by Ripley, Ron
Someone lived here.
In the wide open fireplace, which was stacked neatly with logs for the evening fire, there were iron hooks and arms. Cast iron pots and pans stood on a wide mantle which ran the perimeter of the entire chimney. A few pewter mugs and a clay pipe could be seen as well. The room was brightening.
Yet even as Mason observed the darkness fading, he realized the creaking change into footsteps. Someone started walking towards the stairs. He and James took up defensive positions around the two priests.
In a heartbeat, the unknown person was at the top of the stairs and started walking down with a rather clumsy gait.
A middle aged man appeared a little thinner than most and grinning through a mask of dried blood on his face. He wore a modern flannel shirt and jeans that looked as though they had been pressed. His feet were clad in tan workboots and a wedding ring glinted on his finger.
“Mike?” James asked. “Mike Sullivan?”
The laugh erupting from Mike Sullivan’s mouth told Mason they weren’t speaking with Mike, but rather, with Liam Boylan.
“Oh no, young sir,” Liam Boylan said, grinning wickedly, “your poor friend Michael Sullivan died screaming as I climbed through his mind. I appreciated his tastes for young boys, mind you, but the body really is designed solely for single occupancy.”
Liam looked at Mason, the grin fading away. “You and yours have been a bane for more years than even I care to count, Master Philips,” he spat. “I’m pleased that I’ll be able to finish you off today even as my colleagues finished off Harold.”
Mason nodded. “So it was you who sent those two after the old man?”
“Yes,” Liam hissed, the smile returning. “And he must have suffered, I’m sure. A pity he didn’t tell them where you were.”
“Oh,” Mason said, “those two.”
The smile on Liam’s face drooped slightly. “What do you mean?”
“You sent two men, two lawyers, to deal with Harold Philips?” Mason asked.
“Yes,” Liam responded.
“Well,” Mason smiled, “I gutted one like a fish and the other set himself on fire.”
Liam spat on the floor and took a stutter step towards them.
“No more,” Father Alexander said. “Do not exchange any more words with it.”
“Ah, priests,” Liam said, switching his attention from Mason to Father Moran and Father Alexander. “Always a pleasure. We’ve met before, myself and your kind. Away, away in Ireland, which is how I ended up here, in this place. So bountiful with young men.”
Father Moran started to speak in Latin.
Liam looked at the Father Moran, snarling as he responded in kind. Father Moran went pale, yet continued to speak. Father Alexander joined him, speaking Greek, the man’s voice powerful, resonating in the room.
Then two voices were erupting from Liam’s mouth, one speaking Latin and the other speaking Greek. Both at the same time. Mason realized that both voices were actually Liam’s. The thing howled in both languages and started laughing in a third voice.
Mason felt sweat burst upon his own brow, and a glance at James showed that he, too, was sweating, his shotgun trembling ever so slightly.
The two priests never hesitated, never faltered as they spoke. Incense was cast upon Liam and the body he possessed dropped to the rough floor, shaking the broad planks. Holy oil and holy water were dashed at him, and Liam screamed.
Smoke rose from where the water and oil touched the flesh, and a fourth voice tore free of Liam’s mouth. This voice spoke in a language which sounded much like the one which the second attacker in Harold’s house had used to ignite himself.
Liam Boylan climbed to his knees, and a shriek joined the other four voices.
Neither of the priests raised their voices. They continued on steadfastly.
The entire house started to shake.
The stacked wood in the fireplace fell and the cast iron pots did as well, slamming loudly against the hearthstones. The clay pipe shattered and the pewter mugs landed dully. Outside of the house, a fierce wind started blowing, the trees in the distance ripping back and forth while the cornstalks rippled and twisted with the wind’s current.
A sixth voice joined the cacophony, screaming out the foulest of curses in English. Mason had to ignore the voice and focus on the house. He watched the walls shaking, the stairs undulate, and the chimney seemed to shimmy from left to right.
From somewhere in the house a foul, noxious stench began, drifting down to them and Mason forced his eyes upon Liam Boylan once more.
The man whom he had possessed, Mike Sullivan, was on his hands and knees. Sweat soaked his hair, and mucus and bile hung from his nose and mouth. The voices stopped in mid sentence.
The priests didn’t.
They continued their prayers, and they continued to anoint the man with the holy oils and water.
Not long after the thing that was Liam Boylan went silent, Mike Sullivan’s body shuddered and collapsed bonelessly to the plank floor. He lay motionless and still the priests said their prayers.
And something black burst up from the back of Mike Sullivan.
Both Mason and James were ready for it, and they squeezed off their first rounds simultaneously. For a moment, the sounds of the shotguns firing drowned out the prayers of the priests and the black thing that was Liam Boylan went howling up the stairs.
Mason kept his weapon focused on the stairs as James knelt down beside Mike Sullivan.
“He’s dead,” James said, frowning as he stood. He looked to the priests.
Father Moran nodded. “I’ll give him last rites, James.”
“I’m not sure he was Catholic, Father,” James said.
