Thornton listened to the other demons in the room who were now awaking from their slumbers. He turned and gazed at the moving forms in the cages, the shifting shadows, the eyes glowing at him from within, like jackals in the night. The room grew suddenly frigid. The hair on his arms stood on end. His breath unfurled from his mouth in a cold hazy plume.
He gazed back at the cage. The girl-demon inside had collapsed to the floor, where she writhed like a salted slug, the eyes bulging grotesquely from their sockets. A string of gibberish sprung from her lips, interspersed by deep, croaky breaths.
“Who are you?” Thornton demanded.
“Fuck you, priest!”
He sprinkled more holy water upon the girl. She bellowed in terrible agony, a deep chorus of voices screaming the name of the demon inside her: “Abbadon! Abbadon!” Like a springing insect, the girlish figure bounded up from the floor and crashed against the front bars of the cage, reaching her ravenous arms toward Thornton. He backpedaled from the filthy, groping fingers. The girl-demon bellowed, barked, snorted, her marred face pressing between the iron bars like a monkey at the zoo.
Thornton swallowed past the burning lump of fear in his throat, thinking back to the exorcism that he and Danto had performed on Allieb over twenty years ago. It had taken two men—one an experienced priest—over five hours to complete. And, although it had driven the demons out, it had not fully purged the soul of the demonologist, and perhaps the soul of Belial, from the boy’s body. Feeling a wave of sudden hopelessness, he half-heartedly sprinkled more holy water at the girl-demon, shouting weakly, “Be gone Abbadon, back to the fires of Hell from whence you emerged!”
The girl-demon hurled herself to the cement floor; somewhere inside her, a bone snapped. She writhed there in absolute pain, howling monstrously, choking, jerking spasmodically as hunks of bloody phlegm sputtered from her mouth. Thornton, vision swimming in a blur, cringed as her jaw cracked loudly, and then, in a horrifying display, de-hinged itself, forming an open maw one could easily fit a fist into. Her tongue slumped out in a limp heap, spilling saliva.
Yet, still, the words came, clearly defined in their hideous tone, despite her motionless lips: “The girl is mine, you fucking charlatan. Be gone!”
He dropped his gaze to the floor, wholly defeated; his efforts…they were utterly futile, he knew, and in spite of any valiant effort, would go unrewarded. The demon would persist, maintain its hold on the vehicle with all its power and might, for it realized the rewards of its labors would soon be attained: freedom from Satan’s domain in the bowels of Hell, with a place on earth alongside the throne of its new prince, Allieb.
Thornton realized his intentions to be noble—in theory, exorcising even one demon would very well prove itself successful in weakening Allieb’s war against Satan. But, given the time and energy and forces needed to accomplish such a daunting task, it made the idea impractical.
But, there was one other option. It was laying on a dark shelf in his mind, and was the reason he did not invite Danto or anyone else for that matter to join him in facing up to his son. Looking at the demon-child, and realizing there were others like her that would fight to the bitter end, he knew that no other alternative existed than to rely on one evil to defeat another.
Fight fire with fire.
With a ghastly wheeze, the girl fell into a fitful slumber, eyes closed, thick mucus running from her nose.
Thornton capped the vial and placed it in his pocket, then paced away from the cage, eyes searching the floor as he rubbed his throbbing head. His brain…it felt as though it had begun to waste away, a feverish heat and clawing pain dousing his mind and body, despite the cold air.
A sensation of grasping fingers scratched on the surface of his brain.
Then, a voice: Father…
Allieb.
Time was short; the demonologist had left his lair and was hiding somewhere nearby, waiting to commence with the drawing. Thornton moved away from the cage to the right side of a wooden rack. He gripped a black metal hook embedded in its grain, then leaned down to pick up a thick steel chain from the floor. He eyed the chain nervously, running the cold links through his trembling fingers, each one a sin waiting to be committed. With the chain looped around his hand, he staggered back to the girl’s cage in blinding silence, wobbly from the conscious sin he was about to commit. He gazed at the slumbering demon, then turned around to survey the looming basement.
In the other cages, glowing eyes stared back at him.
