by Deanna Chase
“Ya can’t fool me. I’ve seen yer kind before.”
Armand pushed his fingers through his hair. “What the hell is wrong with her?”
“She’s possessed,” Sasha answered.
“Possessed?” Armand knew what possession was. His mother often talked about the devil getting in you. But Isabella was a good soul, not one of those bad things. “She can’t be. How?”
Sasha took a deep breath, glancing from the girl’s father, then back to Armand. Speaking in a tone that only he could hear, she said, “You weakened her by taking too much of her life force. Her light has always been attractive to the other side, and when she was vulnerable…one of its minions stepped in.”
Armand began to comprehend and knew she spoke the truth. He buried his face in his hands, and dropped to his knees. “Oh, God, Isabella. I’m so sorry.”
From the corner of his eye, Armand saw Dora remove a purple vial from her bag. She uncapped it, placing a dot of its contents on the young woman’s forehead. Isabella screamed as the oil seared her skin.
“You’re hurting her!” Armand grabbed at the vial “Stop!”
“She’s not hurt, and if you keep interrupting you’ll make things worse.” Sasha pulled a large book from Dora’s bag and flipped through its pages. “I know it’s hard, but remember, this isn’t Isabella. She’s just a vessel.”
Armand sat back on his heels, watching as Dora continued her work.
Sasha turned to Isabella’s father, who was now holding a crucifix near his daughter’s feet. “How long has she been like this?”
He shook his head. “Only tonight is she this bad. But for a few weeks she has been acting strange. I thought it was because she…” He looked briefly at Armand, the anger returning to his eyes. “Sometimes love makes you act crazy.”
“Yes!” Isabella spit on Armand. “I loved you. You did this to me.”
The floor around her began to vibrate, a horrible hum that spread out across the room. Armand planted his hands to the ground to keep from toppling over. Dora dropped her vial. Sasha kept reading even as she struggled to stay on her feet. Isabella’s father held tight to his crucifix.
The house roared. Armand was sure it would be torn apart, nail by nail. One after the other, the Virgin Mary statues and crucifixes crashed to the ground.
Isabella lifted her neck, contorting it into an impossible position. With a cruel smile she spoke. “I’ll say hello to your mother.”
Armand scrambled backwards. “I’m out of here. I’ll take my chances in the can.”
“Ya can’t leave!” Dora yelled to be heard over the rumbling of the room.
“To hell I can’t!” He turned the doorknob and pulled. It wouldn’t budge.
“We’ve sealed the house,” Sasha said, her eyes never leaving her page in the book. “No one goes in or out without my consent.”
Isabella giggled, arching her back and kicking her bound ankles on the floor.
That was it! He was tired of the town and witches and religious nuts. He wanted out, and he was getting out now!
Armand channeled his anger at the door. A clear beam erupted from his palms, splintering the door in two.
He pointed a finger at Sasha. “That’s a warning for you. Never try and control me.”
He braced himself and headed back into the storm.
The wind fought back.
Armand bent forward as the rain slashed at him, his long auburn hair clinging to his face. He followed the dirt road––now not much more than a muddy trench––and sloshed his way back to the village square.
I’ll say hello to your mother.
If he hadn’t left, he would have snapped her neck. And then they’d both be in hell.
The rain poured down in one long sheet. Armand stumbled through it, bumping his knee on something hard. Looking up, he saw the statue of Mother Mary. Her angels smiled at him, amused.
Clean up your own mess.
How could he? Even the witches couldn’t rid the girl of her demon.
But then again, how could they? Isabella had no faith in witchery. All of her faith was in God.
Ah, hell.
Until Isabella met him she’d been a good girl, obeying the rules of her father and the church. But after he seduced her, she identified herself as a fallen woman. He sensed that now––could feel her distress. She was no longer worthy of the good, but there were bad things waiting to comfort her.
He had failed her in two ways. No wonder she was an easy vessel.
Sterling cords of light cracked the sky like a bullwhip. Armand slumped down on the fountain, casting his gaze upwards. He lifted his hands in prayer. He still didn’t believe in Heaven or God, but Isabella did.
The rain continued to pour, drenching him to the bone.
After several minutes it subsided just slightly and he stood. Two roads were visible: one that led away from Santo Aldea and one that led to Isabella’s.
Mary’s eyes flashed and the cherub continued its frenzied scrawling.
He looked in both directions. Pulling his jacket tight around him, he chose his road.
Fourteen
“So, you’re back.”
Armand marched past Sasha, straight for Isabella.
Her eyes were closed, but when she sensed his presence they clicked open, as wide and innocent as a doll’s. Her cracked lips formed a tight grin.
Dora stood above Isabella, reciting strange words read from her book, while dangling a pendulum above the girl. Armand pushed the woman aside.
“What do ya think yer doin’?” Dora demanded. Armand ignored her as he worked at the ties on Isabella’s hands. Dora grabbed at him. “Ya can’t do that!”
“The hell I can’t.”
Once her hands were free, he unbound her ankles. Careful not to hurt her, he picked her up. She weighed as little as a child.
“We need to get her to the church.”