Father Moran smiled. “I don’t think it matters at this point, James.”
“We need to go upstairs,” Mason said.
Father Alexander nodded. “We do indeed.”
“I’ll take point,” Mason said. He’d walked point before in some scary places, but nothing as frightening as this.
This was something he didn’t think he could fight. This was something that made him feel as though he was seven years old again.
In the dim light of the room, with the air still and sick, Mason led the way to the stairs. Father Moran followed behind him, Father Alexander behind Father Moran and James bringing up the rear of the small group.
The stairs creaked beneath Mason’s weight and above him. There was nothing except blackness beyond the last stair.
Above him, he could hear breathing.
Deep, heavy breathing, the sound of which threatened to freeze his knees and loosen his bowels.
But Mason pressed on.
He passed the last stair and entered the darkness waiting for him.
Two
Mason Philips in the Boylan House
Mason stepped forward, and the blackness faded away suddenly.
He was in the upper floor of the Boylan House by himself. He tightened his grip on the shotgun and found that he wasn’t holding it.
He looked down at his hands and saw that they were young and small. Free of scars and age.
And Mason was wearing a Halloween costume.
A Star Wars Stormtrooper costume with the mask pulled down over his face. He could smell the plastic, feel the familiar itch of the old wool sweater which his mother had made him wear that night.
Mason’s throat went dry, and he knew if he went to the window, its shudders thrown wide, he could look out into the night sky. He knew if he looked down at the street below the Boylan House, he would see his older cousins waiting. They would be standing there, in their costumes, holding his candy in its pillow case.
They would be waiting for him to come out.
They would be waiting for Kevin to come out.
Kevin.
Mason heard a soft thump off to his left, and he turned slightly, reaching up and lifting the Star Wars mask up so he could see better.
He couldn’t see anything from where
he stood, so Mason walked forward a little, his old Zipp sneakers silent on the wooden floor.
Mason stopped as he came around the corner of the chimney, horrified at what lay before him. Kevin was on his back, terror emblazoned on his face. And even though his legs moved and the right heel rose and thumped on the floor, Kevin was dead.
Kevin was dead and never coming back because nobody came back from being dead.
But Mason wasn’t really worried about Kevin. No. Not really worried about Kevin at all.
Mason was worried about the thing squatting on Kevin’s chest.
It was a dull gray color, and thin. Terribly thin. The thing was naked, and when it heard the sound of Mason’s feet it turned and smiled at him.
The face was smeared with blood, its teeth crimson with the same. Blue eyes shined brightly, and it chuckled.
And then Mason realized the thing was a ‘he’.
Between its wasted legs, a tremendous, pulsating black cock stood erect, and it seemed to grow even larger as it looked at Mason.
“Sweet boy,” the man-thing hissed and stood up.
Mason tried not to scream, but failed.
Three
Father Peter Moran in the Boylan House
When Mason Philips disappeared into the wall of blackness at the top of the stairs, the scream that followed was perhaps the worst that Father Peter Moran had ever heard.
Without hesitation, Peter went racing up after the man, plunging headlong into a blackness so thick and foul that he felt it wrap itself around his throat. It seemed to be trying to choke the life out of him, and it succeeded in stopping him from calling Mason’s name.
Yet just after he burst through the darkness, light washed over him, hurting his eyes even as the thing grasping his throat let go.
Peter stumbled and gasped for air. He managed to catch himself, and he looked around --
He froze in place.
Peter wasn’t on the second floor of the Boylan House.
He was in the backyard of an apartment building in Norwich, Connecticut. It was nineteen eighty three, and he was learning the trade of the exorcist. At the hands of a master.
Father Kelly Riordan stood by a rather innocuous looking young black man. The man had a bottle of beer in his hand, and he was talking sagely with Father Kelly. The black man’s wife and children stood over with a Hispanic family and an older white couple. All of them looked warily at the black man as he drank his beer happily.
“Do you think you can sit down, Eric?” Father Kelly asked the man.
“Of course I can,” Eric said cheerfully. “It doesn’t mean I’m going to, though.”
“And why not?” Father Kelly asked patiently. Peter stood off to one side, having positioned himself near enough to the man so he could step between the man and the others.
They had been coming to this man’s house for well over three months. Every Tuesday and Thursday they would come and sit. They would pray with him, and they would recite the prayers of exorcism. Sometimes the young black man would sweat. Sometimes he would scream.
These were the regular part of the week.
But today was Saturday.
The family had called. The neighbors had called.
Something was going on.
The man was drinking and drinking and drinking. Every ounce of alcohol that he could find, he was drinking. And Peter had seen the evidence of it. There were beer cans all near the chair that the man had been sitting in. Even a couple of bottles of rubbing alcohol.
The wife had told them he had been drinking for two hours.
There must have been sixty cans and bottles altogether.
“You need to leave now, Kelly,” the black man said, grinning as he took another sip. “You couldn’t handle me in Wisconsin, what makes you think you could handle me here? This one?” he said, nodding towards Peter. “Do you really think that he’ll be able to help you at all?”
