Demonologist

by Laimo, Michael

  ~ * ~

  Bev opened his eyes. Dark. The bed beside him, empty. He shivered, cold from sweat. He rose up in bed. Looked around the dark room. Where was Rebecca?

  The curtain billowed. The sliding doors, open. In the moon’s light, a figure appeared. A female form. Naked. Rebecca? Yes. She spoke in Julianne’s voice:

  “You killed me...you killed me...”

  “No,” Bev answered, weakly. Ineffectively.”

  “You knew the car was coming,” Rebecca said in Julianne’s voice.

  “No,” he answered more loudly. “The swan...the swan...”

  “You saw the car coming, and still you pulled out into the intersection.”

  “But the swan!” he screamed.

  Rebecca backed out through the sliding doors and leaped off the balcony.

  Bev screamed.

  Beside him, screaming. A woman’s voice.

  He twisted around, heart pounding.

  Faced Rebecca.

  She leaped up, breathing heavily. “Jesus Bev! What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  He looked at her. Gasping. Sweating. The room, now filled with daylight. He looked toward the curtain. Pulled open. The sliding doors: shut. “I...I just saw you...”

  She tilted her head, pulling the sheet over her breasts. “Saw me where?”

  “By the sliding doors...they were open and you were standing there and...Jesus Christ, thank God you’re okay!” He hugged her head, held it to his chest.

  She hugged him back, half-heartedly. “You must’ve had a bad dream.” She pulled away. Looked at him. Her expression turned from concern to fear. “Bev, my God, your hands.”

  He looked down at his hands. His heart pounded ferociously.

  There were deep gouges running across his palms.

  As though thin metal wires had dug into them.

  “Oh...my...God...”

  “Bev, what happened?”

  “I don’t know,” he lied, remembering the dream. Of Julianne, wading in the lava, the wires jutting out from the searing flow, attacking his hands. ”I think I’d better leave now. And you should too.”

  “Bev?” Her expression shifted from fear to disappointment.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  She peered at her watch, the only item still on her body. “Nine-fifteen. Bev, what’s going on?”

  He leaped from the bed and got dressed in a huff, trembling, ignoring Rebecca’s pleas. Finally, he faced her, on shaky legs. “I have to leave now. I haven’t been feeling well lately, and...and...I just need to leave.” There was really no logical way to explain what had just happened. The continuing dream was an extension of something bigger, something incomprehensible, branching off from the root of the problem, just as the digging fingers had—just as the hallucinations and delusions had. And now, extending further from his dream, a shove into the real world in the form of something material—something painful that would stay with him long after the physical wounds had healed. I’m sick...very sick. In body, mind, and now, maybe, soul. He leaned and kissed her forehead. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, and I promise, I will call and explain everything to you.” Once I find out what the hell’s happening to me.

  He fled the room, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his hands, thinking of his dream and what Father Danto had said: there are two souls invading your body…

  THIRTEEN

  Bev located his car in one of eight parking spots reserved for Jake’s guests at the forefront of the driveway. He staggered into the driver’s seat, shaking, reached into the glove compartment, found a pack of stale Camels and tapped one out. He lit it, using the car’s lighter; the cigarette jumped in his trembling hand. His entire body fidgeted, sweated. Shuttering his eyes, he inhaled and exhaled deeply, drag after drag, until tobacco became filter. He lit another, then started the car and ran the air conditioning. He thought of Kristin. Quickly dialed her number. No answer. Left her a message, his voice wavering, sounding distant and weak in his head, as though muffled with cotton. He disconnected the phone. Frowned. Not like her to break touch like this. He made a mental note to stop by her apartment ASAP.

  He looked at the car’s clock: 10:07. His doctor’s appointment was at noon. Then, he remembered the invitation: Sunday, November 10th. A limo will arrive at your residence at 6:00. Be available. He tucked a hand into his back pocket. Not there. Then, the front pocket. Here. Felt the folded envelope. Why I am so concerned about it? I should be focusing on my health. My sanity. Bev drove away, slowly, nerves jangling, helplessness floating errantly about him. Will a limo really show up at my place tonight?

  He drove. Carefully. Trying to not rub his injured palms against the steering wheel. He avoided traffic by taking only the winding neighborhood roads, instead of the highway. Along the way, he smoked three cigarettes. Snuffed them out in the car’s ashtray, knowing and not caring at all that the doctor would smell the smoke on his breath. The nicotine helped calm his nerves, for now.

  At 10:55, he pulled into a 7-Eleven. Bought black coffee and a roll. A lingering sense of unreality surrounded him while completing this mundane task, waiting in line behind others who were going about their routines with utter normalcy. It felt as though as though he were in a dream, floating through his actions with no promise of self-command. He returned to the car and sat quietly in the driver’s seat, nibbling at the roll, sipping coffee, hiding behind sunglasses, wondering how in the hell he’d felt so fine last night at the party, only to wake up feeling so freakishly lost in his own mind. Nothing right now seemed to make any sense.

