Demonologist

by Laimo, Michael

  He opened the trunk.

  My God...

  NINETEEN

  He sat there, motionless, sagging with the sudden enormous weight of the contents inside the trunk. He swallowed a quickly-forming lump in his throat, the painful remembrance of Julianne surging back to him with the ferocity of a point-blank gunshot, as if she’d miraculously come back to him after all these years to reveal that she hadn’t died after all. But, to also say that she couldn’t stay with him because her body was still trapped under six feet of soil, unable to break the earth’s bonds.

  He reached down and picked out a few articles of Julianne’s clothing, a maternity blouse she’d worn while pregnant, a pair of faded jeans, some t-shirts that when held to his face, seemed to retain—imagination or not—a bit of her ancient odor. There were a few other articles of clothing that Bev didn’t remember at all, black t-shirts and a hooded knit robe and sash. Digging further into the contents of the chest, he discovered a multitude of keepsakes, a silver pendant that Julianne had worn, a small jewelry box with a few of her rings, a necklace, two pairs of sandals, some love letters she’d written Bev while they were dating. Further down: a silver crucifix, a small worn Bible, a shoebox containing some odd artifacts: tarot cards, a silver pendulum, tea leaves wrapped in clear plastic, a Ouija board planchette. Odd.

  Beneath the box were some photos of Julianne holding a baby Kristin, and one of the three of them sitting on the grass by the lake in Alondra Park...Bev didn’t remember the photo, or when it was taken, but could see something odd about Julianne’s face. She looked serious, even scared, her grin downcast, brow furrowed, sharp eyes pinning him from the past. He flipped through a number of photos of his long lost wife, wondering why Kristin had never shown him any of these items she’d saved: Julianne smiling at the kitchen table, another of her breastfeeding Kristin, of her posing playfully on their bed, of her...

  Christ almighty...please, no...

  In his trembling hands he gripped a photo of Julianne wearing the black robe he’d just removed from the trunk. Hanging around her neck was a silver pentagram, fettered by a silver chain that had glinted in the camera’s flash. Her face was partially shrouded by the hood, one eye lost in shadow, the other ignited by the glow of the white candle she held.

  Jesus Christ, no…

  Bev let the photos fall from his numb grasp, sudden nausea consuming his body, tears sprouting from his disbelieving eyes. In a matter of seconds his entire life as he’d known it had taken on an entirely different perspective, one darkly veiled in baleful shadows and churning iniquity. Evil had suddenly embraced him, its terrible secret now out in the open. Was his wife, twenty years passed, a member of some demonic cabal? His daughter, full of giggles and smiles and diabolical knowledge, following in her mother’s footsteps?

  Where did you get this stuff, Kristin? How did you get it? You were only a baby when your mother died. Only a tiny innocent baby...

  Bev leaned back against the desk. Breathing heavily. Cries came uncontrollably as his mind drowned in a whirl of utter confusion. Of fear. The world had taken on a hard, grainy texture, like ancient film passing by in a flickering, slow-motion nightmare. A sudden odor filled the air, of something horrid and unspeakable, and Bev, blaming his tired imagination, used his last bit of fortitude in attempt to desperately to ignore the feelings of horror consuming him. He leaned forward. Reached back into the trunk. Pulled out another yellow envelope. Opened it. Inside, a locked diary. The small leather-bound booklet had weathered with age, making it easy for him to tear the tiny clasp away without having to break the lock.

  Written on the inside, in Julianne’s long-forgotten handwriting, he read:

  Julianne Mathers

  My Diary

  As he had yesterday with the envelope, and just minutes earlier with the trunk, he hesitated exploring further, second guessing his never-ending desire to unearth answers to his mounting dilemmas. Still, a morbid curiosity rose in him, and he gripped the first page of the diary, realizing that he’d already come too far:

  October 17, 1984

  Bev and I had an argument tonight about money, and about Kristin not getting the proper attention we wanted to give her. Bev told me he wanted to work two jobs, and I told him that if he did, then I’d never see him, and he’d never have any time with Kristin, and then I’d be home alone all the time with the baby, like a single mother, and that’s really not an acceptable as far as I’m concerned. She needs her father as much as I need a husband.

