by william Todd
It knew he was there. Maybe, Wendell thought, it was only there because he was. It manifest itself in the presence of his children only to torment him. In a way, its nearness to them now anguished him more than being burned alive in some demented torture chamber.
Suddenly, something unexpected happened. His fear was quickly replaced with anger—a protective anger that any man should have when harm presented itself to his children. A righteous anger for what is true and good when evil and corruption prevailed.
Then, unaccountably, something else presented itself; something for which he was not prepared—a thought. The seeds of an idea that seemed to be watered by his wrath began to sprout in the fertile field of his mind. A concatenation of things said and things seen. In that moment, for reasons unknown to him, Wendell thought he had found a way to defeat the demon.
No longer caring for surreptitiousness, He ran from the window, through the high weeds, and back onto the dirt road. Once out of sight from the dilapidated row houses, he lessened his sprint to a fast walk and headed back towards town, all the while with a gritty determination affixed to his face. There were things needing put into place before his plan came to fruition.
Come nightfall, he would rid his family of this demon for good. That reflection at last made him smile.
8
Father Casey unfastened his reading glasses and pushed the open volume away in frustration. He pinched at his nose and tried to blink clearness back into his eyes. Four other volumes were splayed open, cluttered across his desk.
Nothing. He’d found nothing. He was beginning to think that maybe these books did not contain the answers he needed, though several more books lay unopen at his feet. He’d heard that Saint Vincent Seminary in Latrobe had quite an extensive library for its seminarians. That would be his next recourse if these proved fruitless.
He pulled out his pocket watch and clicked it open: 6:10 pm. He wasn’t surprised monsignor had yet to return from visiting the bishop, because, quite frankly, it might be one of the last times the two old friends would meet in this life. Lately, the old man’s gate had gotten more unsteady and painful, and Father Casey figured it wouldn’t be long before he would take to his bed for good.
The priest decided he would go spend the night with Wendell. He would keep vigil with him during this second troubling night, since he was no help to the man on his first.
As he left his study, he passed by a nun reading on a settee in front of a small fire in the common room of the rectory. She was monsignor’s nurse. Although she was reading, she had a worried look on her face.
Appraising the look Father Casey said, “Don’t worry, sister. Monsignor will be home soon.”
Looking up she said, “He should have let me go with him. I wouldn’t have been a bother. What if he needs me?” “Oh, you know him. He just wanted to have one last night with the bishop as a friend and not as a co-laborer. They are probably sitting in the parlor smoking cigars and rehashing old war stories. They were both at Gettysburg, you know—one as a soldier and one as a chaplain.”
“Now that’s something to talk about,” she said admonishingly. The priest pulled on the overcoat he grabbed from a coatrack next to the door. “When he returns will you tell him that I am visiting a friend whose father just died. I may not be back till morning.”
“But . . . but I’ll be here with him alone. That is not proper.” “Sister, Jesus let a woman kiss his feet because he knew her intentions were holy. I really don’t think the good Lord will hold it against you being alone in monsignor’s company for, what—a half hour, forty minutes, to get him ready for bed before you retire to your room.”
Shaking her head vigorously, the nun said, “I really don’t think it right and proper to leave me here unattended.” He smiled in that gentle and warming way he was known for. “Sometimes the rules have to be bent, even if just a little, when exorcising the duties to which we are called. This soul cannot wait. He needs comforting. Do I neglect him out of social decorum?”
She thought it over for a moment. “No, I suppose not. But it still makes me very uncomfortable.” “May I suggest you offer it up in prayer.” With that, Father Casey left the rectory and stepped out into a growing twilight.
. . . . Wendell sat in a nervous anticipation in front of the curtained window of his room. The place was already in a dark gray pall, and in only a few more moments darkness would fully consume it.
Next to him on the writing desk was a candle. Wendell had previously trimmed the wick until it was just above the wax. He lit it, and the diminutive flame barely cut through the gloom—just as he wanted.
He pulled from within his suitcoat the pocket watch which he had taken from his father’s room the day before. It shook gently in his hand, yet he was not afraid. Events, however severe, never dictated a body’s need for more opium. This time it would not get what it so desperately wanted. He traced the smooth gold of the watch as best he could with his fingertips. He didn’t open it for the time; the time did not matter. He held it for strength. A strength he did not possess in and of himself but needed now more than ever.
He waited for the demon.
A few minutes later, the darkness awakened.
A moment after, the yellow eyes found life in that turbid froth. “Good evening, Mr. Wiggins,” it said in a speech that sounded like broken glass being trampled underfoot. “Are you prepared for this evening? I have been waiting anxiously for us to play some more.”
“I am ready,” Wendell replied with steely determination. “But let us have a conversation first. We have time. As you said, eternity is pregnant with it. So let’s chat first.”
It was silent for a long moment, as if ascertaining an underlying motive for the request. “As you wish,” it finally said.
It crept closer to Wendell but still stayed in the darker shadows, at first. Wendell placed the watch on his lap and crossed his arms. “Why have you attached yourself to my family?” he asked, trying to conceal a quiver in his speech.
