Demonologist

by Laimo, Michael

  Again, Julianne’s voice: “Bev? Is that you?”

  Bev ran, lungs cold and heaving. In the looming darkness, he lost his footing and fell. Mud slathered his hands and knees. He scrambled up, twigs poking his skin, rain dousing his entire body, sending chills deep into his bones. Bits of bark and wet leaves clung to his clothes like appliqués.

  Bathed in semi-gloom, he moved east across the thickest stretch of woodland Torrance had to offer. He caught brief glimpses of the darkening sky filtering in through the treetop patches; rain continued to fall upon him.

  And the voice in his head called to him. “Bev...wait...”

  Despite the rain, the crickets were in abundance, their ceaseless cries piercing to Bev’s strained psyche; on and on they tolled, like the incessant beckon of a phone left off the hook; neither pine nor elm nor brush could absorb the racket as it lanced into his head, finding the nerves of his bones and joggling them until his blood began to boil. He caught a palmful of thorns and nearly screamed out in pain, but choked it down for fear of pinpointing his location to anyone who might be out here seeking him.

  Jesus, what am I thinking? Out here? Looking for me? That’s absurd! The limo is in the driveway. Yes...but then, what about the dark man? He’d managed to find his way backstage...and followed me at the beach as well. Might still be following me. And the detective? He has his suspicions. Might’ve seen me making my escape down the fire ladder. After all, I did have blood on my hands.

  Didn’t I?

  I didn’t kill Jake!

  Julianne’s voice: “Bev...where are you going? Wait for me!”

  With the onset of the showers, a pacific wind ensued, restlessly tossing the upper reaches of the trees about, creating a static-like sound that grew stronger as he moved deeper into the woods. This, in combination with the crickets, made more than enough noise for Bev to wonder if he’d ever hear anyone approaching him. But, not enough, he felt, to shroud the noisy twigs and underbrush snapping beneath his footsteps.

  He continued on. Running. Stumbling. Breaths short and spurting as he advanced trance-like through the woods, hearing only the crickets and the wind, his footsteps and his own mind trying to make sense of the horrifying events that had taken place over the past two days. This is what it’s all come to. All the success, a single in the top twenty-five, and here I am running through the rain-soaked woods like a man who’s lost his mind. Lost his mind...

  He heard something. Not the voice in his head. Not his feet against the woodland floor. He pressed his body against the trunk of an elm, hands embracing the rough bark, waiting for what seemed an eternity, listening attentively and peering into the surrounding woodland in search of what he thought could have been a voice. Not the voice in my head.

  “Bev...I’m right behind you.”

  “No! It can’t be!” he yelled, and he darted away, continuing east and veering slightly to the right, following a thin matted trail mostly free of brush. He trampled weeds and grass. Loose stones struck his ankles. He fought exhaustion, making decent progress nonetheless and realizing suddenly where his deepest instincts were taking him. He kept his eyes peeled on all sides, taking advantage of gaps in the woods to help reaffirm his current state of solitude. He pictured in his weary mind the place he was now heading, and wondered if it would provide the much needed sanctuary he so recklessly, and suddenly, sought.

  He continued on for another five minutes.

  Then froze.

  He heard it again.

  A scraping sound. Raspy. Breathing? The scratching in my head?

  He crouched down next to a bush, looked left, right, up, down. Saw nothing. No one.

  Heard only the wind. The crickets. My mind’s playing games with me. Common sense dictates that it is only an animal. A squirrel, perhaps a deer. Not the scratching in my head.

  Maybe it’s the demon inside of you?

  He waited. Thirty seconds. A minute. Nothing. Still, he felt strongly that something might be back there, hiding in the woods, watching him. His inaction brought pain: stiffness in the bones and muscles. Weariness. He wanted to scream.

  Then, suddenly, footsteps. Nearby. Heavy, labored breathing. And, a voice. Her voice. Julianne: “Bev, please, wait...”

