“No, there is a need to yell! Do you realize what you’ve done to me? My life is being ruined by you crazy fucks.”
“I only want you to take it,” she said, picking up an orange that was resting next to her on the bench. “All of this could have been avoided if you would have just taken it.”
“First, tell me what it means, then maybe I’ll take it,” I replied. “And tell me who that man is.”
“I can’t tell you just yet,” Rose said. The contrast between her adult, almost formal phrasing and the childish voice she spoke in was eerie.
“Well, fuck you and your fucking orange, I’m not taking shit. And next time I see you, you’re getting arrested. I’ve had enough of this,” I said, turning around to go get my bike.
Rose lost her smile. Her head snapped upright, and she spoke with an adult voice. “It’s not your decision to make.”
“Yeah? And what are you going to do about it? More oranges?” I demanded. “I’m not joking, the next time you try shit like this, you’re going to jail.”
She started laughing, but it was definitely not an amused laugh. It was cold and mocking, as if I’d said something incredibly simple-minded.
“You think the police can help? Or your friends?” she said derisively. I did think the police could help, but the amount of confidence in her voice had me suddenly worried.
“What in the world are you two? A cult?”
She laughed again. “No.”
“Then what?”
“You have much to learn about us,” she said, “but only after you take it.”
“If the police can’t help, then I’ll call other people for help. I’ll call a pr-” she cut me off.
“A priest? You think he can help?” She smiled widely, and then laughed again. “Why don’t you call your little priest when you get home?”
By this time, I was almost certain I was dealing with something supernatural. I have always relied on logical, scientific answers to this strange world, and they had never failed me before, but I’d never experienced anything like this before either. Even though it was ridiculous, I was starting to think I was talking to some kind of demon.
I had no idea what Rose meant by your priest, but I wasn’t going to get any answers from her. The night had slowly started settling in, and I wasn’t going to get stuck on the trail with this possibly ageless demon. I got back on my bike and pedaled away from Rose, who never moved from the bench.
I got on the bus at the last moment and was a complete wreck during the ride home. When I got to my house, I opened a big bottle of Jack Daniels, sat in my chair, and tried to analyze it all. Nothing made sense, but I had a feeling that I should know about this priest she was talking about. I am far from a religious man, and the last time I was in a church was when I got baptized at the age of six back in Montenegro. I assumed that the priest who performed the baptism was the one Rose was talking about, so I gave my dad a call and asked him to go to the church and see if the man was still there.
NINE
The Baptism
I was baptized in Montenegro in a church called Ostrog. I am in no way a believer, but this church is truly amazing. During the Turkish occupation, my people tore the original Ostrog apart and carried it rock by rock to the top of the mountain to ensure that no Turkish soldier got to it. They then rebuilt the church at the top, making it a true miracle of architecture. If there is one place on earth where I feel something “spiritual,” it’s there.
When I was six, my dad decided to baptize me. Neither of my parents are or were particularly religious, but baptizing kids was a tradition in the Balkans, and my dad is a traditional guy. I remember him having to call ahead and schedule the baptism because of the extremely high demand for that particular ceremony. There were so many people trying to baptize their kids, I had to do it with several others in one take. I just wanted to get through it as soon as possible.
When we arrived at the church, there was already a line of kids waiting to get in and be washed clean from the sin of their ancestors. Finally, the priest, Father Srdjan, started letting us in. However, when my turn to walk in came, the priest stopped me.
“You, you can’t go in,” he said, grabbing and holding me by my shoulder. I didn’t know what to say to that, but my dad quickly jumped in.
“What’s the problem, Father Srdjan?” asked my dad, laying his hand on my other shoulder. I guess you could say I was being held by two fathers.
“I know you, my son,” Father Srdjan said to my dad. “I baptized you long time ago, when my beard wasn’t as grey as it is now.”
Indeed, this same man did baptize my dad some twenty years ago. He had been the priest of this church for many years.
“But your son can’t go in there,” continued the father, pointing at the baptizing chapel.
“Why not?” Dad asked in a surprisingly respectful tone.
“I shouldn’t tell you. It is better if you have him baptized elsewhere.”
“But Father, this is the most sacred place of all,” responded my dad.
“Son, I can’t tell you much more. But I will say, you must baptize him. Don’t dare not to.”
They spoke for a few more minutes, and when my dad realized that he wasn’t getting either answers or a baptism for me, he took my hand and we left.
“What the hell did you do?” Dad asked me in the car, looking angry. I suppose the first logical assumption was that I somehow messed things up. Maybe he thought I pissed behind the church and got caught or something.
“I was with you the whole time,” I answered truthfully, which silenced him.
When we got home, my dad’s phone rang. It was Father Srdjan. He wanted us to come back without any further explanation. Now, the ride to Ostrog was a good 35 minutes long, but apparently, my dad really wanted me soaked in the holy water, so we got back into his old Volkswagen and got on the road. When we arrived at the church grounds, the priest was waiting for us.
“I decided to baptize your son despite…” said Srdjan while stroking his beard and looking away into the distance.
“Despite what?” asked my dad.
