Exorcist

by Steven Piziks

  But can you? whispered a doubting voice in his head. You’re nothing but a priest, not even ten years out of seminary. You’re not a bishop or a cardinal. The ultimate evil has permeated this site for millennia, ever since Lucifer fell from grace and slammed into the earth with his wings on fire. What can you possibly do?

  “Begone, Satan,” Will whispered, though his hands trembled. “You will not make me doubt.”

  I doubt that, laughed the treacherous little voice.

  Will ignored it and opened The Roman Book of Rituals. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen,” he said, and began to read the prayer to Michael. “St. Michael the Archangel, illustrious leader of the heavenly army, defend us in the battle against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of darkness and the spirit of wickedness in high places. Come to the rescue of mankind, whom God has made in His own image and likeness, and purchased from Satan’s tyranny at so great a price.”

  A shadow behind him shifted, revealing a face stretched wide by a glittering grin. Sarah slid from darkness, a stone sword in her hand. Her feet were bare, and they made no sound on the stone floor as she crept up behind Will. Her eyes were black as a moon-less night.

  “The Lord has entrusted to you the task of leading the souls of the redeemed to heavenly blessedness,” Will prayed. “Entreat the Lord of peace to cast Satan down under our feet, so as to keep him from further holding man captive and doing harm to the Church. Carry our prayers up to God’s throne, that the mercy of the Lord may quickly come and lay hold of the beast, the serpent of old, Satan and his demons, casting him in chains into the abyss, so that he can no longer seduce the nations.”

  He opened the bottle of holy water. Joseph moaned in the basin. Sarah slipped closer. Tensed and ready to fight, Will splashed some of the water on Joseph’s face.

  Nothing happened. Will frowned and splashed the boy again. The droplets merely washed a green bit of vomit from Joseph’s chin. That wasn’t right. The rites said that the afflicted couldn’t bear the touch of blessed objects.

  Cloth rustled behind him. Will whirled in time to see Sarah raise the stone sword. She brought it down. Will flung himself sideways, and the blade shattered on the marble floor. In a flash, Sarah was on top of him, her thighs pressing his upper body to the floor. Book and bottle went flying. Sarah’s pretty face was twisted into an evil leer mere inches away from his own. Will struggled to fling her off, but she was surprisingly strong and heavy. Her knees pinned him down at the elbows, robbing him of leverage.

  “It’s you,” he gasped. “Joseph was just touched, but you—”

  “You should listen to your own advice, Father,” she said in a low, throaty chuckle, then shifted her thighs. “Hmmmm…I like this. What happens, do you think, to a priest who breaks his vows while trying to invoke what measly power God grants him?”

  She reached behind herself and ran a hand over his groin, her touch as light as a fly’s. To his horror, Will found himself stiffening in response. He struggled to get up, without success. Sarah’s touch grew more intense, and Will stifled a groan.

  “No,” he said with considerable effort. “Leave me…alone.”

  “But you don’t want me to leave you alone, do you?” Sarah said huskily. She leaned down to whisper in his ear, and her breath was hot. “You’re thinking that if I force you to impale me on your little spear, it won’t really be breaking your vow of chastity. And you could find out what it’s like to have a woman slide down on you without guilt. Isn’t that right, Father?”

  Will shook his head, though the gesture was an utter lie. He had never been with a woman in his entire life, had shunned it as wrong. Yet sometimes at night, when he lay on his stomach with the erect serpent throbbing beneath him, he wondered, fantasized, what it might be like. And sometimes he would rub himself back and forth on the mattress—not touching himself, as was forbidden and wrong. Just rubbing. Rubbing back and forth until he burst, all the time thinking of what it was like to do it with someone beneath him. And afterward, regular as the sunrise, came guilt, confession, and penance.

  “Would there be guilt and penance this time, Father?” Sarah cooed. Her hand traced the outline of his erection through his trousers. Will had never felt anyone’s hands on him before, and the sensation brought a strange coppery taste to his mouth. Shivers ran up and down his body. He inhaled sharply as Sarah gripped him with a firm hand and wagged playfully. It would be so easy to give in. What could be wrong with it if he was forced?

  “You’ll love it, Father,” she whispered, “and you’ll be guilt-free.”

  Then he caught sight of the giant crucifix, still hanging upside down from its chain. The devil twisted words, turned them upside down as it had the crucifix. How could he believe anything Satan said?

