"A demon?" Jeff sounded skeptical.
Sullivan looked directly at Jeff. "That's what Father Mosely believed—"
"And do you believe that?"
Father Sullivan's chest rose and fell with a deep sigh. "As a Roman Catholic priest, I believe that spirit is real. In fact, I believe spirit is the basis, the actual foundation, for all reality. I also believe evil spirit is real and very much a part of our lives."
Sullivan said it as matter-of-factly as if he'd stated, "I believe whales live in the ocean, although I've never seen one."
Jeff's expression gave Karen no insight into what he might be thinking. But she could guess.
Noticing this silent exchange, Father Sullivan said, "Do you believe in God, Mr. Chandler?"
Jeff paled. "I . . . I . . ."
"Is something wrong?"
"No. Ah . . . it's just that McCurdy once asked me the same question."
"And what did you tell him?"
"Father, if I believed in God, I think I would be praying right now."
"Yes. Of course." Sullivan cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. He took another cigarette from the pocket of his sweatshirt and lighted it'. "Then perhaps in your mind, my belief in the reality of spirit seems at odds with my scientific education and my profession as a psychologist. Culturally, we try very hard to see religion and science as two distinct and separate paths. But the fact is, they can be reconciled. I believe those paths have merged quite convincingly here in Father Mosely's notes." He patted the Bible. "In our Roman Catholic belief system, we call evil spirit 'preternatural.' By that we mean that it is present here, with us, in our material world. Yet it is not of this material world."
Karen shook her head, "I don't understand."
"Okay. You, and I, and the world around us—we all have this in common: we are material things. Our actions are governed by natural law."
Karen nodded.
"Now," the priest continued, "see if you can imagine a preposterous situation in which all material things suddenly cease to exist. At that instant, you and I and our entire physical environment would no longer be. We are God's creations, true, but we are undeniably, at least in part, material. If the material world were suddenly to cease, spirit would continue to be. It was here before the world began; it'll be here after the world ends. But right now, it—like you and me—is present in this world. Yet it is not of this world. Do you see?"
"I'm not sure," said Karen. "What I think you're leading up to is that these . . . demons can influence our behavior. They can change us, maybe even possess us? Our physical bodies are not a barrier for them?"
"Right. But I didn't say 'demons.' I'm just talking about spirit. But let's back up. The Roman Catholic Church believes . . . I . . . believe, that there are invisible powers that we call spirits. Like us, spirits were made by God. He designed them to be in an intimate relationship with matter—place, objects, and humans. Spirits are bodiless, like God, but they are also creatures—like humans. God gave them functions we can only guess at.
"All spirits, good or evil, have these things in common: they are not fixed in time the way we are; they relate to matter in an entirely different way; and they apparently have the power to know without reasoning.
"Man is never in conflict with the spirit of good. But evil spirit, quite simply, is contrary to man. It's older, much more powerful, and far more cunning. It can—for reasons we cannot begin to fathom—influence the human environment. So you're right, Karen, spirit can interact with human beings. Occasionally, it can even take possession of them."
Karen felt herself growing strangely tense. "But as a clinician, as a practicing psychologist, don't you think—"
"—that what appears to be demonic possession is simply some form of mental or physical illness?"
Karen nodded her head vigorously, trying to restore the conversation to safer ground.
"Of course. But not in every case. That's the point. In the past, a victim of disseminated sclerosis might have been judged possessed. Same for Huntington's chorea, Parkinson's disease, even dyslexia. More recently, paranoia, MPD, and especially Tourette's syndrome were thought to manifest characteristics similar to demonic possession. Maybe we still don't know the organic causes of these afflictions, but we know they do not conform completely to legitimate symptoms of possession."
"Symptoms of possession?" Karen struggled to keep her features free of her building skepticism. For the first time she considered that coming here had been a big mistake. She had promised Jeff a reality-based, down-to-earth clergyman. Instead, they were getting a theological lecture in medieval demonology. Still, the man's earnestness was compelling, his sincerity convincing.
