by David Kiely
Suddenly, the deep-throated voice broke into English.
“Give me what I want and I will leave!” it bellowed.
“No, you cannot have him!” Davage snapped back.
“I will not leave until I have him!”
Davage lapsed into the sinister language once again, speaking very rapidly, like a judge lecturing a criminal in the dock. The exchange continued thus, as if the two were trading insults.
Eventually the rumpus ceased.
“Now, return to your pit!” Davage ordered.
They waited for the door to open and for the presence to leave. But nothing happened for several moments. By and by, they could feel the coldness and the horrid odor dissipating, then the swish of something passing them and making its way toward the sofa along the gable wall. They heard the rumbling sound again under the floor.
All at once, the room was quiet. It had gone. The curtains were being pulled open and chairs scraped back.
“You may open your eyes now,” Davage said.
Before they could get to their feet, the group had left the room. Shane hurried after them and caught up to Davage before he reached the back door.
“What the hell was all that about?” Shane’s fear had turned to anger again.
“You heard, didn’t you?”
“What in God’s name did you bring into our home?”
“Oh, not me, Mr. Dwyer. I didn’t bring anything in. It was there long before I got here.” He pulled a crumpled page from his pocket and handed it to Shane.
Shane looked at a series of squiggles running across the page.
“What the hell’s that supposed to be?”
“Go inside and hold it up to a mirror. The names on there sent me here. I received messages from them.”
Shane was torn between hitting Davage full in the face and doing what he was told. He chose the latter course, if only to satisfy his curiosity. He went inside and held the paper up to the mirror.
He stood staring, dumbfounded. The reversed writing suddenly made perfect sense. There were three words.
EDWARD AND CORNELIUS
“How did you know my uncles?” he asked in disbelief. Davage was still on the porch.
“I didn’t know them in life, but I met them in spirit. I talk to the dead. Or rather,” he continued with a chuckle, “they talk to me.” He looked up at the house. “This was their home. They never meant your father to have it, but you have it now. Perhaps that’s your mistake. Perhaps you must pay the price. It’s dangerous to meddle with the wishes of the dead.”
Shane was stunned. How could this stranger know so much? He had never met him before that day.
By now, the three women had returned to the car.
“It lives—” Davage began. The car engine started. “Sorry, I have to go now.”
“What the f*** are you talking about, ‘it’? What the f*** is ‘it’?”
Davage stepped back, wincing. “I do not care for your language Mr. Dwyer.”
“And I do not care for your brazen cheek! Now what the hell was that in the room just now?”
“A spirit, Mr. Dwyer. An evil spirit—a demon, some might say. It lives under the hearthstone in that room. That’s its pit. It goes to ground there whenever you bring clergymen in or when you’re saying prayers. But prayers are useless against it.”
Shane did not know what to make of it all. What he was hearing went beyond his comprehension. He recalled Father Dorrity mentioning the hearthstone, too.
“What does it…what does it…”
“What does it want?” Davage finished the question for him. “Oh, it wants you—or your soul, to be more exact. Pray all you want, but it won’t do any good. You are paying the price for your trespass. I came here tonight to buy you more time. But I can’t protect you much longer. It’s very simple: you sell the house and leave, or stay put and risk damnation. It’s up to you.”
With that, he was gone. The car sped off, leaving a trail of dust and a great deal of panic in its wake.
No sooner had Shane shut the door than he heard a crash. It came from the green room. Moya was there before him. She was pale. On the timber floor lay the shattered remains of the crucifix that he had hung there so many months before. He wondered about the premonition Moya had had that first day, how she could have sensed that all was not right with the house.
There came a second crash, this time accompanied by the sound of breaking glass.
In the red room, the room they had just vacated, the picture of the Sacred Heart, the focus of their prayers, lay broken and ruined on the floor.
“Jesus!” was all Shane could say.