  I left the apartment in a bad mood—I’d needed to get out of there for a while. Staring at those walls can make you crazy! I went to Alondra Park and sat in the moonlight, feeding the ducks. Suddenly, a man appeared next to me. I’d never heard him approach, and he really startled me. But then I looked at him, and...well, I should have been frightened, but for some reason I wasn’t. He smiled, and at once I felt a kind of kinship with him, as though he’d come to deliver some answers to our problems.

  Bev remembered the night. Julianne had told him she was going to the park. He’d stayed home with Kristin, who’d cried inconsolably. Eventually she fell asleep after a bottle, and so did Bev, in front of the television.

  He did. He told me his name was Allieb...

  The diary trembled in Bev’s hand. He knew where this was going. It wasn’t going to be easy.

  ...and at once I was hypnotized. Maybe it was his striking eyes, or his mesmerizing accent. Or his imposing posture. He said, “Julianne Mathers, I know what you need.” I’d asked him how he knew my name, and he told me he had the knowledge of the sun and stars, and that he’d use it to bring me and my family riches and happiness. My common sense told me that I should’ve walked away, but there I was, ignoring my better instincts, following this stranger into a limo parked a short walk away. We rode in silence, and I’d never felt more relaxed in my life. The car took us to a large house, a mansion I suppose, with a circular driveway and dark rooms lit solely with candles. Allieb led me into a study where I sat on a red velvet sofa. He made a flame appear from his palms, and then he showed me sights I never thought imaginable. In a dreamlike vista, right before my eyes, I saw Bev on a stage performing rock music in front of thousands of people, and of Kristin, grown up, adoring her rock-star father, writing reviews of his concerts for Rock Hard Magazine.

  When the vision was over, I asked him how he did it. It had seemed so real! He told me that there were many more sights to see, that he’d make sure Bev would gain great musical talent—a talent he could use to earn a lifestyle of fame and fortune. I asked him how, and he told me.

  And then I went home, thinking that things were going to get much better for us.

  The entry ended. He turned the page and read on quickly:

  October 21, 1984

  I met with Allieb for the second time last night. I told Bev I’d joined a ‘Mingling Moms’ group where women could get away from the trials of home and gossip about our spouses and children. I’d heard about the group, but never really joined. I went to go see Allieb instead. I kept telling myself, this is for the good of Bev, for the good of us. Our family. Still, I felt bad about lying to him. But, he’ll never know, especially once he’s up on that stage playing guitar and singing to sold-out crowds.

  The limo picked me up at our meeting spot at the park. I was asked to change into a black robe with a hood, which I did, and was then blindfolded. I was driven to the mansion where I was led into a cold room. I could feel the presences of many people watching me, but I didn’t know for certain there was anyone there until they started chanting. An organ played a dark, dissonant tune, kind of like the beginning of Pink Floyd’s ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’. I was led to a spot somewhere in the middle of the room. I should have been nervous but I wasn’t. Allieb was next to me. He whispered, “You will earn success and riches beyond your wildest imagination. Is this what you desire?” I told him, “Yes, for Bev, and for Kristin. I want it for them.” He told me to drop my robe, and unexplainably, with
no reluctance, I did, and in all my nakedness I stood there, unknowing as to where I was and who was in the room with me. The chanting commenced, and that is all I can remember, until this morning, when I awoke with blood on my hands and lips.

  Bad. This was very bad.

