Demonologist

by Laimo, Michael

  Scratch...scratch...scratch, in his head.

  Scratch...scratch...scratch, from behind the closet door.

  Slowly, he twisted the knob.

  The latch made an audible click.

  The scratching from within abruptly ceased, as though someone had pressed the stop button on the tape recorder from where they surfaced.

  He pulled the door open. Slowly at first, and then, all the way.

  The closet was completely empty. Everything he’d ever stored in it was gone. Including the beetle. An odor purled out. Something suddenly foul. Like a current of burning sulfur.

  “What the...”

  Digging, digging, digging.

  Crumble.

  And with the sensation in his head came horrible pain. He fell to one knee. Squeezed his head, yelled out. His body twisted at the waist, then slammed to the floor; it was as though he’d been physically thrown by some malevolent force. His heart palpitated irregularly, he could feel it trying to escape his ribcage. He could feel many things, his throat shrieking, a sensation of falling deep into his body, into the churning acids of his stomach. He could sense his mouth and lips moving, could hear wicked moans emanating from his throat...but, he maintained no control of these actions. His arms and legs flailed spasmodically as his back arched up then smashed down violently onto the carpet, over and over, quickly and frequently. He heard himself shrieking nonsensical expletives: “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” over and over again. Unseen hands prodded his body, fingers digging into the place where skull met brain.

  And then, it stopped.

  He could hear himself breathing heavily. He could feel it, as he rose from the dark recesses of his gut, back into his mind and body familiar. He staggered up. Stumbled from the studio, into the kitchen. He gazed out the window.

  Black limo. In his driveway. Lights off. He gazed at the clock on the kitchen wall. Exactly 6:00. Where did the time go?

  In his head, a voice: Come to me, Bevant.

  He gripped the sides of his head. The pain had filtered away, leaving behind a sharp resonating tone that trailed the deep voice like a stream of exhaust from a racecar. It had come through clearly, as though the digging in his skull had finally produced a hole through where the voice and tone could travel.

  Staring out the window, toward the waiting limo, he whispered, “Who are you?”

  Your friend, Bevant.

  “My friend...”

  Your friend.

  “What is your name?” He tone was oddly calm, despite the impossible fear. His eyes searched all corners of the room.

  Low, raspy breathing.

  “Are you in the Limo?”

  Come to me Bevant.

  “You didn’t answer my question. Are you in the limo?”

  A horrible wail filled Bev’s head. Blood curdling; piercing; the sudden presence of a being making itself known in his body. It held his soul, dragged him away from the conscious realm of his awareness then hurled him back with a quick, calculated thrust. A timely show of power. He screamed, fell to his knees. Gripped the sides of his head. “What do you want from me?” he screamed, staggering back into the bedroom. The moment turned into a sepia-toned slow-motion nightmare: Bev hurling himself on the bed, writhing, tangling the blanket and sheet, his tongue thrusting uncontrollably from his mouth that gasped and grimaced and spat a melee of odd noises that could only escape the throats of animals: oinks, clucks, neighs. He could feel his eyes rolling into the back of his head, and on the black canvas of his inner lids he could distinctly see the roiling lava and the torn limbs and bones of human corpses. He screamed, “Stop it! Stop!” An icy cold wind plunged through the room, knocking pictures off the wall, blowing the blanket and sheets from the bed. The unspeakable presence then left Bev, and he remained breathing heavily on the bare mattress, soaked in sweat, exhaustively convinced of his bodily possession.

  In the walls: hideous laughter.

  He remained curled on the bed for a minute, maybe more, seeking out—and not wanting to find—the presence of the malevolent spirit within. Then, slowly, he rose. Looked at himself in the mirror. Trembling; dark circles around the eyes; skin sallow; hair matted. In a panic, he careened to the kitchen window, looked out front again.

  The limo waited.

  In his head: Come to me Bevant.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Detective Frederick Grover breathed in the car’s interior darkness and watched with curiosity as the limo waited, lights out, in Bev Mathers’s driveway. Only moments earlier it had pulled in, perhaps a minute or two after Grover had decided that nothing of further interest was going to happen at the Mathers apartment.

