The Demonologist

by Andrew Pyper

  I stop.

  Jump out of the car and scramble around to the back. Fall to my knees to check under the chassis, peer along the ditches on either side of the road. The girl is nowhere to be seen.

  I wipe my hand against the back of my neck and it returns smeared with blood. And the iPhone. Still working. Still holding on to the previous minutes since she’d found the dictaphone app and pressed RECORD.

  I rewind. Press PLAY.

  Do you believe in God?

  Whoever she was, she was here. Not a part of my mythmaking. Not a delusion. The entire conversation recorded.

  . . . And I promise you, he is most definitely real.

  I turn the recording off to avoid hearing the real girl’s call for help, a sound more frightening than even the Unnamed’s hollow tone.

  The idea that I should erase the file crosses my mind. It’s what I want to do more than anything else.

  Instead I enter a name. Call the file ANNE. Save it.

  13

  I PULL OVER TO SLEEP IN TWENTY-MINUTE BREAKS. DRIVE. SLEEP. Drive. By afternoon I cross the North Dakota state line without anyone noticing. I barely notice it myself.

  In Hankinson, after a gummy ham-and-cheese and an entire jug of coffee, I feel pointlessly refreshed. I’m in North Dakota. Now what? Wait for a telegram? Go door to door, flashing open my wallet to the five-year-old photo of Tess within and ask if anyone’s seen my daughter? I can imagine how that would go:

  SWEET OLD LADY

  Oh dear. How awful. She go missing ’round here?

  MAN

  No, not here. Venice, actually.

  And nobody believes she might be alive except me.

  SWEET OLD LADY

  I see. And what do you think happened to her?

  MAN

  Me? I think a demon has her.

  SWEET OLD LADY

  Henry! Call 911!

  SLAM!

  The screen door whacks against the MAN’s nose.

  He rubs it and walks on as SIRENS approach in the distance.

  I decide, having come all this way, to take in Hankinson’s sights. It doesn’t take long. Hot Cakes Café. The Golden Pheasant Bar & Lounge. The Lincoln State Bank. A few white clapboard churches standing well back from the curb. The town’s biggest boast, judging from the paint-chipped signage, is “OKTOBERFEST . . . IN SEPTEMBER!” Otherwise no sign of Tess or the Unnamed. No sign of a sign.

  When I reach the Hankinson Public Library—a provisional-looking structure of cinderblock and poky windows—I walk in with the idea of taking things into my own hands. I’m a professional researcher, after all. I should be able to find a buried reference, a wink hidden in the text. But what is the text? The only book I’m working from is the real world around me. Material I’ve never been particularly good at interpreting.

  I acquire a library card for a buck fifty and sign out one of the computer terminals. Figure I might as well begin where all my lazy undergrads embark upon their research papers these days. Google.

  “North Dakota” brings up the standard wiki entries about population (672,591, which ranks it forty-seventh among states in density), capital city (Bismarck), sitting senators (one Democrat, one GOP), the highest elevation (at White Butte, which prompts a mental cataloguing of possible puns).

  But there is, farther down in the entry, a list of the state’s newspapers. The Beulah Beacon. Farmers Press. McLean County Journal. And one that jumps out: Devils Lake Daily Journal. Is this where I’m supposed to go next? The name fits, though the clue strikes me as rather on-the-nose for the Unnamed, whose character (if it can be understood as having character) is emerging as rather more subtle, pleased with its cleverness. So no, I’m not hitting the road to Devils Lake. I’m not hitting the road to anywhere until I discover why I’m here in the first place.

  Which may be the point. Perhaps I’m not expected to move, to wander any farther, but to arrive.

  Which starts me wondering if I have come to North Dakota not to encounter another riddle to solve, but a story. Like Jesus coming upon the man in Gerasene possessed by a legion of demons, like me flying to see the fellow scholar strapped to a chair in Santa Croce, maybe I am here to witness another “phenomenon.” More evidence of demonic incursions in our world. Perhaps my role—and my road to reaching Tess—is not as academic or interpreter, but as chronicler. A gatherer of anti-gospels. Of proof.

