Devil's Kiss

by William W. Johnstone

  Her fingers hooked inside her labia, she opened herself. “Wouldn’t you like to fuck me, Sam? Come on, honey—I’ll give you some pussy.”

  Sam hit her with his fist. He hit her a short, hard, chopping right, his big fist catching her on the side of the jaw. Her head snapped back, banging against the side of the stall. She slumped forward onto the wet floor, unconscious.

  Sam washed her, soaping her again and again until her body was red from the abrading of the washcloth. He washed her long hair until it squeaked. She groaned, shook her head, and tried to bite him. He popped her again with his fist and she was still.

  Sam dragged her out of the stall, dried her, and carried her to his bedroom, dumping her on the sheets. With rope from the storeroom, Sam bound her, tying her hands to the headboard, her feet to the base of the frame. He tossed a blanket over her nakedness. She lay glaring up at him, eyes wild with fury.

  “Bastard!” she hissed. “You’ll die for this.”

  “One of us will,” he promised her, stripping off his wet clothing.

  Her eyes lingered at his groin. “Fuck me, Sam!” she begged him. “I need it!”

  He looked at her in disgust, then turned his back to her. He walked into the bathroom, drying himself, changing clothes. Her screaming followed him through the house as he dialed the rectory for Father Dubois.

  Quickly, he told the priest what he’d done. “I need your help, Michael. Can you come over here?”

  “Five minutes, Sam.”

  He met the priest on the front porch, watching as Dubois blessed the house with prayer and Holy Water.

  “Will this work, Michael?”

  “If it doesn’t,” the old priest said grimly, “it will kill her.”

  “Isn’t she already dead?” Sam’s voice was harsh.

  “Yes, son, she is, in a manner of speaking. Come on, this is not going to be pleasant.”

  The men followed the sounds of screaming, cursing, snarling.

  “You picked a good day for this,” Dubois glanced at his watch. “We have about three and a half hours ’til midnight. I think it best we do it by then.”

  In the bedroom, Michelle snarled at the sight of them, her eyes rolling back in her head, only the white showing at the sight of the Bible in Dubois’s hand. She spat at him, the spittle catching him on the cheek. He wiped it away with a handkerchief, careful not to let any of the spit touch his lips.

  “What do we do, Michael?”

  The priest knelt by the bed. “Pray, Sam—let me do the rest. Pray harder than you’ve ever prayed in your life. We’ve got to fill this room with the power of God.”

  And the men prayed.

  Michelle howled like an animal on the bed, fighting her bonds until her ankles and wrists were raw and bleeding. She cursed their prayers, screamed as the Holy Water touched her flesh. She yelled filth and profanity, working as hard against the exorcism as they worked toward saving her soul.

  Dogs barked in the streets of Whitfield; the crow, the owl, the night hawk hooted and cawed and screeched their outrage; and a summer storm sprang up in the dark skies, sending flashes of lightning licking across the heavens, thunder rolling in waves.

  And the men prayed and worked.

  Michelle strained against her bonds, blasphemy from her tongue opposing the supplications from the men of God.

  An owl bashed itself to blood and broken feathers against the house, the Doberman from across the street ran around the parsonage, frantically seeking entrance into the house, its bloodlust high, the only thought in its brain: KILL. And in the homes of the possessed in Whitfield, eyes turned in the direction of the parsonage, mouths snarled, and tongues uttered chants learned in the pits of Hell.

  “NNNOOO!” Michelle screamed, lunging against the bonds that held her. Her body arched upward in pain.

  The minutes passed into hours as the power of God fought the mind-possessing tyranny of the devil. Michelle seemed to grow no weaker as the sweat gathered on her body, darkening the sheets.

  Sam placed his hand on her forehead. “Speak of God’s love, Michelle. Ask Him for help. Ask him! He will help.”

  She snarled and attempted to bite Sam. “Fuck God!” she hissed. “Fuck Jesus! Praise the Prince of Darkness. Hail the Lord of Flies!”

  She pulled back her lips and the men watched in horror as her teeth yellowed, enlarging, becoming fanged. Her eyes narrowed to slanted slits, yellow shining from the crooked apertures.