Slowly he removed the hook key he’d taken from the nightstand in his room. Gripping the chain in his right hand, he slipped the key into the lock on the girl’s cage. From behind, a chorus of growls emanated, like a tribe of baboons howling over the presence of a nearby hunter.
The blood howled in his veins, filling his ears with a numbing deafness; he screamed in an attempt to fill his soul with an overwhelming sense of detestation, of hatred. As the weakness in his body ascended into hate-filled strength, he flung open the door to the cage, raised his strengthening arms, and brought the steel chain down onto the head of the girl demon.
Her wasted body flung sideways and slammed against rear wall, spilling an obscene trail of blood on the floor. A deafening wail erupted from her unmoving jaw, a monstrous bellow of pain and torture and defeat, as impending death fell upon the twitching vehicle that held the demon Abbadon.
The only way to defeat evil is through evil itself.
Fight fire with fire.
In a mad state, Thornton leaped at the girl. He brought the chain down on her skull, again and again, crushing it into a soft mass. Behind him, the demons howled in a fury, all of them thrashing against their cages, an obscene ensemble performing their hellish symphony. The cacophony beat against Thornton’s ears, and he dropped the chain and fell to his knees before the girl’s twitching body, hands pressing against the sides of his head. The demons continued wailing. The agony sliced into him, like heavily-hammered nails, his skull feeling as though it were being chiseled away from the surface of his brain, clawed hands reaching from within to take hold of an unexplored world.
And then, abruptly, the demons ceased their wicked chorus, bathing the cellar in complete, menacing silence.
Still in the cage, feeling the hot threading seep of blood against his knees, Thornton pulled his hands away from his head. He opened his eyes. Tasted bitter blood in his mouth, licked his lips nervously as he surveyed the quiet basement. A few feet away, the cadaver wheezed as putrid gasses made an escape.
The red light was still aglow, faintly igniting the shadows within the cages, and the reflective gleam of their watchful eyes. The sounds that had saturated the basement moments earlier had completely ceased to exist: the fits, the growls, the snorts, the roars. Not a single breath could be heard. Thornton stood, paced hesitantly from the cage, wondering, What did I do? My God, what did I just do?
With a hard, nearly impassable lump in his throat, he stepped deeper into the basement, passing additional cages, and the glinting eyes from within that followed him as he went by. As he moved forward, the red light strengthened, glowing strongly from the cinder wall at the opposite end of the cellar. The air felt suddenly dense, as though congealing. A harsh, death-like odor materialized. Thornton stopped, stared hypnotically at the crimson radiance, eyes ferreting out a faint gray form taking shape at its core. His gaze shifted briefly toward the two closest cages beside him. He locked eyes with one demon—a bald, middle-aged man—pressed against the bars, hands stretched out, fingers groping the air just inches away from his face. It opened its toothless mouth and produced a catlike hiss, tongue darting in and out swiftly.
Thornton turned away from the demon and refocused his sights upon the dark gray shadow developing inside the red light.
In his pocket, he fingered the vial of holy water.
In his head, a scratching sensation, and then, a familiar voice: That won’t help you against me, father.
He shuddered, realizing his unconditional defeat, knowing th
at the only way to save Bev Mathers, Thomas Danto, and Rebecca Haviland, was to separate himself permanently from them; that, Allieb had known all along his father had severed his trance, had “switched sides,” so to speak. But, had also seen no threat in his father’s knowledge of the drawing of the thirteen demons, and that no matter who Thornton recruited in a battle, it would prove as no threat; that, despite this lack of threat Thornton represented, he would still pay a dire price for his betrayal.
But now, Thornton had killed one of the vehicles, thereby releasing Allieb’s hold upon one of the demons. Unless all thirteen demons were absorbed by Allieb, then a threat would exist for him. With no vehicle to lock in Abbadon, Satan could easily retrieve his demon soldier, fuse its strengths with His own and strike heavily against Allieb upon his he drawing of the remaining demons into his body.
Thornton closed his eyes and recited a silent prayer to God. When he opened them, the red light had vanished. He stood in the pitch black—a darkness rivaled in its silence—feeling the sinister gazes of the demons upon him.
