Exorcist

by Steven Piziks

  Save me.

  Merrin’s jaw firmed. He would obey. “ ‘All ye Holy Patriarchs and Prophets, pray for us. St. Peter, pray for us. St. Paul, pray for us. St. Andrew, pray for us.’ ”

  “You are a weak vessel, Merrin,” the demon purred. “What makes you think God would grant you the power to cleanse this place? You let all those people die. You turned your back on God. Why would he listen to you? You, who believe in nothing? You’re alone here, Merrin. Without love, without friends, without hope.”

  The words struck Merrin like stone daggers. He was a weak vessel. He had failed in Hellendoorn, failed, and that fact filled him with a black ocean of shame and guilt. He had no hope against a demon this powerful, against a demon of any kind. Why would God want to work through something so weak and impure? He started to close The Book of Roman Rituals. Then his eye fell on Joseph, wide-eyed and bloody on the altar, like a lamb awaiting sacrifice. A true innocent. Iron resolve hardened inside Merrin. He might have failed Hellendoorn, but he would not fail Sarah or this boy.

  “If God has refused to work through me, demon,” Merrin snarled, “why are you afraid of me?” In a swift movement, he grabbed the demon’s head with both hands and pressed their foreheads together. Francis’s book fell to the floor. The demon screamed as the holy water cross he had painted there seared its skin.

  “Almighty Lord, the Father of Jesus Christ, God and Lord of all creation,” Merrin boomed into the creature’s face, “grant me, Your unworthy servant, pardon for all my sins, and the power to confront this cruel demon.”

  The demon vomited, spraying Merrin’s face with cold green sputum. Its fingernails raked Merrin’s cheeks, but he didn’t let go.

  “I command you by the judge of the living and the dead,” he shouted, “to depart from this servant of God. It is the power of Christ that compels you!”

  And then Merrin was holding Lieutenant Kessel’s head against his own. The Nazi officer grinned a grin full of black, rotting teeth.

  “God is not here today, priest,” he gurgled.

  Merrin couldn’t stop himself from flinching. In that moment, the demon broke free and shoved him hard. Merrin crashed to the ground, slid, and cracked his head against one of the statues. Stars of pain burst across his retina. By the time his head cleared and he managed to sit up, the demon was gone. Head pounding in time with his heart, he snatched up the lantern and shone it around the church. No sign of the creature. Joseph, to his relief, still sat on the open altar. Merrin held out his hand.

  “Joseph,” he said. “Come to me.”

  The boy shook his head, tears streaming down his face and mingling with the blood from the crucifix. Merrin moved toward him as if he were a skittish animal.

  “Joseph, you must come now,” he said in a soothing voice. “It’s time to leave. Do you want to leave?”

  A pause. Then the boy nodded, his eyes darting about in fear. But as he started to slide off the stone, a gray hand shot out of the altar behind him. It yanked the boy backward into the stairwell. He didn’t even scream.

  “No!” Merrin dove for the altar, but Joseph was already gone. Demonic laughter echoed from the stairs, growing fainter in the distance. Merrin didn’t hesitate. He stuffed The Book of Roman Rituals into his pocket and clattered down the stairs as fast as he could. In the foyer at the bottom, the round rock had been rolled aside. Merrin entered the temple. His lantern was the only source of illumination, and the stygian darkness seemed to swallow even that light.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” he said in a firm voice, “I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me, my Lord.”

  Running footsteps pelted by in the blackness. Merrin swung the lantern, trying to catch the person who made them. There was a grinding sound, then silence. Merrin’s sweeping light revealed nothing but the demonic carvings and ancient altar. New blood ran in rivulets across its grooved surface and dripped into the pit next to it. Merrin wondered what would happen if he chanted the spiral spell he was standing on, but decided against finding out. He had to find Joseph before the demon—

  Something gleamed on the floor. It was the rock hammer Merrin had given Joseph. It lay directly beneath the statue of the lion-headed, winged man. The archaeologist part of Merrin’s mind finally produced a name for it—Pazuzu, Sumerian god of disease and ill winds.

  Merrin picked up the hammer, then looked at the statue. The idol was supposed to sit in the recess carved into the statue’s abdomen, and it was meant to face inward. Earlier, the arrangement had struck Merrin as a key-and-lock sort of fit. He felt around the inside of the recess, then poked his fingers into the sockets where the idol’s eyes would go. He pushed with all his strength.

