Demonologist

by Laimo, Michael

  “Well, I suppose that makes sense. And the hallucination?”

  “Not so bad, all things considered. You’ve only had one episode, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Palumba nodded. “I’ve had folks come in complaining that their furniture was sliding across the room, that their walls were breathing. Everyone’s different, but the cause is usually the same. Now, don’t get me wrong, we will check for any possible physical causes for your discomforts, but we’ll treat you for your attacks in the meantime. Frankly, there’s no physical ailment we know of that can cause a cocktail of all the symptoms you’re describing, in so quickly a time, other than panic. And if you were suffering of something on a psychotic level, then you really wouldn’t be having such a coherent conversation with me right now.”

  Bev nodded. “Should I go see a shrink?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone in more detail about what’s ailing you. If anything, it might help relieve some of the pressure. In the meantime, I’m giving you a prescription for Celexa.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An anti-depressant. Twenty milligrams, once a day. This’ll take some time to kick in, but will eventually aid in upping the serotonin in your brain, which in turn will smooth out the adrenaline levels in your body. Until that begins to work, here’s a prescription for Xanax, a mild tranquilizer. Two milligrams, twice a day, as needed. The results of your blood tests will be back tomorrow, but I’d venture to guess that you’re physically fine.”

  “That’s good news,” Bev said, taking the scripts from the doctor. “Thank you. Does this mean I’m not crazy?”

  Palumba shook his head and smiled warmly. “No, I don’t think you’re crazy. I do suggest going home and getting a good night’s rest. And try not to worry about anything.”

  “Thank you doc.”

  Thank you.

  FIFTEEN

  When he got to the car, he called Kristin. Again, her answering machine. He left a message. Told her that he’d visited the doctor, and that it was all nerves. Nothing else. He apologized again for his outburst at the beach, then hung up, feeling utterly alone, and lost. Where is she?

  He started the car and began to drive, wondering how on earth it’d come to this. The doctor was right. I’m only human and eight months of touring will do that to a person.

  He again opted for the back roads, keeping his pace slow. He was starting to feel better, actually, as he had at the party, as though the holes in the dam had been plugged. Perhaps knowing what was wrong—that it wasn’t anything life-threatening—was already aiding in his recovery. After all, anxiety isn’t a physical illness, it’s a negative result of stress and the improper thinking patterns that arise from it. The best medicine is positive thought, he told himself. Mind over matter.

  He stopped off at the Eckerd’s Drug a mile from his home. Left the prescriptions with a short bald man named George. He bought a copy of Men’s Health magazine, a few protein bars, two packs of cigarettes, and a small register-side pamphlet on combating anxiety.

  Back in the parking lot, the fingers came back. Quickly. Suddenly. But not powerfully like before. It was more like a little tease. Scratch, scratch, scratch. No digging. No crumbling. And then, they settled down. As if they meant to say, don’t forget about us, we’re still here.

  He stopped, gripped his temples as the feeling faded. Then, suddenly, a terrible rotten smell hit him. Like meat gone afoul. Nausea rolled in his gut. He sniffed the air, then placed a hand to his mouth, realizing with utter dismay that it was his breath. He ran back into the drugstore, bought some gum and mints and filled his mouth.

  He returned to the spot where his car was parked.

  Stopped.

  Stared.

  Clutched his leaping heart.

  On the windshield.

  Drawn in white chalk.

  6:00.

  SIXTEEN

  Bev looked at his watch. 2:13. He gazed around in a paranoid fashion, just as he had at the beach when he’d discovered that someone had been watching him. Saw no one suspicious nearby. A heavy set woman stood before a Jeep Cherokee, loading a child into a car seat; a man wearing a Spock’s Beard t-shirt was by the entrance to the drug store, opening a pack of cigarettes he’d presumably just purchased. A girl with green spiked hair sailed by on a skateboard.

  “Hey,” Bev called to her.

  She glanced around, then one-eightied on her skateboard, rolled over and stopped a few feet away from Bev. With a flick of her foot, she kicked up the skateboard and caught it with one hand. She waited in haughty silence.

  Bev eyed her various piercings; nose, eyebrow, lip. He said, “You know who I am?”

  She shook her head.

  Not that famous.

  “My name’s Bev. Bev Mathers.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “So?” Arrogant youth. Not one of his crowd. More in tune with The Sex Pistols, or The Misfits.

  “Well...I guess it’s not important.”

  “What do you want?” the girl asked, tossing her skateboard back to the blacktop.

  He pointed to the windshield of his car. “See that? The six o’clock? You didn’t happen to see who wrote that there, did you? It had to have happened within the last five minutes or so, while I was in the store.”

  “Actually, yeah, I do know who did it.”

  Bev’s heart sped. A lump formed in his throat. Anxiety symptoms. “Mind telling me?”

  “Nope. I did it.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that. It’ll come off with water.”

  “I’m not worried about it washing off.” Bev stepped forward, ready to grab the girl should she try to flee before he had an answer. But, the girl remained steadfast, living up to her arrogant appearance. “Who are you? Why’d you put that there?”

