Dead of Night

by william Todd

  “Wha—. Where am I?” Wendell asked as he looked around him in fear and confusion. “From the look of it,” the man continued, “you’re in the exact spot ya took your last step before ya done passed out, so ya are.”

  It was early morning, and there was a damp, chilly dew on the grass. A gray fog had settled in over the city from the lake, making anything over twenty feet away a gauzy specter in the wan light.

  Feeling his limbs and back for scorched flesh and singed clothing, seeing there were none, Wendell breathed a sigh of relief. He gingerly pulled himself off the ground. “What time is it?” he asked the stranger.

  “Jist past 7:30. Me and the missus live in the loft above my store there,” he pointed to the brick two-story building to his right. “I was just coming down to empty me pot when I seen ya laying there. Well, boy, you musta tickled the bottom of the bottle with yer tongue last night, so ya must.”

  Slowly, his surroundings became familiar. He was in the weeded lot between the two buildings where he had stumbled and lost his light. There, to his right was the footpath. He could even see the root he’d tripped over with the votives laying on their sides nearby.

  “Been years since I couldn’t see the holes in a ladder, so it has. The missus, she don’t take too kindly to drunkards. It was either her or the booze, she told me, so she did. Well, look at me. I ain’t but a runt of a man, and not very afternoonified.” He threw his hands up in the air, as if in defeat. “What could I do? So the missus won out over the whiskey. But what man wouldn’t pick hooters over hooch, I ask.”

  Wishing to extricate himself from his new, extremely talkative acquaintance, Wendell just nodded and said, “And I’m sure it was the best decision you’ve ever made.”

  The man was about to go into another dissertation of some sort or other, but Wendell cut him off, “Thank you, sir, for rousing me. You’ve done me a great favor, one I hope I may be able to repay at a later time. However, last night’s merriment has made me late for another appointment.” He shook the man’s hand vigorously then ran away before the man could respond, first picking up his votives, then sprinting towards the Reed House a block away, still reaching wildly at his arms and back.

  . . . . . When the knock came at 8:45, Wendell was prepared. The early morning fog was not readily giving up its foothold on the area, and dark spaces clung like frightened children to any space not near a light source. He had relit the votives from the church and the four candles and oil lamp in the room. It wasn’t the Presque Isle light house light but it would do.

  Wendell answered the door, eagerly shook the priest’s hand and motioned for him to enter. “So how was your night?” Father Casey asked in anticipation, as he took a seat at the writing desk near the window.

  Wendell couldn’t sit, so he paced from window to bed to window again. He felt movement would keep his mind working and his senses sharper. He also needed to work off a fretful energy he’d had since he was aroused from his torturous dream. “Not so good,” he replied after making a quick circuit.

  “You fell asleep?” “No, I tripped on my way back to the hotel and the candles went out. The thing in the shadows grabbed me.” He shuddered but didn’t finish the thought. There was really no reason to go into the details of what happened next.

  The priest sensed the same thing and didn’t push for any more particulars. He only said, “You didn’t—”

  “I didn’t,” Wendell interjected.

  “Well, good for you,”

  “No, good for them.” “Well, yes, you are right,” Father Casey agreed sheepishly.

  “So please. Let’s cut the niceties and get down to it. What can you tell me about this creature?” The priest drew a hesitant breath and began. “First, you should know that I have been researching mightily this creature that has attached itself to your family. Ever since your father first came to me I’ve been pouring over volumes, some quite ancient, in Monsignor’s study. I dare say that some tomes might be as old as he is.”

  Wendell looked unpretentiously at the priest in his attempt at levity.

  “Uh hem, yes, well I have found very little information on this daemon parasitus.”

  Wendell stopped mid-step. “This what?” “Sorry. You must remember that Christianity is very old, nearly two thousand years, and the study of demons has gone even longer when you factor in Jewish literature. They are categorized in families or types much the same way scientists categorize animals, plants or insects.”

  “You’re losing me on this.”

  “Ok, think of, say, beetles, and bees, and spiders and crickets and such; they are all insects but they belong to different families or kinds of insects. Demons are classified much the same way, based on the kind of demon they are. The religious back then had more time on their hands to undertake such endeavors, apparently. Anyway, this particular kind of demon is classified as a daemon parasitus or parasitic demon. They latch onto a person and feed off its soul, like a parasite does to its host—think of a flea or tick or maybe mosquito when it latches onto an arm or neck. Unfortunately, very little is known about this genus of demon, or at least very little has been written about them in the volumes I’ve thus researched. They are some of the oldest demons recorded, only one or two generations removed from the Original Fall. The ancients called them the Niphilim. Their existence is well known by the religious; however their habits, how and why they attach themselves to people, and how to combat them—well, little seems to have been written about that, unfortunately. I came across this information only a few days ago, so the revelation wasn’t much consolation to your father.”

  By this time, Wendell had stopped his frenetic pacing and took a seat on the edge of the bed, feet crossed underneath him. “Ok, that’s a start.”

  “From what I’ve read they attach themselves and feed off the souls, which is different from the more familiar possession where the demon actually takes control of the body.”

