Demonologist

by Laimo, Michael

  “When is that?”

  “During the drawing of the twelve demons; we must wait until the demons have been wholly absorbed by Allieb. At that point Satan can retrieve his army all at once.”

  Thornton crawled back into the car and retrieved a small knife from the bar. Danto held Bev’s arms as he cut the plastic ties attaching Bev’s fetters to the seatbelts. The two men pulled Bev out of the limo, clutching his slumping body beneath his bound arms. Rebecca exited the car and seized him from behind, fingers curled tightly through the belt loops in his jeans. Together they lugged him up the cement steps through the twin doors leading into In Domo, nearly falling down in the vestibule.

  Before them were a second set of open doors that gave way to a large sitting room. The room was barren save for a threadbare rug whose oriental pattern had paled into the dull environment like an anglerfish on a sea bottom. Behind, the wind and rain beat heavily against the open doors, the hinges creaking hollowly in the hushed room. Danto felt a blunt tingle wash over his body, as though a gentle electric shock had passed through him. In this moment, a strong gust of wind blew in and grabbed the doors, closing out the storm with an eerie slam against the frame. Once the doors were shut, silence captured the moment, allowing Danto to hear the distant chanting filtering in through the colorless walls.

  Carrying Bev, they staggered clumsily into the sitting room and gently let him down onto the rug. There he remained, unconscious, squirming in his bonds like a worm out of earth.

  Danto took a few long deep breaths, then, eyed the barren interior. An aching pain tightened his shoulders, back, and neck. In addition to a sudden headache, he thought he might be bleeding, but realized the warm wetness to be rainwater dripping down his back. Using a sleeve to wipe his brow, he paced a few feet away from Bev, shoes squeaking wetly against the wood floor, listening…listening to the droning prayers in the surrounding woodwork, the voices, men and women alike, lost and pleading for either death or salvation. There was an odor in the air, like incense at mass, only more pungent, alluding to something organic in composition; it lived here in the walls of this evil house, he realized, as though the framework had been constructed of timber from a building whose plaster walls had burned away in some terrible blaze. He circled the room, looking at the shuttered doors and lone staircase that disappeared up into the darkness, contemplating the task at hand—the extraordinary spectacle about to be witnessed—and wondered if he’d ever perform another mass, ever relish in another offering of blood and body, ever carry out his duty in the confessional again.

  He stopped walking and closed his eyes, rubbed them, feeling a suddenly unexplainable desire wash over him, a wanton hunger: suddenly he wanted to taste the lips of a woman, to hold a feminine body, caress it, plant his gathering seed into it—a conduct he’d been able to ward off since his early twenties. And with these arcane thoughts came further lustful yearnings he never knew to exist: the desire to copulate with multiple partners, men and women and children alike; the want to pleasure himself through masturbation. Jesus! He instantly hated himself for these hideous emotions, the vow of celibacy he’d taken all those years ago now murdered by these dreadfully impulsive urges. He gritted his teeth, shook his head, muttered, “No, no, no…” Tears burdened with grief and anger and fear sprouted from his eyes. He fell to one knee, fist slamming his thigh in frustration.

  Thornton stepped over and knelt beside him. He placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Thomas, listen to me carefully. This place you are in, it is pure evil. It tempts its visitors with shameless desires and does not yield until you surrender your soul to them. Listen to me—do not give in to these baseless enticements. You must ignore them. If you don’t, they will grow dominant inside of you.” He grabbed the priest on the shoulders, shaking him slightly. “Thomas…I beg of you, be strong. Listen to your inner faith. Allow it to guide you. And by this, I do not mean your faith in God, but the faith you have in yourself to rise above the temptation. If you do this, the evil attacking you will not flourish.”

  Danto looked at Thornton, at his worn features, the tired lines creasing his tensed-up brow. An inarguable melancholy crept over him, and he felt no choice but to trust the man, despite his sudden, unexplainable reservations. He knew that if he were to be left here unaccompanied in this portal to Hell, he would perish under the crushing hand of evil.

  Thornton would guide him, not unlike the way he himself had guided the minister all those years ago with the young Allieb.