  The statue shifted, just slightly. Merrin shifted his grip and pushed sideways. The statue moved with the low grinding sound Merrin had heard earlier. He pointed the lantern at the wall behind the statue and found a crevice in the rock barely wide enough to grant passage. Merrin breathed deeply, then stepped inside. Stone closed in around him like a coffin. The only sound was his breathing, harsh and heavy in his own ears.

  “Joseph?” he tried to call. It came out as a hoarse whisper. His heart thundered inside his ears, and every nerve he had screamed at him to hurry, to run, find the demon before it killed Joseph—or worse.

  “O God, by Your name, save me,” Merrin said. “By Your strength, defend my cause.”

  He moved down the narrow tunnel. Ten yards. Twenty. He heard breathing behind him, almost in his ear. He whipped the lantern around, nearly cracking it against the tunnel wall. A brief glimpse of the demon’s face flicked into view, then vanished. Merrin stood there for a moment, too afraid to move forward, too frightened to go back.

  “Turn back the evil upon my foes,” he said. “In Your faithfulness destroy them. Because from all distress you have rescued me, and my eyes look down upon my enemies.”

  Steeling himself, Merrin moved ahead, carefully at first, then gaining speed. His feet told him he was walking on something…familiar. Merrin slowed and swept the lantern downward to check. Bumpy cobblestones made the tunnel floor. A dusting of snow glittered on them. His chest tightened. Ahead of him, he heard singing. It was a girl’s voice, sweet and light. Merrin recognized her—Aartje Kroon, the girl shot by Kessel. She had red-blond hair in braids and wore a simple blue dress. And she was standing at what appeared to be the mouth of the tunnel Merrin was in.

  Merrin started to run, lantern bobbing. A part of him screamed that it was a trick, but he couldn’t help himself. If he could catch her, he might be able to save her this time.

  “Aartje!” he called out.

  The girl smiled at Merrin and waved. He was almost to her, could almost touch her. Abruptly he was slammed to the ground beneath an enormous, lumpy object. A wet human body pressed him to the floor, heavy and suffocating. Merrin smelled sand and felt sticky cloth against his face. He fought and clawed at it to free himself. When he was able to shove the corpse aside, he shone the light on it. It was the dead Nazi from Hellendoorn, clad in black with a silver insignia on his collar. Merrin dropped the lantern and the light dimmed to a spark. Blackness closed in. Merrin felt around desperately, his hands unable to avoid touching the corpse. Its skin was cold and wet. He felt dead fingers beneath his own. At last—at last—he found the lantern and shook it back to life.

  The corpse was of William Francis. A great hole gaped in his chest, and Merrin remembered the bleeding Jesus. Francis’s jaw hung slack. Merrin scrambled backward, swallowing to keep the nausea down.

  “Father…” he muttered, feeling devastated and empty. For all that he had infuriated Merrin, Will Francis was—had been—a good man, and a good priest. Certainly better than Merrin had been. Anger rose inside Merrin.

  “God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he said, “I appeal to Your Holy name, humbly begging Your kindness, that You graciously grant me help against this and every unclean spirit now tormenting this creature of Yours; through Chri
st our Lord.”

  He leaned down and murmured a soft prayer over the body, last rites for a dead man’s soul. Then he carefully, respectfully removed the purple stole from its place around Francis’s neck. It was free of blood, and Merrin decided to take that as another sign. He kissed it with reverence and placed it around his own neck.

  A few more feet down the tunnel, Merrin emerged into an open space. The ceiling was so high, the lantern light couldn’t reach it. The floor was normal cave stone. Three tunnels faced him, all three leading into pitch blackness. There was no sign of the demon or of Joseph. Merrin played the light over each tunnel entrance, trying to decide what to do.

  “Father!” It was Joseph’s voice. Merrin’s heart leaped. He tried to locate the source, but the word bounced and echoed all around. “Father!” The word was fainter this time.

  “Joseph!” Merrin ran forward. “Joseph, I’m coming!”

  Which one? Which one? In desperation Merrin shone the lantern at the base of each tunnel, hoping against hope there might be something that would leave a footprint, some kind of clue.