“Why not?” it replied. “You are no better or worse than anyone else. The decision was made many centuries ago with no consideration to the who or the why. It just is.”
“What did you do to my father’s soul when he died?”
“It might be easier to show you than to tell you.” The thing then approached the lesser gloom, giving Wendell the first opportunity to glimpse in fuller detail its grotesqueness. It had an ill-defined form that approached that of a large, misshapen man. The surface of the thing was blacker than the shadows it occupied and had an unctuous shell that oozed like liquid mercury. However, the most horrific part of the thing was the large, bulging
protuberances that appeared and melted back into its body, like a bubble forming on hot tar that doesn’t break but is absorbed back into the molten liquid.
At first, Wendell pressed back into his chair in fear that one of these pustules would pop and splash some ghoulish acid onto his face that would eat its way into his brain. But what he saw on a more deliberate inspection made his first thought seem pedestrian. Faces could be seen within those bosselations, pressing against the membranous skin of the thing with wild exasperations of horror on their faces. It was as though they were trying yet failing to escape it. One of those faces was that of his father. To his horror, another was that of his mother.
Wendell gasped, and his mind spun uncontrollably. It was his mother who had passed the demon to his father. The thought sickened him.
That revelation and Wendell’s reaction made the creature snort out a gleeful resonance like that of a train crash. “You really must be careful what you wish for.”
With every ounce of fortitude that coursed through his body, Wendell regained himself. There was still something which needed done, and that disclosure would not hinder his plan. He said, “Well, your reign over this family has come to an end.”
. . . . Father Casey stopped outside Wendell’s hotel room door. He was about to knock but heard Wendell in conversation
with someone. At first, he thought that Wendell had already found a friend with whom to pass the night. However, when he heard no replies from the guest, he felt something wasn’t right.
He stood silently and listened.
An audible gasp came from within.
He tried the doorknob but it was locked
The priest began to pound on the door. “Wendell. Wendell, it is Father Casey. Wendell!”
There was no reply.
. . . .
Wendell only looked in the direction of the door but made no attempt to answer it. The thing inched closer to Wendell. It was now at the feeble edge of candle light. An impossibly black, taloned hand whose fingers tapered to razor sharp points reached, not through the border of candlelight, but around its perimeter. The appendage just stretched longer, impossibly longer along that murky edge between the light and dark.
It was then that Wendell realized that his entire right side was in the shadow created by his own body from the candlelight to his left.
“Do you think you are the first to try and break my bond?” the demon remonstrated. “You are not. The souls I have is a testament to that. I am eternal. My reign cannot end.”
. . . . Father Casey began to kick violently at the door. “Wendell! Wendell, don’t say yes! Don’t give in!” It took four kicks before the wooden frame began to splinter. Two more kicks, and the wooden door relented.
The priest rushed into the room.
. . . .
“You may be eternal,” Wendell replied. “But I am not.”
From within his suitcoat Wendell produced a revolver. At first, the creature’s eyes brightened as if amused that the man would try to snuff it out in such a fatuous way. But when Wendell put the gun to his temple the demon’s features changed altogether.
Wendell heard two voices scream “No!” Then he pulled the trigger.
. . . . The gunshot sent Father Casey to his knees. In such a confined space the peal stung his ears. A moment later, all was quiet except a ringing that would not go away. In the flicker of anemic candlelight the aftermath could be seen on the walls over the writing desk.
Looking around, as he picked himself off the floor, there was no one and nothing else in the room. Only himself and Wendell.
He rushed to the body and said a hasty prayer in Latin.
Afterwards, he whispered, “I am truly sorry I wasn’t more help to you—you and your family.” As he was making a sign of the cross over Wendell, he glimpsed a blood-spiculed envelope on the other side of the candle. On it was scribbled Father Casey.
Epilogue
As he readied himself for bed, Father Casey solemnly recollected the events of the last week. He stared at himself in the flickered cast-off light from the candle through the mirror. He looked no different but felt as though he had aged two decades. He had put a father and a son in the ground, which was tragic enough. However, the reasons behind their deaths, and his inability to help them when they came to him, made the events an even more unpleasant pill to swallow.
He looked beside him at the letter Wendell had left behind. Its contents were really the only thing of any consequence that made his failure at least tolerable. In it, he had revealed that he’d visited his father’s lawyer and signed over his entire inheritance, $55,000, to Verity and his two children. Wendell wanted him to be the one to give them the good news.
It had turned out to be sad news, as well. If only Wendell had known that Verity cried. That she had never stopped loving him and always held out hope that he’d return one day. She never knew the extent of his addiction to opium, which was the official cause of his suicide.
The priest let out a melancholy sigh, which was used to snuff the candle. So much of the truth would never be known. No one would know Wendell’s death before relenting to the demon would in turn save his children from his fate and the fate of his father and mother and untold people before that.
Tired, he got up from his desk and walked in the darkness to his bed. It was then that he heard a strange voice coming from everywhere but nowhere. “Oh, Father Casey. What pains I have in store for you!”