  It was the disciples’ job. Though they only earned their positions after professing their unquestioned faith in the messiah. Me? I’m not following the Son of God, but a defiling agent for the other team.

  And for Tess, I’ll do it. For her, I’ll see whatever we were never meant to see.

  One problem. If I’m here to look for a new “case,” it’s certainly not leaping out at me from the sunny, too-wide streets of Hankinson. Then again, indications of demonic presence aren’t likely to be out in the open, but rather veiled as something else, masked in a different form just as the Unnamed was when he visited as the girl in the car, the man in the church, the old gent on the plane. It will be an event that could be rationally explained, but with something wrong about it. The kind of story picked up on the wires and reported along with the other oddball bits and pieces on Internet home pages. The passing weirdness to be found in the back sections of small-town newspapers. Something North Dakota apparently has a fair number of.

  A new search. “North Dakota devils.” Which takes me directly to porn.

  Try again.

  “North Dakota unexplained.”

  “North Dakota mystery.”

  “North Dakota missing.”

  “North Dakota phenomenon.”

  After a time, one story pops up more than any other. A short piece that presents itself as little more than a depressingly common end-of-the-line for neglected souls, more sad than unsettling.

  The story first appeared on April 26th in the Emmons County Record based out of Linton. Just three days ago.

  STRASBURG WOMAN, 77, A SUSPECT IN MISSING TWIN CASE

  Delia Reyes maintains her sister, Paula Reyes, followed “voices”

  By Elgin Galt

  LINTON—

  Delia Reyes, a 77-year-old who has spent her life working a small farm in the Strasburg area with her twin sister, Paula Reyes, has been called a “person of interest” by the sheriff investigating the latter’s disappearance.

  Delia Reyes contacted police six days ago, on April 20, to report her sister as a missing person. Police questioning of the woman, however, revealed a version of events that left authorities puzzled.

  “According to Delia, Paula had been hearing voices coming from the cellar for some time,” Sheriff Todd Gaines revealed to the Record. “Voices that were calling for her to come down and join them.”

  Delia told police that she herself couldn’t hear these voices, and was concerned for her sister’s mental state. Fearing she might harm herself, she made Paula promise to not go down there on her own.

  Then, according to Delia, one evening Paula could resist no longer. Her statement indicates she witnessed Paula open the door to the cellar and go down the cellar stairs. By the time Delia—who has certain physical limitations—was able to make it down herself, Paula was gone.

  “It was the last she or anyone has seen of Paula Reyes,” Sheriff Gaines said.

  With Ms. Reyes’ permission, investigators have thoroughly searched the interior and exterior of the sisters’ property, but have so far discovered no sign of the senior.

  When asked if there were indications of foul play, Sheriff Gaines replied in the negative. “It’s a missing persons case with an aspect we view as somewhat out of the ordinary, that’s all,” he said.

  Despite repeated attempts at contact, Ms. Reyes has declined to comment on the ongoing investigation.

  Dementia in the elderly is no sure sign of demons. Nevertheless, voices inviting you to join them in an old Dakotan root cellar has something about it that may be useful. It is, this week at least, the closes
t thing the forty-seventh most densely populated state of the union has to offer in the way of traces left behind by the Adversary.

  I debate calling the reporter, Elgin Galt, directly, but decide against it. The Emmons County Record doesn’t need to know a New York professor has come to call on the surviving Reyes sister. Better if nobody knows at all. No advance phone calls, no request for a few minutes of Miss Delia’s time.

  I don’t want information anyway. That’s not what the Unnamed expects of me. He expects me to bear witness. To document. To assemble a dark account of his actions.

  The Book of Ullman.

  14

  THE JOURNEY FROM HANKINSON TO LINTON IS SO WHOLLY VOID of landmarks or points of interest it is a version of hell in itself. Not the fiery, soul-crowded caverns of Giotto’s paintings, but a place of torment where boredom is the primary punishment.

