The Bookseller's Secret

by Catherine Jordan

  “So,” I said, “If the zombie population were to ever be a threat, after a couple years, people would live in a zombie-free-world.”

  “Not her zombies,” Lowther said. “They breed.”

  “Shit. And how does one get rid of those babies?”

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” Lowther said, snapping his teeth.

  “That's not something I ever want to see,” I said, limping, my knees aching. “Are we almost there?”

  “Yep. Gate’s not far from here. Are you gonna let me carry the book?” Lowther asked.

  “I told you, I got it.”

  “Wait.” Lowther stopped. “Hear that?”

  “I hear it,” I said. “Sounds like … It sounds like static.”

  82—Father Charles Thurmont

  Charles felt like he had entered a time warp. The very essence of the air had changed. His ears rang. A thicker, coarser substance replaced the wind in his lungs. His strong body weakened, and he felt hopelessness settle inside his chest.

  He became aware almost immediately of a presence. He heard it hissing in the back of his mind, and felt its threat in his rigid nerves.

  Charles turned to a voice that sounded like it belonged to a small child. He heard another voice, then more voices together in a prickly murmur. A cackle, groan, and snicker hit his ear at the same time. “I have,” the voices said. By the time those two words registered, the voices had already begun to move on to the next word. “Been,” was snorted, cried, and chuckled. “Waiting,” came in a long screech and a wail. “For you,” was like a shriek and a whisper.

  “You will be silent in the name of Jesus Christ,” Charles repeated until he was almost hoarse, and until there was blessed silence. Even the barking dogs from ahead had quieted.

  Still, he knew he was not alone. The presence remained. Aloud he continued his prayerful chants. Her haunted forest, its smell, and air tried to serve as a distraction. He would not have it; he paid attention only to the ground at his feet and the path ahead.

  Down the path, then up, then left, always left, his legs and feet fatigued. He stopped, took a breath, shook out his limbs, and said another Our Father, preparing himself for the clash.

  “Priest!” called a voice directly ahead.

  83—Inspector Tseme Dusu

  Dusu had twice flipped Thuzien from one shoulder to the other, his dead weight becoming almost unbearable upon his aching muscles.

  Mumbling came from behind. He stopped. Turned.

  Mason? Jeffrey? Her?

  As the mumbling approached, Dusu heard words no one on her grounds would have uttered—prayer, an Our Father.

  An older, grey-haired man clothed in black, carrying a bucket, head down in prayer, walked up the path behind Dusu. Relief ran down his spine, soothing his muscles. He had been tempted to unload Thuzien, to turn back and call for help, then rely on another to finish what he did not think he was capable of doing.

  “Priest!” Dusu called.

  The priest stopped.

  “I am Inspector Dusu.” He huffed and readjusted Thuzien. “You must be the uncle,” Dusu said when the priest approached.

  “How do you know me?” the priest asked, a crease of suspicion forming between his brow. He looked over Thuzien’s body, then Dusu’s uniform, his eyes widening. “You’re police?”

  “I am an inspector. I followed Mason Barry, a reporter who has been covering the activity and history of the house and the woman who lives here. My fellow officer has been killed.” Holding onto Thuzien, Dusu arched his back. “I must say you are a welcome sight.” He glanced around. A treetop shifted, a branch swayed. Dusu noticed the barking had quieted, but their movement had increased. They seemed to be on the move, as if attracted to a source up ahead. “Can we walk together? I assume your task is the same as mine.”

  “It is. We can walk and talk. I see you keep looking at my bucket. It’s to throw on her. Fire? She does not allow it. I’ve already tried setting the property to blaze years ago. I am Jeffrey’s uncle, Father Charles. Jeffrey’s father was my brother, her solicitor.”

  “I am aware of your background,” Dusu said. “I was assigned her case when Inspector Nkumbi died.”

  “Nkumbi was a fine man,” Father Charles said. “What happened to him?” he asked, staring at Thuzien.