  He adjusted his rearview mirror to show the road behind him. Apparently Mathers had lied about staying home all night, and now Grover wondered if someone else might be showing up in addition to those in the limo. The presence of the limo meant that there might very well be some ritzy plans for Bev Mathers, something he presumably did not want the detective to know about. Grover frowned...something smelled wrong here. He shifted his position on the seat slightly, getting a better view of the limo and its dark windows. As of now, no one had emerged. The driver had probably cell-phoned Mathers, alerting him of the car’s arrival.

  Grover closed his eyes for a moment, then mentally reviewed the chain of events. Jake Ritchie’s death had been tied to the desecrations at St. Michael’s, that much was for certain. There’d been the pentagram at the crime at the rectory, patterned with the entrails of the animal. Ritchie had been nearly decapitated with a guitar string (note: the same type Bev Mathers used), he too gutted, his intestines shaped into a pentagram twenty feet away in the grass. Still, there’d been no blood present anywhere in the house—not even a spotting according to the forensic scientists working the scene. Which meant, most assuredly, that whoever committed this particular crime had left immediately thereafter, perhaps cleaning themselves off in the pool before fleeing. Bev Mathers had allegedly awoken in bed, alongside Rebecca Haviland—this, they both corroborated. So, the more-than-likely scenario here was a methodically planned group degradation and killing—not uncommon considering the obdurate cult-like nature of the crimes—that may have included Bev Mathers and maybe even Rebecca Haviland. Was Bev Mathers involved in some sort of Demon-worshipping cult? That’s crazy! Far-fetched logic! Christ, I need some sleep. Better yet, retirement. Still, the details haunted Grover’s mind: the priest, Father Thomas Danto, had had a great deal of educational experience in demonology and devil worship, as confirmed by some of the guests who’d overheard his conversation at the party. He and Mathers and Ritchie had engaged in a lengthy discussion on the black arts, the priest doing most of the talking. Should the police be sniffing Danto’s trail as well? Perhaps. But then again, his innocence seemed overly apparent, given his willingness to offer information from the onset. And, for Christ’s sake, he a priest! There were fingerprints found at the scene of the crime at the rectory, none of which belonged to any of those in residency, Danto included. At the scene of Ritchie’s murder, shreds of skin and blood were found on the ends of the guitar string that was used to choke the victim. Grover took notice: neither Danto nor Mathers possessed any visible lacerations on their hands. Still, something seemed amiss.

  Grover let out a deep breath, keeping his eyes on the motionless limo. He rubbed his forehead. Light rain started to fall and he used the wipers to clear the windshield. He waited, fifteen minutes or more, staring at the Limo, staring at Bev Mathers’ apartment. Waiting for something to happen.

  He rubbed a solid knot in his jaw with his thumb, eyeing the quiet scene and knowing, just knowing—call it gut feeling, or detective’s intuition—that something would happen very soon.

  Yes, he thought, something is going to happen very soon.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Come to me Bevant.

  Bev fought back, biting his tongue, drawing blood. He lurched away from the window, raced back into the bedroom, feeling partially in control of himself once again�
��the evil embodiment seemed distant. Still, in his head, the voice chattered, over and over, calling his name, and he beat it back with his fortitude. He hollered into the air, threw a frame and then a vase across the room in utter defiance of that which pursued him, the shattering and the clanging sending jolts of lucidity into his brain. In a desperate longing to flee, he opened the back window, crawled out onto the wrought-iron fire escape, catching a suddenly cool draft, wet and penetrating against his skin. His shirt billowed in the wind, the rain starting to fall freely from the darkening skies. He peered down; behind the apartment house, the woods stretched out, perhaps a half mile’s worth before they let out onto the freeway—from this height he could hear the collective roar of the distant rush-hour traffic. He released the ladder, realizing now that running to the highway gave him no opportunity for shelter. To the north was the shopping mall. The south, additional homes.