  “Hey, man, don’t shoot the messenger, okay? Some guy paid me twenty bucks to do it.”

  “Some guy? What’d he look like?”

  “I don’t know. Kinda geeky, I guess. Said it was a joke. I didn’t care. Got me twenty bills out of it.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Drove away after I did the deed.”

  “What was he driving?”

  “Uhh...white car. Kinda small.”

  This meant one thing: that the man from the forum party, the one that left the note about the party, was still tailing him. Bev shivered, considering all the unanswered questions: who was this guy? What did he want from him? Was it really just a party, as Kristin suggested? Or was there some other kind of motive to acquire his presence? One thing was for certain: the guy’s intentions were determined, and focused.

  “Can I go now?”

  The girl fidgeted the loop in her nose, thrusted a tongue stud forward with her teeth. She looked impatiently bored. Man, if she were a big Bev Mathers fan, this would’ve been the experience of her lifetime. As it so happens, I’m just another stranger on the street, one taking up too much of her ‘valuable’ time.

  Like the doc had said: I’m only human.

  “Yeah, you can go. Thanks.”

  She nodded and skated across the lot around the side of the building, out of sight.

  Bev peered back at his windshield.

  6:00.

  He felt in his pocket for the invite. Took it out. Stared at the typewritten words:

  A LIMO WILL ARRIVE AT YOUR RESIDENCE AT 6:00 PM

  BE AVAILABLE

  He looked at his watch.

  2:28.

  Be available.

  SEVENTEEN

  The man went into his room, sat on the edge of his soiled bed. He folded his hands in prayer, but his invocations were interrupted by harsh memories. The past. Thirty-four years ago. When the call came.

  We have a child for you. A six-year old Israeli boy whose parents were killed in the war. He was rescued by a team of archaeologists in the desert, and has been nursed back to health. We believe that you and your wife are the perfect parental candidates for him.
His name is Allieb.

  The lengthy application process had asked a seemingly never-ending list of questions, from religious preferences to dietary practices to political beliefs. One question in particular carried a great deal more weight than the others: it’d asked if the applicants had desired only an infant child. A humorless woman at the adoption agency explained to them that most eager parents preferred to start from scratch, so to speak, regardless of the long wait for a newborn. But, if they would agree upon a child up to the age of ten years, then the wait would be much shorter. There are many parentless children in overseas camps waiting for an opportunity to come to America. Feeling pity for the thousands of faceless children the agent had so sorrowfully referred to, the future mother and father agreed to this arrangement, knowing that soon they’d become the proud parents they’d always dreamed to be.

  Three months later, a call came to notify them of the good news. A child had been chosen for them. They’d rejoiced in prayerful song and feast, their dark world falling beneath the beams of a previously impenetrable light—the man’s curse of sterility, now offset with a gift from God. There had never been a happier moment for the two of them.

  Papers filled. Signed. Then, a son.

  On December 25th, 1968, they met him at the L.A. International Airport. Dark curly hair. Olive skin. Large unflinching eyes. The man recalled the undying emotion of the moment, heart pounding with joy, of proud anticipation racing through his veins upon first sighting his son. He remembered how they’d locked gazes for the first time. And how he’d felt a fleeting second of a headache, a unique scratching in his head like a fingernail on limestone, and then a faint burning smell like charcoal that had seemed to have come from nowhere, and with all of this a slight stir of hesitancy washing over him, disturbing the happiness of the moment that faded as soon as the boy smiled and raced forward, hugging him around the waist.

  They showered him with affection from that moment forward. Hugs. Gifts. A new home to sleep soundly in. All had seemed perfect—a grand start to a wonderful life together. What more could they have asked for?

  Soon, however, something was realized to be wrong.

  For weeks thereafter the boy remained silent, tentative of his new surroundings, unwilling to do little more than eat raw vegetables and sleep during the day and pray silently in his room at night. He spoke very little, mumbling only in prayer and acknowledging his parents with curt whispers and nods only during brief respites. Despite this reluctance to communicate, the man and his wife still poured their heart and soul out to him, making sure that he was fed, clothed, protected, hoping that soon he would open up to them and return the love that they were so willing to give.

  Months passed. In time, the boy had indeed begun to open up, to show some willingness to speak, and even took an interest in primary education. It seemed as though the new parents’ hard efforts were beginning to pay off. As a minister, the man made every effort to raise the boy a Catholic, despite his intrinsic Hebrew upbringings, and his odd silent payers. The boy consented to the man’s indoctrinations, attending his father’s sermons, although the man suspected the boy might not have paid attention to the daily teachings instilled upon him. Still, he brought the boy to church every Sunday and continued to school him at home, religiously, and educationally.

  By the age of nine, the boy spoke fluent English.

  By ten, French.

  And soon thereafter, Italian. And Latin. And German.

  The boy exhibited not only a proficiency for language, but for math as well, able to decode even the most complicated formulas, whether it be algebra, trigonometry, or calculus. Even stranger, the boy retained knowledge of events that required research beyond his restricted capacities, from events in Russian history to the man’s own genealogical background.

  With this sudden and rather alarming proficiency, the man and his wife, driven mostly through religious influence, grew very concerned.