  “How do we stop them from feeding? How do we stop them from moving on to whoever they want next?” “Ah,” Father Casey said, wagging his finger, “that is the next part of the puzzle that needs to be solved. It seems they cannot take another soul unless they are given permission. Even Satan and his minions have Providential Laws that must be followed—that much is clear. That seems to be the main purpose of this façade of torture.”

  “Façade my ass,” Wendell disagreed. “Sorry, no offense intended.” The priest smiled. “None taken. You have to remember that you are coming out of these acts unscathed, physically, anyway, so all the torture you endure is made up. It may feel real in the moment—that I do not doubt; but its purpose is only to get your consent, nothing more. Remember, it already has your soul. Now it needs to think ahead to where its next meal is coming from. The simulated torture is this thing’s mechanism of securing that.”

  Father Casey realized the last comment’s consequence when Wendell’s features suddenly sagged from subdued hope to melancholia. He tried to undo it. “Just because this demon has your soul does not in any way mean it is going to keep your soul. My purpose in this endeavor has always been two-fold and it will remain that, I assure you.”

  Recovering himself, if only slightly, Wendell asked, “So what happens if I don’t give in? Will it go away?” Father Casey sighed. “I honestly don’t know. Maybe there are stories that I haven’t yet come across that give an account of those that broke the cycle. I’m sure they are there. Now it is my singular duty to find them.” There was an uncomfortably long silence before the priest spoke again. “I’m afraid that you are now completely up to date.”

  “That is all you know?”

  “Believe it or not, that’s quite a bit more that what your father knew.”

  “Well that hardly helps at all.” Wendell got up and began his pacing, once again. The priest rubbed his forehead broodingly, “I understand your frustration, but you must understand that this may take some time. I have a limited library from which to work, although I believe I will find
our answers in it, and I have a limited amount of time in which to search. I can honestly tell you that almost every free minute that I have at my disposal is used in this one endeavor.”

  “Is there a possibility that you can change almost every free minute to actually all of them?” “Monsignor has over two dozen volumes on demonology alone. I have been at this since your father came to me months ago and have only gotten through sixteen volumes. It was all I could do to find this

  information. I had never even heard of this kind of demon before I started on this journey.”

  Father Casey let out a heavy sigh, as though a great weight had been placed upon his chest. “I will do everything in my power to save you and your children. You must believe that. However, I ask that you, to the best of your ability, practice patience. If we are lucky you may yet win this battle. A battle just starting for you but one, may I remind you, your father fought silently for a very long time. As bleak as all seems right now, yours is a privilege your father did not get the chance to have.”

  The blade of that statement cut Wendell to the quick. But it was a necessary wound for it pulled him back from a fast-forming self-pity. “I apologize. I will persevere for as long as it takes to find the answers we need. I don’t have a choice.”

  “Good.” Wendell and the priest walked to the door together. As Father Casey opened the door, he said, “I am going back to the parish to pour over some more volumes. Monsignor is visiting with the bishop for the entire day, so I should be able to work unencumbered. If I can find anything else that might be of help, I will come straight here with the news, I promise.”

  Wendell smiled weakly. “Thank you.”

  “I will not let you or your family down. We will get through this. I promise.” The priest’s words had a forced conviction and as Wendell closed the door, he wondered if the priest was trying to convince himself more than Wendell of the statement’s veracity.

  Within an hour the sun had burned off the foggy veil, and Wendell felt safe enough to leave his room. The air was chilly, which was a welcome and soothing feeling, as he ambled aimlessly through the streets. Even though the waking nightmare of the preceding night was only a “façade”, and he had no visible burns, something inside him felt different. It seemed that each horror built upon the previous one, erecting a lead-weighted edifice in his stomach housed full of dread and ghastly uncertainty and unimaginable fear, not for him so much, but for his children, who he hadn’t seen since they were babies.

  In a haze that equaled anything from a pipe, and without even realizing it, his feet had unconsciously taken him in a familiar direction.

  7

  A half-hour’s walk east along the ridgeline of the bay, past the mouth of Mill Creek, Wendell finally came upon a strip of old clapboard houses that straddled a dirt street with no name. These dwellings had once housed the workers of a saw mill. The mill had been deserted for some time, and the original tenants had long ago abandoned the row-houses in search of employment elsewhere. In their place were those of a social persuasion a gossamer’s width higher than a pauper—they were the working poor.

  Verity’s small flat was at the near end of the row, under the decrepit umbrella of an ancient willow partly cleaved in the middle of its great trunk from weight and time. Its gnarled, weeping branches, half naked with yellowing leaves, were more dead than alive. Those autumn-parched patches cast uneven shadows across the chipped and graying whitewash. The dried skeletons of Queen Ann’s Lace and Goldenrod poked up from cracks in the walkway and along the entire base of the row of houses.

  Wendell had anticipated that Verity and the twins were home. A wisp of blue that flickered past a sootblackened side window assured him his intuition hadn’t erred.