  Father Dubois drenched her with Holy Water, and she squalled in pain, the metamorphosis reversing as she transformed back into Michelle.

  “I thought so,” the priest muttered. He rose from his kneeling, a look of hate on his usually serene face. “It’s no use. She’s one of Them. Very old.”

  Sam had backed against a wall, seemingly frozen there. Not so much from fear, although that was certainly a part of it, but more from shock at what he had lived with for years.

  Dubois glanced at his watch. “Five minutes,” he muttered. “Only five more minutes and she’ll have us.”

  He walked out of the room, returning with a broom. He handed the broom to Sam. “Break it, Sam. I need a stake.” Sam hesitated. “BREAK IT!” Dubois shouted, slapping Sam across the mouth.

  Sam came out of his shock with a lurch. He snapped the broom handle, leaving one end jaggedly pointed. “Sorry, Michael,” he apologized. “It just got to me.”

  Watch me, son,” the priest ordered. “For when I’m gone, it’s going to be up to you to do this—and you will have to do it many, many times. Be strong.”

  And Sam watched in horror as the priest whirled, raised the stake with both hands, and brought it down, the jagged point driving into Michelle’s chest.

  Blood spewed from her mouth, both men ducking to avoid the gushing crimson.

  But Michelle would not die.

  She howled at them, blood spraying from her lips. Her teeth grew fanged, her eyes wild and yellow.

  “Missed the heart,” Dubois said calmly, ignoring her shrieks of pain. “Pull the stake out for me, Sam. I don’t have the strength.”

  Sam jerked the stake from his wife’s chest. He gave the dripping stick to Dubois.

  The priest raised the stake far above his head. “Give me the strength, my God, to destroy this creature of Satan. In Your name, Lord.” He drove the stake deep into Michelle’s heart.

  Still she howled as the hands of the clock drew only seconds from midnight. The town seemed to hold its breath. All the howling from the animals had ceased; no birds called in the night.

  Dubois was covered with sweat from his exertions. He worked the stake deeper into her chest. As the stake ruined the heart, the woman on the bed changed before their eyes. Where there had once been a healthy, beautiful woman, there was now a dirty hag. The hag changed again, into a smaller younger woman, but a woman covered with thick hair. The transformation back into time continued to run its course, until what was left on the bed did not in any way resemble a human form.

  The thing on the bed was of such horrible features it was disgusting to look upon. It was an animal, but it was more; it was a Beast, but it was not. It was, to Sam, indescribable.

  A stench filled the room, winding throughout the house. Both Sam and Father Dubois fought back vomit at the smell. It was the odor of thousands of years of evil, of sickness of the soul.

  Wiping his face with his hand, Sam said, “You mean—you mean, I’ve been married to THAT? All this time!” He looked at Dubois. “You never liked her. I sensed that. You KNEW!”

  “I suspected, Sam.” Both men seemed unable to pull their eyes from the rancid sight on the bed. “But I could not be certain. How could I tell you? I couldn’t.”

  Sam shuddered at the sight on the bed and of his own memories of Michelle. He was still somewhat in shock. “Wh—what do we do with her-it?”

  “First we wash and change clothes. Then we wrap the thing up and take it out to Tyson’s Lake. Dump it over the fence. Give it to the Beasts.”


  “We killed—”

  A thing!” Dubois finished Sam’s sentence. “Something of the most perverse evil to ever walk God’s earth. She—it never accepted our God, Sam. She only pretended to accept, all the while working toward her Master’s ultimate goal.”

  “Michael, what was she?”

  “One of the originals, I believe. A—witch, I suspect. She’s been here on this earth for hundreds—perhaps thousands of years, in one form or another, changing with the times, and always . . . waiting for her Master’s signal to do evil—to strike. There is no way of knowing how much evil she has spread over her many lifetimes and lifestyles. How many lives she has ruined. She was very difficult to destroy,” he mused. “She must have been very old and very powerful.”

  The men washed the stink from them, Sam giving Dubois some of his clothes to wear. The shirt and pants were far too large, but they were clean.

