Demonologist

by Laimo, Michael

  He entered the restroom. It stunk of grape disinfectant. He used a urinal, staring at the wall, counting the lines of grout between the tiles. When he finished, he washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face.

  He looked into the sink.

  A beetle, like the one in his apartment, wriggled out of the drain.

  Jesus!

  He backpedaled against the mirrored wall, breathing in gasps, head shaking with apprehension. Slowly, he leaned forward and peeked back into the sink.

  White porcelain. No beetle. Must’ve slipped back down the drain.

  Was it ever there?

  He turned, confused. Stared at himself in the mirror. Lines of worry, carved into his face; coarse; chiseled. Still wet. Impulsively, he raised a hand and touched his reflection. An index finger against itself.

  It touched him back—not the cold spotted surface of the mirror, but the smooth warm tip of his own finger.

  He shivered, keeping dreadfully still and silent. Feeling his finger.

  With the rapidity of a snakebite, his reflection morphed itself into the offensive face he’d visioned in the car’s glossy finish. It produced an audible bark and snapped at his finger.

  He cried out, jerking his hand away with the same pain-filled rapidity of being burned.

  He gazed down at his hand in disbelief. Then, with a reflexive jolt, back into the mirror.

  His reflection stared back at him. But not the same reflection he knew and loved. This stranger in the mirror had witnessed something unexplainably terrifying—this man in the mirror was trembling with unsurpassed fear and pain.

  Someone walked into the bathroom. A young man, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. Crewcut. Tan. Earrings in both ears. He gave Bev a quizzical look. “You all right, man?”

  Breathing heavily, sweating, Bev nodded. He gazed sideways at his normal reflection one last time, then fled the bathroom.

  Leaving a smear of blood on the doorknob.

  NINE

  The lava had risen to his chest. He pressed forward, skin sloughing off his body in visible chunks, sizzling on the surface of the flow as it floated away like slabs of debris from a downed boat. The flow pushed him, and he reached forward with arms melted to tendon and bone. Kristin and Jake were still on the shore. Kristin was clothed now. Jake stood fully naked, utilizing one raw-knuckled hand to stroke a hideous, spaded erection. He bounced up and down like an impatient child, fisting his deformed staff, cellulitic masses moving on his body like water-balloons. In a coarse, gutteral voice, he yelled, “Hey Bev, I’m gonna fuck your slut daughter now. Gonna drive it up her ass so far it’ll gag her. Bev screamed “NO!”, the hot acidic vapors rising from the lava searing his lungs, and in a move of pure panic tried desperately to wade forward, but skeletal hands thrust up from the flow and held him back, and he could do nothing but watch as a smiling Kristin pulled her jeans down to her ankles, got on her knees, pressed her face to the soil, and used her hands to spread her ass cheeks wide. Jake laughed deeply, his voice suddenly accented and bristling with venom, face morphing into the demonic visage that had snapped at Bev from the bathroom mirror. A rotting stench filled Bev’s nostrils, and despite the lava and the sweltering flow that had rended his flesh from his body, he felt an inner chill running deeply through his veins. Jake, or the demon that had replaced him, fell to its knees. Abruptly, its glut of bare pink flesh turned black, sprouting random patches of rotting feathers, flaring scales, and dripping excrement. The Jake-demon laughed, then filled the room with a cry of triumph, fueled with indifference and fury. It pulled Kristin’s hair back, exposing her throat and thrusting its black misshapened penis into her anus. It pumped ferociously, jerking her hair, screaming “She’s mine now! The hog is mine!” Bev stood rooted in the lava flow, screaming in defeat. He brought his melting fingers to his face and tore away bits of flesh from his cheeks, watching with horror as his daughter tilted her head and smiled stupidly at him, all the while sticking her fouled ass into the air with true, feral acceptance. Ash-laden tears burst from her bulging eyes. Bev reached out to her.

  She kept on smiling.

  Until she opened her mouth and gagged on the black-mottled penis that wriggled its way out from between her swollen lips.

  ~ * ~

  Bev awoke with a start. Sweating. Arms and legs curled inward. Numb. For minutes, he remained still as the blood worked its way back into his limbs and the image of the terrible nightmare faded. Soon, the numbness was gone, and so were the horrendous memories of his dream. He stretched out; bones popping. His feet touched the soft edge of the couch.

