Holiday of the Dead
Page 54
“How did this business with the Rocails’ impact upon your wife?” asked Dr. Monroe.
For a long moment, Reverend Sutherland did not answer. He grappled with the ominous feeling that, in dealing with this so-called ‘parapsychologist’, he was giving in to temptation, allowing himself to be seduced by New Age jargon and methodology that often cleverly disguised the devil’s own, insidious propaganda. But he swallowed his misgivings, telling himself that it was his own overwhelming desire to find peace for his wife that made him so willing to try a desperate approach. And he prayed that God would understand and forgive him.
Usually he had to patiently cajole and lead his parishioners toward deep personal revelations, so he could understand and help them. He was used to maintaining a careful distance from his own emotions as he listened to their tales of sexual abuse, adultery, and so on. But now he felt that he was the one who had to open his own heart to a stranger. And he found it extremely difficult.
Clearing his throat nervously, he said, “When Barbara is in the throws of one of her … uh … nocturnal episodes as Maria Rocail, she becomes more wanton, more lascivious, more sexually aggressive than she ever was three years ago. Sometimes she ‘sleepwalks’ down to the sacristy.”
“How do you know this?”
“I’ve followed her. I had to know – don’t you see? But I wasn’t prepared for the awfulness of it. One night I heard her mumbling prayers to Satan, cursing the Blessed trinity.”
“How did you feel about this?”
“I prayed for her. I asked God’s forgiveness. After all, this blasphemy was subconscious. She wasn’t in control of her faculties. How could she have been? She was always a good, God-fearing woman. She’s been in therapy for the past six months, seeing a psychologist. It doesn’t seem to be doing any good. She read some of your books, and she was impressed. I remain sceptical, to put it mildly, Dr. Monroe. I consider myself a modern, enlightened clergyman. I don’t believe in the occult, the paranormal. I’m here out of desperation – a vague hope that somehow you might be able to help my wife – even if the ‘help’ turns out to be only an ability to replace her present delusion with something less blasphemous and destructive.”
Dr. Monroe leaned back in his swivel chair, pressing the tips of his fingers together. In a tone of wounded sincerity, he said, “You can trust me far more than you know, Reverend Sutherland. I have a degree in psychology. I’m a legitimate scientist, an explorer of the mind, who has found its terrain murky and enigmatic. Certain occurrences cannot be understood in conventional terms. I have come to believe that people’s minds are sometimes taken over by the souls, or auras, of those who are dead.” He paused, eyeing the reverend with a look of bemusement. “I see by your expression that you find this hypothesis utterly outlandish.”
“I’d sooner believe that my wife is schizophrenic.”
“I think that much of what is regarded as mental illness is really a manifestation of the paranormal.”
Reverend Sutherland pondered this for a long time. Then he said, despairingly, “You’re trying to tell me that the Rocails’ curse might have had real power in it?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“I have to admit that the bad luck that befell us afterwards sometimes seemed like much more than coincidence. Not three weeks after Simon and Maria were dead, I suffered a heart attack. Then my wife had the terrible accident that put her in a coma.”
Leaning forward, Dr. Monroe seized upon this point and pursued it intensely. “You must realise that when a person is near death, or in a trance or coma, the body and the soul, the aura, are imperfectly joined. There is less cohesion between the corporeal self and the spiritual self, and at such times a foreign spirit may slip in and inhabit the body. These alien spirits are called ‘walk-ins’.”
“But it sounds like demonic possession, which I’ve always considered to be pure superstition.”
“Or it can be a form of reincarnation,” said Dr. Monroe.
Reverend Sutherland thought this over. “You’re saying that Maria Rocail’s spirit may have infested my wife’s mind and body while she was in her coma?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Dr. Monroe. “Maria’s spirit may have given your wife’s body the power to heal itself and regain consciousness. Now, presumably, Barbara’s own spirit has grown stronger. If we can exorcise the infestation, the walk-in, we may be able to restore her to spiritual health.”
“How would you do this?” asked the reverend.
“Possibly through hypnotic regression. Would your wife consent to it?”
“Yes. She would. As I said, she’s the one who suggested that we come to you for help.”
Two weeks later, on a Saturday night, Reverend John Sutherland and his wife, Barbara, came to Dr. Steven Monroe’s office. During the past fourteen days, the reverend’s wife had stirred quite a few special capsules into his evening tea; unaware of this, he thought it was his own desperate hope of making his wife better that caused him to be more amenable, more agreeable, to whatever treatment Dr. Monroe wanted to undertake.
Barbara seemed inordinately delighted to be meeting the parapsychologist and placing herself in his care. It was clear that she already idolised him and put great faith in his curative powers. There was a warmth, an invisible but tangible note of complicity between them. The complicity seemed almost sexual, and the reverend felt a spike of jealousy. Suppressing the feeling, he told himself that it was only natural that Barbara should find Dr. Monroe attractive. He was young, blonde and handsome.