  Yet there is, as I turn south on Highway 83 for the drive into Linton, a growing sense that I was right to come here. That is, I am wrong to come.

  An unease that the benign landscape of early-season grain fields and long-laned farmsteads cannot wholly camouflage. A kind of sound. A high-frequency note that never entirely goes away.

  At first I take it to be the buzz of cicadas, but even when I roll up all the windows, it’s still audible. I’d think it was some form of tinnitus if I didn’t sometimes hear something in it. Words. An indiscernible monologue or recitation delivered at a pitch just out of the range of hearing. A hissed voice addressing the world. And now, as I roll closer to the Reyes farm, I am developing the unwanted skill of learning its message.

  BY THE TIME I MAKE LINTON THERE’S A GRAY POWDERING OF DUSK over town. A sparse light that seems to accentuate the forsaken flags outside half the businesses, the oversized SUPPORT OUR TROOPS ribbons lashed to elm trunks and porch steps. It’s too late to go looking for the Reyes place right now. So, first, a take-out Hawaiian from Hot Spot Pizza. A room at the farthest end of Don’s Motel. A scorching shower. A channel surf of famine victims and talent contests. Bed.

  I fall asleep only to be immediately awakened. This is what it feels like, though the clock radio on the nightstand reads 3:12 AM. The only light a pale slopover from the parking lot, spilling down the wall from under the closed curtains. And no sound. No reason to have been lifted out of sleep at all.

  At the same instant I have this thought, I hear it. The creak of a metallic spring. The slap of skin on rubber. A backyard, childhood sound.

  Someone jumping on a trampoline, over and over. A joyless play, without laughter or shout.

  I get up and peek through the front window, knowing I will see nothing there. The sound is coming from behind the motel’s outbuilding.

  . . . Reek-TICK. Reek-TICK. Reek-TICK . . .

  The jumper keeps jumping. Even louder here in the bathroom. The trampoline close by outside the open ventilation window. The nylon curtains repeatedly blown out and sucked in, as though the jumping is the sound of the night breathing, the rusty catch of its ins and outs.

  I part the ventilation window’s curtains. The breeze now direct upon my face. The window’s frame is too small to allow much view without getting closer. To see anything aside from the patch of back lawn and marshlands beyond I have to press my nose against the screen.

  . . . Reek-TICK. Reek-TICK . . .

  Look right. Nothing there.

  Press harder until the screen pops out of its frame. My head stuck out. My neck laid upon the sill.

  . . . Reek-TICK . . .

  Look left. And she’s there.

  Tess’s arms unnaturally rigid at her sides. Her legs bending only at the knees with each meeting with the elastic tarp that sends her up to the exact same height each time. The bare feet flat as sawed-off two-by-fours.

  Her body, though it is not under her own control. Her face. From the chin up it is my daughter staring back at me in confusion, in panic. Unsure why she’s here, how to make it stop. She keeps her eyes on me because it is all she knows.

  Her mouth opens. Nothing comes out. I can hear it anyway.

  Daddy . . .

  I try to push myself out through the window but the space is too small for my shoulders to pass through. So I uncork my head and run to the door. Bare feet spanking over the parking lot, then slipping on the dew-slicked grass as I round the corner.

  Even when I see she’s not there I keep running. Lay my hands on the trampoline’s surface, feeling for a trace of her warmth.

  I circle the building to see if I can catch sight of her. Launch into the marsh and sink down to my waist in sulfur-belching muck.

  Of course she’s not here.

  Of course I keep looking.

  Another hour or so of pacing the perimeter of the motel’s lot. Shouting for her every few minutes even after a guest opens the door to advise me he’s prepared to make me shut up if I don’t do it myself. At some point, her name turns to tears in my throat. A mud-soaked madman walking about the night, howling at the half moon.

  IT WASN’T WHAT YOU’D CALL A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP.

  In the morning, I head into town for breakfast at the Harvest Restaurant & Grill, parking on the street outside. On the way to the door, a tail-wagging mutt comes up for a scratch. I wish him good morning and he responds with a lick of my wrist.