The destruction of the images marked the beginning of a spate of such attacks. From that day on, no picture, crucifix, or other sacred object was safe. It was as though the visit of the strangers had unleashed the fury of something unholy.
The Dwyers had had enough. They could not even ensure the children’s safety in daylight. They themselves could no longer spend the night there. They moved out.
Father Dorrity briefed Father Ignatius McCarthy as fully as possible about the case. In total six clergymen, of various faiths, had attempted a deliverance, and none could procure more than a temporary respite. It was time to draw on the solemn rite of exorcism as outlined in the Rituale Romanum. Father Ignatius prefers to use the Latin version, believing it to be more effective.
“This was no restless soul,” he tells us. “The repeated hurling of the Bible onto the floor, the broken crucifix…the Sacred Heart being dashed to the floor. All these things pointed to the likelihood that an evil spirit was at work.”
Why the Dwyer family? We wondered if it was something in their past, something about the old cottage and the uncles. Was it possible they resented the house returning once more to the family?
“God only knows,” he says with a sigh. “God alone has all the answers. All we can do is speculate. I’m sure Shane told you about Cornelius and Edward’s habit of getting the holy water every Sunday. Who’s to say but they put up with this demon most of their lives, and the holy water was their way of dealing with it. They couldn’t tell anybody—they were too afraid—so they learned to live with it, God help them.”
“And when you look at it that way,” he continues, “you get an inkling as to why they left the land to outsiders. It wasn’t out of spite. They wanted to spare their youngest brother, Shane’s father, the horror of discovering the truth about the old place. You know they say that St. Patrick himself could not convert the tribes in that part of Ireland. The hold of the Druids was too strong; desperate things went on, by all accounts.” He grimaces. “And, given the Dwyers’ experiences, who’s to say the stories aren’t true? Heaven knows what happened on that land in days gone by. We never know what we’re inheriting, do we, now? It is strange how things work out. Had young Shane not insisted on buying the farm back, he would have been spared this whole sorry business.”
And Vincent Davage. What is the verdict on him?
“A very strange character, from what I gather. Certainly he dabbles with the darker side of things. Did he make the situation worse? Undoubtedly so. The attacks on the holy objects started soon after he left. But, God willing, all that is over now.”
Before we take our leave of Shane, he brings us down to the red room. After all that he has told us, it is not easy to feel comfortable there. He points out the sofa along the far wall that sits over the dreaded hearthstone, and the bookcase where they kept the Bible. The compassionate gaze of the Sacred Heart above the mantelshelf looks down upon us. We do not wish to tarry in that room for too long; there is an uncanny air about it. The modern furnishings sit uneasily there, seeming to mock the cramped space. Perhaps it was never meant to be lived in, to be used as an ordinary room.
We are grateful for the outdoors, as Shane walks us to the car.
“The house has been on the market for almost a year now,” he says. “We haven’t had one single bid in all that time. Word gets out; peo
ple talk. What can you do? We sank all our savings into this place and now it looks like we’re stuck.”
We bring the conversation back to his uncles and the holy water. Did they ever say why they needed it in such quantities?
“Yes, before Edward died my father asked him. He gave a very odd answer. ‘For the hearthstone,’ he said. Then added, ‘To put the fire out.’ I thought it was the raving of a dying man.”
Shane Dwyer looks back at the house and sighs. “Unfortunately, I know now, to my sorrow, what it was he meant by that. Old Edward meant it literally, may God have mercy on him.”
MR. GANT AND THE NEIGHBOR FROM HELL
Malachi Gant and Charlie Sherrin had never quite been friends, yet they had an understanding. Charlie is a neighbor who shares a quiet road in a quiet town in the northwest of Ireland.
Malachi is retired now, and has been for a good ten years. He was always a hard worker, and in the course of four decades or more had built up a very successful hardware business with a presence in three midland towns. When he sold the stores and retired, he had enough left over to realize a lifelong ambition: to see as much of the world as he could within two years. His wife, Blainead—“Blenny” to all who know her—was delighted by the prospect. She had rarely ventured far from her native Sligo.
