by Hazel Holmes
“The apostles are coming?” the priest asked.
“The Devil.” Sarah pointed to Christ. “You know, the guy who did that to your friend up there.”
“Satan didn’t do that,” the priest said, and then he picked up the book. “And he didn’t write this. You know who did?”
“Who?”
“People.”
Sarah deflated. “People wrote this book and killed Jesus.”
The priest nodded. “That’s right.” He smiled, but this time Sarah didn’t feel belittled or degraded, it was the smile she suspected an older brother would have given a younger sister if she’d ever known what that was like.
“God is real,” the priest said. “Satan is also real. But neither really play a large role in our day-to-day lives. They whisper to us.” He held up a finger. “But they don’t make our decisions for us, they don’t put us in predicaments, and neither of them can save you from yourself in this world.”
“So I guess I came to the wrong place?” Sarah asked.
The priest chuckled and then shifted in the pew to more of a relaxed position. “People come in here all the time, looking for answers. They’re convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that Satan is responsible for everything bad that’s happening in their life, and they want to know why God isn’t doing anything to stop him. But what people don’t understand is that they’re the ones making bad decisions. They want an excuse for the choices that they’ve made in their life, and all of them had the same look on their faces that you do right now when I tell them that God can’t help them. You have to help yourself.”
Sarah rubbed her temples, trying to stem the headache forming. “Look, I know that you might get a lot of people coming in here with a lot of bullshit problems, but when I tell you that the devil is coming, and that I need to know how to stop it, I’m not fucking around.”
“And you think the answer is in this book?” The priest asked.
“I don’t know, genius, that’s why I came to talk to you.”
The priest laughed. “Fair enough.” He picked up the devil’s bible, the motion quick and agile, which surprised Sarah. He flipped through the pages, too quickly to actually be reading them. “Did you know that the first portion of this book is actually the bible?”
“The bible that you read?” Sarah asked.
“Word for word.” The priest stopped halfway through the book and pressed his finger against the page. “It was around the fifteenth century that a group of monks decided to add their own books to the bible. They had a different idea of the teachings of Satan along with a different version of the book of Revelations.”
“Revelations,” Sarah said, a few more memories of her childhood Sunday school resurfacing. “That’s when the rapture is supposed to happen.”
The priest leaned forward, resting his left forearm on the back of the pew. “The bible speaks of the second coming of God as an apocalyptic event, and that only those that are true to God and have followed His word will be rescued from the earth, and the rest will be forced to suffer after God takes His children to heaven and the devil takes control of the earth. The monks from the medieval ages had a different take that it would be Satan who returns in Revelations, rescuing humans of earth from the wrath of God.”
“So people just wrote the sides they wanted to win.” Sarah lowered her eyes to the book between them. “That’s the way it always is.” She stood and walked closer to the pulpit and glanced up at Christ. “Everyone has their own version of what they want to happen, and the people pulling the strings at the top don’t care so long as they win, and everyone else is an afterthought.”
“Is that what happened to you?” the priest asked.
Sarah chuckled, the laughter hopeless and exhausted. She turned toward the priest. “You want to know what happened to me? You want to know the story of my life?” She reached for the collar of her shirt and exposed the scars on her back to the priest. “And that’s just the ones that left a mark.” She let go of her shirt. “Do you know how many kids I knew that never made it out of the system alive? I lost count. And all you can do is sit there and tell me that it has nothing to do with your boss or his enemy? You’re going to sit here, in this place, in a fucking church, and tell me that God can’t do anything? Why?” Desperation rose with her anger, and her cheeks flushed red. “I want to know! Why? WHY!” She screamed, her voice echoing off the walls, and the shriek burned her throat as the priest only stared at her while she caught her breath and wiped the saliva dripping off of her chin.
“God wants to help,” the priest said. “So does the devil. But the moment they choose to decide for us, what’s left?” He stood and walked toward her, his movements steady and calm. “I believe in heaven, and I believe in hell, and I also believe that God gives us strength to handle whatever life throws at us, and if we can’t?” He shrugs. “Then we get to meet Him at the gates of heaven, and our struggle is no more.”
Helplessness flooded through Sarah’s veins. She wanted to hit him, she wanted to scream, but instead she only returned to the pew and sat down, where she buried her face in her hands. There was no grief, no tears, only emptiness.
“It never changes, does it?” Sarah asked, staring at the floor. “It’s the same people on top, and the same people at the bottom, every time. And hope just teases and tricks us into thinking that it will change one day.” She looked up at the priest. “But it doesn’t.”
The priest’s stoic expression softened, and then he walked to Sarah and knelt on one knee. He placed his hand on her leg, and it was the first time in her life where a stranger had touched her and she didn’t flinch. She wasn’t sure what that meant.
“It does,” the priest said. “Because of people like you.”
“You don’t know who I am,” Sarah said.