“No!” Isabella kicked with her unbound feet as Armand carried her through the door. “You’ll kill me! You’ll kill me!”
“Quiet, demon!”
Sasha called to him from the doorway. “There is nothing that can be done for her there that we can’t do here.”
He stopped to look at her. “This isn’t about what we can do.”
“He could be right.” Dora grabbed her coat and followed him out. “Her belief may be stronger than our magic.”
Sasha sighed and snatched her raincoat.
“Tell him to stay here,” Armand motioned to Isabella’s father. “She has enough guilt. She doesn’t need more.”
They pushed through the rain. Armand covered Isabella’s face with his hat to keep her dry. Her muffled voice cursed him through the fabric, then offered up her body to use as he pleased––anything to keep from going to the church. He ignored it all, even the reference to his dead mother rotting in a cold, dark place, all alone.
The enormous church sat on the opposite edge of town.
Judging by the appearance of the crumbling gray stonework, the oversized stained-glass windows, and the chiseled marble angels that guarded the door, it was built centuries ago. An arched wooden door beckoned from atop the steep staircase.
“It’s going to be locked,” Sasha said.
“The hell it is.”
Armand thrust his palm forward and the door swung open.
He turned to the women. “Can you two enter a church?”
“If you can, we certainly can.” Sasha lifted her chin and strode past him.
The sanctuary was cold and moist, the scent of mold clinging to the air. They made their way down the long aisle, past rows of worn benches, towards the lectern at the front of the room.
All the while, Armand had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched. On the walls above him, paintings of Saints looked down upon them.
Isabella’s protests grew more violent with each step. “I’ll kill you! Cut out your heart and eat it!”
“Shut up,” he ordered. “Or I’ll tie you back up
and leave you here.”
At the top of the aisle and up a wide set of stairs an imposing crucifix hung from the wall. Armand laid her before the crucifix on a red carpet runner that cut the length of the stage.
“Now what?” he asked, looking to Dora and Sasha.
“It was yer idea to bring her here,” Dora said. “Ya better have a plan.”
Armand knelt beside the possessed woman, attempting to read her thoughts. There was not much left of his former lover. Her mind had turned to darkness and hate.
“It hurts, it hurts,” she whimpered, rolling her head along the carpet. Invisible claws slashed at her cheeks, tearing deep gashes into her once smooth face.
Armand stared helplessly as she cried out in pain.
Dora produced a stick from her bag. It was the same gnarled wand Sasha had used on his ankle.
Sasha took the wand and waved it over Isabella’s head. The tip glowed an incandescent green. Almost instantly, the wounds on Isabella’s face sealed shut. But as Sasha repaired one wound, another ripped open. Soon, Sasha’s knees trembled and her own white aura dimmed with the effort.
“She won’ be able ta keep it goin’,” Dora informed him. “It’s takin’ all her strength.”
Armand looked around the church. He was certain he had brought Isabella to the right place, though he had no idea what to do next.
He spied a thick tome on the lectern: a Catholic Bible. He also found a string of rosary beads. He took both.
Placing the beads around Isabella’s neck, he read random passages from the archaic book while Sasha continued to heal her wounds. Isabella hissed and snarled, clawing blindly at the air around her.
“Get a cross,” Sasha commanded.
Dora found a small, wooden crucifix in one of the side rooms and thrust it towards Armand.
“It will burn you if you touch it,” Isabella warned him.
He feared she might be right. He had lost all faith the night his mother died, and hadn’t set foot in a church since. But he was his mother’s son. Maybe there was enough of her inside of him to keep him safe.
He took the relic, gripping it firmly between his hands. “Demon, release the girl!”
Isabella shrieked, cursing him in an indecipherable language.
“Release her!”
To their right, a stained-glass window shattered. Armand winced in pain as a hail-sized piece of glass imbedded itself into his shoulder.
“She’s mine!” a voice said.
Gouges formed on Isabella’s arms. Blood dripped from her wounds, running down her body in smooth rivulets.
Dora hastily lit two white candles while Sasha continued her healing, her body trembling as she fought to keep the girl alive.
Seconds passed, perhaps minutes, when Sasha stumbled backwards, dropping her wand. She wiped the sweat from her face. “I’m not sure what we can do. The entity that resides in her is an old spirit, stronger than all of us.”
Isabella lifted her neck and cackled in triumph.
“We need a priest,” Armand said. “Stay here with her. I’ll find one.”
He raced down the darkened corridors that surrounded the sanctuary like a maze. Lightning illuminated the windows along the way––kaleidoscopic scenes, each more horrible than the last. Angels battling demons, lions feasting on martyrs, witches burning on the stake.
“Is anyone here?” Armand banged on every door.
All was quiet. There was one final door, straight ahead.
He opened it and was hit by an icy blast.
He emerged outside, standing in a cemetery. Tombstones as far as he could see, carefully guarded by gargoyle statues and trees with long bare limbs that beckoned him with crooked fingers.
His eyes skimmed the nearest stones: Father Bartholomew Sanchez, 1629. Father Antonia Hernandez, 1845. Father Gabriel Velasquez, 1914.