  Suddenly, he felt it.

  It was coming: a chill at first, as if ice crystals had formed in his bloodstream. Then, a tugging at his mind: the fingers. They had returned. Digging, digging, crumbling, creating a space between his skull and brain, the scraping sound echoing in his brain. His head shivered. Eardrums vibrated. He dropped the roll and clutched his head with both hands. “Why!” he shrieked. “Why me?” He shuddered with fear: his voice had changed. It was low. Deep and hoarse. His hands trembled, the tender lacerations in his palms throbbing more intensely; breaking open; bleeding. Anger welled in him. His heart rate sped. His skull felt as if it was going to crack. He began to kick and buck uncontrollably, spilling the hot coffee in his lap as his consciousness floated down into the bowels of his intestines. He heard himself howling in pain, body writhing on the front seat, arms flinging, tearing at his hair. He heard a deafening scream in his head, deep, pain-filled; and then, clamorous laughter. He pressed his hands harder against his ears in an effort to blot it out. The laughter faded. Then, the voice:

  I want to play, Bevant. Come to me...

  The voice quickly vanished, the accent echoing in his head. Then, the anger dissipated. A weak lethargy at once consumed him as his consciousness returned to his mind, and he curled up on the front seat of the car, crying, reeking of coffee, gasping for breath.

  He sat up, terrified. Hurting. Tears streamed down his face, blurring his vision. He used his sleeve to wipe them away. In minutes, his heart rate slowed, back to normal. He stayed unmoving for a period of time, hands on the steering wheel, leaving sticky patches of blood behind. His thoughts ran amuck during this time, not making sense, seeming to simply reorganize themselves. When all the waters seemed to calm again, he started the car.

  There are two souls invading your body…

  The clock read 11:48.

  Time to see the doctor.

  FOURTEEN

  Doctor Richard Palumba’s office was north of Torrance, in Marina Del Rey. Again Bev drove the back roads, very slowly, very mindfully, set to pull over should another attack occur. Thankfully, all remained calm. He only had to deal with impatient tailgaters, and his trembling fear: the anxiety of what’d just occurred, and if it might happen again.

  A middle-aged nurse accompanied him to an examining room. She seemed to notice his unkempt appearance, coffee-stained jeans, the injuries on his hands, but made no mention of it. She took his t
emperature and blood pressure, questioned his reason for the visit with which he replied, “personal”, then left.

  After ten minutes, Richard Palumba walked in. He wore brown poly/rayon pants, a tan dress shirt, and a striped tie beneath his stethoscope. He possessed an uncommonly full head of hair for a man in his sixties. He grinned professionally and opened a blue folder on the steel supply table; scanned it briefly.

  “Mr. Mathers. Been a few years. Success takes up most of your time, I suppose.”

  Bev nodded. “It does.”

  “So, what brings you in?”

  Bev summarized what’d happened, narrating the same list of events he’d shared with Kristin the day before, starting with the onset of everything while on stage, right through all the odd physical elements that still beleaguered him. He elaborated in more detail how he really felt: scared, tired, quarrelsome; for the moment he left out the odd hallucinations he’d experienced before coming here, and the voice in his head. “Two days ago I was feeling fine. Today I feel as if I’ve lost my mind.” He kept his hands facing downward, keeping his fresh injuries to himself. No explaining that.

  “You have no temperature. Your blood pressure’s fine.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Any insomnia?” Palumba asked.

  “No, no, I sleep fine.” Except for the dreams, and these damn lacerations on my hands. Got those while sleeping.

  “You mentioned that you’ve been feeling angry. Are there any personal issues that might be driving you to this?”

  “No...everything is fine. I’d never been happier, really, up until all this started happening—this has all gone on over the last forty-eight hours or so. It feels as though I’ve been hit with some terrible disease—it’s come on that suddenly. And honestly, it’s scaring me.”

  Palumba took notes in the folder. “Appetite?”

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “You mentioned this scratching sensation in your head. Any headaches?”

  Bev shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Palumba nodded, unimpressed. “You drink regularly?”

  “No. Only on occasion.”

  “Smoke?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Doc?”

  “Process of elimination. Everything’s confidential.”

  “Nothing. Well...your occasional puff on a joint, but even that’s more not than often.”

  “Did you take any pills within the last few days? Prescription medication? Anything?”

  “No. I don’t even think I’ve had anything to drink, outside of a beer at lunch yesterday.”

  The doctor walked over, felt Bev’s glands. Checked his ears, nose, throat, eyes. “Since you haven’t been here in a while, I’m going to give you a complete examination.” He ordered Bev to lie down, then ran the cold stethoscope over his chest.