  Couch?

  Where am I?

  Not in bed, he told himself. And, not in the studio; the loveseat there was tiny; his legs would’ve hung over the edge.

  He rubbed his eyes. Opened them. The room, pallid grey. Dali prints, candelabras, and drab draperies haunted the gloom like tree-shadows in a dark forest.

  Jake.

  He propped himself up on his elbows, then gazed around the room. Silk black curtains were pulled, drowning out most light. He twisted his body around and reached over the sofa’s armrest. Felt out the end table. The lamp. He located the switch.

  Light burst into the room.

  He had been here before. He was in one of Jake’s guestrooms.

  Jake Ritchie lived more elaborately than Bev. He’d applied much of his fortune toward his lifestyle, and it showed; as crude as Jake was, he bore a soft side for art and sculptures and even candles and simplicities like incense and potpourri. The house was a modern five-bedroom, five-bath multi-level anchored into the side of a mountain in Beverly Hills. It had the mandatory pool and Jacuzzi outside, along with a pond and topiary collection that corralled the backyard’s privacy. One more top-ten hit, Bev promised himself, before splurging for such amenities.

  He sat on the edge of the leather sofa and rubbed his eyes, wondering, What the hell am I doing here? And how did I get here?

  Memory loss. Add that to the list of sudden symptoms. He ran his feet through the plush leopard-skin rug, taking slow calculated breaths in an effort to calm his rickety nerves. It was so easy to let one’s fear of the unknown take control. He took another look around, then heard a faint doorbell chime.

  In the distance: “Traci, you gorgeous creature you! Come in. You’re the first to arrive you lucky bastard!”

  Bev smiled woefully, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as Jake barked another playful obscenity at an arriving guest. Bev stood and stretched out his weary muscles, wondering with dismay as to when, how, and why he’d come here. A good nap will confuse the heck out of you. Beyond the closed door, he heard thundering footsteps attacking the oak stairwell, and in seconds Jake Ritchie burst into the room. He was clutching a glass of amber liquid. There was a small, wet stain on his black silk shirt: the first of many, Bev predicted.

  “Well, hello there sleeping beauty. I was just coming to kiss your ass awake.”

  “Jake, what am I doing here?”

  “You’re here for the party.”

  “I mean, how did I get here?”

  “How? You drove, mon douche.”

  “Drove? When?”

  “Bev, you’ve got a funny look to you. You been taking anything?”

  “No, no, please.” He waved Jake’s words off adamantly. He stood and paced the room, arms swaying nervously. “I’m just a bit confused. Last I remember...I...I had lunch with Kristin at Danfords, was planning on heading home afterwards. We said good-bye in the parking lot, and then I really don’t remember anything after that. Last thing I remember was...”

  ...was that hideous face staring back at me from the mirror.

  He looked down at his index finger.

  It was cut. Half-inch. Across the tip. The injury was soft and tender, but unflowing.

  Jesus Christ. No...no...I cut it on the doorknob of the bathroom. That’s it. I remember the slight pain...

  “...was standing in the parking lot, kissing Kristin good-bye.”
/>   “Jesus, Bev. You telling me you blacked out?”

  “I-I don’t know. This is too weird, man. Scary.”

  “Well, how’re you feeling now?”

  “Not bad, I suppose. Other than being a little confused. And nervous.”

  “Well, it only makes sense to feel that way. I would too if I had some memory loss...but then again, I can’t remember much of anything when I drink, which is most of the time. See, you don’t have it so bad after all!”

  “When did I get here? How long was I sleeping for?”

  Jake shrugged, looked at his watch. “Well, it’s eight-fifteen now. And you got here around four. When I let you in, you told me you were tired and wanted to rest up, said you weren’t feeling too well. You also said something about not being able to go home because there were exterminators there spraying the place. What’s that all about?”

  “Shit. I forgot about that.”

  “So I brought you up here and in a minute you were passed out on the couch. You sure you ain’t taking anything?”

  Bev shook his head. “No, Jake, no. I wasn’t feeling well earlier today. What freaks me out is that I actually drove all the way here, and don’t remember any of it.”