  “No!” he shouted, and flung himself upward. The move caught Sarah by surprise, and she flew backward off him. She twisted like a tiger in midair and was on her feet before he was. Before Will could recover his balance, she backhanded him across the face. The blow smashed him flat again. Dazed, Will scrambled to recover his wits. He reached for the bottle of holy water, but Sarah’s foot crashed down on his hand, snapping his fingers. As he howled in agony, Sarah kicked him in the face. His head snapped back, and he landed on the cold floor again. Joseph was still moaning in the baptismal font.

  “Shut up!” Sarah snarled, and the boy fell silent again.

  Hot pain thundered through Will’s head, and he couldn’t seem to think straight. He tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t obey. The church floor rocked and swayed beneath him. Something moved above him and he looked up. Sarah stood over him with a stone spear, another Michael weapon.

  “How many angels can dance on the head of a pin, Father?” Sarah aimed the point at Will’s chest a little to the left of the midline and brought the spear down. Will caught the shaft in both hands and tried to push back, but Sarah was strong, so strong. The tip came inexorably down toward his chest, piercing his shirt and pricking the skin just above his heart. Will’s arms trembled with the effort of holding her back.

  “Begone…Satan,” gasped Father William Francis.

  “We’ve heard that before,” Sarah rasped. “That’s why we’re down here instead of up there.” And she rammed the spear home.

  Twelve

  The village of Derati, British East Africa

  The possessor may become dispossessed.

  —Kenyan proverb

  THE SANDSTORM CREATED a twilight that nipped and scratched at anyone who ventured outside. At the edge of the dig site, a line of British troops waited, handkerchiefs tied over their lower faces in an attempt to filter out the dust and sand. They were using rocks and boulders for rough cover, though it was still hard to see—and be seen—through the blowing sand.

  A shadow moved within the clouds of dust. Before any of the soldiers could raise an alarm, a mob of Turkana warriors burst from the darkness, their howls mingling with the storm’s. The soldiers immediately opened fire, but the Turkana were almost on top of them. Half a dozen warriors fell, but the rest rushed ahead, flinging heavy spears and drawing sharp machetes. One spear sheared off the top of a soldier’s head. A Turkana jerked to a halt and stared down at the blood gushing from his chest before collapsing to the ground. Another Turkana swung his machete with angry force and decapitated a redheaded soldier, only to fall to a bayonet shoved into his back. The carnage continued, with both sides snarling like rabid animals in a frenzy. The wind screamed and laughed like a living thing and covered up blood, bone, and brain with a fine layer of desert sand.

  Merrin fled out the hospital door with the heavy idol in his hands. Chuma, still armed with the shotgun, came close on his heels. The sandstorm struck like a living thing, tearing at face and skin. The two men ran for the lorry parked a little ways up the street. Whirling sand made it hard to see. Merrin had just reached the driver’s door when out of the blinding sand burst a Turkana warrior, heavy spear raised
. He was right behind Chuma.

  “No!” Merrin shouted. “Chuma!”

  The foreman spun and raised his shotgun at the same moment the warrior slammed his spear straight through Chuma’s chest. The head emerged from Chuma’s back with a terrible, wet sound. Chuma gave a small gasp, then jerked the shotgun’s trigger. The blast ripped the warrior in half, spraying the lorry with blood. Both men went down. Chuma twitched once and lay still.

  Merrin clutched the idol to his chest and stared at the two mangled bodies lying at his feet. He felt a rising panic, then a strange calm. Chuma was dead, but Joseph was still alive. He could still save Joseph.

  Merrin snatched up Chuma’s shotgun, flung it into the lorry’s cab along with the idol, and followed them inside. With shaking hands he cranked the engine to life and stamped on the accelerator. He hit the headlights, but the twin beams barely cut through the dim light, creating a narrow tunnel for him to drive through as he left the village. Wind and sand tore at the vehicle, and gritty air washed over Merrin’s sweaty face and back. The bumpy, uneven back route forced him to drive slower, and he railed at the delay. Sarah was possessed. The devil was real. And if the devil was real, that meant—