  Sam rolled what was once his wife into a thick blanket, then a tarp, securing the bundle with rope. He dumped the foul-smelling thing in the back of the truck, then pulled out the Thompson submachine gun from under the seat, along with a drum and several boxes of ammunition. Walking back to the house, the Steiner’s Doberman lunged at him, teeth bared, snarling. Sam kicked the animal savagely in the side, sending it away, yelping and whining in the night.

  “Bastard!” the minister cursed, then looked heavenward. “Excuse me, Lord—but these are trying times.”

  There was a great feeling of relief in Sam concerning his late wife. It was un-Christian of him, he knew, but on this he could not control his emotions.

  In the house, the priest seemed able to read his thoughts. “Think of it this way, Sam, you were never married in the eyes of God. The ceremony was a farce from beginning to end. Put her out of your mind, for she never existed in God’s eyes.”

  “How do you have the power to get inside my head like that? How did you know what I was thinking?”

  Dubois smiled, almost laughed. “Nothing mystical, Sam, I assure you.” He looked very frail, Sam’s clothing hanging on him. “I saw the love in your eyes when you looked at Jane Ann this afternoon. Pure love. Good love, as it should be between a man and a woman. You need her, and she needs you. Now you’re free to speak to her of your love, and she of hers. It will be a strong union, Sam, for as long—” He stopped abruptly.

  “I know, Michael. You can go ahead and say it. I’m not going to survive this fight. I know that. I’ll beat the devil here, but he’ll kill me in the process. Won’t he?”

  Dubois’s eyes were cloudy. I—wish, I hope you and Jane Ann produce a son, Sam. There is time; you must!”

  “I said something last evening, Michael, after the devil finished his games with me. I remember saying: ‘We’ll meet again. Me or mine.’ And I don’t know why I said it.”

  The priest said nothing, just slowly nodded his head, watching Sam feed cartridges into the sixty round drum for the SMG. He smiled. “Good, Sam—good! You’re girding your loins for the fight. It will be up to you to lead.”

  Sam’s gaze was level. “Why me, Michael? And why do you want a son of mine to be born? To be conceived in the midst of all this horror?”

  The old priest shrugged. “I rarely question God, son—it’s not good business for mortals. I simply believe you’ve been chosen—by Him. And that is that.”

  Driving out to the lake, past the darkened homes of Whitfield, the bundle of filth rolling and bumping in the bed of the truck, Sam said, “Michelle could not have been the only one of her kind. There has to be more.”

  “Yes, Sam, many of them. Probably in every town and city in the world. But not like Michelle. There are, I believe, relatively few like her—thank the Lord. But those who can be easily swayed into accepting Satan’s doctrine of evil? Millions, Sam, millions. Catholic, Protestant, Jew, Moslem. In most cases they don’t know they can be—and most would deny it. But if one knows what to look for, they are easily spotted. They are the rumor-spreaders, the gossip-mongers, the profane. They are the hypocrites, the people who condemn others for their faith, or because of their skin, or the slant of their eyes, or, just look at that filth, Hitler, because one is a Jew. They are the vicious, both physically and verbally. I could go on and on, but you know as well as I.”

  “I know there are some people in this world who need killing,” Sam said bluntly.

  Dubois chuckled. “My, you are a maverick, aren’t you? He chose well.”

  “What you said, Michael; that takes in about sixty or seventy percent of the population.”

  “At least, Sam. Heaven, my boy, will be sparsely populated. And there are going to be a lot of very surprised people come Judgment Day.”

  Sam chuckled. “I hope I won’t be one of them.”

  “You won’t.” Dubois said it with finality.

  Thank you for that,” Sam said dryly. “Michael, what you said about those types of people; most psychiatrists would argue that those people are just suffering from some type of mental problem.”

  Father Dubois again chuckled, darkly. “George Herbert said it best, Sam: He that lies with dogs, riseth with fleas.’ ”

  “The company one keeps.”

  “Exactly. Most psychiatrists are, in my opinion, grossly out of touch with reality. Most eggheads are. It’s very easy—convenient, even—to place a clinical term on a person who is basically just not a fit human being. And never will be,” he added.