  He swallowed past the dry lump in his throat, focusing his sights on Thornton, and then, to the twitching figure on the floor that was Bev Mathers—now possessed by Satan. The image alarmed him, and he thought suddenly, What has become of me?, completely mindful of the horrible truth: that he, Father Thomas Danto, had been wholly convinced to use the Devil to combat evil. Fight fire with fire. A wave of panic struck him like a lightning bolt. Christ, no! It made no sense! It went against his every sworn conviction. Still, unfathomably, he felt no alternative but to take this course of action—a course of action that would force him participate in a clandestine ceremony of demonic ritual and worship. He rubbed his face with his palms, trying desperately to stir the utter insanity from his mind.

  A moment of alarming silence passed. He pulled his hands away from his face and looked at Thornton. He felt instantly sick. Nausea purled in his gut. His mind reeled in spastic circles of confusion. Utter disgust washed over him, forcing him to shake his head and backpedal away from Thornton.

  “Thomas? What’s wrong?”

  The tears continued pouring from his eyes, distrustful words firing from his mouth like shotgun blasts. “You’re evil…all evil. Ah…I cannot believe I allowed you to convince me of this. I must rely on my strength in God! In God!” The words came from his lips uncontrolled, adrenalized, and he couldn’t determine whether they were a result of reason, or of mutiny—his mind seemed incapable of making such a rational decision.

  “No, Thomas, no…listen to me, please.” Thornton’s voice was surprisingly calm and consoling, full of sense and wisdom despite the matter’s urgency. “The evil thriving here is lying to you, it’s trying to confuse you; psychological attack is its most powerful weapon. I should know, I was under its command for nearly twenty years.” Danto peered up at him, the minister’s words working their way into his head. “Please, listen to me, as difficult as it may seem, I know what is happening to you. You must be strong. Pay no attention to what your mind is trying to tell you.”

  Danto kept still. He closed his eyes, searching his inner lids for serenity as Thornton continued his spoken wisdoms, his voice gentle and reassuring, and at the same time, authoritative. They triggered in him something wholly enthralling, as though he’d suddenly rediscovered himself and his passion. This is what it might feel like to be born again. He pushed away his pain and listened, the minister’s words flowing seamlessly into his hexed mind like a stream of water into a funnel. Suddenly the evil thoughts were gone, now camouflaged by metaphoric images of paradise: sunsets, songbirds, blue skies, the gentle crashing of ocean waves, palm trees swaying in a cool wind. His legs began to tremble. His sights, now open to the dim world, beheld traces of light at the end of the long dark road ahead. Thornton and Rebecca stood before him, peering curiously into his face. Behind them, Bev Mathers lay motionless on the floor.

  Danto, minutes earlier finding himself on the verge of a mental collapse, and perhaps suicide, felt abnormally blissful.

  “My God…”

  “Are you okay, Father?” Rebecca asked.

  A strange vagueness beset him. “Jesus, what just happened to me?”

  “You fought off evil, my friend.

  He nodded methodically, as though aware of his feat.

  “And, I regret to say, you’ll be doing a lot more of it very soon.”

  Danto shivered, silently contemplating Thornton’s warning, then pointed toward Bev. “Is he okay?”

  “No,” Thornton said. “He needs our help.”


  Danto blew out a long, nervous gush of air. He walked past Thornton and Rebecca. Kneeled next to Bev. “What’s next?”

  “We bring him to my room.”

  ~ * ~

  The sand had vanished, as did the ovens, and the cauldrons, and the attacking arms. In its place settled the yielding walls of his stomach, encompassing him like a massive organic capsule. Straight above, the black hole of his esophagus wound into the dark heavens like a tornado’s funnel, the dense toll of his heartbeat impregnating the nightmarish surroundings. Winds blew, carrying with it the tortured screams of those burning in the tide. Fires shot up like reptile claws, pulling the tortured souls back down into the unendurable agony of the lava. Bev stood, turned around and beheld a ghastly sight: a multitude of torture devices bursting up from the blistering landscape of flesh like morays from their lairs; an iron maiden, a rack, a bath of broiling excrement, all glistening with gastric acids. Within each of the devices, Rebecca, Kristin, and Julianne met their fates. The mechanisms functioned on their own accord, planting the souls of his loved ones into the soils of pure agony: the nails of the swinging maiden perforating Rebecca’s nude form, blood geysering from her fresh injuries, her face punctured into indescribable muck; the rack, tearing Kristin into two wriggling portions, her midsection slopping its innards out in steaming masses; the cauldron’s contents alive with the bones of its past beneficiaries, grasping Julianne as she attempted to claw her way out from its blazing contents. Bev screamed, but the howling wind absorbed his voice. He reached for them, but could not move—the walls of his stomach oozed up and swallowed his feet.