  The sandstorm parted, and a pack of hyenas appeared on the road. Merrin slammed on the brakes, sending the lorry into a skid. It slid several feet, then stopped. The shotgun and the idol tumbled to the floorboards. There were six of the beasts, jaws open, green eyes glittering in the headlights. They stared straight at him. Merrin swallowed dryly and his palms began to sweat. He could gun the motor and drive straight over them, but these were large animals. Their bodies might cripple the lorry. The hyenas panted, and their tongues lolled mockingly in the moaning wind. Then one of them began to laugh. The others joined in. It was a cold, merciless sound that puckered Merrin’s skin. If he hit the accelerator, would they move out of the way? He bit his lip and thought, Only one way to—

  A crash of broken glass. Shards and shrapnel showered Merrin’s face and he gave a yelp of fear. A hyena landed on the seat next to him. It had leaped through the passenger window. Its lips pulled back from long teeth that dripped saliva, and Merrin smelled its breath, foul and fetid with rotten meat. The shotgun was out of reach, and fear froze Merrin at the wheel.

  The predator’s massive body took up most of the cabin. It leaned closer, and its breath was cold. Merrin desperately cast about for a weapon, but saw nothing. The hyena laughed bright and hard, right in Merrin’s ear. Cool saliva sprayed over him, and the animal leaned closer, as if to give Merrin a kiss. It opened its mouth wider, ready to sink its fangs into his neck. And then Merrin’s hand came out of his pocket holding Francis’s vial of holy water.

  “Get thee behind me!” he shouted, and emptied the contents into the hyena’s face.

  The hyena screamed. Flesh hissed, and thin tendrils of smoke rose from its muzzle. It screamed again, then turned and fled out the broken window, leaving a streak of bone-white feces on the seat. Merrin slammed the accelerator to the floor. The lorry leaped forward, forcing the remaining hyena pack to scatter. A moment later, Merrin risked a glance into his rearview mirror. Five pairs of green eyes glowered malevolently in the semidarkness.

  He arrived at the dig site with the storm whirling and rushing around him like an afreet gone mad. Sand scratched his skin beneath his clothes. His mouth and ears were full of grit. Merrin grabbed the idol and leaped down from the lorry. The church loomed ahead of him, a low, dark shade in the swirling sand. Merrin lurched forward against the storm. Bodies, dozens of them, were piled everywhere. Turkana spears pointed upward from corpses like broken fingers. Ropes of bowel looped around bodies slashed open by machetes and bayonets. Empty eyes stared out of severed heads. Merrin accidentally kicked one, and it rolled away like a misshapen football. Further away, from a place swallowed by the storm, Merrin heard gunshots and screams. The battle had not yet ended.

  A hyena appeared out of the howling sand, dragging a soldier by the leg. The man was shrieking in fear and pain. Merrin dropped the idol and raised the shotgun. Even if he missed, the shot might frighten the animal off. He pulled the trigger, but the gun only made a muffled click. It was clogged with sand and wouldn’t fire. The hyena vanished into the storm, hauling the hapless soldier with it. Merrin threw the shotgun aside and bent down to retrieve the idol. It was already nearly buried. He started to dig for it. Five more hyenas emerged from the wall of wind, chuckling among themselves as they slunk closer. Heart pounding, Merrin abandoned the idol and ran into the church.

  The storm cut off so abruptly, Merrin stumbled. He stood in the entryway, brushing sand from his hair and shaking it from his clothes. He wanted a long, hot bath and a tall, cold drink. He wanted to be back in England, where the weather was cool and wet. He wanted Chuma alive again.

  Wishes and horses, he told himself. Keep moving.

  He pulled the big doors shut behind him, then moved up the aisle toward the archangel statues, slowly, so his eyes could adjust to the dim light let in by the dome. The statues looked strange. He smelled blood, and he thought he’d never get that scent out of his nose again. Feathers rustled in the shadows. As Merrin drew closer to the nave, he saw what was wrong. The statues and the floor around them were covered with crows, hundreds and hundreds of crows. They hunched in eerie silence, and every one of them was staring at Merrin. His mouth felt dry, and he had to force himself to press forward.

  The giant crucifix had moved. It was still upside down, but now it hung directly above the altar. It, too, was covered with silent crows.

  “Francis?” Merrin called. “Joseph?” He paused. “Sarah?”