  Bev remained frozen in his crouch. Tears sprouted from his eyes. Julianne, my dear wife... He covered his face with his muddy hands, hearing the approach of tentative footsteps. When he took his hands away, he saw sneakered feet alongside him.

  “Julianne?” he whispered, looking up, heart escaping his chest.

  She kneeled down alongside him. Labored breathing. Then, “Bev...what’s going on? Why are you out here running?”

  His eyes fell upon her.

  Rebecca Haviland.

  Tears poured from his eyes, half out of relief that it was someone he knew, someone he could trust, half out of disenchantment because he’d thought the woman whose voice he’d heard would be his long-lost Julianne, back from the dead to comfort him.

  That’s an insane mind thinking...

  Rebecca stood, helping Bev to his feet. He leaned against a tree, hands rubbing his face, smearing mud about his worn features, eyes darting crazily back and forth.

  “Bev...are you okay?”

  “My God,” he wheezed, hands on knees, lungs heaving for air. “No...I...I don’t know.” Through the cast of gray weather and his douse of tears, he gazed at her imploring features and saw so much of Julianne, even more so than the night before when they’d made love. His heart pounded ferociously. He asked, “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “Following you.”

  “Why...?” He fought to catch his breath.

  She breathed heavily for a few moments. Then said, “Bev...we were talking on the phone earlier, about Jake. We got disconnected...I tried calling you back but I couldn’t get a signal. Eventually—it took me a long time—I got through, but you never answered. I was very worried…I’ve been trying you all afternoon! I was concerned that you...you might’ve, well that something bad might’ve happened.”

  Bev shook his head. “I was at Kristin’s place when you called,” he whispered laboriously, still out of breath. “I forgot my phone there.” He coughed hard and spit his labors onto a patch of moss. A string of saliva hung from his bottom lip.

  “I’m so sorry Bev...but...I had to find you, and talk to you...” She started sobbing, her words, breaking up. “I was so shocked and scared when I heard about Jake...I didn’t know what to do, and when I couldn’t get back in touch with you, I had to come by your place, to talk to you about it, but when I got there, I got worried. Something looked wrong. The front door was ajar. I knocked a few times and called your name, but you didn’t answer, so I went in and looked around and saw that your bedroom window was open and the rain was coming in, so I walked over to shut it, and that was when I saw you, running into the woods. I called you but you didn’t stop, so...I just...I just came after you. I’m sorry, but I didn’t know what else to do...I thought something was wrong, that you...well, that you might be really upset over Jake, that you might...might hurt yourself.”

  “You went down the fire escape?”

  She nodded.

  “You could’ve hurt yourself, Rebecca.”

  “I’m sorry…it’s just that I feel something…an unexplainable connection to you. I can’t help it. All I knew was that I needed to find you.” Shivering, Rebecca wrapped her arms round her body. “What is it, Bev? What’s happening?”

  “Jake...he didn’t drown. He was murdered.”

  Rebecca gasped. Her face fell white. She gripped her cheeks with nervous, probing fingers. “My god Bev, when did you hear this?”

  “A little more than an hour ago. A detective came by and questioned me. Told me that Jake had been choked to death with a guitar string.”

  Rebecca’s eyes grew wide, her body swaying unsteadily. “A guitar string? Bev?”

  Bev shook his head defiantly. “No, no, I didn’t kill Jake, and I don’t know who d
id.” He thought of the gouges in his palms that were no longer there, and ran his hands through his wet hair as if to wash away any remaining evidence. He looked at her. Their eyes locked, and he almost told her about the scars that had miraculously healed over.

  She stood her ground, arms crossed, waiting in tempered silence. “What, Bev? What is it?”

  Shivering, he stepped forward. “Come with me.” He grabbed her hand, eyes darting about the woods. “I’ll tell you everything when we get to where I need to go.”

  “Where’s that?” she asked, following his lead.

  He didn’t answer.

  THIRTY

  Slowly, Frederick Grover followed the black limo in and around the neighborhoods as it wound its way up into Hollywood Hills. Here, your net worth was estimated by the altitude in which your home sat—the size of the homes grew bigger as the air grew thinner. Grover stayed back, maintaining a low profile while keeping the limo in his view at all times; the rain had darkened the skies, creating a gray sheet between them, keeping his unlighted presence cloaked.

