‘Fellas,’ said the man, nodding.
‘James,’ said Nightingale. ‘This is Father O’Grady.’
O’Grady shook Mr Wilson’s limp hand. ‘How do you do,’ said the priest.
‘I’ve seen better days, Father, but I’ve never seen worse.’ His voice was dull and flat as if he had lost all hope.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Hopefully I can help.’
He waved for them to sit. The priest took the sofa and Nightingale sat on a winged chair by the fire. Mr Wilson paced up and down. Mrs Wilson came in carrying a tray of coffee with a ceramic milk pitcher and a small jar of sugar. Nightingale noticed her hands trembling, and the contents were vibrating on the tray. Mr Wilson took it from her. ‘Sit down, hun. I’ve got this.’
‘Sorry, Father,’ she said, looking apologetically at the priest. ‘I haven’t slept much.’
‘Please, don’t apologize.’
She looked at her husband seriously. ‘Is he asleep?’ She sat down next to O’Grady and put her hands in her lap. They were the gnarled claws of a woman twice her age.
‘For now,’ said her husband, pouring coffee into three mugs and handing them out.
‘What is the child’s name?’ asked O’Grady.
‘William,’ said Mr Wilson. ‘But we call him Billy. Everyone calls him Billy.’ He pulled a chair away from an oak dining table and sat on it, his legs pressed together awkwardly.
‘And what seems to be the problem with Billy?’
Mrs Wilson glanced at Nightingale. ‘Hasn’t he told you?’
‘Yes, but I’d like to hear it from you,’ said O’Grady. ‘First hand, as it were. As I have explained to Mr Nightingale, often what appears to be a case of demonic possession can turn out to be a simple mental disorder.’
Mr Wilson shook his head vehemently. ‘No. He’s not crazy. We’re not crazy.’
‘No one said crazy,’ said the priest, holding up a liver-spotted hand. ‘But sometimes what appears to be possession can actually be a sign of an underlying mental health issue, that’s the point I am making.’
‘That’s just another way of saying that you think Billy is crazy, and he isn’t. Something has changed him. Something has done this to him.’ He looked at Nightingale. ‘You believe me, don’t you?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.’
Mr Wilson looked over at the priest. ‘See? Billy isn’t crazy.’
‘ I believe you,’ said O’Grady. ‘But I need to know exactly what has happened to Billy. From the beginning.’
‘All right,’ said Mr Wilson, ‘it all started back at the hospital, two weeks ago. At least we think it did. Billy caught bronchitis at school and he got very sick. We took him to hospital, where he stayed for a couple of days and was given strong antibiotics. He was getting better. Then, the afternoon we took him home, all hell broke loose.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. I don’t want to say that.’
‘It’s all right,’ said O’Grady. ‘Go on.’
‘As soon as we got home Billy started acting… strange. He became moody. He wouldn’t listen to me or his mother. He wouldn’t eat. His whole demeanor changed. He was cold and mean, and his voice sounded like nothing I’d ever heard in my life, like an old woman’s voice, croaky, sort of. Vicious. We put him to bed that night but he wouldn’t fall asleep. We heard him pattering around the house, slamming doors and cabinets, scratching the walls. I went downstairs and found him standing in the kitchen with his back to me, in the dark. His head was craned to the side like he was looking at something on the fridge. His body was completely still, but he was whispering. I couldn’t tell what he was saying because it sounded like it was in Latin, but he was whispering in rapid fire. Finally I turned him around to face me, asking what the heck was going on, and he screamed. He grabbed me by the throat and started choking me, yelling, “Die! Die! Die!” He was so strong I couldn’t stop him. Billy is ten years old and weighs seventy-five pounds; I can pick him up and throw him if I want to. This wasn’t Billy. This was something else.’ He shuddered and folded his arms.
‘Then what happened?’ asked the priest quietly.
‘Lisa came downstairs and helped me restrain him. It took both of us to stop him and get him to calm down. He just got drowsy and drifted into a weird sleep, but he was still whispering. We carried him upstairs and put him to bed.’
‘Sounds like it could be night terrors,’ offered O’Grady.