First, they flew to America. Malachi’s younger brother lived in Boston. They stayed with the family for a month, then rented an RV and set out in the direction of San Francisco, taking in no fewer than sixteen states in their leisurely progress across the continent. They devoted four more months to exploring California and Arizona, before traveling on down to Mexico and South America. A year later they found themselves in Florida, booking a cruise to Egypt.
It was 1996; it would be some years before the attack on the Twin Towers induced Americans to stay at home and in particular to avoid the Middle East. The passenger list was full when, at the beginning of October, the liner set sail out of Fort Lauderdale. Two weeks later, the Gants’ party arrived in Alexandria, wended its way slowly down the Nile to Cairo, and at last landed in Luxor. It would be the finale of the Egyptian sojourn, before they moved on to a resort by the Red Sea.
The cruise company had prepared a special treat for that evening. As dusk settled over the Nile, the Gants and the other guests were escorted by uniformed guides down the long Avenue of the Sphinxes that connects Karnak and the temple of the old gods. There they were, those gods, scores of them: ram-headed, floodlit, and magnificent, crouching stark against a background of palms and a sky the color of cobalt. Costumed light bearers had been stationed at intervals, each holding aloft a flambeau. It was kitsch but it was breathtaking. It was calculated to set the mood for the remainder of the evening.
Aperitifs were served in the colonnaded temple. Thereupon the guests entered the magnificent open-air dining area and were seated at tables laid with white and gold linen. Candlelight bathed the scene, and the floodlit, ancient columns formed a stunning backdrop on three sides. The air was laden with rich spices and the aromas of the East. Waiters in traditional costume glided from one table to another, serving a four-course dinner as music emanated from a classical quartet.
“This is the life, eh?” someone said. “Sure beats an all-you-can-eat shrimp supper down at Al’s Seafood Diner.” His friends chuckled. The food was excellent, the company convivial. The wines, too, were fine and copious.
Halfway through the meal, however, just as the musicians had ended one piece and were about to embark on another, the tranquil atmosphere of the evening was shattered. A terrifying scream rent the air, sending a chill through the assembled diners.
“It was like a wounded animal, not human at all,” Malachi recalls, “and it frightened the life out of everybody, because everybody stopped eating at once. You could’ve heard a pin drop, as they say.”
All eyes were fixed on a solitary man at one of the tables. He seemed oblivious to what he had just done and sat staring into the middle distance, at something it appeared only he could see. Moments later he got to his feet, letting the chair fall back with a clatter. Malachi recognized him; he had spoken with him earlier—the usual friendly chitchat. His name was Walter Ehrlich and he seemed an amiable sort. He had been to Egypt on a previous occasion, he said, many years before. His wife had been with him then but she had died in 1978. This year, he had come alone.
Perhaps that brief conversation had endeared Malachi to Ehrlich, because he now appeared to single him out. Slowly but deliberately, he approached the Gants’ table, a glass of wine in his hand. The other guests could only stare; some were frightened, others uneasy. Their hosts seemed unsure of what to do.
“Where did you say you were from?” Ehrlich asked, fixing Malachi with a look of mild aggression.
“Ireland.”
“Catholic, right?” He emptied his wine glass and replenished it at once from a decanter. In a loud voice he said: “All you Irish are Catholics, that right?”
Somebody tut-tutted. Mr. Ehrlich was introducing a very sour note into what should have been a perfect evening.
He pointed directly at Malachi and lowered his face to meet the Irishman’s eyes. For a fleeting moment, Malachi could not believe what he was seeing. Even now, years later, his voice quavers as he recalls the incident.
“God Almighty, I’ll never forget that face,” he says. “Blenny saw it too and she was very upset.”
