by Ripley, Ron
“Understood,” Mason said, suppressing a smile.
Father Moran opened the door, and the kitchen was empty. He sighed, smiling. “Excellent,” the priest said. “I really do hate scaring her. Come on, let’s go up into my study. I can take my robes off up there, and you can tell me what’s going on. I’ve even got a coffee maker in there.”
“Sounds good, Father,” Mason said. The priest led him out of the kitchen, into the hallway and up a large flight of stairs, the entire rectory resplendent with the ornate beauty of the Victorian era.
At the top of the stairs, they turned to the left and then into the first room on the right. Father Moran’s study held a pair of large, leather club chairs, a table against the far wall with a coffee maker on it and several floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with various religious works.
“Take a seat, Mason,” Father Moran said, gesturing towards the left chair.
“Thank you,” Mason said and sat down.
Father Moran walked over to the coffee maker, plugged it in and started it. As the water heated up, he removed his vestments and hung them on a hanger which he took from a gentleman’s butler. In a moment, the water was ready, and Father Moran quickly made two cups of coffee.
He brought the mugs over and handed one to Mason before sitting down across from him. “So,” he said, looking at Mason seriously, “in all the times that we’ve spoken with one another you’ve never before said that something was terrible. What is it?”
“There is a place in Monson that’s evil,” Mason said. “It’s been evil for centuries.”
Father Moran closed his eyes and then opened them. “You’re speaking of the Boylan House?” Father Moran asked softly.
Mason blinked. Surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”
Father Moran gave him a tight smile. “The Church knows where certain things are, and where they are not. We know that something is wrong with the house. We know people go missing around it. More than boys, Mason,” Father Moran said. “And I know you survived an encounter with the thing in the house.”
Mason’s hands started to shake, and he put his coffee down on the low table between the two chairs. “How?”
“Because we must,” Father Moran said simply. “You are not the only boy to escape, either. There have been others. Not many, but there have been. But the Church cannot interfere unless we are asked. It is as simple as that.” He looked at Mason. “We need to be asked, Mason.”
“Will you help me with the Boylan House, Father?” Mason asked.
Father Moran sipped his coffee. “Yes. But I cannot do it alone. I’m the diocesan exorcist, Mason. I need to bring in a colleague if we are to do this.”
“Alright, but, Father, can you exorcise a house?” Mason asked.
Father Moran nodded. He put his coffee down and stood up. “I’m going to make a phone call. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Mason picked up his coffee and took a sip. He was still shocked about the revelation that the Church knew of the house.
Hell, he thought, blinking, I had no idea Father Moran was an exorcist.
A few minutes later, Father Moran walked back in, gave Mason a small smile and sat down once again.
“I called my colleague Father Alexander,” Father Moran said. “He should be here shortly.”
“What Church is he at?” Mason asked.
“St. Nicholas’,” Father Moran said, smiling.
“St. Nicholas’?” Mason asked. “Isn’t that the Greek Orthodox Church?”
“Yes,” Father Moran said. “The Catholic Church has become much closer to our Orthodox brothers over the past decade or so, Mason. He and I have actually worked together on several exorcisms.”
Mason shook his head, confused. “Several?”
Father Moran nodded. “When Pope Benedict the Sixteenth was in the seat at Rome,” he said, “he spoke of the emptiness of today’s cultures and societies. Of the failings and of the ease and temptations which are available via a disconnected world. We have seen a rise in exorcisms,” Father Moran said. “And we cannot work without the support of one another. Father Alexander is the exorcist for the Orthodox Church in the Metropolis of Boston. Thus we work together whenever we can, Mason.”
Mason drank his coffee, thought for a moment and said, “Will you both come to Monson then?”
“Yes,” Father Moran said. “He and I have spoken of the house before. We would both like to be rid of it.”
“So would I,” Mason said.
Father Moran simply nodded and the two men sat in silence, drinking their coffee slowly for nearly fifteen minutes before a woman called up the stairs.
“Father, Father Alexander is here,” she said.
“Thank you, Martha,” Father Moran said. “Please send him up.”
A moment later, loud steps sounded on the stairs and shortly after, a priest appeared in the doorway to the study. He was older than Mason and Father Moran, perhaps sixty or seventy, but he was even taller than Father Moran. His head barely cleared the top of the doorframe. He was a solid looking man, as if he should have been working as a longshoreman rather than as a priest. The man’s hair was steel gray and long, pulled into a ponytail and his beard, which matched his hair color, was full and stretched to his waist.
Mason put down his coffee and got to his feet, even as Father Moran stood.
“Peter,” Father Alexander said, extending his hand.
Father Moran shook it warmly. “Alex. Let me introduce to you my friend, Mason Philips.”
When Father Moran released his hand, the Orthodox priest extended it to Mason, who, as he shook the offered hand realized that Father Alexander’s hand was even bigger than Father Moran’s.
“A pleasure, Father,” Mason said.
“And for me as well,” Father Alexander smiled.