  “Massu Thuzien; he thought he saw a zombie hiding in the tree and fired at it. The bullet ricocheted off the hard trunk—nothing is as it seems in this forest—and hit him in the shoulder. The bullet’s force knocked him to the ground, and he landed on his neck.”

  “Would you like to trade loads until we reach the house?”

  “Yes, Father. Thank you. Quickly,” Dusu added, giving one more glance behind. “We are being watched.”

  They both took in a breath, made their exchange, and resumed their climb up the path toward the clearing.

  The priest cocked his head, the crease between his eyes deepening as he asked, “Did you say there are zombies?”

  “Have you heard the barking? It is them. They are in the trees. Thuzien thought one was moving, ready to attack. He shot it.”

  “And did the zombie die?”

  Dusu shook his head.

  “I don't think you are dealing with zombies. Consider them animated demons. I’m here to exorcise this place and to save Jeffrey.”

  “Ah, Father. Jeffrey may have had more to do with this evil than I originally thought.”

  Father Charles nodded gravely. “I suspected Jeffrey was at play. Still, I might be able to save him. It’s good that you and I met up this way. I brought sacramentals for an exorcism. Have you ever participated in one?”

  “Yes,” Dusu said.

  “The zombies you mentioned, have you spoken to one?”

  “No.”

  “Good. They are demons, believe me.”

  “Caroline was a demon?” Dusu asked.

  Father Charles slowed to a shuffle. “Caroline? Her sister?”

  “Yes,” Dusu said.

  “How? I burned her body, then buried her on hallowed ground.”

  “I don’t have many answers,” Dusu said. “Only questions. Come, Father, we must keep walking.”

  Father Charles resumed his pace. “It could not have been Caroline,” Charles said assuredly. “A demon resided within her, animating her. You must avoid discussions with them. They will try to trap you in dialogue, confuse you. Demonic possession affects the body, the mind, and the will. The possessed collaborate, sometimes unknowingly, with the demons, having an aspiring absence of personal will. An exorcism will free her from the demon, allowing her body and soul to rest.”

  “Yes, yes, Father. I have been told all this in the past.”

  The cold air did not keep Dusu from perspiring, and he was covered in a cold sweat, his uniform soaked. He eyed the bucket, thirsty.

  “Would you like to give me your confession?” Father Charles asked. “A clean soul prevents the demons from knowing you, challenging you. All they know is evil.”

  “I am not Catholic, Father.”

  Dusu had been asked to give confession in the past during exorcisms in hospitals and in homes. Officers and witnesses who refused were asked to stay outside the room. Priests then heard each other’s confession.

  The exorcisms he witnessed were always calm affairs, no spinning heads or hurling furniture. He had seen contorted bodies and faces, heard disturbing voices. Some spoke in different languages and gave historically accurate accounts of facts they had no way of knowing, unexplained testimonies they would never have been privy to.

  “You don’t have to be Catholic.”

  Every priest who asked for Dusu’s cooperation had told him the same thing; religious preference did not matter as long as you did not deny the existence of Christ or the devil. “All right, Father, if you think it will help.”

  84—Father Charles Thurmont

  A giant of a man burst through the trees. He was dressed in common clothes, work boots, and clutched a s
pear in his fist.

  Charles pulled out his vial of holy water.

  The man opened his mouth, and it was a wide hole. Out came many voices. Charles deciphered German, Latin, Chinese, and Aramaic. There were other languages he did not recognize, but they all seemed to be repeating the same thing, “The void! Get back from the void!”

  Inspector Dusu took a defensive stance, but Charles traded Thuzien back for his bucket and waved Dusu away.

  “Evil spirits are personal,” Charles explained to Dusu. “They are intelligent, and preternatural—not of this world, although they reside in it.

  “This meeting is what exorcists refer to as, The Clash, where demon and priest acknowledge each other, and go head to head. I will appeal to God, and hopefully expel the spirit.”