  “Bev, you little turd,” came a deep voice behind him. Bev turned. The Jake-demon was there, perched ten feet away atop a huge, glistening organ. It had massive wings now, folded flat and quivering against its feathered body. The blustery wind whipped at its feathers, dozens coming loose, flying wildly about it like a storm of flies. It stood staring at Bev for a drawn-out period of time, its face transforming into some kind of man/bird hybrid, lips extending out into a black beak, a high ridge reaching out above the brow, the top of the head elongating to a rounded point. It opened its beak impossibly wide. A swarm of black beetles spilled out over the straight razors lining its jaw, and raced across its body, in and out of the gaping pockets of decay lining its midsection, and off into the organic landscape. It removed a clawed fist from beneath its right wing, waved it in the air, then swiped it across the glistening purple surface of its throne. The pain struck Bev as though a knife had been plunged into his liver. He collapsed to the organic floor, writhing in agony.

  The Jake-demon held up a rendered slab of the bleeding organ in its fist. “I should char your face and prick and slit and gouge every morsel of your being.”

  “You…need…me,” Bev stammered through the pain, realizing the demon before him to be the Devil in disguise.

  The Jake demon laughed. “I don’t need you, pissant. I need your lowly human form. You are nothing but a speck of feces on a sow’s ass.” The Jake demon laughed. “Ah, but, it appears that mankind needs a worthy opponent to battle my army of beasts. Hmmm, a nice little symbiosis of sorts. Like the bird that pecks the bugs off the bull’s back. Everyone wins.” The Jake-demon howled like a wolf, eyes glowing greenly, then took a bite out of the scrap of organ. Bev doubled over in agony. Instantly, the Jake-demon disappeared in a sudden explosion of white fire, the flames’ spires grabbing Bev like hands and hurling him across the acidic ground. He closed his eyes, feeling the acids of his stomach splattering against his face. He tried to shift his weight but his body throbbed shrilly, ribs aching screamingly, the searing heat squaring up the whole agonizing effect to unquantifiable proportions.

  There he lay, waiting for Satan’s blow to silence him forever.

  But the beetles hit him first, hundreds of tiny feet scattering all over his body.

  He screamed and screamed until he fell away into darkness.

  FORTY-FOUR

  The three of them lugged Bev through the badly lit halls, his body feverishly hot, as though he’d been sitting too close to a fire. Jewels of sweat burst across his skin. His eyelids were once again wide open, revealing upturned whites and blood-saturated veins. His mouth hung open like a drawer, pools of saliva pouring out. “It’s burning, it’s burning me,” he moaned, his body twisting in their grasp.

  “Hold tight,” Thornton said. “We’re almost there.”

  As Thornton had speculated, they passed no one in the halls, thankfully, and in a few minutes, were in his room.

  They carried Bev to the bed and placed him down. He wriggled and twitched, skin flushed red and growing hotter. His head arched back, exposing an Adam’s apple that danced like a pogo stick beneath his skin. Dark red welts had formed where the plastic ties chafed against his skin. His eyes were shut again.

  Pulling his gaze away from Bev, Danto scanned the distressing space: the moldering rug; the stained mattress sitting crookedly atop the rusted frame; the mildew coated tiles in the decrepit bathroom. A rancid stench rode the air: something had been left out for a long time.