“Alex, why don’t you take my seat and Mason go back to yours. I’m going to grab another chair,” Father Moran said, and he left the room.
Both Mason and Father Alexander sat down. By the time that Mason picked up his half-finished coffee, Father Moran was coming back into the room with an antique side chair. He set it down between the other two chairs but a little farther back.
“Coffee, Alex?” Father Moran asked.
“Please, Peter,” Father Alexander answered. Silence fell over the three men as Father Moran prepared the coffee for the Orthodox priest. Soon Father Moran was handing over the hot coffee and sitting down in the side chair.
Father Alexander held the mug and looked at Father Moran. “And I take it that you were serious when you said that we had something of great importance to discuss?”
“This is about the Boylan House, Alex,” Father Moran said.
Father Alexander looked from Father Moran to Mason. “You have brought news of the Boylan House?”
“Yes,” Mason answered.
“What is it?” the Orthodox priest asked.
“The house has taken two more children,” Mason said. “It needs to go.”
Father Alexander gave him a large and decidedly disturbing smile. “It does need to go, Mr. Philips. It needs to burn to the ground.”
Eleven
6:13 PM, November 8th, 2015, The Home of Harold Philips
Mason pulled the truck into the driveway of the house right after Harold’s. The house was empty, the ‘For Sale’ sign looked abandoned. Mason shook his head at it, turned off the ignition and stepped out of the truck.
Time to give Harold a heads up on what was being planned.
Mason walked to the side door, up the steps and stopped.
The screen door was open slightly, the screen ripped, and the heavy door pushed back. Mason’s hands itched for a weapon, but he’d have to look for one.
He slipped into the house and heard the sound of a raised voice. It had a questioning tone, and it was followed by a brutal smack.
Mason moved forward, and he could hear Harold laughing.
“Why the hell are you laughing?” someone asked.
>
“Because you’re a cunt,” Harold spat. “Why don’t you send your mother in to take care of this shit. I can’t even say you fight like a girl because girls fight better than you can.”
There was another harsh smack.
Mason knew Harold could soak it up, though. But he had to figure out a way to help the old Marine.
“This is crazy,” someone said. “I’ve worked up more of a sweat than I do in the gym. It never looks this hard in the movies or on TV.”
“That’s because it’s the movies or TV,” a second voice sighed.
“You want to take a turn?” the first voice asked.
“Not at all. Go get a drink of water or something. Old bastard probably has beer in the fridge.”
“No milk, though,” Harold laughed.
“Screw you,” the first voice said.
Mason heard footsteps, and he stepped back into the darkest part of the kitchen. He caught sight of the butcher’s block with the knives, and he quickly slipped a carving knife free. The edge of it glinted in the little bit of light slipping into the kitchen from Harold’s hallway.
And then the stranger was in the room.
He was of medium build, medium height, and with short cropped brown hair. He had on a pair of gold rimmed glasses, and his dress shirt’s sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. The man’s expensive business shoes clicked on the old linoleum, and he pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket before reaching for the fridge’s handle. His back was to Mason.
With a single step, Mason was up behind the man, covering the man’s mouth with his hand and jerking the head up and back as he drove the carving knife up to the hilt into the man’s lung. The blade glided smoothly between a pair of ribs and the man struggled for the briefest of moments, his last breath hot against Mason’s hand.
Mason eased the body to the floor, opened the fridge, took out a beer and popped the tab before setting it down on the floor beside the dead man.
Stepping silently to the entranceway to the hall, Mason carefully looked around the corner and saw Harold tied to a kitchen chair, his face raw and bloody. One eye was swollen shut, and the man’s dentures were on the floor. Blood was splattered on his white tee shirt.
In front of him, sitting in another chair, was a second man, his back to Mason. The man was dressed as well as the first had been, the sole difference being that he still wore a suit coat. The dead man’s was hung upon the arm of the couch.
Harold saw Mason and said to the second man, “Takes a while for the little bitch to drink a beer down, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” the man started but as he spoke, Mason used the sound of the man’s own voice to rush forward. With the hand that held the knife, he punched the second man in the back of the head, right at the base of the skull where it met the neck. He sent the man sprawling onto the floor, grunting. Pre-looped zipties scattered out onto the carpet.
Mason dropped the knife and put his knee on the man’s back.
The man groaned as Mason picked up a couple of zipties, looped them around each wrist and then ran a third between them, cinching them all tightly. The man screamed as they cut off the circulation to his hands.
Mason got off the man, stepped over to Harold and cut the old Marine free.
“The other one?” Harold asked.
“Dead.”
Harold nodded.
“What were they asking you?” Mason asked.
“Where you were,” Harold answered. “The first one might’ve hit a little harder if he had known I was the one who had killed their grandfathers.”
The man on the floor rolled over, wincing as he looked at them.
Mason kicked the man in the stomach. “I didn’t tell you to move.”
Bending down, Mason picked up the knife before sitting down in the chair so recently occupied by the gentleman on the floor. “So,” Mason smiled, “you’re either a Gunther, a Boylan, or an O’Connor.”