  The roads curved. The distance between the homes expanded. Finally, the limo made a left turn and stopped before an iron-gated mansion. The driver, unseen from Grover’s position at fifty yards away, reached out and punched numbers into a code-entry box. The gates opened automatically, allowing the limo access. Upon the car’s entry and disappearance behind eight-foot hedges, the gate closed. Grover inched his car up to the corner, positioning himself between a gap in the hedges. He shut off the ignition. Watched in darkened silence as the limo rolled up a long curving driveway to the entrance of the house: eight-foot twin gothic doors bathed in misty crimson lights. Besides the driver, one person emerged. They were both dressed in black robes. Quickly, they skirted into the mansion.

  Grover grabbed the radio handset in his car, cleared his throat, then called in his location and asked for details on the home’s residency.

  Officer Renee Saunders took a few seconds, humming as she waited, then answered, “Got a name. James Thornton. No other info. No priors. What’s this about?”

  “Checking a lead on the ritual murder.”

  “Need backup?”

  Grover looked at the house, thought about it, then answered, “Nah, I’ll be all right. Probably nothing.”

  Instead he told Renee to send Officer Rose over to the rectory at St. Michael’s Church. “Let’s take a shot and see if the priest is there. If he is, have Rose question him more thoroughly.” When asked why, he replied, “I have my suspicions,” to which she replied, “Smart ass.”

  He lit a cigarette, smoked it to the filter, then put on his hat and emerged from the car, keeping his eyes on the iron gates that seemed to mock him with their impassibility.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Bev stopped, hands on knees, breathing heavily, trying to allow the dizziness to fade. Rebecca, in tentative silence, watched him carefully, seemingly prepared to pick up the slack should he collapse from the exhaustion threatening to take him down. In silence, he rose from his crouch and pressed on, pulling Rebecca along, coerced by the sudden desire to find answers to the mystery abruptly dismembering his life. Along they went, heading east, Bev nearly startling with panic at the sound of every twig snapping under their footsteps: his mind, contriving the presence of those in the limo (demons?), standing at an arm’s length away, reaching out to take them both by their throats once and for all. What would Doctor Palumba say about these exaggerated responses to so many naturally common noises? He’d say that these anxieties are unique and incurable, and that schizophrenia is the most likely prognosis.

  At one point, Bev asked Rebecca, “When you arrived, was there a limo in the driveway?”

  “No,” she answered, leading Bev to believe that the occupants within had known he’d fled, and had moved on to pick up his trail. Soon, he knew, they’d find him.

  With his rolling thoughts, and his desire to flee the darkening woodland, Bev raced forward as quickly as possible, pulling Rebecca along, sidestepping brambles and roots and copses, at last nearing the edge of the woods.

  The trees thinned. In the distance he saw a few homes, each separated by a stretch of trees providing a natural privacy for the residents.

  “You know where we are?” Rebecca asked.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Just follow me, and lay low.”

  Looking nervously about, he slowly made his way from the purple shadows of the woods into the backyard of one of the homes, Rebecca following tentatively behind. The house was quaint, a shingled ranch with a circular brick patio and sliding doors. A pair of french windows looked out on either side of the doors, the curtains drawn.

  They stepped forward, out into the open; the rain had strengthened and fully saturated their clothes. Cupping their hands around their faces, they quickly scampered to the side of the house, skirting a loose garden hose. They made their way into the street, standing up as nonchalantly as possible upon reaching the curb. Bev tried to brush his clothing free of the mud and bark, an ineffectual effort, then looked up and down the short neighborhood block. He saw no one.

  Luckily, with no one present to bear witness to their evasive behavior—thank the rain—they were able to dart eagerly across the street into the backyard of another house where they crouched along a row of azaleas in an effort to blend into the environment.

  “Why are we doing this?” Rebecca asked suspiciously. “Why are you trying to hide?”