“Yes, I do.” The priest smiled and then picked up the book she’d brought and placed it in her lap. “You’re the girl who’s going to stop the end of the world. Not because you were chosen, or it’s your destiny, but because you want to help save people.”
“But how?” Sarah asked.
The priest opened the book and turned to the pages toward the end. He searched for a minute, pinpointing the exact page that he was looking for, and then tapped it when he found it. “In order for the devil to return, it was said that he would need a portal. Some powerful object that would act as the gateway to hell so his demons could escape and he could bring the fires of hell to the earth.”
Sarah nodded, reading the same scripture that the priest had pointed to. It was the orb. That’s what the witch was going to use now that she had the souls she needed to accomplish it. “So if I destroy the gate, then they won’t be able to get through.”
“In theory, yes,” the priest said. “But it will take a powerful force.” He found another line and read. “Blood is the beginning. Blood is the end.”
Sarah looked at the line, then at the priest. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.” The priest kept his attention on the text. “But it is in the same section as the portal.”
“Right,” Sarah said, exhaling a sigh. “Which of course makes everything crystal clear now.”
The priest smiled. “Come with me.”
Sarah followed the priest back behind the wall where Jesus was nailed to the cross and they stepped into a small office, each of the walls lined from floor to ceiling with books, and at the center was a small desk that the priest stepped behind.
“There are a few things that can help you with demons.” The priest opened the drawer and removed a wooden cross and two tubes of water. “Any sign of Christ and agents of the devil will be repelled. The two biggest weapons you have in that regard are crosses and holy water.”
Sarah walked over and picked one of the tubes up, running her thumb over the corked top. It was cold, nearly freezing.
“But this is your most important weapon.” The priest reached deep within the drawer and removed a bible that he plac
ed next to Sarah’s hands. “Nothing causes the devil to sweat more than the words written on those pages.”
The bible was small, only about the size of Sarah’s hand. The cover was leather, and she ran her fingertips over the little bumps along the front, then traced the gold lettering.
“Satan’s connection with this world is strongest at the witching hour,” the priest said.
“When is that?” Sarah asked, rotating the tube of holy water between her fingers.
“It starts at 3am.
The priest grabbed her arm, and she looked up. “Whatever you’re facing, even if it feels like you’re alone, I promise you one thing. You won’t be.”
Sarah nodded, gathered up her things, and left without a word. Outside, she kept looking back at the church, waiting for the priest to run outside and join her, or for her to run back and tell him thank you for listening, thank you for giving her what she needed, and telling her what she needed to hear.
If by some miracle she actually made it out of this alive, then she would go back to that church and thank him properly. She nodded, liking the idea of returning as a triumphant hero and handing the bible back over to him, smiling.
Sarah held onto that moment and savored the future. It was the same thing she used to do when she was little. She would see some great thing in the distance and focus on that until whatever bad shit she was going through had ended.
It was a method she used throughout her entire life, looking ahead for tomorrow and a new day. But as often as she used it growing up, by the time she reached adulthood, there wasn’t much left for her to look forward to on the horizon, so she filled her days with things to make her forget.
Booze, drugs, cigarettes, sex, anything to up those endorphins and push down the bad thoughts. But now all of those bad thoughts had come to a head, and Sarah had to focus on today. Because if she couldn’t do that, then there wouldn’t be a tomorrow.
82
An officer descended the grand staircase, and Iris watched him give a light shake of his head to the troopers that occupied the foyer. When he made it to the bottom, he followed up his glance with a few whispers and they then stepped outside into the cold morning.
The doors had remained open, and from her spot in the foyer, Iris could still see the police vehicles down below, but what had occupied most of her attention was the decay in her own home. She’d always been able to look past it, but now she found her eyes lingering on the blemishes.
One of the tiles in the foyer was chipped, exposing a black mark against the brilliant white of the marble flooring. A strip of wallpaper had curled and broken free from the wall to her left along the corner. Her eyes traveled over the room, finding stains, holes, and decay everywhere, hidden amongst the grandeur of the home.
And her critical eye bled from the house and to herself.
The stitching at the end of the sleeve on her nightgown had come loose, dangling freely from the rest of the cuff. The nail polish of her left hand had chipped, exposing the age and frailty that lay beneath.
Spots and wrinkles crawled over her body. She had never been so aware of her own age as she did in that moment. And she didn’t just feel it in her body, it was her mind as well. The years had battered her memory.
The curse, the witch, her devotion in trying to free her family of the wretched damnation that her husband’s ancestor had led them toward, it had consumed her life. It was all she could focus on for the past thirty years.
Thirty years gone in the blink of an eye.
“Mrs. Bell?”
Iris looked up from the floor and into the gaze of the young highway trooper taking her statement. She frowned, wondering how long she’d been dazed and how long he’d been repeating the same question. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I said, when was the last time you saw Dell Parker?” the trooper replied.
“Oh, um, he came yesterday morning to speak with our groundskeeper, Dennis.” Iris cleared her throat and shifted her weight on her feet. “After he looked around, he left and took Dennis with him, and said that he wanted to ask him some more questions. I thought he’d be back by now, but he never returned.”