The man didn’t say anything.
“You do know it only takes a short amount of time for loss of circulation to cause permanent damage, which will then lead to amputation?” Mason asked.
The man remained silent.
Mason kicked him in the side of the knee. Hard.
The man screamed.
“He thinks he’s a tough one,” Harold said, walking out of the room. He came back a minute later with a dish towel and the beer that Mason had opened. Harold took a drink and wiped at the blood on his face. “Everybody’s tough once in a while.”
“We’ll see how tough he is when he’s explaining to a jury why he broke into an old man’s house and beat him. Of course it’ll be interesting to see how he expresses himself with a pair of hooks for hands,” Mason said.
The man looked at Mason, and then he looked at Harold and he smiled. “I won’t have to,” he said, and he muttered something in a language Mason couldn’t recognize.
Mason went to kick the man again, but the bound man burst into flames.
“What the hell?!” Mason yelled, jumping to his feet.
“Fire extinguisher in the kitchen,” Harold snapped, and Mason ran for it. He found it by the stove, and he pulled the pin on it, as he raced back into the den.
Harold was using a blanket to try to smother the flames, but the man on the floor was screaming and writhing around.
“Back,” Mason yelled, and Harold moved away, pulling the blanket with him. Mason blasted the man with the fire extinguisher and in a matter of minutes the flames were out.
But it was too late. The man was dead, twisted in a fetal position, the plastic zipties melted into his charred flesh.
“That,” Harold said, taking a pack of cigarettes up from a table and fishing one out and lighting it, “is going to be an absolute bitch to get cleaned.”
Twelve
7:00 AM, November 15th, 2015, The Boylan House
They had all arrived at the Boylan House in James’ truck. The two priests had spoken with their respective superiors and replacements had been found for them. When they got out of James’ truck, they were wearing their vestments and armed with the objects of their faith. Mason carried a pump action shotgun that belonged to James, and James carried a second one. They had spent the better part of the week packing shells with salt from the lick that Mason had used the first time.
James and Mason had received the blessings of both the priests, and Mason had received the sacrament of confession from Father Moran. James, being a protestant, needed no such sacrament, but he’d made his peace nonetheless.
None of them had any illusions about Liam Boylan, or about what might occur within the house.
No one, except the Churches, knew what happened during the day. Harold was at a nephew’s house under the pretense of having had a small fire in the den when he had dropped a lit cigarette. Julie was with her and James’ mother.
Both Mason and James had written letters explaining the situation and left them in the truck, should things not work out for the best.
It wasn’t the first time Mason had to write his will, and he hoped it wouldn’t be the last.
He closed the door to the pickup and double checked his pockets to make sure he was carrying enough ammunition. It felt like it.
James, Father Moran and Father Alexander looked at Mason.
“Me first?” Mason asked with a wry grin.
“Honestly,” Father Moran said, “you have the most experience with this place, Mason.”
“Lucky me,” Mason sighed. He chambered a round into the shotgun. “Well, follow me, then.”
He crossed Meeting House Road and started up the short hill. Within a heartbeat, he was at the door, refusing to look up at the trapdoor, fearful that it would be open and something would be looking down.
He opened the door and stepped inside, saw the tracks of men in the dust on the floor. Mason stepped off to the right, James to the left, and the priests came in between them.
The door slammed shut of its own accord, and the h
ouse was plunged into darkness as every shutter on the windows hammered closed.
Something within the house sighed audibly with pleasure.
* * *
Book 3: The Deadwood Throne
One
7:05 AM, November 15th, 2015, The Boylan House
The darkness stank with the smell of rot and the air was heavy, far too humid for the middle of November.
But they were inside the house.
Inside the Boylan House.
The four of them stood, waiting for their eyes to become adjusted to the darkness and slowly realizing that they never would. The darkness was not natural.
Mason stepped over to a window and peered through a crack in the shutters at the world beyond. A chill shook his body, and his stomach churned violently. The coffee and toast he had for breakfast made a valiant effort to leave, but he forced it down.
Beyond the shutter was a different world. An older world.
The woods were farther off, the land cleared and occupied by fields of corn. Where the road had been was a simple rutted path, James’ truck was gone. In the dim light which slipped through the crack in the shutter, Mason looked at himself, half fearful that he would see homespun clothes and a flintlock musket. But neither of those things came to pass. He still wore his normal clothes and bore the pump action shotgun.
“We’re somewhere else,” Mason said, turning back to the others.
“What do you mean?” Father Moran asked.
“We’re in Monson,” Mason said, “but out there it’s the late seventeenth century. I’m sure of it.”
James walked quickly to a window, looked out and swore under his breath. He looked at the priests and nodded.
The priests said nothing more.
Above them, something creaked, and a fine film of dust drifted down. For the first time, Mason noticed there was furniture in the shadows. A few chairs and a long table. A hutch of some sort stood on the wall beside the rear door, and shelves had been installed under the stairs.