Bumps in the Night
When Papa brought the stranger home that January evening, I knew something bad was going to happen. It always did. Not at first. First, there would be eating and story-telling, as Papa and the man would get to know each other better. The man, usually homeless by the way he dressed and smelled, would tell Papa about what he’d done before he became homeless. Papa would listen intently as the man would describe how hard and joyless life had become. Papa was genuinely interested in every man’s story. He felt sorry for them and how they got that way. That is why he did to them what he did—to stop their suffering. He told me so and I believe him.
Before I give you this current story I must back track and give you a bit of my past story. Papa is a wealthy man. His father before him made a fortune in the oil fields of western Pennsylvania after the first successful oil wells were dug. Papa inherited that fortune. I never knew Mama. She died giving birth to me. Papa tells me she was a wonderful woman. Whenever he speaks of her I see tears in his eyes. He always tell me that it’s just smoke from the fireplace irritating his eyes, even when we are in a room with no fireplace. I may be dumb, but I am not stupid; he misses her every day.
I say that I may be dumb, but I am not stupid because I was born with Down Syndrome. The doctors told Papa to get rid of me, but he saw Mama in my eyes and has kept me and loved me no matter what. He has me taught as best as I could be taught. He never looks at me funny, like most people do, and he plays with me every day. He is my best and only friend, besides my two baby dolls and two wooden spoons I pretend are baby dolls.
You might be wondering how Papa, who seems to be a very loving person, could do what he does to the homeless people he brings home. As I said, he wants to end their suffering. Plus he needs them—for food.
See, one day a long time ago when I was just a little girl, he went hunting with friends. Something terrible happened. He was attacked by an animal, though he never told me what kind. I am sure it was big and hairy with lots of teeth and yellow eyes and sharp claws—at least that is how I pictured it as he told the story. He was scratched and bitten all over his body, but he healed well and recovered quickly. But from that point on, once a month when the moon was big and fat in the sky, something bad would happen to Papa. I never got to see it but boy did I hear it.
Eventually, I overheard Papa and some friends talking about people in the community being caught after dark and eaten by some unseen monster. Papa feared for me, and since I myself have an aversion to monsters of any stripe, we decided to move far away. It wasn’t until finding out that monster had followed us to our new town that I figured out all by myself that it might have had something to do with Papa and his attack.
He eventually confided in me about his monthly transformations when the moon outside was full. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t want to do it but couldn’t stop himself, either.
He had said more than once that he had thought about going to the place where Mama is. He said he had more than enough silver to do it. I took that to mean that silver could kill you, so after he told me that I switched out our good silverware for stainless steel. As much as I miss Mama, I am not ready to go where she is. I hear it’s a long trip. Anyway, Papa said he couldn’t do that because he couldn’t leave me alone, which I am grateful for. He said I would end up in a large building with soft walls and no pictures, where everyone wears white clothes all the time, and no one will like me, and they would treat me bad. Sometimes when I think about it, I feel bad for the people who are in these terrible places and I cry, for no one loves them the way Papa loves me.
So it is for that reason that he stays here to take care of me, with the once-a-month dinner guest the only part I don’t like.
That brings me back to our latest guest. He and Papa got along splendidly. His name was Hugh, and he was a veteran of the Great War. Papa and Hugh traded stor
ies all through dinner with lots of laughing and old recollections. The beggar was polite and seemed very smart for being in his particular circumstance, but he also smelled like sardines. His clothing hung loosely about him, but he didn’t seem as skinny and feeble as most of the other dinner guests. He seemed to be embarrassed about his situation and apologized often of that fact. His life seemed more thrust upon him than a choice he made due to drink or drugs or mental defect like mine.
After dinner Papa hugged me, kissed me gently on my chubby cheek, then asked the man, Hugh, to go with him into the study to smoke a cigar. I knew then that it was time for me to go to my room. I will never forget the look he gave me that night when he kissed me goodnight; it was a mixture of sadness and regret and hopelessness. Underlying them was that malevolent sparkle that animals have when the light hits them just right. They had begun to change color from the bright blue to that of a greenish hue that I cannot accurately describe.
The transformation was about to begin. It was only a little past 7:00, but the night had fallen some time ago. I looked out the window on the landing on the way to my room, and already I could see the full moon. It was still close to the ground so it looked even bigger than when it’s higher in the sky.
Soon the transformation would completely take over, and Papa would get hungry again. I felt bad for the homeless man, more so than the others, though I felt bad for all of them. He got along so well with Papa. He didn’t have many friends besides me, and I always felt bad that he had to talk to me. I do my best but regular people need to have regular conversations with other regular people, not with those who talk to wooden spoons.
I got ready for bed then closed the thick, heavy door and secured the four separate deadbolt locks. I grabbed my two baby dolls and the two wooden spoons I pretend are baby dolls, struggled under the thick blankets of my bed and waited nervously for the bumps in the night.
There are always bumps in the night of a full moon. Shortly after that, the screaming starts, but it doesn’t last long. I don’t know why the screaming doesn’t start before the bumps, but I was told that curiosity killed the cat and though I am not a cat, I love them and don’t want to be killed by proxy.