The Devil's Photographer

by Amy Cross

"Come on," she continues, "what the hell else do you have to do with your time?"

  I spend the next twenty minutes trying to end the conversation, although it's never easy to get rid of a drunken Bella. Eventually she starts falling asleep, and I'm able to cut the call. Hopefully she'll sleep the whole night through, dreaming about getting her way with the guy from the play. By the time she wakes up in the morning with a hangover, she probably won't even remember going to see the play.

  Grabbing one of the folders from my desk, I pull out the pile of photos that I've added to my evidence file so far. Every time I go to a church, I end up taking a whole roll of film, and there's almost always one image in which the same man appears. Leafing through the photos now, I find it hard not to shudder a little as I look at him; there's something creepy about the way he stares at the buildings, as if he's desperate to get inside but can't use the door. He almost seems nervous, as if he's scared to get too close to the building itself but also can't bring himself to move away. When I get to the last photo, I feel my chest tighten a little: it's Mark, holding the baby, and I have such a vivid memory of the moment when I took that photo. It was only seconds later that everything changed. Not even seconds; less than a second, perhaps. I run a finger-tip over the image as I remind myself that I need to get some independent verification of all this. I need someone else with me, someone who can tell me that I'm not imagining all of this. Not yet, though. I need more time.

  Checking online, I quickly find a bunch of news reports about the fire at St. Abraham's. It seems to be dying down, but there's no word as to the cause, and most of the reports mention the fact that the flames burned with unusual force. There's a brief reference to the fact that the priest, Father Malcolm O'Dowd, was found dead on the sidewalk outside, although curiously there's no mention of the fact that his body seemed to spontaneously combust as it was being loaded into the ambulance. I guess there'll be updates throughout the night, but for now it's as if the fire is at least being brought under control. I guess it'll be worth swinging past the scene on my way to the library tomorrow, so I can see the damage in the cold light of day. Although the building is mostly made of stone, it looks tonight as if the entire thing might just collapse.

  When the timer rings, I take a deep breath and place the photos back in the folder. With any luck, there'll be a new image to add soon, so I head through to the dark room. It's odd, but at first I used to dread the development of the man's face on my photos. I thought it was a sign of something being seriously wrong with me, and I'd almost get to the point of praying that he wouldn't show up on each roll of film. These days, though, I actually look forward to seeing him. It's as if I've become obsessed with this little mystery, even though I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with the information I've been gathering. Pausing by the bedroom door, I remind myself that I could stop doing this any time I like. No-one's forcing me to keep taking these photos, but it's the first activity that's really grabbed my attention for a while. If I wasn't doing this, what else would I be doing? Just sitting around, waiting for my next tumor and my next course of chemo?

  As soon as I'm in the dark room, I can feel in my gut that I'll find the man's image on the photo. Maybe I'm fooling myself, but it's as if I've got a kind of sixth sense that's telling me he's going to be there. Hell, it's not as if this is some random, possible connection that I've spotted in a few chance images: it's the same man, appearing in the same context each time. It'd be strange not to see him, although this time there's something else on my mind. I can't help thinking back to the way the priest talked about the steps, as if there was something unusual happening around that area. All day, I've been imagining the image of the man being seen by those steps, probably adopting his usual pose of staring at the door. I'm pretty certain by now that the man wants to get into the churches, but something's stopping him. I just wish I knew what.

  After busying myself with the roll of film from the fire, and setting it up so that I can develop the photos first thing in the morning, I realize that I've delayed the moment of truth for long enough. I pause for a moment, as if I'm nervous of seeing him again, and then I walk over to where the photo is drying and I take a look. And there he is, except this time he's not staring at the church. He's standing at the top of the steps, exactly where I expected him to be, but he's staring straight at me.

  Part Two

  The Book

  Today

  "Fuck!" I shout, lifting the toilet lid just in time to vomit lunch into the bowl. The pain is intense, as if something is burning my esophagus. After heaving a couple more times, I take a deep breath and wait to see if any more comes up. My stomach muscles are already hurting from the past few days of nausea, and frankly I'm not sure my body can take any more. This is worse than last time. Much worse.

  "Fuck this," I mutter after a few tense minutes. I wipe my mouth on some toilet roll, before grabbing the bottle of pills that Dr. Martindale prescribed for me. He told me to take three of these damn things a day until my chemotherapy starts next week, but so far the side effects have been terrible. There's no way I can carry on like this, so I unscrew the lid and tip all the remaining pills into the toilet. I can't live like this.

  Leaning back, I pull the flush and breathe a sign of relief at the thought of the pills disappearing down into the sewers. I try to get to my feet, but I'm too weak. Checking my watch, I see that it's twenty-five to eight. Damn it, I have to be at the library in less than half an hour to claim my room, or I might lose it. Hauling myself up, I look in the mirror and see to my shock that I've somehow managed to get vomit not only in my hair, but also on my neck and the top of my shirt. How the hell am I gonna get cleaned up and out the door in time?

  Twenty-five years ago

  It's back. The pain is throbbing just below my ribs, sending out an uncompromising message. Something's wrong deep inside my body, and only a few months after I was discharged from hospital, it looks like I'm going to have to go back into battle.