  “I told you—I’ll explain later.”

  “Is it the cops, Bev? Are they after you?”

  “No...please, just bear with me.”

  He pressed on in an evasive manner, Rebecca following Bev’s method of “dart and dodge” in the more visible areas. Thankfully, with the rainy weather, no one was outside tending to vegetable gardens, or playing basketball, or sunbathing. They wandered for twenty minutes in this fashion, traveling for nearly a half-mile until they found their way into the open parking lot of the place Bev knew he’d end up coming to—the place where he felt the answers to his crisis might be found. At one point he never thought he’d make it. But now, he was thankful to be here.

  St. Michael’s Church, on Caliendo Street.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The man heard the expectant knock upon the door. He gazed at the cracked face of the clock, stiff neck slowly craning. Eyes watering. 6:47. “Enter,” he said morosely, the numbers blurring.

  Three bodies stepped in, all donned in black robes. Their faces remained shrouded amidst the dusky shadows of the room, golden candlelight flickering against the wall behind them like spectres. With them, an odor of excrement, and of blood—already, they’d bathed in preparation of the event.

  The figure at the forefront of the trio shook his head ruefully. “God wants you.”

  The man frowned, and fidgeted. The demand had been anticipated. Allieb knows I have failed yet again to bring in the thirteenth. “The car...it is still out front?” he asked, standing, tugging at his sleeves.

  “Yes,” a male voice replied from within the dark void in the hood, unseen gaze following the man’s path to the closet.

  My hesitancy. My fear...

  He shoved pass the hooded trio and exited the dark room. Impetuously he paced the halls, past the empty rooms whose occupants kept busy in preparation. He reached the stairs and climbed them to the uppermost landing where, behind the lone door, Allieb prepared for the Legion. The man approached the door and raised a tentative fist to knock as false hope prodded his wearied heart. From behind the door ascended the tempered breathing of a sleeping boar. A foul odor emerged, that of rotting onions, stinging the man’s nose.

  Sweat jewelling his brow, he moved to knock. Then, suddenly, decided against it. He took a deep breath. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.

  I am in communication with the thirteenth, you know.

  He placed the side of his face against the door; its surface, icy cold. “My God,” he whispered into the door’s winding grain. “Where is he now? The thirteen
th. I shall again go out…this time I will not fail to bring him to you.”

  From behind the door, the snoring escalated, carrying with it an impossible echo. Then, Allieb’s voice, low and coarse, whispering in his mind: “Find the priest, and you will find the thirteenth.”

  The man backed away, skin swelling with gooseflesh.

  For the first time in years, he smiled.

  The priest...

  THIRTY-THREE

  Grover stared through the wrought-iron gates, up the length of the driveway to the parked limo sitting stoically beneath the crimson glow of the houselights; rain battered the car’s glossy finish, igniting the ebony glare, making it appear as though it had been caught under flames. He gazed curiously at the keypad entry set into the stone pillar, then, at the gates themselves. He stepped forward and reached through the slats, searching blindly for a latch. He didn’t find one. Shielding his eyes from the rain, he peered up at the fancy cathedral spires running ten feet high. In script, the wrought iron bars twisted and curved to form some brand of welcome: In Domo. Meant nothing to Grover. Might be Latin for Welcome, he thought, although he doubted his assumption. Grabbing two slats, he pressed against the gate. It made a sharp clack! sound and swung forward, creaking anciently on its hinges—a sound not unlike the growing wind that buried chills deep beneath his skin. He slipped through, careful not to shut it all the way, at once thankful he didn’t have to tackle the pointed staves lining the top of the fence, or the thick hedges abutting it.

  The land at the forefront of the house was no more than an open courtyard, a double-wide driveway intersecting it like a vein. Twenty feet in front of the house, it split into a circular shape with a cement fountain at the center of the forming circle. On the opposite side of the fountain (atop which a trio of gargoyles embraced), the two ends of the driveway met. Here the limo sat like a sleeping dragon before the twin gothic-engraved doors.