"Yes, Dr. Bradley, symptoms. Just like symptoms of a disease. There are observable signs of an evil presence. The most obvious can be mistaken for something we're far more comfortable discussing: psychic phenomena. Objects flying around, glass breaking, wallpaper peeling off the walls, dramatic drops in temperature, nauseating odors, noises that come from nowhere . . . All these fascinating effects can be the product of preternatural power intruding on our human fields of perception. But we have at least one power on which evil spirit cannot intrude: the power of the human will. They may be able to produce a pile of gold by any number of means—but they can't force a person to take it. . . ."
"But all those things, those symptoms—"
"Yes, Jeff, those can be the result of natural phenomena. Or they can exist as legitimate physical mysteries without the involvement of preternatural forces. The most important fact to remember about evil spirits is that none of their faculties are divine. This simple truth allows one surefire test: the most telling, in fact the only infallible indication of a demonic presence is its obvious repugnance to the touch, the sight—even the mention—of anything holy: signs, symbols, objects, even places, people, or ceremonies. For example—he held up the small silver vial—"a demonic presence cannot tolerate the tiniest drop of holy water. It's a fact."
"So you're saying that Father Mosely tried to exorcise a demon from this rectory?"
"No, Dr. Bradley. The application of holy water is how Father Mosely finally determined that the thing in his rectory was not a demon."
"Was not a demon?" Jeff stared in disbelief, his confusion obvious'. "Then what was it?"
Father Sullivan shrugged and shook his head. "I spent most of this afternoon reading his notes and I still can't decide. He called it a demon as a matter of convenience, but he also made it clear that it did not conform to the laws of religious demonology. Father Mosely's tragedy is that he never found out what was attacking him. The final face-off apparently occurred in the church. You see, a demon could never have followed him there."
"What happened in the church?" Karen asked.
"We'll never know. Even after Father Mosely concluded it wasn't a demon, he fought it as he would fight a demon. What else could he do? And once begun, the exorcism can't be stopped. There is no making peace with evil, there is no compromise, no friendly coexistence. There must always be a victor. And a vanquished."
The three sat in silence for a few moments.
"Father Sullivan," Karen began slowly, "if multiple personality disorder can sometimes be misperceived as demonic possession, can the reverse also be true?"'
"That legitimate possession is mistaken for MPD?"
"Right."
"Of course. But what mainstream therapist will say he believes in demons? That's why I'm afraid some dangerous cases of possession never come to the attention of the church. But I'll tell you this: while the church is trying to diagnose or verify possession, we do extremely thorough physical and psychological evaluations. We have to eliminate the natural before we can attack the preternatural. Why do you ask?"
"Because I'm beginning to see why Dr. Gudhausen wanted to discuss my patient with you. My gosh, looking back on it, I suspect he thought we had a case of possession on our hands."
"Stan was pretty open-minded that way
—"
"So he believed in demonic possession?"
"He didn't disbelieve it. He was unbiased, far more so than most of our colleagues."
"Did he ever come across a case of real possession?"
Sullivan tipped back in his chair. He squinted at the ceiling as if gazing through some invisible window into the past. "He considered it in at least one case I know of. A few years ago he talked to me about a man he was treating, a very complex case. One of the patient's several alters was decidedly satanic—physical features, vocabulary, knowledge of Satanism and occult belief, the whole works. You see, Stan thought people with a weakened sense of personal identity—and MPDs would be a perfect example—might be especially vulnerable to demonic possession."
Karen knew she was staring wide-eyed. "So he must have thought Lucy might really be possessed?"
"It's a possibility."
"Father Sullivan, I realize patient confidentially is an issue for both of us, but please, could you tell me the name of Dr. Gudhausen's patient?"
Sullivan leaned forward again. "Karen, I understand the urgency of the situation. And I have the utmost confidence that if you ask me a question like that, it must have an important bearing on this situation. But it was a long time ago; I simply can't remember the man's name."