Here lay the compendium of priests who had overseen the church since its inception.
Armand backed towards the door to reenter the church when a flash of lightning cast its momentary spotlight on a headstone near the far iron gate. Even at a distance, Armand could read the inscription: Father Sebastian Diaz, 1941.
His father.
Fifteen
Armand dropped to his knees before the tombstone, in reverence and disbelief.
Could this really be his father’s grave?
He rubbed mud from the stone with the sleeve of his shirt, reading the inscription. 1913-1941. That would have made him 28, matching what his mother had told him.
But a priest?
He sifted through his coat pocket, removing several pesetas and the doll the little girl had sold him in the square. He returned them to his pockets and searched again, this time finding the watch. He squinted, as if inspecting it for the first time.
Swirls and geometric shapes were etched across the casing, details he had never paid attention to before. And then he saw it, a tiny cross in the center of the face.
It was true.
Armand sat back on his heels, letting the weight of the mud pull him down.
My virtuous mother, impregnated by a priest?
Sasha said his father didn’t want to be found. Now he knew why.
A strong hand gripped his shoulder and he jumped, certain the hand belonged to Sebastian Diaz.
It was Dora. Her eyes were filled with both urgency and, surprisingly, compassion. “There’s time fer grievin’ later. If we don’ go now, we’ll lose them both.”
Armand looked at the door that led to the church, then back at his father’s stone.
He touched the marker, feeling a vitality flow into him that was at once familiar and foreign, deep and uplifting. He wiped the mud from his knees and followed Dora inside.
Isabella jerked on the floor, crying in pain, the carpet beneath her stained with blood.
Sasha knelt over the girl, attending to her once again, but her face was pale and her aura all but gone.
Armand realized she had been feeding Isabella her own life force to keep her alive.
“Tell her to stop,” Armand ordered Dora.
Dora shook her head. “Sasha won’ give up on the girl. It’s not in her nature.”
Armand’s hands clamped around his father’s watch and pulled Sasha from the girl. Sasha looked ready to argue, but fell backwards. Dora caught her before she hit the ground.
Clasping Isabella’s wrists in one hand, he held his father’s pocket watch in the other.
“Let whatever happens, happen,” he said. “And stand back.”
Gathering his resolve, he cupped his mouth over Isabella’s. He’d taken from her before; he’d take from her again.
He inhaled deeply, sucking in her life force. It smelled like soured milk. He turned his head to the side for a breath.
“Come into me!” he shouted, then returned his lips to hers.
Her body tremored. Her legs and arms shook violently as the demon fought to keep control.
She pushed at his head, trying to break their connection.
“Take me, damn it! I’m the one you want!” He inhaled one last time, so deeply it burned his lungs.
He could feel it then: the long slow churn of a malignant presence exiting Isabella’s body, sucked from her belly and into her throat. The entity hesitated before entering its new host, then slid like an eel into the hole of a new den.
Isabella choked, spewing vomit.
Dora rushed to her side, clearing her mouth and nose.
Armand felt the demon’s essence flow through every part of him, and with it, the sensation of overwhelming power. He felt taller, stronger, and indestructible. He stretched his arms, turning his head from side to side to witness the crimson sparks that launched from his fingertips.
Now, this was power. He could have everything he wanted. Money, sex. Immortality.
Isabella hadn’t been able to control the demon, but he could.
He smiled at Sasha.
“Dora…” Her eyes widened with fear.
&
nbsp; Armand pointed to a large painting of an angel.
The picture melted in its frame.
“Dora!” Sasha screamed as Armand advanced.
“We need a conduit!” Dora yelled back.
Their voices sounded strange to Armand, as if he were listening to them speak through a pane of glass. He seized Sasha by the shoulders, remembering the night they screwed. She hadn’t allowed him to take anything from her.
He’d take all he wanted now, show her that he was not anyone to challenge.
Sasha pulled away, backing down the aisle. “Dora, hurry!”
She held her wand before her like a sword. Some of her life-light had returned with her fear.
Armand licked his lips. Fear was delicious.
She began waving the wand in a wide arc and a clear bubble formed around her.
Armand struggled against the barrier, knowing that she couldn’t hold it long in her weakened state.
Dora rushed down the aisle, forcing herself between Sasha and Armand.
He blinked, then laughed. “Move!”
“Ya’ll have to get through me to get to her.”
Armand cocked his head and grinned. “I’ll enjoy this.”
He clutched Dora’s shoulders, focusing all of his energy on her. Red cables of light shot through his arms and into hers.
Dora cried out with pain yet managed to thrust her hand into his coat pocket, removing the doll. She held it aloft as the dark energy coursed directly through her body and into the effigy.
“No!” he screamed, watching his power empty into the simple toy.
The doll became a flame, and then a burnt rag.
Collapsing onto the ground, Armand felt empty. Of everything.
Sasha crawled to him, smoothing his hair from his face. Laying her head on his chest, she announced, “The demon is caged.”
Sixteen
Dora was quick with a shovel, digging the hole so swiftly and efficiently Armand was now questioning everything he thought he knew about the woman.
It was a small grave, but in a cemetery this crowded there wasn’t much room.