Mr Wilson glared at him. ‘Father, with all due respect, these are not night terrors. Since that day he’s been the same ever since, day and night. Sometimes he’s back to his normal self, and he doesn’t seem to remember any of the awful things he’s said or done, he’s our sweet Billy, but as soon as he comes out, that other side seems to take over, and it’s real angry when it does. I don’t know a whole lot about this thing, Father, but I know my son. That thing upstairs is not him.’
‘Don’t say that,’ said Mrs Wilson, her voice trembling. ‘It’s Billy. He’s our son.’
‘Not at the moment it’s not,’ said Mr Wilson, shaking his head. ‘You can see it in his eyes, he isn’t Billy any more. Billy has gone.’ He looked at the priest, tears welling up in his eyes. ‘We want our son back. Please, can you help us? You’re our last hope.’
‘We’ll do what we can,’ said the priest. He looked across at Nightingale and nodded. ‘I suppose it’s time I met Billy.’
They set down their coffee mugs and went upstairs in single file. They stopped outside the boy’s bedroom door. Nightingale took a small birch wood cross from his jacket pocket. ‘You came prepared,’ observed the priest dryly.
‘It’s not my first possession case,’ said Nightingale. ‘And it probably won’t be my last.’
Father O’Grady took off his rosary and wrapped it around his hand, holding the small gold cross in the palm of his hand. He blessed himself and the others. Mr Wilson opened the door and were instantly met with a horrible stench of vomit, feces, and urine. It smelled like they were in a sewer. The curtains were drawn, and there were large holes in the walls. All of the furniture except for the bed and a lamp had been removed. Nightingale knew this was a safety precaution, things had been thrown around violently when the boy had first returned from the hospital.
As soon as they entered, the boy went from sleeping soundly to sitting straight up in the bed. He did this so fast that everyone in the room jumped. Mr Wilson was right: what they were looking at was not a boy at all, but a deformed, hideous representation of a boy. Billy was in his underwear and he had bruises and scratches all over his body. His hair was greasy and matted with vomit. Specks of vomit were on his face. His black eyes burned out of their sockets like coals as he watched them with predatory cunning. His purple lips had been mashed by his teeth and were bloody and plump. He opened them wide and said in a deep voice, ‘Welcome to the party, priest. Are you here to fuck me? Of course you are.’
‘What?’ said Father O’Grady, aghast. The thing on the bed began laughing hysterically and jumping up and down.
‘The restraints,’ asked Nightingale. ‘Where are they?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mr Wilson, ‘they were just…’
They saw them: the restraints were on the ground by the bed. Somehow Billy had taken them off, and now he was free. Billy jumped and whooped with joy. ‘HAHAHAHAHAHA!’ In one swift motion Billy wrenched a crooked piece of wire from the box spring under the mattress and began stabbing himself repeatedly in the forearm, drawing blood. ‘Die vermin! Die pig fuck! Die die die!’
‘Stop!’ shouted Mr Wilson, rushing forward and trying to wrestle with the thing. Billy gave him a shove and threw him several feet in the air. He smashed against the wall. Mrs Wilson fainted. Father O’Grady took out his Bible and began reading from it in a loud voice: ‘We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects! In the Name and by the power
of Our Lord Jesus Christ may you be snatched away and driven from the Church of God and from the souls made to the image and likeness of God and redeemed by the Precious Blood of the Divine Lamb!’ Billy squealed like a stuck pig. Together Nightingale and the priest tied him up, binding his arms and feet with thick rope and then tying them off to the bedposts. Billy was crying in a high-pitched wail.
‘Begone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit, enemy of man’s salvation!’ shouted the priest. ‘Begone!’
Billy went completely still. His black eyes stared up at the ceiling. ‘I don’t think he’s breathing,’ said Nightingale. He went to check his pulse but Billy snapped his jaws near his throat. Nightingale moved away. ‘I guess he is,’ he said.