  Jake paced across the room. Pulled aside the curtain and peeked out into the backyard. “It’s called autopilot. I do it all the time. You drive from Point-A to Point-B while you’re mind is off in la-la-land. Next thing you know, you’ve arrived at your destination without even realizing it.” He turned back and spread his arms. “But enough of that. Go on and take a long, hot shower. Then get yourself dressed and haul your hairy ass down to the party.” The doorbell chimed. Soon after, gleeful shouts of recognition rang out. “Gotta get back downstairs, more guests are arriving. There’re some clothes I keep on hand for my drunkened guests in the closet—God knows I’ve had my share!” Jake winked and strode anxiously from the room.

  Bev sat back down, and for a few minutes thought, It’s exhaustion. Eight months on the road has taken its toll on me, and it’s bringing with it a whole bevy of intimidating symptoms: fatigue, dizziness, voices in my head, blackouts. Man, it’s bad. Thank God I made a doctor’s appointment. I’m starting to erode.

  He rose from the couch, searched the closet (filled with casual wear for both men and women—all Tommy Hilfiger—and Bev remembered Jake once telling him about a connection at the company that filled his closets for free) and found a pair of vintage-wash jeans, and a black knit shirt. In the drawers of the pine armoire, he located packages of cotton briefs, boxers, and athletic socks. An example of how Jake was prepared for every occasion. This was why the man was so successful.

  Bev showered, then shaved. The hot water felt great against his skin, and seemed to revive him, not to mention wash away the dreadful symptoms harassing him. After getting out, he toweled down then chanced looking into the bathroom mirror. Thankfully, no monster stared back at him—only a healthy pink hue in his face that had replaced the anemic gray. He felt remarkably well, refreshed, clear-headed, and energetic. What a difference a little rest makes.

  He got dressed, then checked his cell phone for voice mails. There were none. He tied his hair back into a pony tail, then, remembered something: his jeans, strewn on the couch.

  He tucked his hand into the back pocket and removed the invitation. He gazed at it briefly, then slid it into his front pocket, and went downstairs to join the party.

  TEN

  The grandfather clock in the foyer struck nine as he made his entrance into the smallish crowd totaling perhaps twenty-five. He immediately saw Rebecca Haviland near the entrance of the kitchen. She wore dark brown jeans and a beige long-sleeve top that hugged her trim waistline and curvy breasts quite well. The sight of her dissolved what remained of his day-long concerns. Kristin’s right. She does look like Julianne.

  Bev knew a handful of people here. Peter Hogarth, music reviewer from The L.A. Times. Jamie Zetlin, Music On Air correspondent. The kid from Epic, Bobby SanSouci. There were also a few of the guys from Holloway Girl, a new band under Jake’s management. They milled about, chatting happily amongst themselves and their girlfriends. For the most part, the party was small and quiet, very un-Jake-like.

  “Only my closest friends tonight.” Jake, sidling up, strangely reserved.

  “You forgot to call me douchebag.”

  “I’m feeling melancholy. Birthdays’ll do that to you once you hurdle thirty-five. Being forty-four, well, I’m damn near bilge at the bottom-of-the-boat. Figured a small get-together with my friends might cheer me up some.”

  “I’ve never known you to be so serious, Jake.”

  “Fuck it.”

  “That’s better.” Bev smiled, then asked, “Got any coffee?”

  “Ask one of the waitresses. In the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.” Jake ran off as the doorbell rang and a few more people arrived. Bev slid into the kitchen, trading smiles with Rebecca in passing. He found some coffee already brewed, and fixed himself a cup, dark with cream.

  In an hour, the party had grown to a vibrant forty. People were drinking and eating, tying themselves into knots of conversation. Strangely enough, none of the members of Bev’s band had come, and neither had Kristin, whom he’d expected. He phoned her apartment. Got only her machine. Left her a message. Where are you, baby? I came to this party just for you.

  Or did I? If only I could remember...