  The inspector backed off the path, dragging Thuzien with him. He stood over Thuzien, protectively, giving Charles the breadth he needed.

  Charles made the form of the cross in the air, and with authority he shouted, “In the name of the Father, His beloved son Jesus Christ, and His Holy Spirit, I command you, what is your name?”

  The beastly man grimaced, twisting his flushed face. He heard partial words and broken sentences. “Millions … alone … one … many … what name … infinite beneath … brilliant mass …”

  Charles asked again, “What is your name?”

  Charles said to Dusu, “I have to break the pretense the evil spirit hides behind, for all possessing spirits hide behind a name that spells how the spirit worked on the victim. If I obtain the name, I can force the spirit to separate itself from the man.”

  The giant waved his spear and continued to approach. “Die!” the giant bellowed. “Die, priest, die!”

  He was close enough for Charles to blast him in the face with a splash of holy water.

  The giant reared back. “Pious bastard!” he shouted, wiping at his face. “You will lose, like you did last time, and you know it!”

  “In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to give me your name!”

  The beast twisted his face and tried to suppress the growl escaping his mouth.

  85—Mason, the Reporter

  The static was coming from the priest’s mouth. He had to be one of the men who followed me. Nora said I had to keep him from reaching the house. He was talking, but I only heard static.

  The priest moved his hand in some type of gesture over and over.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked.

  “He’s blessing you.”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Why can’t I understand him?”

  “Because he’s praying.”

  I sort of laughed. “Seriously. Can you tell what he’s saying?”

  “Somewhat. I’ve heard it many times before. They all ask the same thing. He asked who commands me.”

  “Why don’t you say George?”

  “Because it’s not George.”

  “Oh. It’s me, isn’t it?”

  Lowther snorted. “If you say so. That stupid police officer is here, too. The one from the Unit. Recognize him?”

  “Damn! Is that another zombie he’s standing over?”

  “No, it’s a dead cop. Massu Thuzien is the dead one, the other is Tseme Dusu. You quoted both of them in your articles.”

  “Ah ha,” I said. “Nora said they had followed us. Thuzien's dead?”

  “Yep.” Lowther giggled. “Shot himself, fell over and broke his neck.”

  “Good.” I shifted my book into my elbow's crook. “Two down, two to go.” I whipped out my switchblade. “Get back, leave,” I said to the priest, jabbing the air in front of him.

  “Oh, that’ll get him going. Watch me.” Lowther raised his spear and growled.

  The priest splashed me in the face.

  “What was that for?” I asked, wiping away what I hoped was only water, though it stung my eyes.

  Actually, it really hurt. It felt like I'd been doused with acid. I dropped my book and put my hands to my face, hoping my skin was still there. “It burns!” Blinking rapidly, I tried to focus.

  More static came from the priest’s mouth.

  Lowther growled at him.

  “Where’s the cop?” I asked Lowther. “What's he doing? I can hardly see a thing. Can you?”

  “The officer is on the sidelines, standing over the dead cop like he was a prize.”

  Lowther growled again in response to a question from the priest.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. I waved my hands defensively, swatting at Lowther’s hazy outline. “What'd he say? Tell me?” My hands couldn’t make contact with him. “Where are you?”

  “Right here. Here!”

  “I can’t see,” I said with a sigh of defeat.

  The priest continued to buzz, irritating the shit out of me. Lowther growled and yelled at him some more, but I didn't pay much attention; I couldn't understand what the two were saying, and I hurt too much to care.

  “Where’s my book?” My feet shuffled on the ground, feeling for the book. I tapped it with my toe, and then placed my foot on the cover, keeping it there for assurance.

  86—Father Charles Thurmont

  The man who Charles considered a raging demon put his hands to his face, red and swollen from the holy water. The water got in his eyes. “Get back from the void!” the beast shouted, coming at Charles, as he blinked over and over, spear waving and jabbing.