  “Keep an eye on my car, would you?” I ask, and he seems to understand, lowering his rump to the sidewalk and watching me go, his ears raised teepees atop his head.

  Inside, I take a booth near the kitchen, my back to the door. It’s why, a minute later, I don’t see the man approach who sits opposite me, tossing yesterday’s New York Times across the table.

  “Thought I’d bring you a little taste of home,” the Pursuer says.

  I spin around. None of the other diners seem to find anything strange about his sudden appearance. Why would they? Two strangers, traveling together, joining each other for breakfast. Come to think of it, that assessment would be more or less true.

  “You found me,” I say.

  “Never really lost you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Okay. Took a few calls to catch up for a while there.”

  “Calls to whom?”

  He bridges an index finger over his lips. “Trade secret.”

  The waitress arrives to pour coffee for both of us. Asks us if we’re ready to order. I point to Special #4, the Farmer’s Feast.

  “Toast,” the Pursuer says, handing back the menu without moving his eyes from mine.

  The thought occurs to me that, now that he’s found me again, this man intends to kill me. Not here in this diner, not at the moment. But certainly here, in Linton. It’s a strange thing, but even more than my imminent murder it’s the notion of dying in North Dakota that comes as a shock. I always assumed my elbow-patched life would see me expire in my bed at home, sedated and painless, quoting the poets on my way out. Taking a bullet in Hicksville belonged to another man’s story. But of course, I’m living another man’s story now.

  “Hey, Dave,” he says. “Over here. Look at me.”

  Should I run? Just get up and bolt out of here and hope I can make it to the Mustang faster than the Pursuer can make it to his Crown Victoria?

  I’d lose. I can elude this man for stretches of time—I have eluded him, or I wouldn’t be here—but he will find me in the end. And he will do what he will do.

  “I’m not giving it to you,” I say.

  “That’s all right. My client has altered my instructions.”

  I can’t keep looking at the print of a hunter shooting a duck nailed to the wall over the pie fridge. So I look at him. See that he appears almost friendly.

  “How so?”

  “You’ve become interesting,” he says.

  “You should see me after a couple of drinks.”

  “My client would like to know where you’re headed.”

  “Nowhere in particular.”

  He sips his coffee. Swallows. The taste of it apparently reminds him of his ulcer
, as he bangs the cup down in the saucer as though he’s spotted a spider drowning in it.

  “Your instructions,” I say. “You said they’ve changed.”

  “Temporarily. Of course, our primary interest remains in obtaining the document.”

  “Which you haven’t even mentioned yet.”

  “We know it’s not traveling with you. We know you are aware of its location, and that you will eventually disclose it to me. That moment has been suspended for the time being, however.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “Not long, would be my guess.”

  “Your client is impatient.”

  “We share that.”

  The Farmer’s Feast arrives. A nest of scrambled eggs, along with the full oeuvre of breakfast meat: sausage wrapped in bacon on a bed of ham. The Pursuer eyes it with undisguised envy.

  “Want some?” I offer.

  “That’s crazy glue for your arteries.”

  “We’re all gonna go one day.”

  “Yeah. But where are you gonna go the day after, Professor?”

  He takes a bite of his toast. A shower of crumbs on the formica.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” I say. “If you’re just following me, follow me.”

  “I’m here to impress upon you the severity of the situation. Because I’m not sure you’re quite getting it yet.”

  “I get it.”

  “Really? Then tell me. What are you after out here?”

  “It doesn’t concern you.”

  “It’s personal. I understand. My client has seen people in similar situations. People who have had a door opened for them. The kind of door you should close. Or run away from. Mostly, they do. But sometimes, people think they can walk right through, take a look around, grab a souvenir from the gift shop on the way out. Never turns out well.”

  “Hold on,” I say, gauging whether I could reach his shirt collar from where I sit. “Do you know who has her?”

  “See? That’s my point. You’re chasing something you shouldn’t be chasing.”

  “That your client’s advice?”

  “No, that’s mine. My client is interested only in having what you have and, if possible, knowing what you know.”