  He wasn’t going to just knock and assert himself. He had no right. His children wouldn’t know him, and Verity would more likely than not forbid him from crossing the threshold, anyway. He had broken her heart nearly four years ago and just showing up on her doorstep, contrite, could not change the past.

  He left the dirt road for a more clandestine approach through the high weeds and overgrown shrubbery.

  He would watch them vicariously through the window. As he stalked through the browning weeds, Wendell came to the conclusion that the animals here had less than even their cousins in the wild, for at least those beasts had shelter and plenty to eat and lived out their lives contented until preyed upon by something higher on the food chain. In this forgotten spot, however, nothing was guaranteed— even to animals unlucky enough to have been domesticated. Here and there dead carcasses, some more recently deceased than others, littered his path to Verity’s window. Wendell picked his way through them, slapping at hungry flies and desperate fleas searching out new blood on which to feed.

  It seemed an odd paradox to Wendell—those unwanted, poor souls that society had thrown away, who themselves take in a stray dog or cat for amity and companionship but ultimately having to pick between feeding themselves or their new friends. This browning patch of weeds was a testament to whose will had been done.

  Having finally slinked his way across the animal necropolis, Wendell pressed himself up against the rotting wood along the outer wall, next to the window.

  Several muffled voices could be heard beyond the dirty glass, but Wendell’s view was too acute to make anything out. He crept closer and dared to press his eyes to the glass.

  Inside, to his left beyond an archway, were three children—two girls and a boy—sitting around a small table, happily keeping themselves busy with childish gibberish and laughing playfully. A fourth younger girl with matted hair and a dirty face was sitting on the floor watching the other three.

  He recognized immediately Abel and Becca at the table; they were the older of the children. They had their mother’s dark, Mediterranean features but Wendell’s blue eyes and curly hair. However beautiful they were in his eyes, he couldn’t help but notice the shallow cheeks, the bony hands and legs, the gray hue to their skin—the general disposition of the malnourished.

  His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes welled with tears. Their ill circumstance was his fault. He had abandoned them when they most needed him. Although he suffered emotionally for that idiotic choice—suffering that was only ever alleviated temporarily by opium—they suffered doubly, for they lacked both the love of a father and his ability to keep them fed.

  Suddenly, from around a corner in the room, a young, dark-haired woman appeared with a plate and a small, round loaf of cut bread. She set it on the table and gave a slice to the girl on the floor, while the others each grabbed a dry slice and began to eat hungrily. It was Verity. She still had most of her youthful beauty, however she looked beaten and tired on that emaciated frame. It was obvious by the look of her that she was letting the children eat while she went without. His time away from them now sickened him at his heart.

  The two other children looked nothing like Verity or the twins; they were pale and each had stringy blond hair. Wendell looked as best he could into the other rooms to see if another woman could be glimpsed at another task, but the rest of the flat looked empty. He decided that the mother of the younger children was probably at work somewhere. Husband-less women often pooled their resources, watching each other’s children while the other worked. Some of the luckier ones would even convince their bosses to let them split a ten hour shift with a friend so one of them would be at home at all times to take care of the children. They each got paid less but the two together made the wages of one. It wasn’t ideal, but it helped many families survive, if only barely.

  Instead of coming here and surreptitiously ruminating on a once happier time of his life to make himself feel better, he now felt worse. An air of utter incompetence was beginning to overwhelm him.

  He peered out over browning landscape to regather himself, as he wiped tears from his cheeks. If all that wasn’t enough, he doubted he had the stamina his father possessed to keep his children from the clutches of the demon in the d
arkness. He no longer cared about himself. He would gladly spend eternity in its clutches to spare his boy and girl. Yet, he couldn’t begin to fathom the year of torture his own father had endured for him of the magnitude that Wendell had endured in just this one night passed. The priest might be able to find an answer in those ancient books. He seemed confident he would. Wendell had his doubts. If Father Casey did, however, somehow figure this out, he feared the revelation would come too late.

  A heavy, stuttered sigh later he put his eyes back to the window. He would afford one last glimpse before heading back into town and waiting with utter impatience for word on any headway made by the priest. It was then that he saw it: In the corner of the room behind the children at the table, in the caliginous murk between two bare cupboards on the joining walls, the shadows moved. It was like a slick mass of rain-soaked earth with worms fighting to its surface.

  Wendell’s heart skipped a beat.

  Verity walked to the table, took up the plate of bread from the children, and placed it in one of those empty cupboards, seemingly unaware of the thing in the shadows. It appeared she was looking right at the demon without so much as a gasp or startle. Then he remembered that his father had tried to show Father Casey, but he had been unable to see it. Wendell concluded that the monstrosity must only show itself to those it is tormenting, or—part of the Providential Law the priest had spoken of—it can only be seen by them.

  As soon as Verity moved away from the cupboard to attend another task out of his view, he could see the thing more clearly. Its vomitous eyes were now open, and it cast its unholy gaze down at the children. The putrid glow of them brightened, as if in anticipation. Then those disgusting sockets shot at once to Wendell at the window. A thin jagged line, like black lightning, appeared in the oily space under those eyes; it had bared a contemptuous, stygian grin at him, which quick-froze his marrow.