  "Are you okay in there?" my mother calls out, knocking on the bathroom door.

  "Yeah," I reply, even though I'm starting to feel nauseous. As soon as I let my parents know that I'm sick, they'll take me to see the doctor, and then everything will start up again. I can't do that to them, not so soon. My mother in particular looked so weak while I was in hospital, and the thought of subjecting her to more pain is unbearable.

  "Breakfast'll be ready in a few minutes," she continues. "Don't be too long, okay?"

  "Okay," I reply.

  I wait until I'm sure she's headed back to the kitchen, and then I lean closer to the mirror and take a look at my eyes. I might be imagining it, but I think maybe I'm starting to look a little yellow. I don't know what the hell's wrong with me this time, but I guess I should have known my body would fail me again. Sometimes, I feel as if I'm just not built to last.

  Today

  "Bang on time," says Violet, glancing up at the wall-clock as it ticks around to 8am. "Let me guess, Kate. You left home two hours early and you've been loitering in a nearby cafe, just so you won't miss a minute of time". She smiles. "I know what you're like. Always so punctual".

  "Something like that," I reply, still a little breathless after running from the subway station. "So do you have the keys?"

  Reaching into her desk drawer, Violet pulls out a small plastic card and swipes it in a nearby machine. "We don't have keys these days, Kate. We have reusable magnetic pass-cards with radio frequency chips". She places the card on the counter. "Room 6b. Welcome to the twenty-first century". Grimacing a little as she climbs off her stool, she goes and fetches the book from the shelf.

  "Legs playing up again?" I ask.

  "Like you wouldn't believe," she replies, setting the book down in front of me. She takes a pill from a small bottle and washes it down with a sip of coffee. "I swear, without these, it'd be ten times worse. They bring the inflammation right down. I used to have these herbal pills from my brother-in-law, but they didn't do a damn thing fo
r me. These little things, on the other hand, nuke the swelling pretty damn good. Now, do I have to go through all the rules again regarding the book, or can you remember?"

  "I'll be fine," I say. "But I was going to ask you if there's any chance of extending the loan period. I really -"

  "No way," she says, shaking her head as she sits back on her stool. "Can't be done. They want their book back after a week, Kate, and there's no two ways about it. Sorry, I've already pulled every string in existence just to get the damn thing here at all".

  "What if you delay sending it back by a day?" I suggest. "That way, they'd just think it was a small blip, but I could really use the extra time".

  "Impossible. They'll raise holy hell if the damn thing's even a minute late".

  "Okay," I mutter. "Thanks anyway". Taking the book and the pass-card, I make my way along the corridor until I find room 6b. Once I'm inside, I breathe a sigh of relief. I've got this room for eight hours, and there's no way I'm going to get interrupted. No-one wandering past and starting a conversation, no-one glancing over at me while I'm trying to concentrate. Just eight solid hours of quiet, dedicated research. I've been waiting for this moment for months, and I can't help thinking that perhaps I'm going to finally find some answers. Amin Bell's elusive book is widely regarded as one of the most authoritative guides to twentieth century satanism in New York. As I set my notebooks out on the desk, I have this feeling of excitement in my stomach, as if I might be about to find out why a strange figure has been appearing in my church photos.

  Once I'm settled, I pull the latest photo out of my bag. It's the image that shows the front of St. Abraham's, with the strange man standing on the steps and staring straight at the camera. A chill passes through my body as I remind myself that this is the first time that he's actually shown any sign that he's aware of my presence; in all the other images, he's looking directly at the church, but this time he's staring at me. It's probably just a coincidence that the church was hit by a huge fire later that day, but I still can't help wondering if maybe I've passed a point of no return in my research. After all this time, my subject has finally noticed me. Something's changed, and I feel as if I almost have no choice but to keep going. Little by little, inch by inch, I'm getting closer to... something.

  After double-checking that the door is locked, I pull a small digital camera from my bag and take a few discreet photos of the first pages of the book. Although Violet told me not to make copies, I figure there's no way anyone's going to find out, and I need to be able to refer back to Bell's work. It's not as if there's a security camera in here, so a few copies should be entirely harmless. I'll just take a few images each day until, at the end of the week, I should have a replica of the entire book. Finally, I put the digital camera away and sit facing the front cover. This is it. This is the moment I've been waiting for. After months of trying to track the damn thing down, I'm finally ready to begin.

  For the next couple of hours, I read the introduction to Amin Bell's book. He rambles on and on about the fact that, in his opinion, New Yorkers have no idea about the Satanic rituals that take place across the city every night. Bell might have been one of the world's greatest experts on the subject, but he did himself no favors with the way he presented his ideas. Rather than offering any evidence, he merely makes a string of improbable-sounding claims, without backing them up in any way. To be honest, if I wasn't already interested in the subject, I'd probably have given up with Bell's work a long time ago. As I turn from page to page, I start wondering whether I could perhaps skip ahead a little, and then finally I reach the end of the introduction only to find a small, yellow note has been slipped between the pages:

  Sorry to bother you. Just wanted to say that the really interesting part begins on page fifty. Especially about St. Abraham's. Up until then, it's mostly garbage. JD.

