throwing holy water into the air. My skin burned as if the blessings were made of fire. For those that don’t believe in prayer, don’t believe it works, let me tell you that it does, it painfully does. Each drop of holy water felt like a thousand jabbing knives. The priest was strong. I dove into the boy for protection, using him as a human shield. His body absorbed some my pain as he screamed in agony with each blessing and drop of holy water. I was pinned down under heavy fire.

  “Tell me your name demon!” The priest leaned into the boy’s face and began citing the Lord’s prayer. I had never experienced anything like it. The pain I felt in the torture chambers of hell was nothing compared to what I felt in that moment. I clung to the boy with all remaining strength. I stood no chance outside of him. If my grip slipped I was done for. My fingers dug into the boy like a mountain climber digging into a rocky ledge.

  The fight was exhausting. The priest pounded me with every Hail Mary he could, but I withstood them all. The group was growing weary. The priest must have felt it too. He increased the intensity of his ritual, shouting at the group to pray harder.

  “I’m so drained,” said Monika, her hands shaking as she worked to stay on her feet. The priest was slipping and losing control, my will equally matching his.