  Here the distant chanting in the walls was louder, their close proximity to the cathedral now evident. Thornton closed the door then gazed forlornly at Danto and Rebecca, his dark face drawn in impending panic. He rubbed his chin. In this moment of inactivity, Rebecca staggered away into the bathroom and vomited again, the choking sounds befitting the miserable surroundings. Danto felt bloated and tender, but fought back his urge to join her.

  “What now?” Danto asked, feeling strangely inept despite his knowledge of the situation. Must be the house, he thought. It’s distracting me. Rebecca emerged from the bathroom, pale-faced and haggard. She positioned herself on a chair in the corner of the room and buried her face into her hands.

  “We need to distance ourselves from Mathers,” Thornton replied, knotting his fingers together nervously. He walked to the nightstand, removed a bottle of whiskey from the space below and single-handedly manipulated the top off. He took a drink. Then, offered the bottle to Danto. He refused. “Satan can emerge at anytime to take on the Legion. We must not be in his presence when this occurs. And as long as he is here, away from the other demons, we have a fighting chance.” Thornton rifled through a pile of clothing on the floor, located three black knit robes. He handed one to Danto, and one to Rebecca. “Put these on.”

  Rebecca stood up shakily, holding the robe, sobbing.

  “Get ahold of yourself!” Danto yelled nervously. She began to cry louder, uncontrollably, like a scolded child. The priest quickly donned his robe over his clothing, then grabbed the robe from her and held it up for her to slip into. She hesitated, doubtful eyes darting back and forth between the two men. Thornton approached her and grasped her hands roughly. “If you want to live, do what we say.”

  She shook her head pleadingly. “Please, I just want to leave here. I don’t belong here.” Her voice was weak and puny, like a child’s.

  Thornton stepped aside, hand waving towards the door. “If you make it out the front door, you will end up like that man we saw on the front lawn.”

  She peered down at their locked hands, looking sick and terrified, as though she’d just witnessed her own murder and had lived to tell about it. “I…I can’t do this.” Tears of frustration exploded from her eyes. She twisted her neck back and forth, in a slow and methodical fashion, as if trying to work out some kinks, then looked back at Danto. He nodded reassuringly, feeling like a liar. She pulled back her gaze and released her hands from Thornton’s grasp, then shiftlessly shrugged into the robe, sobbing the entire time.

  “Satan is listening,” Thornton said, peering at Bev’s twitching form. “He will emerge at a time that is most advantageous to him.”

  “What of Allieb?” Danto asked.

  “The demonologist is wholly consumed with the drawing. Belial is guiding him, and will insure success in possessing the remaining demons. Both Allieb and Belial are confident that Satan will
show little resistance and follow his army.”

  Thornton paced to the nightstand and opened the drawer. He retrieved a vial of holy water and a large hook key, both of which he pocketed, and then the crucifix that had recently turned from silver to rust. He held it tightly in his fingers, kissed it, then asked Father Danto to bless it. The priest took hold of the small rusted charm, pressed it against his chest and recited a silent prayer. Afterwards, he kissed the rough metal, and handed it back to Thornton.

  Holding the cross out like an offering, Thornton sat on the edge of the bed, alongside Bev. “This cross has protected me for twenty years. May it shed its miracle upon you, my brave brother.” He kissed the cross one last time and lodged it into Bev’s pocket back pocket.

  At once Bev’s body began to tremble. An icy breeze swept the room, causing gooseflesh to ripple across his exposed skin. A pleasant aroma rose up, that of perfume; it was coming from Bev.

  “It’s all your fault I’m dead, dear.”

  A woman’s voice, surfacing from Bev’s throat. Soft-spoken. Gentle.

  “You had to adopt the boy, didn’t you?”

  Thornton’s mouth fell open. “My…God…”

  It was the voice of his wife, twenty years dead at the hand of the young Allieb!

  Bev’s head rolled toward the minister, eyes open and filled with sadness, the face contorting into something nearly feminine. “You promised you would take care of me, protect me. But you didn’t. You let the boy kill me. And now I’m in here, in Hell with the rest of them.”

  Thornton buried his face in his hands. “No, no…”

  “I’m fellating a wolf, and it tastes wonderful, would you like to try it?” Tendrils of green mist seeped from his mouth.

  “No!” he screamed, lurching away.