“Never mind. Let’s hurry.”
So I walked in circles while the priest spoke prayers I didn’t understand and sprayed me with holy water I didn’t want. When it was all done, he shook my dad’s hand and said, “Go now, and don’t come back unless something strange happens.”
I could tell that my dad wanted answers, but he was already irritated by the priest’s strange behavior, so he just made a donation to thank him for the services, and we left. That was twenty years ago.
I needed to know what Rose meant by “my priest,” so I begged my dad to go back to the church and see if the man who baptized me still worked there. After some talking into, my father finally caved in and went to Ostrog. Father Srdjan was still there, although retired. He now only lived on the premises. My dad said that the man was really unresponsive, but some convincing and a hefty donation made him open up.
I was baptized on February 13, 1992. One night, before the ceremony, “my” priest was handling his sheep at the field near the church. Back in the day, priests handled their own animals for food, not like today where they rock Cadillacs and iPhones. While working with the sheep, Father Srdjan noticed a dark figure in the distance. This was strange because the church premises had closed a few hours earlier and the rest of the clerical staff were already in their designated housing.
“Hello? Who is that?” he asked.
“Come, Father,” answered a calm, womanly voice from the dark.
Srdjan thought maybe a sick person or a beggar had wandered on the premises looking for help. This wasn’t all that uncommon. But as soon as he stepped towards the figure, he felt something “unholy”, as he said. He claimed that the sheep started acting scared, and he wasn’t doing much better.
“What is it that you want?” asked the priest in an aggressive, confident voice. He had a strong feeling that he wasn’t dealing with a
well-meaning individual, and he wanted to show that he wasn’t afraid.
“Tomorrow,” answered the voice, “tomorrow, a boy will come to your church. His name is Milos. You will not baptize him.”
Srdjan told my father that, despite all of the unholy things he encountered in his life, including many exorcisms, he felt scared.
“You and your kind aren’t welcome on God’s ground,” the priest said.
“My kind, Father?” asked the woman, stepping forward. Father said she looked white as a ghost, with eyes that gave away her lack of a soul. “And what would my kind be?”
“You demons.”
She laughed.
“Demons? Father, I know you’re a man of the cloth, but believing in demons? That demands a lot of faith.”
“Leave, now!” yelled the priest, raising his golden crucifix towards her.
“Listen to me, you pitiful man, you don’t know what you have here. You had better do as I say, or you will never sleep peacefully again.”
Then, she turned around and left. Srdjan stood there for quite some time, shaking in fear for the first time in his life.
You know the rest of the story. He denied me the baptism at first, only to change his mind and do it. When my dad came to visit him twenty years later, he claimed that he couldn’t deny one of God’s children a way to Jesus.
The priest said that for two weeks after the ceremony, the woman would show up in his window every night. She wouldn’t say a word; she would just stare at him with her head tilted to the left. Then, his sheep started dying. There were no signs of fighting or foul play, they’d just be found dead in the morning. Finally, the priest claimed that the number of exorcisms skyrocketed at the church.
Now, I believed everything Father Srdjan said to my dad up to that point. I think it’s safe to assume that the woman who visited him was Rose. Sure, she may have come to his window to harass him for disobeying. And all right, she may have killed his sheep even. But exorcisms? As soon as my dad mentioned that, I told him that the man was being overly dramatic. My dad said that he thought that as well, until the priest showed him a VHS of one of the exorcisms. Apparently, the church had cameras installed to record every such ritual. My dad says that there was this 13-year-old girl in the chapel, and the priest was saying all the prayers. But when he sprayed holy water on her, she started talking nonsense and walking in circles. Srdjan called for two guys from the staff to hold her down, but they couldn’t. Dad said that it was surreal watching a little girl dragging two large guys across the chapel.
My father was overwhelmed with all the information, and he wasn’t sure what to believe. He wanted to leave, but he needed to find out who the woman was. Srdjan claimed that he initially thought that the woman was a demon, but her lack of fear when he prayed and her freedom on the holy ground suggested differently. He then went on with theories of her being a part of a cult, or maybe even Morana, the goddess of death. He claimed that he still occasionally sees her, most often on February 13, the day he baptized me. This whole experience apparently made Father Srdjan lose faith in God, who he claims should’ve protected him, and he retired not too long after the woman started coming to him.
I personally took most of this story with a grain of salt, as did Dad. We couldn’t really be sure how much of it was true and how much was a fabrication of an old, probably senile mind. One thing I was sure about though: my patience was running out.
Imagine the amount of information running through my brain at the moment. I had to be on a constant lookout for Rose and her company. I had to try and figure out what she wanted from me. I had to dig into my and my family’s history for answers, which only lead to more questions. I had to worry about Trish and her well-being. It was rough, man.
As my tolerance for stress ran dangerously low, I made a decision: The next time I saw Rose, I was going to take the fucking orange.
TEN
I Took It
Trish had returned from visiting her friend, and I could tell she looked much better. She had regained some color, her mood had gotten better, and she didn’t appear as scared. I chose not to tell her about my baptism story or the bike trail incident since I didn’t want her to worry over things she couldn’t influence. I told her that my days went by uneventfully and that the whole horror was most likely over. I don’t know if she could tell I was lying or not, but she accepted my words with a warm smile, and we had a joyful day together for the first time in two months, since the Rose events restarted.