  “We’re entering the age of Liberalism, Sam, and it’s going to be awful! ‘Poor little Sammy or Johnny or Susie doesn’t know right from wrong’ will be the battle cry of the next couple of decades. And that has got to be one of the most ridiculous statements ever uttered from the mouths of so-called educated men. Good heavens! Pavlov taught his dogs right from wrong.

  “Oh, certainly, Sam, there are people with mental problems. Only a fool would deny that. But as for the others I mentioned—no! You know and I know, Sam, that if we all would be willing to accept just a little less of material things, understand a little more—of those who need and want understanding, that is—what a wonderful place this earth would be. God is the answer, if people would just trust in Him, believe in Him, and do His bidding. But,” again he shrugged, “they won’t. Most never have; they never will.”

  He looked at Sam. “I’ve lectured you, Sam. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  When the priest spoke again, his voice was wistful. “I’m ready to go home. I want to go home. I’m tired of this earth and all its troubles. Troubles, I might add, as you well know, brought on by its grasping, greedy, ignorant, bigoted, shallow, arrogant inhabitants.

  “There will be a Holy War someday, Sam—of sorts. It won’t be called a Holy War, but it will be one; it will be the war to end all wars, for it will be directed by God. And it will be a blood bath against the un-Holy.”

  “And when it’s over?” Sam asked softly.

  “God will end the world.”

  Sam dragged the tarp-wrapped carcass to the fence surrounding Tyson’s Lake.

  “Dump it over the fence,” Dubois said.

  The body dropped with a plop.

  “Beasts of the night,” Dubois called out, and there was a stirring in the dark timber. “Here is your sister. Come see what God’s hand has destroyed.”

  The Beasts came to the timberline. Sam clicked the Thompson SMG off safety, lifting the muzzle. “How many of them are there?”

  “The Lord only knows,” Dubois whispered. “Let them come closer, if they will.”

  The night was silent.

  “Don’t you want to feast on her stinking remains?” Dubois called.

  But the Beasts refused to come closer. They prowled the darkness of the timber, snarling and growling. The smell of them drifted to the men by the fence.

  “They know—somehow—it’s a trap,” Sam said.

  Father Dubois looked down at the tarp-wrapped, nonhuman thing on the other side of the fence. “Leave her. Let’s go. You’re free of her, Sam.”r />
  “To Hell with her!” Sam spat the words.

  The priest glanced at him. He smiled. “A very blunt way of summing up a most interesting evening, son. Blunt, but accurate.”

  When the men had gone, and the Beasts were sure of that, they loped up from the timber to the carcass. Ripping the tarp and blanket from her, they dragged the body to the timber. There, they feasted.

  Jimmy Perkins was waiting at the rectory when Sam pulled in.

  “What’s wrong, Jimmy?” Sam asked, looking at the young man’s pale face.

  “Father Haskell. He’s dead! Beaten to death.” He ran a shaking hand over his face. “When I went to get Doctor King, someone took the body. The body is gone!”

  Dubois did not appear stunned or shocked. He crossed himself and said, “We killed one of them, they killed one of us.”

  “But they outnumber us, Father Dubois!” Jimmy protested.

  “In a manner of speaking,” the priest replied.

  “There’s more,” the young Chief said. Someone has just dug up John’s body—carried it off with them.” He looked at Sam. “What you said about the Undead; is that true?”

  “Yes,” Du is answered for Sam. “They’re walking the night.”

  Jimmy shivered. “Like in the movies?”

  “With one exception,” Dubois said. “This time it’s real.”

  FIFTEEN

  Sam slept fitfully the remainder of that night, the memory of what had happened to Michelle strong in his mind. He could not shake the recall of that awful evening and her transformation. At dawn, he rose from the couch—he could not bring himself to sleep in either bedroom—and made a pot of strong coffee. He sat on the porch, sipping his coffee.

  Waiting.

  At midmorning, he called his friends together, drove over to Chester’s, and told them all what had transpired the night before. And about the death and disappearance of Haskell.

  “Killed her!” Chester blurted. “You and Father Dubois?”

  “Oh, my God!” Faye covered her face with her hands.

  “What did you do with her?” Wade asked, his tone indicating he wanted to believe but was having extreme difficulty.