He gave the reverend a cup of tea that was strangely strong and bitter. Then he asked the reverend’s wife to lie down on a black leather couch. Taking out a gleaming gold watch, he dangled it on its chain in front of his patient’s eyes, making arc back and forth, giving off spangles of light, as he ushered her into a deep hypnotic trance – in the trite and usual way in which this type of thing has been portrayed in thousands of pieces of fiction. The very triteness of it imparted an ‘unbelievability’ to the proceedings that made Reverend Sutherland feel quite distant to what was going on, almost as if he weren’t in the same room. His head was groggy, and his eyes blurry, and he felt stuporous, powerless to intervene, a condition aided and abetted by the capsules that Dr. Monroe had secretly dropped into his cup of strong, bitter tea …
… and when he regained consciousness, he was still groggy, his eyes swimming, his head reeling in disbelief. At first he thought he wasn’t awake at all, but in the throes of a nightmare.
He was in his own church, which had been transformed in a weird and frightening way.
The altar wasn’t his altar, but a twisted satanic version in the shape of a large, red, glittering, five-pointed star made of a clay-like material. Dr. Steven Monroe, Barbara and three others, all wearing black, hooded robes, were seated at the points of the star. Black pentagrams were painted on their foreheads. Their faces appeared grotesque, demented, in the wildly flickering candlelight. At each point of the star stood a human skull, and each skull supported a tall red candle, rivulets of wax running down over the skulls’ foreheads and dripping like tears from their eye sockets. The centrepiece of the altar was a huge black and red sculpture of an evil goat god with wild, curving horns and a pair of claw like hands holding a silver dagger and an ornate silver chalice.
On the wall behind the altar was a huge black crucifix illuminated by candles in silver sconces. And nailed to the crucifix was a leering human skeleton, its bones yellowish, giving off a putrid aroma from the decaying slivers of flesh still clinging to them.
From his seat in the first pew, Reverend Sutherland recoiled from the awful sight and the stench of it. He wanted to rush up there and tear it down, rip its nails out of the plaster, but he was unable to move. He just sat there, trembling, trying to make himself arise or speak, or do something to put a stop to the obscene proceedings.
Dr. Monroe said, “Please begin, Maria.”
Reverend Sutherland squinted to see if his nightmare had truly
come to life, and the witch, Maria Rocail, was truly there at the Satanic alter, her evilly beautiful face hidden in the shadow of one of those black hoods.
But, no! It was his own wife who answered to the name ‘Maria’, and began praying. “Lucifer, I have come before you to perform your ceremony for the reclamation of the dead. We beg you to bless our deeds, that we perform in your almighty name. Consecrate the blood that we drink to show our oneness with you, the Lord of Hell!”
What blood were they talking about? A scream pierced the church, and Reverend Sutherland’s eyes darted left, as from the side door behind the altar a young woman was carried in to the church by two more robed and hooded figures. She was strapped, nude, into a chair made of rude wood, like an electric chair. The hooded men carried her, chair and all, and sat her down to the left of the altar, where she continued to scream for a while, till at last the screams subsided to weak whimpers.
“Go on, Maria,” prompted Dr. Monroe.
Barbara said, “Oh mighty Lord Satan, we worship you with all our hearts and humbly submit to your desires and commandments. We believe, with everlasting conviction, that you are our creator, our benefactor, our lord and master. We renounce Jehovah, his son, Jesus Christ, and all their works. And we declare to you, Lord Satan, that we have no other wish but to belong to you for all eternity.”
The girl in the chair moaned piteously as Dr. Monroe arose, taking from the alter a pair of crossed human bones and placing them at her throat, just as a legitimate priest might have used crossed candles to bless the throats of the Christian faithful on Ash Wednesday. The young girl screamed again, but her voice was weak and hoarse.
Barbara Sutherland took the silver dagger from the altar and moved in close, so that she and Dr. Monroe flanked their victim, leering down at her. Barbara said, “Lucifer, we ask you to bless her, the source of our communion. May her blood give us strength to do your bidding and grant new life to Simon Rocail., our leader.”
Dr. Monroe replaced the human bones on the altar, and took up the silver chalice. Barbara laid the dagger across the girl’s throat, ready to slice the jugular vein, as the chalice was put in position to collect the blood. The girl emitted one last horrible scream, which was cut short by the slicing dagger. Her life gurgled out of her, and her blood was collected.
At the same instant, Reverend Sutherland felt a wrenching pain in his chest. He was having a heart attack. He knew it. But he scarcely cared. He did not want to endure any more of this horror.
His vision dimming, out of the blur he saw Barbara and Dr. Monroe coming toward him, holding aloft the blood-filled chalice. It glittered alluringly as Barbara said, “By this blood, grant our beloved leader renewed life, Lord Satan, so that he may continue to serve you!”