  He edged around the circle of angels. The altar lay open, the stone staircase leading downward. Merrin spotted a lantern—Francis’s?—glowing on the floor. He snatched it up and shone it around the transepts. The crows turned their heads to follow him, but didn’t otherwise move. The light picked out the baptismal font. It was slicked with blood, but whose? He stepped closer. On the ground lay a crucifix on a neck chain. Francis’s. Beside it was The Book of Roman Rituals and the bottle of holy water. It had tipped on its side, and some of the contents had dribbled onto the floor. Merrin dipped his finger in the puddle. With a shaky hand he made the sign of the cross on his forehead. He rescued the bottle, the remaining holy water sloshing around as he capped and pocketed it.

  For the first time in five years, Lankester Merrin knelt to pray. The floor was hard on his knees. He clasped his hands and bowed his head. What should he say? How did you speak to someone you’ve turned your back on? Words refused to come at first. And then verses from the Book of Matthew leaped into his mind.

  “Lord, forgive me my disbelief,” he whispered. “Take my disbelief into Your bosom, O Lord, and give me strength.” The words weren’t exact, but it was the sentiment that counted. “Hear my prayer. I need You. These people need You. This valley needs You. You must hear my cry. Do not abandon us now. Absolve my sins and purify me for this task. Lord, forgive my disbelief.”

  He repeated the prayer in different forms three times. During the final recitation, he felt like he was clawing his way through earth, fighting to get to the surface before he suffocated.

  “Lord,” Merrin said for the third and final time, “forgive my disbelief!”

  He waited. Nothing. Well, he couldn’t expect the heavens to open and the trumpets to sound. Merrin got to his feet, grimacing at the pain in his knees. He kissed Francis’s cross and slipped it around his neck. Clutching The Book of Roman Rituals, he turned and froze.

  The crows were gone. Not even a feather marked their presence. Merrin’s heart did a little leap. Was it a sign? Or just a coincidence? He decided to take it as a sign, and he added a mental thanks to God.

  Then he saw the blood trail. Someone had dragged a large, bloody object—a body—over the floor toward the statues. Beside the trail was a set of smaller footprints. Child-sized. Joseph-sized. Merrin’s own blood ran cold.

  He followed the trail back
to the angels. A choked, whimpering cry reached his ears. Merrin peered around one of the Michaels. Joseph was sitting on the edge of the altar above the staircase, eyes wide with terror.

  Merrin stepped toward him. “Joseph—”

  Scarlet dripped over the boy in a steady rain. Slowly, heart pounding, Merrin shone his lantern upward. Blood was flowing across the face of Jesus from no source Merrin could see. He raised the light higher.

  Sarah lounged on the crossbar as if it were a comfortable sofa. Her skin was mottled and gray, and her mouth stretched wide as a frog’s. Beneath her, Jesus continued to bleed.

  “Come sit with us, Lankester,” she cooed. “I promise we won’t bite.”

  Merrin staggered, then forced himself upright. God was with him. “Joseph,” he whispered. “Run!”

  The boy tensed to obey, but Sarah swung down to face him, hanging upside down like a bat. She waggled an admonishing finger at Joseph, who froze again.

  “Leave him alone,” Merrin said.

  Bones creaked as Sarah—no, the demon—twisted around at an impossible angle to look at him. Her—its—eyes were black pools and showed no white at all. “Make me.”

  Merrin set down the lantern and opened the book of rituals. “ ‘Lord, have mercy,’ ” he read. “ ‘Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Christ, hear us. God, the Father in Heaven, have mercy on us. God, the Son, Redeemer of the world, have mercy on us.’ ”

  “It’s not working,” the demon growled.

  “ ‘God the Holy Ghost, have mercy on us. Holy Trinity, One God, have mercy on us. Holy Mary, pray for us.’ ”

  A rush of air, and the demon dropped down from the cross. It stepped toward Merrin, its movements predatory and sensual. Merrin took a step back, then caught himself and stayed his ground.

  The demon licked its lips with a gray tongue. “What’s the matter, Merrin? Don’t you want to fuck me anymore?”

  It reached out to touch Merrin’s face. His hand snapped out and caught the demon by the wrist. The creature laughed like a hyena, and its breath was carrion cold and nauseating. The movement displayed the numbers tattooed on Sarah’s forearm. Before Merrin’s eyes, they squirmed and shifted like worms, transforming into Ratuja¸ mnie. Merrin knew enough Polish to translate.