  A flicker of movement shifted within the middle tunnel. Merrin plunged into it. The roof sloped down sharply, almost immediately forcing Merrin to crawl. “Joseph!” he cried again.

  “Father, please!” came Joseph’s voice, far ahead of him. “She has me. I’m scared!”

  Merrin’s breathing grew harsh in his ears as he crawled forward. The tunnel ceiling came down lower, forcing him to snake ahead on his stomach. He could feel the hard, unyielding stone around him—no place to stand up, no place to turn around. Claustrophobia stole over him, but he kept moving forward. A moaning growl came behind him. Merrin jumped, banging his head on the ceiling. He tried to twist around, but the tunnel was too narrow. His feet and legs felt vulnerable, and he remembered the hyena dragging the soldier away.

  “O God, hear my prayer,” Merrin said. “Listen to the words of my mouth. The arrogant have risen against me; the ruthless seek my life; they do not keep God before them.”

  The moaning growl came again, right on Merrin’s heels. He kicked backward as best he could, but hit nothing. Merrin wanted to scream, let himself go insane from the stress and fear, but he wormed his way forward another yard.

  “God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he panted, “I appeal to Your Holy name, humbly begging Your kindness, that You graciously grant me help against this and every unclean spirit now tormenting this creature of Yours; through Christ our Lord.”

  The lantern dimmed. Merrin felt panic rise. Trapped beneath the earth, locked beneath tons of rock in total darkness with a demon. Trying to keep calm, he blew softly on the dimming flame, trying to coax it back to brightness.

  It went out. Merrin lay alone in utter blackness with unyielding stone walls hard in around him. His breathing came hard and fast and he felt dizzy. He tapped the lantern, hoping against hope that it would—

  The lantern burst into full illumination and Merrin looked straight into the demon’s nightmare face. He tried to rear back, but there was nowhere to go. The demon’s nails slashed his face. The pain seared his skin and he felt warmth trickle down his cheek. He tried to raise his hands in a defensive gesture, fight her off, but he had no room to move. The demon howled with glee and slashed again and again. Desperately Merrin struggled to pull the bottle of holy water from his pocket, but he couldn’t quite reach it. “O Holy Lord, Almighty Father, eternal God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he shouted, “who didst one time consign that fugitive and fallen tyrant to everlasting hellfire—”

  And then the bottle was in his hand. He flicked it open and splashed it into the demon’s eyes. Flesh hissed and bubbled. Its eyes bleeding black tears, the creature shrieked and recoiled, sucking itself backward like a frightened worm.

  “—strike terror, O Lord, into the beast that lays waste Thy vineyard.” Merrin tried to splash again, but the demon’s hand snapped forward and caught his wrist. It yanked Merrin forward, and only then did he realize that only the upper part of the demon’s body had been inside the tunnel. For a terrifying second he dropped in freefall, then slammed hard onto a rocky floor. The holy water bottle skittered away, but by some miracle he kept hold of the lantern. Before Merrin could recover, strong arms grabbed him from behind and spun him sideways. He smashed into a cave wall and slid to the ground. The lantern landed upright beside him, offering barely enough light to see by.

  “How can you call on Him when you’re so much closer to me?” the demon growled.

  Battered and bleeding, Merrin struggled to rise, but the demon slammed him back down again with little effort. It landed hard on his chest, brought its face inches from his. Black ichor dripped on Merrin’s bloody face.

  “From all evil…O Lord,…deliver us,” he gasped. “From Thy wrath…deliver us. From all sin, deliver us.” The words were giving him strength. “From sudden and unprovided death, deliver us. From the snares of the devil—”

  “Snares, Father?” the demon said. “I set no snares. You come to me of your own free will. Death times ten.”

  “—deliver us. From anger, hatred, and all ill will, deliver us. From all lewdness, deliver us.”

  “Lewdness like you felt with Sarah?” the demon leered. “Tell me, Merrin—would God accept the return of a priest who only days before had a raging hard-on for a woman? The original sin, Father.”

  “From lightning and tempest, deliver us. From the scourge of earthquakes, deliver us.”

  The demon leaned down and whispered in Merrin’s ear, “Don’t you want to go back?”