"If I said it, would you remember?"
"Try me."
"I think the patient's name was Gold. Herbert Gold, from Andover, Massachusetts."
"That's it!" Sullivan smacked his desktop. "Herb Gold! Stan liked him a lot."
"I thought so," said Karen. "Now wait'll you hear this—!"
"Damn it!" Jeff sprang to his feet. "All this talk isn't getting us anywhere!" He stomped to the window and stared out at the dark main street.
Karen rose and went to him. She rested her hand on his arm. Looking at their reflections in the dark glass, she spoke. "Jeff—?"
"Casey's out there somewhere, and all we can do is sit here talking about magic and demons and MPD. This is crazy. We've got to do something."
"What, Jeff? What can we do?"
"I don't know! God, I've never felt so helpless in my life. I can't leave for fear of missing a phone call; if I sit still I'll go crazy."
He turned slowly to face Karen. She opened her arms and they embraced. She could feel Jeff's heart pounding against her chest. His breath was warm on her neck.
"At least I don't have to tie you up," the man said as he removed the blindfold from her eyes. "You aren't going to run off." He smiled at her expectantly, as if he'd made a joke that demanded appreciative laughter.
Casey Chandler stared at him, unresponsive, her icy fingers tightening on the tires of her wheelchair. Though fear knotted her stomach, she refused to let on. The man had seemed so nice at first. So normal. He still hadn't lost his congenial air, but now he seemed so . . . maniacal.
He turned away, started doing something with a black briefcase,
Casey looked around, trying to determine exactly where she was. The dull, peeling wallpaper, the faded nylon curtains covering dirty windows, the old bedroom furniture made her think they were in some deserted farmhouse. The bed itself was covered with a stained chenille bedspread. That one detail suggested the house wasn't truly abandoned.
How far could they have traveled? Blindfolded, direction had been impossible to determine, but they could be no more than thirty to forty-five minutes outside Burlington. Somewhere in the countryside. But where?
She recalled her terror when he'd abandoned her, handcuffed and unseeing, in the car. Waiting there, for hours it seemed, she'd heard the sharp crack of a gunshot—a sound she'd always recognize for sure.
Then he'd come back, pulled her from the car, put her in her chair, and bumped her up a set of stairs to this second-floor bedroom.
Now what was he doing? The briefcase held some kind of portable computer that he'd placed on top of the vanity.
Completely engrossed, he clicked his tongue as he worked. "Do you follow the afternoon soaps, Miss Chandler?" He looked at her as if he'd made another joke.
She glared at him.
"What say we tune in and see what your father and Karen Bradley are up to? Would you like that? Maybe we'll ask them to join us."
Casey turned away, biting her lower lip.
"Not going to talk to me, eh? Why's that? Your father tell you not to talk to strangers?"
Casey said nothing.
"Well, I'm hardly a stranger," he said. "In fact, I'm your father's boss. My name's McCurdy."
As Karen told Father Sullivan about Lucy, she watched Jeff become more withdrawn. He'd dropped out of the conversation. Worry dulled his eyes as he repeatedly glanced at the silent telephone. Karen knew his thoughts were only of Casey.
She had to draw Jeff out. "Why don't you tell Father Sullivan what you told me about the dates."
Jeff looked at her blankly. "What dates?"
"What you noticed about the opening day of hunting season."
"Oh, right." She could see his heart wasn't in it. "That was November twelfth, last year, the day that man in California was executed via computer. It was also the day Alton Barnes and his friend were in the woods hunting here in Hobston. I don't know exactly how the two events are related, but the coincidence seems odd to me. See, the man in California died and Mr. Barnes's friend vanished that same day. And roughly at the same time."
Jeff went on to explain how Stuart Dubois's footprints ended and how, under hypnosis, Alton recalled a white light that seemed to lift the old man off the ground and pull him into it.
"Here's what bothers me," Jeff said, "to the casual observer there could be no relationship between a computer in Boston and a man dying on the West Coast. But I know differently; I have the videotape to prove it.