  He mingled about, helping himself to hors d’ourves offered on platters by two well-dressed servers-for-hire. He talked to T.J. Fleming, a balding, freckled-faced L.A. radio host who gently hinted to Bev about doing a live on-air performance. Bev agreed to it, somewhat, asking him to arrange a date with Jake. Fleming responded with a mirthful grin. Bobby SanSouci cornered Bev too, albeit politely, and took as much time as Bev was willing to allow: about ten minutes. Bev endowed Bobby with no additional insight on his future intentions: Speak to Jake sometime next week. Come to think of it, I just haven’t been feeling that well lately. Make it the week after that. Rebecca Haviland kept mostly to other conversations, but not without answering Bev’s guileful glances with a few sidelong smiles of her own.

  Also in attendance were people Bev didn’t know. One man in particular, seated on a couch by himself, wearing grey dress pants and a black shirt, piqued Bev’s curiosity. Perhaps in his early fifties, he had dark features, graying hair, with thick creases in his brow. Bev could see something desperate filling his eyes; yet, at the same time, a sense of warmth emanated from them—a quasi-psychic reassurance to Bev that everything would be okay.

  “You look familiar,” the man remarked, eyes narrowed, voice cradling.

  “Bev Mathers. I’m a musician.”

  “Father Thomas Danto. Pleased to meet you.” He held out the hand that wasn’t busy with a glass of brandy. Bev accepted it. Cold. Tense. There was a shudder in it, and then he let go.

  Father?

  “Likewise. Are you friends with Jake?” His deliberate tone had skepticism all over it. He’d never known Jake to be the religious type.

  “Jake is a new member of our congregation, at St. Michaels.”

  “St. Michaels. On Caliendo Street.”

  “Correct.” The priest smiled, then commented sarcastically, “I thought it might be interesting to see how you rock-and-roll people live.” He laughed mirthfully. Unfunny holy humor, Bev guessed.

  “Don’t believe anything you hear. We’re a tame bunch.” Then added, with a wink, “For the most part.” At once Bev concluded as to why Jake had toned his language down: there was a holy man in attendance. This would be a first: no ”douchebags” in attendance at the party tonight.

  “There are worse sins in the world than indulgence,” Father Danto said. “And I’m not one to judge. Even we holy men take to drink much too often, I’m afraid.”

  Jake walked over and joined the pair. “I see you’ve met Father Danto, Bev.”

  Bev nodded. “I have.”

  “In addition to being a priest, the
father is also an archaeologist.”

  “Really?” he answered, feigning interest.

  The priest shrugged modestly. “Non-practicing for the last twenty years—no time beyond my call of duty.”

  “Ah well, mon...monsieur...the father needed a place to stay tonight. They’re doing a bit of clean-up at the church.”

  Bev cast the priest a questioning glance.

  Father Danto nodded, speaking reluctantly, it seemed. “Well, unfortunately, a disgraceful crime occurred at the rectory last night, forcing us all to relocate temporarily.”

  “Oh...that’s terrible,” Bev said. “What kind of crime?”

  He hesitated, then answered, “One of a most deplorable nature. Unfortunately we share this world with many sick people who have no qualms about committing blasphemies, for whatever selfish reasons they claim.” His voice rose in volume, showing a bit of anger, and perhaps fear.

  Judd Schiffer, a reporter for the L.A. Times who’d done an Entertainment Page story on Bev’s “late-age” rise to success, moved in on the conversation. “Father Danto? Judd Schiffer. We spoke this morning on the phone. I did the story for the Times.”

  “Mr. Schiffer...hello. My, this is a coincidence.”

  “Indeed. Pleased to meet you, and thank you for the information.”

  Danto nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  Bev interjected, “I seem to be the only one in the dark here—can someone fill me in on what happened?”

  Schiffer answered. “Last night, someone performed a Satanic ritual on the lawn outside St. Michaels.”

  “Well...not really,” Father Danto said, correcting the reporter.

  “Pardon?” Schiffer’s incredulity shined like a beacon.

  “It wasn’t exactly a Satanic ritual.”

  “Father, it certainly appears that way—”

  “Appearances can be deceiving, Judd. The ferocity of the act committed last night shows more of an influence of demonic worship.” Schiffer nodded, in understanding now. “There are vast differences between Satanism and Demonology, and even witchcraft. The kind of extreme conduct we saw last night doesn’t carry any Satanistic hallmarks.” He took a sip of brandy. “Demon worship, yes. But not Satanism.”