  November 3, 1984

  Bev noted the date of the following entry, nearly three weeks later. He read on:

  I am quite normal at home. I am relaxed, and calm. It’s a side effect of the...of the, well, I suppose it is Allieb’s influence that has me able to appear as though this second life I’m leading is nothing more than a dream, or fantasy. Because of this, I haven’t been able to write any of my experiences down, as Allieb made me swear to Belial that should I utter a word of my participation of the masses to anyone, then something terrible will happen to me, or my family. But, I am consumed with guilt. With loathe. Although I remember only snippets of my experiences at ‘In Domo’, these brief memories are enough to know that I have done wrong, that I have entered a realm far above and beyond my capacities as a human being. That, really, I am damned. I believe I have sold my soul to evil, and have received nothing that has been promised to me in return. Bev is showing no promise of musical prowess. I cannot elaborate any further as to the memories of my experiences at ‘In Domo’. There is too much pain, both mental and physical. I can only pray that God can forgive me for the decisions I have made, and hope that He will spare me any further agony.

  Drowning in tears, Bev fanned through the rest of the diary. A newspaper clipping drifted out, poignantly familiar. Julianne’s obituary. He picked it up and gazed at it, at the strikingly familiar date of her death: November 5th, 1984. Two days after the last entry in the diary. Jesus. Scanning the pages again, he found no additional notations. He screamed and flung the diary into the closet, a piece of history best shunned. “How could I have not known! How could this have happened!” He fell back against the desk, fists on brow. Trembling. Crying. Knowing that from this point forward, his life would never be the same.

  His cell phone rang. Hell’s Bell, tolling His arrival.

  He fumbled it out of his pocket, answered it. His voice, cracking: “Yeah...”

  “Bev, it’s Rebecca.” Her voice, a pensive whisper.

  He stayed silent. Didn’t know how to react, what to say. “Rebecca...hi...” he managed.

  “You heard, didn’t you...”

  Confusion. Then, “Heard what?”

  “Jesus, Bev...you didn’t hear…”

  “Hear about what?” The words bounced off his tongue with no meaningful direction or intent.

  “I have some very bad news.”

  Finally, a burst of lucidity. Could it get any worse? Bev straightened up, grasping some wits. “What is it?”

  “It’s Jake.”

  “What about him?” he asked, but by the somber tone of her voice, he knew. He closed his eyes, readying himself for the blow.

  “He’s dead.”

  TWENTY

  He gazed back up at the clock. The cracked face read: 3:44. In the hall, a disturbance. “There are two more!” someone shouted. Footsteps shuffling, and then, silence. Soon thereafter, a knock upon the door.

  “Enter,” the man said.

  Slowly, the door creaked. Through minimal space appeared an unfamiliar face. A male, in his thirties. Short, but muscular. A fresh bruise on his right eye. “God wants you,” he told the man.

  “How many more have arrived?”

  “Two. One by calling, one by intervention, with high activity.”

  “Intervention? Do you have his name?” the man asked, wondering. Could it be him?

  The messenger shook his head.

  “What does he look like?”

  “Older. In his fifties. Bald. Overweight.”

  Not the thirteenth. Not yet. “Where is he now?”

  “In his cell. Like the other. It was a bad scene. Took six of us to get him down there.”

  The man nodded. Silent. His thoughts, racing with emotionally-driven fear. It’s really happening. He remained composed, adeptly guarding his true subjective state: hopeless grief buried in a windowless world. “The thirteenth?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Who is your God?” he queried the messenger.

  “Belial,” was his response, smiling emptily. His eyes glared, two black orbs swimming in turbulent waters. He bowed.

  “Go and pray. And prepare. Legion is near.” A stab of familiar pain beset him. He rubbed his throbbing chest, a habitual gesture. The pain subsided.

  The messenger nodded. “God would like to see you,” he repeated, eyes laden with sudden fear.

  Hesitation, laden with grief and fear. “Then…then I shall go and speak with God,” the man answered, turning away, trying to hide the restless burden in his features. The door closed, and the messenger was gone.

  The man sat on the edge of the bed, thoughts of looming plague and pestilence tormenting his agonized mind.

  He diverted his thoughts to the past...