  He had friends in those neighborhoods. Jake was one of them; but he was dead. Dear God, Jake. So, who else? He clambered down the ladder, feet slipping from the bottom rung about five feet in the air. He landed on the soft earth with a thud, then straightened up and stared into the darkening gloom of the woods, keeping his thoughts away from the waiting limo, away from his familiar world, wondering where he could possibly go, and what might happen when he got there.

  LEGION

  My name is Legion, and we are many.

  —Mark, 5:2-5:9

  In Hell, anything can happen.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Gripping the rusted cross in his closed palm, the man cried, his prayers deep and intense, begging for mercy. He knows, he knows, he realized with dismay, trying desperately to shutter his true thoughts, to keep them masked by false pretenses: an honest willingness to proceed with the Legion. He placed the rusted cross in his pocket, then laid down across the Limo’s seat and peered at the clock: 6:14 PM. Will the thirteenth be captured now? Only Allieb—Belial—knew for sure. Lordy, Lordy, what would dear Satan think of me now? The man prayed that the intervention would prove successful, as his very soul was at stake—who knew what tortures Allieb would inflict upon him? Still, he had strong doubts. The demon has spared me so far, despite my shortcomings, and his apparent knowledge of my ongoing faith in God. I can still believe, even after all this time, that he has an affinity for me because I am the boy’s father—even putting aside the lack of a bloodline. I have stood by Allieb, although I fear he knows that my allegiance to him is a cover while I plan for his demise.

  Rubbing his eyes, he stretched out on the seat and sought sanctity in the blackness of his closed lids. Instead, he found only harsh memories: three weeks after returning home from the doctors—after they’d promised that Allieb would be okay...

  ~ * ~

  Again Allieb refused his medicine. He remained in his room, unwilling to allow the presence of his pestering parents. He howled like a wolf and crawled into the darkness of his closet, remaining eerily silent behind the closed door, save for his chanting and tapping out of odd rhythms against the wall. He cared little for food; the raw vegetables and meat he demanded at times were his only nutrition.

  His mother and father opened the closet and pleaded with him to take the pills. He leaped forward and swatted at his mother’s hand, the pill bottle flying from her grasp, showering capsules everywhere. She cried, imagining sharp talons swiping at her from the tenuous wrist of her adopted child—a child who’d never showed her an ounce of the love she’d been willing to give. Now? She prayed for something terrible to happen, a quick and sudden death, taking him away from her to end all misery. He’d read her ungracious thoughts, and his response was brutal. Sharp poundings resonated from the walls, like the fists of giants attempting to break through their cement bonds. The boy screamed, mouth twisting in agony and dread, his child’s voice temporarily escaping its unseen barrier, pleading for mercy.

  The man yelled at the boy, the woman shrieked, falling back against the wall in a near faint. She crawled for the door, tried to escape the sudden chaos: inanimate objects in the room, leaping through the air, hurled by unseen forces; the lone window, slamming open, sharp wintry gusts blowing in; the curtains, swept from their rods, sailing about the room like ghosts. There was a loud crash, the door slamming shut before she could reach it, the sharp cracking of the wood splintering away from the brass hinges. The man stood solid ground, gasping dreadfully at the insanity as the poundings grew heavier, cracking the ceiling, the walls. The furniture in the room: two end tables, the bed, a bureau, heaved and rocked in erratic semicircles, carving gouges into the wood floor. And the boy, here, fully possessed by something otherworldly, now hiding, back in the closet amidst his tattered things, laughing in a deep and strident voice, eyes bulging in an ashen face, the closet door slamming open and shut and open and shut, revealing to his horrified parents a now bloodied torso, slashed at repeatedly with a straight-razor gripped in his white-knuckled hands, blood pooling out in a glistening red wash, dousing his body.

  The woman screamed, No! No!, and then, Do something!, directed to her husband who stood trembling, paralyzed with shock. The man stepped forward toward the closet, beseeching Jesus Christ through weak-willed prayer. The closet door fell off its hinges with a deafening crack, revealing in full the horror within. The boy, flinging the straight razor toward his father’s feet, lubricating his penis with the blood seeping from the wounds in his chest, masturbating furiously, exhibiting an impossibly-sized erection, blackly engorged with blood. “Come suck my cock, daddy,” he growled, voice seething with malignancy, while his features contorted into something repulsively vile, seemingly layered with undulating scales.