  A high-pitched whine rang in the air. Charles continued with the rite. “Our Father, who art in heaven …”

  The whine died to a ring.

  The man-beast turned and stared blindly at Inspector Dusu. Dusu kept his position, but stood ready to defend himself and his dead friend.

  The man stumbled as if drunk. He rubbed again at his face and eyes.

  “How many demons reside with you?” Charles asked.

  The man grimaced. “Five,” it answered.

  “Which of the five am I speaking to?”

  “I am not the first one, but I am the only one who will speak to you.”

  “When did you enter this man, and why?”

  “He gave me permission!” the man said with a chuckle. “I asked him, and he said, yes. I'm not leaving.” With that, the beast raised his spear again.

  Charles noticed the man's reluctance to step away from the book at his feet.

  “I can cleanse him,” Charles said to Dusu, “but he's going to have to hand over the book. It is the reason for his possession. He must surrender it for the exorcism to succeed.”

  “Not happening,” said the man, raising his knee, and then dropping his booted foot on the cover.

  87—Mason, the Reporter

  My stomach gurgled and rumbled, like something was fermenting inside.

  “I don’t feel good,” I said. “I think I'll sit.”

  My mouth began to water. I rolled my tongue around in my mouth searching for moisture, then swept my tongue over my teeth. The last molar in the back felt rough and sensitive. I prodded at the tooth with a finger; it was chipped. I accidentally hit my gag reflex, coughed and gagged, but managed to to puke.

  “We’ve been friends a long time,” Lowther said.

  “We have,” I said, holding my belly.

  “You were one of my best friends,” Lowther said. “I’ve had a lot of friends. Millions.”

  My cheeks heated. I opened my mouth, and out spewed a torrent of vomit at full force.

  “Feel better?” Lowther asked.

  “Not really,” I said.

  I made out Lowther’s dark form as he bent in front of my vomit, picking through the mess. He placed something cold and wet in my hand, and said, “Here you go, Caroline’s eye. It's still alive with Nora’s blood. It wasn’t digested yet.”

  “That was in my stomach? My stomach. You ate it, and it wound up in my stomach?”

  “Mason. We are a reflection of each other in a special way. I thought you understood. What you do, I do.”

  “I ate Carol
ine?”

  “Too bad you didn’t get to enjoy her flavor,” Lowther said.

  I saw his hardened, cruel grin in my mind.

  “Take the eye. It will help you see when I’m gone. But don’t worry. I’ll come back. And I’ll bring others with me, many more, next time. You’ll like them.”

  88—Father Charles Thurmont

  Thankfully, Dusu had kept calm and stayed out of the way, even though the giant’s reaction had been violently gross, vomiting on the ground, then eating the vomit.

  The giant stumbled again. He was shrinking, becoming less of a monster and more of a man. He sat.

  “Father Charles,” Dusu said. “That man is Mason Barry, the reporter I followed over the gate.”

  Charles began to pray harder.

  89—Mason, the Reporter

  I groaned. “My stomach still feels like it’s about to explode.”

  Lowther leaned closer. “Hmm. She was contagious.”

  “Ahh, shit. It hurts. Can’t you shut that priest up?”

  My insides turned to liquid, and I heard them sloshing.

  The urge was overwhelming; I couldn’t hold it in even if I wanted to.

  I shit my pants. I threw up again. Shit some more. My nose ran. Were my brains leaking out like Caroline’s had? “I think I’m dying,” I said in a wheeze.

  “You sure are,” Lowther replied.

  “I can’t breathe,” I whispered, clutching my chest, struggling not to lose consciousness. “It feels like I’m suffocating.”

  “Your lungs are giving out. Your body is shutting down. There are worse ways to die,” Lowther said. “I can name plenty.”

  “I’m blind. Everything is quiet. What are the priest and cop doing?” I asked.

  “They’re watching you.”

  “I was supposed to get rid of them.”

  “You’ll have another chance.”