"As I told Karen, Hobston keeps coming up in my research at the Academy. Strange things have always happened here. Not just UFOs but phantoms in the woods, Bigfoot sightings, odd noises with no apparent source. Supposedly there was even a rain of stones sometime toward the end of the last century. And your story about Father Mosely and his demon is a good case in point."
"Why Hobston?" the priest said.
"If what I suspect is true, if the Academy has actually managed to harness these . . . these magical powers by using the computer, then one thing we know about the laws of magic applies: Whatever is sent out, comes back. It's an occult variation of Newton's law of motion—for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction."
"Right," Sullivan said. "Medieval magicians protected themselves from recoil by constructing protective circles around the invocation area. They knew the psychic and physical dangers of crossing that circle! It's a cause and effect principle: energy used to create the effect had to be expended somewhere. It might come back in the form of a storm, a disease, an avalanche, a lightning bolt—"
Karen was surprised. "Jeez, Father Sullivan, how come you know so much about magic?"
He gave a short chuckle. "The fact is, Karen, I wrote a book about it—Mania, Magic and Religion. I've studied magic as both a psychological phenomenon and as a component of religious demonology."
As the priest paused to light another cigarette. Karen remembered! The book she had seen in Dr. Gudhausen's office. The smiling priest on the dust jacket, it was Father Sullivan! Odd, she thought. Odd I should end up sitting in his office like this. What a weird coincidence.
"Believe it or not," the priest went on, "both applications were essential to my work at St. Mark's College. Heavens, we had kids messing with Ouija boards, dabbling in the black arts, studying Satanism, witchcraft, voodoo, you name it. Most of them didn't know the dangers they were flirting with. I had to do what I could to keep ahead of them."
He cleared his throat. "You see, magic is not merely some kind of spontaneous physical reaction to uttered words, rituals, and burning candles—one doesn't say 'Presto!' and cause an enemy to vanish. There has to be an intermediary. One useful definition of magic is that it is the science of controlling the
secret forces of nature. It is the harnessing of some unknown, but apparently very real power."
"This business about spirit that you were explaining before," Karen asked, "you mean magic can actually control spirit?"'
"That's a terrifying notion, Karen. But it may be partially accurate. Maybe that's why the Church differentiates between good spirit and evil spirit. It would be theologically destructive if we believed human beings could manipulate the spirit of good. If magic works, then it works by the manipulation of evil.
"Like any power, magic requires a source, a battery. One explanation is that black magicians, through certain rituals—anything from chanting to sacrifice—can gain the cooperation of evil spirits, demons that exist in another dimension, outside our physical realm. If the magician wants wealth, the demons can bring it. If the magician wants to make someone ill, the demons can accomplish that as well. How? We don't really know."
"Do you really believe that, Father Sullivan? Do you believe these other dimensions can exist?"
Sullivan smiled at Karen, but not condescendingly. "Of course, I believe it. Anyone who believes in Heaven and Hell believes in other dimensions. In my line of work, we're just not in the habit of using the word 'dimension,' but that's what we're talking about just the same. I think what Jeff is suggesting—and please correct me if I'm wrong—is that every time a magical force is invoked, the barrier between our world and the next is somehow weakened. If the barrier is especially thin here in Hobston, then this is where the breakdown will be most obvious. Am I right, Jeff?"
"Yes, that's my best guess. It sounds off the wall, but I suspect every time they use that computer in Boston, they open the Hobston door a little wider."
"But, Jeff," Karen said, again experiencing that unfamiliar tension provoked by alien ideas, "what makes you believe there's a relationship?"
"Call it a hunch, Karen. I mean, who would have ever guessed a blast of Right Guard would lead to a hole in the ozone layer? McCurdy and his Academy boys just don't know what they're dealing with; they have no way of visualizing the consequence of their acts. And if they really are opening that interdimensional door, it's scary as hell to think about what they might be letting in."
The Reality Conspiracy Page 30