  I stare at the handwritten note, trying to work out who could have placed it here, and who has the initials JD. After a moment, I realize it must be John Dagwood, the lecturer who tried to start talking to me yesterday. Moving the note to one side, I try to avoid feeling irritated by the way he saw fit to just interrupt my reading in such a cavalier manner. I guess he thought he was being cute, but there's no way I'm going to let him tell me which parts of the book are interesting and which parts can be skipped. Sure, I'm keen to find out what he means about St. Abraham's, but I want to read every word of Bell's book for myself, so I'll get to the 'interesting' part in my own time.

  I have to admit, though, that by the time I get to page fifty, I'm starting to flag. Bell saw fit to write a kind of brief overview of the history of Satanic rituals in American history, and most of the material was hardly fresh. It's almost as if the author was intentionally piling up a wall of dry facts, in an attempt to deter readers from persevering. Page fifty, however, is the start of a new section on Satanic cults in New York, and to my annoyance I find a second note from John Dagwood tucked into the book:

  Bell ignores the fact that St. Abraham's was knocked down in 1821 and rebuilt between 1828 and 1835. Treats it as one building. Poor research? JD.

  Sighing, I move the note out of the way, only to find another:

  Why does Bell focus on St. Abraham's? He keeps circling the subject without ever really going in to focus on anything. Strange decision on his part? JD

  Sighing again, I can't help feeling that Dagwood is treating me as if I'm a student, and that he seems to assume that I couldn't possibly notice these things by myself. It's as if he wants to guide me through the book, whereas I'm not only capable of finding my own way, but I feel as if I'll probably find things that Dagwood himself has missed. I happen to be well aware of the history of St. Abraham's, not only in terms of the rebuilding work that took place in the 1820s and 1830s, but also in terms of the fact that a lack of funds led to the church being closed for five years in the 1870s. It's tempting to write a note back to him, mentioning this fact, but there's no way I want to follow his lead and risk becoming a patronizing asshole. In fact, I don't want to engage in any kind of dialogue at all.

  For the next few hours, I work through page after page of Bell's book, jotting down anything that seems important while also removing a few more notes from John Dagwood. It quickly becomes apparent that I'd allowed my expectations to become built up a little too much; in truth, the book contains no great revelations, even if it include some interesting detail as well as several long, annotated lists. As for St. Abraham's, the book merely mentions the church as having been the location of a Satanic cult that gathered in the crypt during the 1950s and 1960s, although there doesn't seem to be anything to distinguish this particular cult from any other. Overall, Bell paints a picture of New York as a hotbed of underground Satanic activity, to the extent that it's hard to believe that such things could have been going on for so long, and so extensively, without becoming better known. By the time I get to the end of the book's second chapter, however, it's clear that most of these cults were comprised of dilettantes who liked dressing up in fancy robes and who would've run a mile if there'd been even a hint of anything genuinely unusual happening. Bell even acknowledges this fact himself, suggesting for example that in many cases red food dye was substituted for blood. Finally, just after 1pm, I sit back, realizing that perhaps I've hit my limit for the day.

  Although I want to keep reading, in case Bell mentions anything that could be linked to the man in my photos, I figure I'm running the risk of zoning out and missing important details. Figuring I could perhaps spend the afternoon getting some more images, I start gathering my things together. This little room is so quiet and still, it would be far too easy to fall asleep and end up wasting an entire day, when in reality I need to keep working. In just over a week, I'm going to start my next course of chemo, so I have to take full advantage of the days when my head is clear.

  As I'm about to close the book and call it quits for the day, I realize there's another of Dagwood's notes tucked into the next page. Pulling it out, I find to my su
rprise that it's a little different to the others:

  These little messages are getting annoying. How about (a totally professional) dinner so we can compare notes in person? I have some church photos you might find interesting. Are you free tonight? JD

  There's a phone number at the bottom of the note, and I sit in silence for a moment as I contemplate the fact that, in a rather roundabout way, I seem to have been asked on a date. Or, if not a date, then at least a working dinner. My first instinct is to add the note to the rest and toss them all away, but at the same time I'm worried that I might miss something important. Dagwood's mention of church photos seems to be a hint that maybe, just maybe, he could contribute to my work. I hate the thought of going on a date, but a professional meeting to discuss the book might be acceptable. After all, I'd be an idiot to pass up the possibility of learning something new simply because I don't like eating out.

  Grabbing my phone, I dial the number and wait for him to answer.

  "Hi," I say when he picks up. "This is Kate Logan".

  "Kate," he replies, sounding pleased to hear from me. I hear the shuffling of papers in the background, as if he's in the middle of work. "How are you doing? Are you here?"

  "Here?" I suddenly realize that he means the library. "Yeah, but I'm on my way out".

  "Are you in one of the study rooms? I can be there in a couple of minutes".

  "No," I say quickly, "don't worry about that. I'm leaving. I just got your note about dinner, and..." I pause for a moment. Do I really want to do this? "I could meet you tonight," I say finally. "To discuss the book".