“And can you tell me what Pat Landon was doing here?” The trooper pointed across the foyer where Pat was being interviewed by another trooper.
“Dennis usually comes in for a drink, but he didn’t last night, so Pat came up to ask what was wrong.” Iris recited the words like she was reading them from a script.
The witch had transformed back into Pat to confuse the trooper who Dell had said was shot. Finding him healthy and at the house punched a big hole in Dell’s story. And with no evidence of any wrongdoing, the troopers had nothing on them but what Dell had reported. And Dell was nowhere to be found.
“We’re going to head to Redford and speak with Dennis about Dell’s investigation,” the trooper said, jotting down notes as he spoke. “Which means that he’ll most likely be in our custody for some amount of time. Does he have any family we can notify?”
“No,” Iris answered. “We’re Dennis’s family.”
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Bell.”
Iris watched the trooper return to the clustered pack of officers as they huddled to discuss their next steps.
They were probably discussing how Dell had misreported a crime. After all, he was just some small-town cop with nothing to do all day except to pick up the trash on the side of the road and rescue kittens from trees. The troopers didn’t consider him a real cop, and they weren’t going to treat him like one.
It was a shame. She’d always liked Dell. If she had a son like him, she suspected that she wouldn’t have had to carry this kind of burden all by herself.
Kegan was called over by the troopers and brought into their huddle. He nodded, said a few words, and then shook their hands as they left.
The doors closed, shutting out the cold and the light, and Kegan lingered with his back turned after they left. Iris watched him as he lowered his head and then looked to Pat, who transformed back into her original form, quick as shedding a towel.
Kegan finally turned and walked toward Iris as the witch neared as well. The three of them huddled together in the foyer, but Iris was still looking at the doors.
“They’re going to leave a unit here in case Dell comes back,” Kegan said. “And they’ve requested that if we hear from anyone, or remember anything, to give them a call.” He reached into his pocket and removed one of the trooper’s cards.
The witch laughed, the high-pitched squeal growing louder until it faded with a quick breath as she inhaled. “I suppose it helps to have a person that’s immortal to help tip the scales in your favor.” She walked toward the staircase and ascended the steps. “I’ll be in the room, preparing for tonight.” She turned back and cast them a glare with a flash of fire and brimstone in her eyes. “I hope you can hold on for that long at the least.” Then she disappeared beyond their sight.
Kegan waited until they couldn’t hear her steps anymore before he finally looked down and spoke. “How are you holding up, Grandma?”
But Iris was still focused on the closed doors. They were sealed tight, blocking out the light and casting the interior of the foyer in darkness. She looked to the closed drapes and curtains that covered the windows. It was daylight outside, yet it felt like night in here. It was always dark in here, and she had been the one to close the blinds.
“Grandma?” Kegan asked.
“I need to lie down.” Iris exhaled and cradled her head as Kegan gently took her arm and helped her up to the room.
Whatever had been draining her energy had ratcheted up its efforts. Life was slipping away, sifting between Iris’s fingers. It was moving quicker now, pricked by an integral vein that fed her life. And now that same vessel was killing her.
“Grandma?”
Iris was dizzy and she shuffled toward the bed before she fell over. She didn’t bother pulling back the sheets, she just lay down on top of the white co
mforter and slowly rested her head on a pile of pillows that kept her propped up.
“What can I do?” Kegan’s voice trembled, but when he gripped her hand, she felt strength.
“I thought I could change it,” Iris said, opening her eyes and staring at a patch of the ceiling where she spotted the beginning of a water stain. One of the pipes had most likely burst, or at the very least was cracked. It wouldn’t be long before the plaster and wood finally rotted and water broke through. “Holes in the boat. It’s starting to leak.” She frowned, remembering a time from her youth out west when she was out on a friend’s boat on her father’s lake. “My mother was furious because I ruined my new dress.” She laughed.
“Grandma, listen to me,” Kegan said and then pulled her face toward his own. “I’m going to call a doctor, okay? You’re not well.”
Iris placed her weathered palm against Kegan’s cheek and then finally mustered a smile. “I’m fine.” Though her voice was riddled with weakness, and she had to drop her hand after only being able to hold it up for a few seconds. She drew in a ragged breath. “I don’t need a doctor.”
Kegan stared at her, confused, and then turned sharply, but Iris snatched his wrist, the speed in which she grabbed him surprising to both of them. Iris zeroed in on that one quick moment of clarity and strength.
“I might not last much longer,” Iris said. “And that means you have to fix my mistake.”
Kegan gingerly took a seat on the edge of the bed, holding his grandmother’s hand. “What are you talking about? If you’re sick, then I can get help.”
“It’s too late for me, but it’s not too late for you.” Iris kept her voice at a whisper. “You can do what I didn’t have the strength to do.”
Kegan shook his head. “Grandma, you don’t know what you’re—”