Mr Wilson was pulling himself up off the floor. He was shaking. Nightingale and O’Grady followed as Mr Wilson picked up his wife and carried her down the stairs, setting her on the sofa. As Mr Wilson tried to bring his wife back to consciousness, Nightingale clutched O’Grady’s arm and led him outside. ‘This isn’t a mental disorder,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘It’s possession, and that boy in there needs your help. If you don’t help him, he’ll die. You understand?’
Father O’Grady nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘So are you going to help him or not?’
The priest nodded. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘I’ll perform the exorcism. Tonight. As soon as possible. But I need your assurance that the devil won’t enter one of us. You said you had a way to protect us.’
‘I do,’ said Nightingale. ‘Leave it to me.’
* * *
Dusk settled over Plymouth as Nightingale got in the Cherokee and turned the key in the ignition. He was headed for the hospital where the boy had been in hopes of learning who might have died with a devil inside them, which was the only way Bakka could have passed on to the boy. The priest had remained behind with Mr and Mrs Wilson. Nightingale had made it clear that they were to stay away from the boy until he returned.
He cracked his window in spite of the rain and lit a cigarette. Then he turned on the radio to quiet his mind. Soft jazz played as he pulled away from the kerb and drove towards the hospital, just a few miles away. A set of lights turned red and he brought the Cherokee to halt. He tapped in time to the tune on the steering wheel, finished his cigarette and tossed the butt out into the street. The lights changed and he accelerated. As he hit thirty miles an hour the radio emitted a gut-wrenching shriek that made him wince. He cursed and switched the radio off. Except while the button clicked into the off position, noise continued to screech from the speakers. Then he heard a inhuman voice, the voice he had heard coming from the mouth of Billy back at the house. Bakka. ‘Leave this place, pig. Or I shall kill you and bring you back to Hell, where you will be my slave forever.’
Nightingale clutched the steering wheel. The radio switched over to a classical station, and classical music was blaring through the speakers, getting louder and louder. He tried to shut it off but pressing the buttons had no effect. The sound intensified, a maddened orchestra playing rapidly as if for the final time. He tried to pull over but the car was accelerating even as he eased his foot off the gas. 65 mph, 70 mph, 75 mph… He tried to brake. Nothing. The forest on the side of the road began to whirl by in a murky haze of speed and rain. The music was deafening. In a split second his mind went over his options. He could use the emergency brake, but he’d probably overturn the car. He could try running off the road but if he hit a tree even the airbag might not save him. If this was Bakka at work then he needed supernatural assistance. He screamed the words: ‘Stop! In the name of the Archangel Michael, the slayer of devils and demons and the emissary of the Lord Jesus Christ, I command you to stop!’
The car stopped accelerating. The stereo switched back to talk radio, where a mild voice was now describing the weather. ‘…and that’s pretty much what we have today, folks. Periodic rain, which will taper to mist in the evening with areas of dense fog along the coast. Tomorrow we can expect a few showers around the…’
Nightingale took a deep breath. His heart was racing. He pulled over to the side of the road and lit a cigarette with a shaking hand.
* * *
The receptionist on duty at the hospital was a plump brunette wearing too much red lipstick. She had red rouge on her cheeks and she resembled a giant doll. Nightingale flashed her what he hoped was his most disarming smile. He handed her a business card with his name, cell phone number and an address in New York. ‘I’m a private investigator, I’m trying to get details of a death that occurred here two weeks ago.’
‘So you’re not a relative?’ She smiled revealing a smear of lipstick across her lower front teeth,
‘No, like I said, I’m a private investigator working for the parents of a young boy who was here at the same time Billy Wilson. Billy was sick and while he was here he was comforted by a couple who came to visit someone who died. They really helped Billy and the parents want to thank them, but they never got their names.’
The receptionist nodded. ‘I remember Billy. Lovely little boy.’ He face was suddenly serious. ‘He was quite sick, it was touch and go for a while. Bronchitis.’
‘That’s right.’
‘How is he now?’ asked the receptionist.
‘As right as rain,’ lied Nightingale. ‘His parents aren’t sure who the couple were, but they are pretty sure they were here to visit someone who later died. They just want to take Billy to thank them. Considering they lost someone, they thought it might, you know, help them deal with their loss to know how grateful Billy is for the way they helped him.’