And then, from behind him, a deep, throaty voice, more animal than human: “Father…”
Thornton darted around. Standing there, bathed in the piercing yellow glow of his eyes, was Allieb. He’d grown even more monstrous since Thornton’s last encounter with him in the attic. Thornton gazed helplessly at the beast that was his son, at the straggled matting of hair covering his head; at the skeletal limbs jutting stiffly from his emaciated torso, now covered with thick, scaly skin; at the swelling abdomen and the eight horrid nipples wriggling from it; at the short supine tail that swung lazily across his bare buttocks; and then, back to his eyes—eyes that shifted to observe the man standing miserably before him.
Thornton moved to speak; the words failed to burrow past the mound of fear in his throat.
Allieb stepped forward, now eye-to-eye with the man who adopted him over thirty years earlier. The demonologist snorted like a horse, the gush of putrid gas spilling from his lungs nearly unendurable. “Who is your God?” he asked Thornton, his voice deep, strident, demanding.
In a quick flick of the wrist, Thornton removed the vial of holy water from his pocket, flipped the rubber stopper off with his thumb, and splashed the entire contents on Allieb, shouting, “The Lord Jesus Christ, is my God! Damn you to Hell!”
A hellish din ensued, the demons, rattling against their cages furiously, deafening howls chorusing together into the shriek of a thousand hurricanes, Allieb himself raising his arms high, a blinding glow of red light emerging from behind his broadening body, a roar gunning from his lungs, deep and colossal, hitting Thornton like a tangible force, knocking him to the ground. Allieb, panting, towered over Thornton, his thick, scaly skin oozing where the holy water had struck him, bloody and seeping with pus. He grinned a mouth rife with black stumps for teeth; eyes sharp, yellow, reptilian, peering vindictively down at him.
“Does your God approve of your conspiracy with the Devil, dear father?”
Thornton remained on the ground, lips trembling, reciting a silent prayer: Dear Lord, please deliver me from this servant of evil…
Allieb laughed. In the cages, the demons mimicked his mirth—a symptom of blind adoration. “Your soul is mine, father. Or, shall I say, that of Abaddon’s.”
Allieb raised his arms. From behind, the door to the cage of the dead girl slammed open, then closed, then open. With a screeching fracture, it tore free of its hinges and flew across the basement, colliding with the cinder wall. With a quick thrust of his claw, the demonologist grabbed Thornton by the neck and pulled him close to his grinning maw. A thick string of hot spittle fell upon his cheek.
“Jesus is weeping, dear father.”
Thornton’s lungs gasped for air. He felt his consciousness slipping away, falling down, down, down, his very soul plummeting into the depths of his bowels.
In his boyhood voice, Allieb began to sing a Latin-phrased hymn.
And as Thornton fell into Hell, he could hear the distant tune of the demons singing along.
FORTY-SEVEN
Deep in the entrails of Hell, Bev Mathers finally slept. In his dreams, he saw Julianne. She stood beside the lake at Alondra Park, waving to him, telling him in an ethereal voice to come over to her. Kristin was there too, as an adult, sitting on the bench alongside her mother, petting a white swan. They were both smiling, offering mountains of reassurance to Bev that everything was going to be all right. Bev approached them, tears of joy filling his eyes. He stood before Julianne, his wife, looked into her adoring eyes. He took her hands. They felt…rough. With trepidation, he looked down at them and saw that he held two lizard claws. Repulsed, he threw them down, then looked at her with fear and disgust. She smiled. “What’s wrong, dear?” she asked, her voice carrying a gentle, comforting lilt. From the corner of her mouth, a swan’s feather appeared, its downy white tainted with a thin streak of blood. It tremored in the gentle breeze, then swept away over the lake. “Honey? What’s wrong?” she again asked. Bev jerked his gaze away from the fluttering feather, then pulled back from her, his feet squelching in a puddle of acid. He looked over at Kristin. The swan in her lap was now dead, its gut shredded open, the innards dangling like streamers. She was petting it soothingly. “Daddy, come to us,” she requested, the generous smile on her face cloaking something sinister. “No,” he muttered, shrinking back. “No.” A deep rumble emerged from Julianne’s mouth. When he looked at her, her eyes were yellow and glaring, the pupils shaped like diamonds. “Allieb’s attempt at Legion has begun,” she said, her voice deep, monstrous. “You are about to experience agonies you never thought imaginable. Be strong, and you shall be spared.” At the finish of her words, Julianne collapsed to the floor in a dead heap, as did Kristin. The serene environment melted away, its illusion giving way to the fiery acids of Hell. Bev, once again imbued with unendurable pain, screamed and screamed until unconsciousness trounced him and he crumpled back down onto the burning floors of Hell.