  “No!” screamed the woman.

  The boy crawled from the closet, trailing his feces behind like a slug track. His eyes were a distinct hue, reptilian, green irises ringed with yellow, the odor rising from him hideously foul, strangling the room. In an instant of fear, the flying objects in the room fell from the air in scattered heaps. The poundings in the wall stopped, bringing the room into eerie silence—silence, save for the sobs of his parents as they sought each other’s arms for security and comfort.

  The boy kneeled, hands stroking his engorged erection, laughing deafeningly in that horribly deep voice that wasn’t his. “Fuck her daddy! Let me come on her tits!” A bellow of malevolent howls followed, his penis spitting copious amounts of semen as both parents cried inconsolably.

  The parents remained a single passive unit, arms embracing each other’s bodies as the horror commenced, the boy, laughing...laughing...laughing, tongue lashing out and gushing blood as his teeth chomped down upon it. The woman, in a maniacal state of fear, rushed the boy, screaming “Stop!” in throat-tearing fury, her hands shaking, grasping at his bloodied body, the boy releasing the grinding howl of a monstrous being, spouting his ferocity toward her, reaching up, grabbing her ears and shoving her face into the spew on the floor; her forehead split open and blood splat out into the wicked mixture. “Swallow my jism, you fucking whore!” Allieb yelled, his evil eyes pinned on his father who remained frozen in fear, a witness to his wife’s barbaric thrashing. Allieb smashed her face repeatedly against the floor, over and over and over until it was a massive bloody pulp of indistinguishable features. The man, breaking his terrorized inaction, finally lurched forward, and was sent back with a splintering blow across the face. He slammed against the wall in a haze, a storm of horrid visions and sounds coalescing into an outrageous vista of mad realism, his gaze reaching past the fervent torture toward his son who had twisted his mother’s head unalterably around so that the neck was a twisted purple rag bursting with blood-soaked flesh.

  “Daddy, it’s time to play the game,” sniggered the foreign voice.

  Open mouthed, heaving, disbelieving, the man stared unblinkingly at his son’s lunatic face: the torn bloodied lips, the thick, alabaster skin, the snake-like eyes, until he crumpled down into a black-filled heap of bitter nothingness.

  ~ * ~

  The man sta
rtled awake, rubbing his eyes. He looked at the clock: 6:28. He’d nodded off, for only a few minutes it seemed. Still, the reminiscing dream played out once again in its entirety, all the way to its horrid finale. He remained lying on the seat, breathing heavily, waiting; waiting.

  Waiting for the Legion to arrive.

  TWENTY-NINE

  With his hands on the steering wheel, Grover sat up straight, eyeing the limo with great interest as it began backing out of the driveway, sans Bev Mathers. Foot on the brake, he turned on the windshield wipers and shifted the car into drive. The limo arched out into the street and slowly drove north up Hillage Avenue. Grover checked the rearview mirror.

  Through the rain-spotted rear windshield, he noticed a silver Jeep Cherokee parking at the curb across the street, a few houses back. The driver’s side door opened and a woman emerged. Shielding her head with a newspaper, she started walking briskly up the sidewalk. Ahead, the limo rounded the first corner onto Donnell Avenue. Grover returned his sights to the road, slowly pulled away from the curb, and followed.

  ~ * ~

  Bev waited, a few minutes seeming an eternity, unwilling to take the first step. It had felt as though one step might equal a fall into an inescapable chasm, one that would keep him buried in his agony for eternity. He gazed forward. The trees were thick, trunks staggered like soldiers, their roots reaching underfoot in serpentine loops, a threat to take him to the carpet of bristling foliage.

  Then, a voice in his head: “Bev?”

  This, in the muffled distance: a woman’s voice.

  Julianne...

  In fear, Bev raced away, dodging trees and foliage, swinging his arms, pushing aside drifting rain-spotted twigs.