You would expect my next sentence to start with “but,” wouldn’t you? Well, there wasn’t a “but.” As a matter of fact, the next day was even better than the previous one. I got a call from a company I applied to work for, and they told me that I had gotten the job. My first real world, grown-up job. The only thing better than getting a good job was getting a good job far away from Provincetown. The company was offering me a position in Atlanta, Georgia, more than 1,000 miles away from all this horror.
I probably broke some sort of record for accepting a job offer. I didn’t even let the recruiter finish her presentation. I took the job, and I told them I was coming in two days.
For the first time in weeks, Trish and I were happy. Not only was I about to start a professional career (until this damn book gets made into a Hollywood blockbuster), but Trish and I were also getting the hell out of Massachusetts, where Rose and the man seemed to dwell.
While we were packing our bags, we discussed all the great things about our upcoming stress-free life. Nowhere in our plans did we mention a demonic, orange-carrying woman in a white dress. We rented a car, filled it with all of our belongings, and went down to the sweet south where we would only find oranges in grocery stores.
The actual trip, while long, was a hell of a lot of fun. We’d eat at different restaurants, sleep in cool hotels, you know, the good-old road trip kind of thing. When we finally arrived in Atlanta, we were exhausted but excited at the prospect of our new life. Trish’s brother and his family live in that city, so we stayed with them until we were able to find a fitting apartment. We managed to find an amazing one bedroom flat that had everything we needed. Watching Trish sign the lease made me giggle like a little kid; she seemed so happy that, if a stranger would’ve looked at her, they would have never guessed she went through hell so recently.
Then came the time to move in. We only had about six suitcases worth of stuff, so we decided that I would carry them upstairs while Trish went shopping for basic supplies and groceries. The suitcases were in the building’s lobby, and our apartment was on the first floor. I brought in the first two bags and left the door open so I didn’t have to unlock it again. During the second trip up the stairs, one of the bags opened and a few of my things fell out. Tired and frustrated, I cursed and gathered all of my stuff and dragged the suitcases into the apartment. One more trip and I would be done. I brought the last two bags into the living room, took off my shoes, and grabbed a can of Coke. After the first sip, I dropped it.
In the middle of our naked, unfurnished floor sat an orange. Time froze around me, and the only two things that made it into my brain were the foaming noise of spilled soda and a fucking orange in the center of my living room. You know how, when you’re in a plane that’s taking off, your ears get clogged and you have to move your jaw to fix them? That’s what happened. It seemed like everything around me blurred out and my whole focus was on that goddamn piece of fruit. Then the spilled Coke made it to my feet and threw me back into the reality.
Rose.
I turned around and right there, at the entrance of the apartment, stood Rose and the man in the black suit. If I were better at artistic descriptions, I would be able to portray that whole scene better.
I was standing in my socks that were now soaked with soda. Behind me, on the floor, was an orange and in front of me, the two people who stalked Trish, my grandmother, and me for our whole lives. They looked happy and confident.
Rose wore the same white dress and her ski
n was as pale as ever. Her head was tilted to the left and her arms were just dangling at her sides. There was one thing different about her, though; she didn’t have any lipstick on, although her grin was still there. I suppose that, if you saw her on the street and you had no prior knowledge of her, you’d think nothing of her. Behind Rose stood a man in the black suit, the same man from the bike trail. He looked old and strict. His pupils were contracted to near-pinpoints, but his eyes still gave the impression of depth. On his head was an old-school top hat, and in his right hand, he held a long cane.
The wave of feelings that came to me was overwhelming. The first emotion was, of course, fear. My initial thought was to run. But where? They were standing at the only entrance. The follow up thought was to fight. But why? What would that accomplish? And could I even win? Then came the peace. The unexpected peace. I realized what I should’ve realized a long time ago. There was no escape. No matter how many times I changed towns, cities, countries, or even continents, they’d always find me. No matter how long I’d reject it, the orange would always be there for me to take it. I had a choice of being followed for the rest of my life, or accepting the damn orange and seeing what happened.
With no energy left to resist, I muttered, “If I take it… Will you tell me why?”
Rose smiled even wider than before. She looked over her shoulder to the man, who nodded slightly in approval. She looked back at me, then at the orange behind me.
“Alright,” I said, defeated.
I walked over to that fucking thing lying on the floor. I got down on one knee and took a second to study the piece of fruit. It looked just like a regular orange, except that it was a bit rotten. This was it. I inhaled deeply, closed my eyes, and took the orange. I don’t know what I expected, really. I guess I (and probably you) expected some sort of immediate reaction from the universe. I thought about this moment many times before it actually happened, and taking the orange was never so… uneventful in my head. It was unusually quiet. When I finally opened my eyes, I realized that I was just holding a piece of rotten fruit, nothing more and nothing less. I turned around and looked at Rose and the man.
The Story of Her Holding an Orange Page 6