  “From plague, famine, and war, deliver us.” Go back?

  “Yesss,” the demon hissed. “Go back. You can undo the events of that day, Father. You can end your guilt.”

  No. “From everlasting death, deliver us.”

  “You want to,” the demon said, and it wasn’t asking a question. “You do.”

  “By the mystery…by…by…” The words faltered. Suddenly Merrin had a vision of himself standing next to Kessel, of wrestling the gun away from him, saying something witty even as he shot the man in the face. It was wrong. Vengeance was for God, not for man. But the idea wouldn’t leave him alone. It hung before him, easy and tempting. He…he…wanted…

  There was a wrench, and now Merrin was standing in gray drizzle. The cobblestones were hard beneath his feet, and the air was chill and damp. No demon. Only villagers in a damp huddle, surrounded by armed soldiers. An open-eyed corpse in a Nazi uniform lay on the street. Lieutenant Kessel, his hawk face and black uniform wet with rain, twisted his face into what was supposed to be a smile.

  “You. Priest,” he snapped. “What is your name?”

  The words rolled off his tongue. “I am Father Merrin.”

  “These…creatures are your parish?”

  Merrin’s head dipped in a nod. This wasn’t right. He wasn’t supposed to be here. But where else would he be?

  “They confess to you, then,” Kessel continued. “So. Point out the one responsible.”

  “No one here did this, Lieutenant. They aren’t capable of it.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  “That God is not here today,” Merrin replied steadily. “Yes, I know that.”

  Kessel paused as if confused, as if that hadn’t been the expected response. In a flash Merrin knew what was coming. Or was he remembering it?

  Kessel turned to the frightened villagers. “I am going to shoot ten of you,” he boomed, “in the hope that we can demonstrate to this wretch the terrible responsibility he has incurred.” Kessel scanned the crowd and settled on a man in his thirties. Merrin recognized Nico Tuur. The SS officer drew his pistol, yanked Nico from the crowd, and forced him to his knees on the street. The other soldiers aimed their weapons at the remaining villagers.

  “You have big hands,” Kessel said, putting the barrel of his pistol to Nico’s temple. Nico swallowed visibly. “A farmer. Do you have children?”

  “Yes,”
Nico whispered. “Two girls.”

  “Excellent. We’ll start with you.”

  “Stop!” Merrin shouted.

  Kessel turned without moving his gun. “You have some objection, priest?”

  “I killed your man,” Merrin declared. “Shoot me.”

  “Yes,” Kessel said with a reptilian smile. “You’d like that. The good shepherd offers to die so that his sheep may live. But I think not. I want you to choose, priest. You have five seconds.”

  “I…can’t,” Merrin whispered. It was happening all over again. He had run this scene through his mind thousands and thousands of times, things he could have said, things he could have done. Why were none of them coming to him now?

  Kessel reached out and grabbed the nearest person to him, a teenaged girl named Aartje Kroon. He brought the pistol up—

  —and Merrin lunged. Before any of the startled Nazis could react, he grabbed Kessel’s hand and twisted hard. The lieutenant yelled in pain, and suddenly Merrin was holding the gun. With a triumphant smile, he aimed it at the lieutenant. The villagers milled about uncertainly.

  “Tell your men to lay down their weapons and leave!” Merrin barked. “If you don’t, priest or no, I swear I’ll kill you!”

  Kessel’s eyes went to the barrel of the pistol, then to Merrin’s face. “Get what satisfaction you can, priest, because my men will not lay down their weapons.”

  The German soldiers raised their rifles and trained them on the villagers. Without another thought, Merrin pulled the trigger. Blood and brain exploded from Kessel’s head. He dropped like a dead doll and landed in a puddle with a splash.

  “Fire!” a German voice called out. “Fire! Kill them all!”

  “No!” Merrin cried. He turned just in time to see the rifles spit and bark. Aartje Kroon was the first to fall, her face a mask of shock and pain. Nico Tuur was next. A German soldier aimed his rifle straight at Merrin. Before he could react, the man fired. The impact flung Merrin backward. He landed hard but, oddly, felt no pain. He was able to see the Nazis continue to shoot, cutting the villagers down like winter wheat until not one was left. Merrin’s eyes grew heavy, and they closed.