The face before him was no longer that of Walter Ehrlich. The features had transmogrified into something thoroughly freakish, a mask of utter malevolence. The lips were pulled back in a terrible grimace. And the eyes—they were no longer the eyes of a human but hooded, like those of a cold-blooded creature predating mankind.
“Let’s go, Malachi,” Blenny urged.
He felt her hand on his wrist. She was trembling. But he was already recoiling from that awful face. He felt that he could not get far enough away from it.
Walter Ehrlich was not through with him just yet, though. As quickly as the dreadful, reptilian aspect had taken hold of his features, so did it seem to leave. The face returned to normal. Walter straightened and stepped back from the table.
“F*** you!” he roared. He looked fiercely about him, and Malachi will never forget the shocked expressions of the other diners. “F*** you all! We f*** you all, and to hell with the lot of you. There’s no God here. Your God is dead!”
To everyone’s astonishment, the troubled guest emitted a loud squeal, ran in the direction of the pillars to one side of the temple, and vanished into the darkness beyond.
All present—dinner guests, organizers, waiters, musicians—were appalled.
“Alcohol,” muttered the Egyptian maître d’, shaking his head, his Islamic sensibilities repelled by the display. “To drink so much, not good.”
“I don’t think so,” said a white-haired man, turning to Malachi. “No, I don’t think it’s alcohol. There are demons at work there.”
“You’re joking,” said Malachi.
“No joke.” He was frowning. Blenny had exchanged pleasantries with the man’s wife during the cruise. She had learned that he was a pastor of some kind, retired for many years. “That’s demonic. I’ve seen it before, lots of times. When a man starts using that kind of language—and referring to himself in the plural—it’s pretty clear that there are demons at work.”
The dinner was upset but not ruined. The quartet struck up again, playing a lively set. A waiter righted the fallen chair and removed what remained of Walter’s meal. Malachi Gant was intrigued; he wished to learn more from the retired pastor. He was disappointed; the man was reluctant to discuss such matters. He murmured something about “leaving well enough alone,” and went on to ply a neighbor with golf stories.
The next morning, Malachi and Blenny found the “demoniac” at a poolside table. Walter looked pale, red-eyed, and nervous, and was—even at that early hour—nursing a cocktail of some description. He studiously ignored Malachi, and for that matter everybody else in the party
. The Gants never saw him again. According to the tour guide, Mr. Ehrlich had cut short his cruise and caught a plane back to Atlanta, his hometown.
Malachi and Blenny returned to Ireland in 1998. They had visited four continents. They had seen more sights than some will see in a lifetime. They brought back with them many wonderful memories, but Malachi is keen to stress that not all their memories were pleasant ones. Blenny and he had seen the world in all its facets, and some were unsettling, even gravely disturbing. He cites the Luxor incident involving Walter Ehrlich as being the most disturbing of all.
Today, at seventy-five and having endured four torturous years of demonic oppression, Malachi is forced to admit that the event in Egypt haunts him still. In hindsight he sees it not as an isolated, random occurrence but as part of a whole—the sinister beginning of his troubles.
“What if I hadn’t gone on that cruise?” he asks despairingly. “It was as if that ‘face’ followed me all the way home. I’ve never been the same since.”
Malachi is a nervous individual. This seems at first out of character because he is an imposing man: well over six feet tall, broad in the shoulders, with a grip like a blacksmith’s. He towers over Blenny, who, having brought coffee and cookies, leaves Malachi to his story.
“She knows something of what I’m going through,” he says, “but I keep the more frightening bits to myself. I can’t have her getting upset.”
His hands shake as he stirs his coffee. He seems genuinely frightened of something. We are here on the referral of Father Ignatius, who has told us only a little about the case. It may well be that he wished us to hear the details from the “sufferer’s” own lips, so we could arrive at a more objective analysis. Malachi seems hesitant about sharing his experience. He reminds us from time to time that he is speaking of it “only because Father Ignatius asked me to.”