  “What is it, doc? What’s wrong with me?”

  “Well, I’m not sure yet. All those things you’ve experienced are strongly symptomatic of panic, anxiety, even depression. However, as an internist, I need to rule out all possible physical ailments first before heading down that road. Anxiety and panic can mimic a great deal of true physical ailments, most commonly heart attacks, brain tumors, fibromyalgia, even schizophrenia—you know, all the bad stuff that’s very easy to worry about. So, we have to be careful. However, considering the sudden onset of your symptoms, I’d venture to guess that all those possibilities are improbable. We can go ahead and treat you for anxiety and panic, see what happens, but still have to be certain that it isn’t anything else. Even dehydration can cause many of the symptoms you’ve described, especially the ‘feeling of being out of control’.”

  Bev sat up. Felt a slight wave of relief, but still wasn’t wholly convinced. “What’s next?”

  “The nurse will come in and draw your blood. The lab will run a standard work-up to check your cell counts, cholesterol levels, thyroid activity, diabetes too. We’ll also need a urine sample to test your liver and kidney functions.”

  The doctor excused himself and a different nurse came in with a plastic cup and a syringe. She drew his blood and afterwards waited outside the room while Bev filled the cup in an adjoining bathroom. After all samples were collected, she left and Palumba returned.

  “How long have you been away Bev?”

  “Eight months.”

  “I’d gather that touring the world in a rock and roll band isn’t very conducive to a healthy lifestyle. Late nights, constant traveling, poor diet, not to mention being away from home and your loved ones. The parties at night, the public appearances, and the ongoing pressures of being expected to perform at the top of your abilities night after night. That’d get to anyone, and you have to remember, you’re only human just like the rest of us.”

  Bev nodded. It did seem to make sense. But then what of the...?

  “Doc?”

  Palumba was scribbling in the folder. “Yes?” He didn’t look up.

  “There’s something else.”

  Palumba finished what he was writing then put his pen down and looked at Bev.

  “I’ve been, well, I’ve had some...some hallucinations.”

  “Hallucinations? What kind exactly?”

  “I’m scared to admit this for fear that you might think I’m nuts, because I’m not...but...I’ve been hearing this voice in my head, and then, well, yesterday I saw a face.”

  “A face?”

  “Yeah...” He rubbed his hair; pressed his cheeks; eyed the doctor seriously. “In the mirror. This is gonna sound crazy, but for a split second, the person staring back at me wasn’t me. It was someone else.” He’d wanted to say something else, but refrained from doing so.

  Palumba nodded as if he understood, as if the advent of hallucinations were significant to his pending diagnosis. He went back to taking prolific notes, remaining silent throughout. Finally, he began tearing sheets of paper. “First things first, I am going to recommend an immediate change in your lifestyle. Any travel plans coming up?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Get some rest. Change your diet, eat only healthy foods. No parties. No traveling, and above all, no work. I’m not recommending a vacation yet, although one might be good for you once you get your nerves all settled.”

  “Nerves? Is that what this is?”

  “I suspect so. Ten years ago it would’ve been the very last consideration on a long list of probable physical ailments. However, these days, with the economy the way it is and the pressures it induces upon everyday life, nearly half my weekly visitors complain of ailments that are directly related to the stressors of their routines: their jobs, situational problems with the family. I’ve seen it enough to know that what you’re probably experiencing is a nervous breakdown. Generalized anxiety disorder, coupled with severe panic attacks.”

  “But, why all of a sudden?”

  “Oh, it hasn’t been a sudden onset. It’s been there all along, for years maybe, building up in you—kind of like water behind a dam. You just didn’t know it was there. When you were on stage the other night, for some unknown reason that was the catalyst causing your dam to finally burst—and you had a full blown panic attack. Now the anxiety is unleashed, racing through your bloodstream. In actuality, we’re talking adrenaline here, and you’ve got copious amounts of it squirting through your body, more than you can handle. Hence, all those irritable symptoms you’re feeling. You see, your mind thinks your body is in trouble, and as a result your fear/response system is working overtime to compensate, when it really shouldn’t be working at all. It’s apparent just in your demeanor...you haven’t stopped fidgeting since you got here. That’s an involuntary physical response to the surge of adrenaline.”

  “Then, what about the hallucination? The voice in my head?”

  “All symptoms of a hyperactive mind...and common ones I might add. Ever get a song in your head for days at a time and it just won’t leave?”

  “Of course. Part of
the job.”

  “Well, that’s your mind working non-stop when it really should be at rest. That voice in your head is a memory engram in your subconscious that found its way out when the dam broke. Now, uncontrollably, you’ve got a little green man in there making your life miserable, tossing words your way at any given moment—just like that song in your head that won’t go away.”