Peter looked over at Kelly and saw something that frightened him.
The older priest’s face had gone deathly pale. A single blue vein at the top of his temple started throbbing. His mouth worked silently for a moment before allowing the word, “Wisconsin” come through.
“You do remember,” the black man said pleasantly. He finished the beer, and he held it loosely in his hand. “I’m glad, actually,” the man continued. “I had honestly believed you weren’t going to remember at all. But you did.”
“You were driven out,” Father Kelly gasped. “I saw it.”
The man shook his head. “Not in the least. Father David and I worked quite hard on that one together.”
Father Kelly stiffened, the color completely draining from his flesh.
“Oh yes,” the man purred, “Father David belonged to us. Heart and soul. He helped me hide in that poor young girl. And she did taste as sweet as she looked,” he grinned. “You can be sure of that, Kelly.”
Before Father Kelly could say anything. Before he could even begin the first prayer, the black man lunged forward, dropping the bottle and grasping Father Kelly by the testicles, all in one swift and fluid motion.
In a heartbeat, Father Kelly was screaming, vomiting upon the ground as the young man twisted and pulled. The man’s neighbors and family fled screaming, leaving Peter alone with the possessed man and the sickening screams of his mentor.
Four
Father Stathi Alexander in the Boylan House
Father Stathi Alexander reacted to Mason Philips’ scream just as Peter did. He was a few steps behind the man as he disappeared into the darkness, and Stathi was just stepping into it as well when Peter’s own scream reached his ears.
But then Stathi was in darkness.
Not the pure black which he had entered, but something dim. Something unpleasant. He could smell the sweet incense of Mass, hear the heartbeat of the very Church itself, and he realized where he was.
The Church of the Annunciation.
He hadn’t been back to the Church since he was five.
Not since that night.
And suddenly Stathi knew what night it was, and what was going to happen. He understood the meaning of Mason’s and Peter’s screams. Although he had no idea what it was that they were witnessing.
Father Stathi Alexander knew what was coming though, and he tried to steel himself against it. Yet, he was only five. He knew he was seventy two, but now, in the Church of the Annunciation, he was five once more. The pews looked right but wrong at the same time, as if he was too small for them. Dizziness swept over him, and he reached out to steady himself.
The wood of the pew was cool beneath his small hand, and he sighed at the beautiful familiarity of it.
A muffled gasp reached his ears, and Stathi shuddered.
He should have expected it, should have remembered. His mind was fighting the memory, attempting to hold it back as it had done so for nearly seven decades.
Stathi dropped his eyes to the floor and looked at his dress shoes, the worn leather carefully polished. His grandfather had made sure of that. His grandmother had made sure his clothes were right, they were neat and clean.
His father had died in Normandy during the war. His mother --
Stathi shook his head at the memory of his mother.
The noises increased.
The candle will fall, Stathi told himself, and he squeezed the pew as the candle on the altar fell.
The grunting, the cursing, Stathi thought. You know what’s coming here.
And it all followed. It all came to pass.
And it did pass.
Stathi sighed, looked up as he breathed deeply and began to shriek as Father Satoris, naked, and his genitals red with Stathi’s mother’s blood, stalked down the center aisle screaming in Greek.
Five
James Markarian in the Boylan House
Like both of the priests, James heard Mason’s scream.
Unlike both of the priests, however, James did not run blindly up the stairs. First of all, the priests were
in front of him, and they were both large men. The stairs beneath his feet shook with the hard, heavy steps of Father Moran and Father Alexander.
Second, James was a trained police officer. Yes, he did run toward the sounds of distress and danger, but he had been taught how to do it.
And finally, James had something on his shotgun that Mason didn’t.
A light.
A small, tactical LED that sent a tight beam out in front of the weapon. As he switched the light on, he heard Father Moran and then Father Alexander scream.
James knew it was a trap now, and he walked up the stairs slowly, the light of the weapon cutting through the darkness. Just inside of the stairs on the second floor, the three men stood. Each of them shook slightly, eyes unblinking as James swept the light across their faces.
His stomach tightened at the looks of terror each of them wore.
James moved up to stand beside Mason.
“Mason,” he whispered.
Nothing. Not even a hint that Mason might hear him.
“Mason,” he said a little louder.
Still the terrified expression.
James breathed in through his nose and exhaled the same way, calming his racing heart. He brought his shotgun up to his shoulder, put a fresh round in it from his right jacket pocket and slowly started to advance through the darkness. At the edges of his vision, he caught sight of things that surely weren’t there.
A little boy in a church being chased by a naked man.
A young priest trying to drag a black man off of an older priest who lay unconscious in a dirt yard.
And a young boy wearing a Stormtrooper costume and staring at something that was advancing towards him, fresh blood upon the face and a dead child behind it.
That, James knew, was Mason’s nightmare. He also knew it wasn’t a true memory. This memory was being constructed out of fears.
The other two images, though, those had been pulled from the memories of the priests.
Is something controlling Mason more than the others? James thought. Is there more work needed to create than recall?
He didn’t know.