‘That’s so sweet,’ said the receptionist. She looked at her computer screen and tapped on her keyboard. ‘What day do you think they were here?’
‘October eight,’ said Nightingale. ‘Or thereabouts.’
She tapped on the keyboard again, then nodded. ‘Yes, we did lose a patient on October the eighth,’ she said. ‘Father Edward Allen Perkins.’
‘Do you have an address?’
‘He won’t be there, will he?’ said the receptionist. ‘He’s dead.’
Nightingale was having trouble maintaining his smile, but he did the best he could. ‘Of course, but I’m assuming he lived with relatives. And Billy does really want to thank them.’
‘We’re not supposed to give out patients details,’ said the receptionist.
‘Of course not, but I’m sure Father Perkins won’t complain. Seeing as how he’s – you know - dead.’
The receptionist frowned, then nodded. ‘I suppose so.’ She peered at the screen again. ‘19 Dunbarrow Street, here in Plymouth.’
‘Is it far?’
‘About a mile. Down Main Street, left at the Burger King, right at the Taco Bell, and that’s Dunbarrow Street.’
Nightingale thanked her and lit a cigarette as he headed out to the car. So the man who had died was a priest? That couldn’t have been a coincidence. Maybe Father Perkins had been meddling with something he shouldn’t have. He finished his cigarette, climbed into the car and followed the directions the receptionist had given him.
The Perkins house was small, with wood sides and a pitched roof. An old rotted ‘For Sale’ sign stuck out from the yellow lawn, which was overgrown and littered with leaves. Nightingale parked at the side of the road and walked along a paved pathway to the door. The green paint was peeling off in places. The door was locked and nobody responded to his knock. He circled around back where he found a window at eye level. He took off his coat, bunched it around his hand, and smashed the window. He cleared the glass with his coat and climbed inside. He was in the kitchen. There were dishes piled high in the sink, covered with mould. Walking down a narrow hallway he immediately became overwhelmed by the stench of feces and vomit. He entered a small living room which had newspaper clippings on the walls and books piled all over the place. There were urine stains on the carpet and Nightingale had to hold his coat over his mouth and nose to offset the stench. He
checked out the newspaper clippings tacked to the walls. All of them detailed possessions, suicides and the occult.
‘You were into some nasty things, weren’t you, Father Perkins?’ Nightingale muttered to himself. He found a small book open on the desk, a very old volume made of vellum that smelled musty with age. He turned it over to inspect the spine. “Devils, Demons, & Exorcisms.” The copyright date on the inside said it was printed in the early 1800s. He flipped through the pages and found that it was a compilation of stories about exorcisms and various ways they can be performed. There was a wrinkled leather bookmark marking a page containing the names of several demons. One was highlighted in yellow. Bakka.
A loud crash upstairs made Nightingale jump. His heart thumped hard. He listened. Something was scratching the floor up there. Scratch scratch scratch. Three scratches in quick succession, a sign of the demonic.
‘Hello?’ he called.
Scratch scratch scratch.
Nightingale went slowly up a flight of creaking stairs. He heard the sound again, scratch scratch scratch. It was coming from the bedroom. Steadying himself outside the door, he raised his foot and kicked it in. The door smashed inward and he saw a flash as something flew in the air.
Meow-arrrt!
Nightingale staggered back, but then recovered his balance. He grinned. A bone-thin cream-colored cat was huddled in a corner, its back arched, staring at him. By the looks of it the thing hadn’t been fed in a while. It was breathing heavily, as scared as he had been. Nightingale stepped to the side and the cat ran out, its ears back, clearly scared out of its wits.
***
The rain had slackened as Nightingale pulled in the driveway of the Wilson house, but the sky was coal black and the wind was blowing across the ocean and through the trees hard enough to make them bend. He leaned over and pulled his overnight bag off the back seat. Along with a change of clothing it contained everything he would need to perform the exorcism. Along with a pair of police-issue handcuffs and a high-powered stun gun.
Possession: A Jack Nightingale Short Story Page 2