  On a instinctual whim, the man began to research the history of the boy’s name: Allieb. No mention of it in the Bible, although there had been a passage in The Old Testament that stated, Removing the lie shall reveal a demon in disguise. It had stood out for weeks in the man’s mind, pestering him like a persistent itch, until the pieces of the puzzle finally fell together.

  On a piece of paper, the man wrote down his son’s birth-given name: ‘Allieb’.

  Remove the lie. He crossed out the word ‘lie’ in his name. That left ‘A-L-B.’

  Rearranging the letters, he spelled out: B-A-L. He shuddered, then looked at the remaining letters, L-I-E. He HHHmixed them up, then one by one placed them back into his name.

  “Dear Jesus, help us,” he said aloud, staring at the letters written on the paper.

  B-E-L-I-A-L.

  A demon in disguise.

  Feeling helpless, the man continued his daily routine of preaching and teaching and supplicating, watching over his son carefully as the boy continued to exhibit an intelligence far beyond his schooling and development. The boy went about his odd routines, maintaining his arrogance, keeping quietly to himself at all times, even when his father outwardly probed his behavior. Arguments arose. Fights ensued.

  Then, on the morning of his first communion—a special day his parents had looked forward to for years—the boy’s true persona emerged. They found him on the bathroom floor, naked, peering up at them, a straight razor clutched in his hand. Mother had dropped the blue suit she’d been holding and ran from the room, sobbing uncontrollably at the sight of her son. Father had stood there motionless, making the sign of the cross, praying for his son who’d shaved his head and eyebrows and sat smiling idiotically on the floor.

  The communion commenced, the man unwilling to allow the spawning darkness to assume his only child. The procession of children went fifty or more long. Allieb had stood in the middle, fidgeting uncontrollably as he neared the front of the line. Unexplainably, the church organ blared loudly upon his turn to accept the host.

  The boy closed his eyes. Opened his mouth. The priest placed the Body of Christ upon his tongue.

  Immediately Allieb gagged and collapsed to the floor, clawing at his lips, screaming, “It’s choking me! It’s choking me”. His eyes rolled up into his sockets, exposing bloodshot whites, and when the priest kneeled down to assist him, the boy jutted up as if tethered on strings, arms outstretched, mocking crucifixion. He spit a wad of phlegm the priest, laughing as he did so, taunting his stunned parents with cold vicious eyes.

  This, the man realized, filled with tears and unable to move, is the beginning of the end of it all.

  God help us.

  ~ * ~

  In tears, the man stood up from his bed, shaking the invading memory from his mind. He paced unevenly to the wooden nightstand alongside the bed and fumbled out a silver crucifix. He kissed the cross and continued his prayers until a knock came upon the door.

  He looked up, shoving the cross back into the drawer. “Enter.”

  Slowly, the door creaked open. A thirty-something woman appeared. She wore a hooded black robe and sash. A silver pentagram sat against her heart from a beaded chain around her neck. Her skin was pale and peppered with acne. Her blue eyes bristled with nervous anticipation.

  “Additional vehicles have arrived,” she said, cocking her head curiously. The tears in his eyes.

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Three. A man, and two women.”

  “How did they get here?”

  “By calling.”

  He nodded. Like the last one that had come. Baphomet.

  He hesitated, then asked, “Who is your God?”

  “Belial,” she answered, bowing.

  “Go and pray,” he commanded, and the woman fled the room. He gazed at the clock on the wall. Through the cracked face, he saw: 2:45 PM. By eight tonight, twelve of the thirteen will have arrived. He reached for the bottle of scotch on the table in the center of the room. Drank in the darkness.

  The last one. Number
thirteen. He wouldn’t be here to begin the ceremony, he knew. His presence, though, was required. His acceptance, however...it had not functioned properly. Additional influence was needed. Would it work?

  6:00. Would there be enough time for him to gather his forces?

  The man continued his prayers.

  The thirteenth would be his only hope for survival.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Kristin, if you’re there, please pick up.”

  2:57. No answer on her home phone. Her cell had also gone unanswered since last night. He’d been waiting in his car in the Eckerd’s parking lot for a half-hour now: waiting for the fingers to return, waiting for Kristin to return his calls. Please. He’d phoned her six or seven times now, worrying more and more with each unanswered call. He placed his cell phone on the passenger seat, started the car, feeling caught in the closed confines, as though caged under water. Anxiety. He opened the window, took a deep breath. Common sense told him that he should head home, nestle himself in bed, get some rest just as the doctor had ordered. But his fatherly instincts had him doing otherwise: driving out of the parking lot in the direction of Kristin’s apartment, taking the roads slowly and surely just in case another panic attack should arise. He gripped the wheel tightly, easing the clutch of panic that seemed to roll in even without the onset of the skull-fingers. Deep breaths; inhale through the nose; exhale through the lips. Ohm Nama Shivaya. Keep calm, keep calm.

  Ahead, on a hill, the brownish facing of Kristin’s gated complex came into view. He pulled in through the security entrance, gave his name to the guard as Kristin’s permanent guest, then drove over the small stone bridge to townhouse 1034.