  ~ * ~

  His fears told him one thing; his hopes, another. The man and his wife delivered their son to the doctors. Specialists, as internists had been unable to help him. The boy lay on an examining table, arms to his side, legs jutting from the white gown he wore. The doctor pressed his glands.

  Allieb swiped angrily at him, yanking the dangling stethoscope away. He screamed, kicked, punched, flailed, swore, tore at his own face and drew blood in spots. Numerous attempts had been made to treat the boy, and finally, with no alternative, they sedated him. Seventy-five milligrams of Thorazine. Three doctors were needed to assist in holding him down while the injection was administered.

  For two weeks they kept him at the hospital, in a private examination room under constant sedation and surveillance. The doctors discussed a variety of ailments with the parents: epilepsy, schizophrenia, severe chemical imbalances in the brain. Tests were run: EEG’s, X-Rays, Lumbar Taps.

  Everything appeared to be normal.

  Soon thereafter, and quite unexplainably, Allieb returned to a normal state. Calm, and composed. They quickly weaned him off the drugs. Counseled him and ultimately found a tired young man who, through tears of remorse, pleaded to go home. Although baffled with this sudden turnaround, the doctors and his parents accepted this startling recovery with open arms. Their final analysis: Your son is seeking attention in very extreme ways. He wants something, and will go to any lengths to obtain it. There’s nothing wrong with him that requires any additional medical attention. We’re prescribing Ritalin for him. It’s a stimulant to help counteract his apparent depression, and his hyperkinetic behavior. Remember, he’s been through a great deal of trauma during these early years. The move from one country to another. You mentioned that his parents were killed in war. We really don’t know for certain all the atrocities he’s encountered. Now, he’s paying the price, and unfortunately, you are too. Take him home. Love him. And allow the medication to take effect. In three weeks we suspect that he’ll be the loving little boy you’ve always hoped for.

  Three weeks later, Allieb killed his mother.

  ~ * ~

  The man wiped his tears, opened the nightstand drawer, removed the silver cross and kissed it, then placed it in his pocket for protection. “Jesus, help me,” he muttered to himself.

  And paced from the room to answer “God’s” call.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Dead...” Bev answered, feeling unsteady.

  “He drowned in the pool.” Rebecca’s voice: weak, staggering.

  Bev bit down on the mouthpiece, fear, pain, confusion controlling his actions. Jake dead? No! “This can’t be, Rebecca.” His voice was a harsh whisper.

  “It is...and Bev, we were the last people to see him alive.” She sobbed, grief fracturing her voice. “He was bombed, and he was stumbling. But he was also passed out, right? He was passed out! So how? How could this have happened?” Rebecca: desperately searching for rationale.

  Bev sensed the terror
in her voice. The phone trembled in his hand. Rebecca’s anxious breaths shot into his ear like hisses from a steam engine. “Where’d you hear this, Rebecca?”

  “From the police.”

  “The police?”

  “They were here today.”

  “There? At your place? Jesus...why?”

  “You remember the priest from the party?”

  “Father Danto.”

  “He was staying at Jake’s house. The cops showed up at my place around one this afternoon and told me that after performing mass this morning, he went back to the house and found Jake floating face down in the pool. He called them and I guess he told them the names of some the people he’d met at the party. Bev...I had to tell them about us.”

  “So, what did you tell them?”

  “The truth. That we put Jake to sleep. In the living room. On the sofa. And then...slept together, at the house, and that you left in the morning, about thirty minutes before I did. I told them the truth, I had to...” She wept.

  “Rebecca...you did the right thing.” He wanted to tell her to relax, but knew it to be a lofty command, given the rise of surrounding events—events she knew hardly anything about. “I’m sure the cops will want to speak with me too, and I’ll tell them exactly what happened. We did nothing wrong, Rebecca. Saw nothing. It was just a terrible, unfortunate accident. He probably woke up in the middle of the night and just stumbled outside. He was completely drunk when we last saw him.”

  Jake’s dead...My God.