With a shudder and a groan, Reverend Sutherland felt his heart explode. He had always hoped to go out with a prayer on his lips, but he was unable to manage. Somehow there was no prayer left in him. At the hour of his death, thanks to its obscenely sacrilegious circumstances, he was unable to summon his faith.
Barbara approached her late husband’s corpse, sat next to him in the first pew, and put the chalice to his dead lips, making him ‘drink’. Most of the blood ran down his chin, but some also ran into his mouth.
In a little while, he awoke. He felt the warmth, the adoration, of the hooded figures surrounding him, in his own church.
Barbara smiled at him. She kissed him and said, “Welcome back to me, my husband, Simon Rocail!”
The hooded figures murmured appreciatively.
Reverend John Sutherland, his body now inhabited by the walk-in, Simon Rocail, put his arm tenderly around his wife, and said, “My faithful spouse, Maria. It’s so good to be with you again, darling.”
“Thanks be to Lucifer,” said Dr. Monroe.
Simon Rocail said, “Take my hand, brother-in-law. I congratulate you on a job well done in our absence.”
“You are the best brother anyone could ever have,” said Maria, as Dr. Monroe bent toward her to accept her kiss on the cheek, and the other hooded figures gathered around, chuckling in delight.
THE END
Exclusive screenplay excerpt from the sequel to Pontypool.
pontypool changes
By
Tony Burgess
EXT.FIELD dawn
The pickup truck in the field. Mary standing beside it. Les still having trouble with his door. He stops, then slides over to the open passenger door and gets out.
Mary begins to walk as Les stands where she had been and leans down to look inside the truck. Mary stops and looks back. Les straightens up and walks toward her. Mary commences walking and Les follows, seeming to trace her very steps.
EXT.CLUTTER DRIVEWAY DAWN
The Clutter Mailbox, in the distance, in the dawn glow, the Clutter house. Mary and Les walk into frame at the base of the driveway. Cut to Les and Mary facing the house, they stare up, the wind blowing their clothes.
MARY
Who’s that?
EXT. FRONT STOOP. DAWN
Someone, a young man, Jeffrey, is pulling planks from the burnt stoop. Another man walks by the kitchen window. JULIE appears at the window looking out. Her mouth is clearly TAPED shut. A man rises behind her and pulls her from the window.
ext.CLUTTER DrIVEWAY. dawn.
Mary leaps forward.
MARY
Oh God! Julie!
Les tries to stop her but she breaks away and runs to the house. Les pauses for a moment and looks at his hands, surprised.
LES
No gun.
Les looks up then bolts after Mary.
INT.CLUTTER LIVING ROOM – dawn
In the kitchen are an ELDER MAN, a YOUNG MAN, a YOUNG WOMAN and Julie. The elder man passes Julie to the woman and gives her a serious look. The young man spots something through the planks.
YOUNG MAN
There’s two of ’em now. They’re coming up the driveway.
The inhabitants begin to panic. The elder man grabs a rifle.
ELDER MAN
Why are we keeping those kids in here?
The young woman holds Julie.
young WOMAN
Jesus. Jeffrey’s outside!
The elder man steps cautiously to the stoop door.
ELDER MAN
They come for the kids, I bet.
EXT.FRONT STOOP DAWN
Jeffrey sees Mary running towards him and he freezes.
JEFFREY
Oh God, no.
Les reaches half way up the drive way and stops.
LES
Mary! MARY!
Mary stops running. Jeffrey is frozen on the stoop. Mary a few feet from him and Les on the driveway. They all stare silently at each other.
The Elder man comes out onto the stoop to the silent tableau. He takes it in for a second.
ELDER MAN
Oh shit.
INT.CLUTTER HOUSE – living room dawn
The Young Man at the window.
YOUNG MAN
They got Jeffrey!
He jumps for the door to help the Elder man in.
young WOMAN
Oh God! Oh God!
The Elder man is in, panting.
ELDER MAN
Shut this door. Hammer this door up. We gotta seal this place off.
young WOMAN
We can’t seal this place off! They can get in the windows! They can tear those planks off!
YOUNG MAN
She’s right. We can’t keep ’em out forever! We’re gonna have to kill ’em
young WOMAN
How many of them are there?
Elder MAN
I saw two. But if you can see two there’s two hundred you can’t see.
They all stare at each other.
YOUNG MAN
Then we’re all gonna die.
EXT.CLUTTER DRIVEWAY. DAWN.
Les is holding Mary tightly as she cries.
MARY
They got my babies. They got my
little angels.
Mary sobs and tries to get away, but Les holds her tightly. Mary stops struggling.
MARY
What are we gonna do?
Les pulls back. There is blood on his shirt and his chin.
LES
Did I kill him?
Les looks towards the stoop. A body is barely visible in the debris. Les touches his mouth and looks at the blood.
les (CONT’D)
That was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen …
mary
They’re going to kill my children.
les
No they’re not.