~ * ~
Silence filled the cathedral, the circle having remained at a standstill since Allieb’s concealed roar put an end to the congregation’s perambulatory chant. Through the tops of his eyes, Danto chanced a forward glance toward the altar. The candles burned brightly, the hooded participants on the opposite side keeping their shrouded gazes down. His grasp on the hand of Rebecca, and that of the faceless woman’s to his left, had gone numb. His feet ached, his knees quivered. He fought to simply stand.
Suddenly, a low monotonal hum pervaded the room. Deep; seemingly amplified; musical in its delivery. The six second vocalizations repeated six times at the same even pitch, and were immediately followed by a series of loud, echoey poundings that sent vibrations deep into the framework of the house. Danto could feel the tremors racing painfully from his feet straight up through his body into his throbbing head. After the poundings, the hum returned; this time the pitch waxed and waned, composing a dark, droning melody. The flames on the candles rose nearly six inches, flickering like ghosts. The hum stopped, and the poundings ensued, the entire house shaking under their authority. Amazingly, everyone in the circle remained stoic, despite the looming danger. Danto squeezed Rebecca’s hand. Gently, she squeezed back, soothing Danto’s fear of being left alone amid this chaos.
Alone.
Where is Thornton?
As the trade-off of hummings and poundings continued, Danto noticed a rimmed serving plate being passed along the circle of partakers to his left. He watched as a male member retrieved the plate, bowed gently toward the altar, then removed something from it and placed it in his mouth. The act lasted not ten seconds before being repeated by the next individual. Danto swallowed hard, remembering what Thornton had told him before coming here: Do not react to the unfolding events. Just follow along with the ceremony, quietly and obediently, do not draw attention to yourself, and speak to no one.
The plate eventually reached the woman next to Danto. She disconnected her cold grasp from his, removed what a
ppeared to be a host, bowed to the altar, and placed it in her mouth. She then handed the offering to Danto.
Danto took it from her. He peered down at the contents.
It was half-filled with irregularly shaped hosts.
They were brownish-red in color.
It was at this moment that he realized what he was about to put into his body, and he shuddered with repulsion. These hosts were made with flour…and blood. Who’s blood, or what’s blood, he had no guess; he did know that this act indicated a “beginning phase” of Allieb’s black mass.
The drawing, it was near.
He removed one of the hosts from the plate. It was misshapen, thicker and heavier than one of God’s usual offerings: a thin tasteless wafer composed of flour and blessed water. He trembled, did his damnedest to erase his mind of the offense that was about to be committed.
He placed the host in his mouth.
His head rushed. His tongue twinged from the sharp coppery hint. Nausea purled in his gut, and despite the lack of saliva in his mouth, he swallowed the pasty wafer down before his stomach could shove it back up.
Eyes closed, he stood there momentarily, gripping the plate tightly, trying to rid his mouth of the lingering aftertaste. A restless murmur rose amongst the participants. He soon realized his hesitation, and quickly passed it to Rebecca.
She performed the ritual like a pro, accepting the host with no noticeable uncertainty, then promptly handed the offering to the participant on her right. In minutes, everyone attending the congregation had taken part in the communion, the near-empty plate returned by a cloaked member to the foot of the altar.
Time passed sluggishly. A harsh burning ball carved a hole in Danto’s gut. He swallowed hard, stifling the acids crawling up his esophagus.
Moments later, a faint red light formed at the center of the altar, seeping up along the edges of what appeared to be a trap door in the platform. At this point many of the people, despite the veil of their hoods, closely monitored the light as it grew brighter, its beams reaching out along the edges of the rectangular-shaped access.
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