It’s like I’ve ended up on the set of a post-apocalyptic sci-fi movie. If only the director would yell “Cut!” Then the lights would come up, and I’d be able to join the actors as they walked off set.
But despite the location, this isn’t a movie. And as much as I’d like to walk away from what I’ve just learned, I can’t.
“So now you know,” Ba’al says, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “The good Christian uncle raped one niece and threatened the other.” He throws his head back and laughs.
The noises he’s making crawl up my spine like a sharp-nailed rodent. “I don’t find it funny.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He dabs at an imaginary tear in the corner of his eye before he continues. “I was just relishing the irony. Weren’t you molested by a good Christian man, too? It seems to run in your family.”
I wince at his comment. I don’t want to think about Ethan now. But how can I avoid it? “He didn’t molest me. He tried to, but I stopped him.”
Ba’al shrugs. “If that makes you feel better. But you have to admit, the church hasn’t done you or your family any favors.”
Vinnie had told me that Ba’al would lie, that he’d twist the truth and use it to his own advantage. But I can’t argue with what he just said. The church hadn’t helped me. In fact, Mom never would have met Ethan if we hadn’t gone to church that day. And what about young Bobbie? Jesus stared down at her from every corner of that hypocritical house, yet she was still abused and betrayed by someone she should have been able to trust. Someone who worked in the church and claimed to love Jesus.
I have no part in him, and he has no part in me.
There it is again. This time, I don’t look around for the owner of the voice. As before, Ba’al gives no indication that he’s heard anything. A little seed of hope sprouts deep in the core of my being. Someone’s trying to help me. But who? The most logical choice would be Vinnie, but it doesn’t sound like him. It doesn’t feel like him.
Look in the shadows.
The shadows. Throughout my life, there have been so many shadows.
I think back to what I saw moments ago. My mother attacking her uncle, her mother nearly having a nervous breakdown . . . and the shadow in the corner, behind the rubber plant. Like someone standing in the wings, watching the dysfunctional melodrama unfold. I’d tried to look at it, but Ba’al stopped me.
I remember Ethan, his disgusting hands, his vile breath. The shadows that seemed to consume me. The shadows that I threw the cross into, never wanting to see it again.
Finally, I remember the man in the park, standing in the deep, dark shadows of the trees at night. I remember the doubts that assailed me, the fear that Jake would be like all the others.
The truth hits me with the force of a semi-truck.
I look at Ba’al. “You were there.”
His lips pull back across his now gaunt face, stretching into a horrible smile. His eyes, circled in dark shadow, grow wide and wild. I know that look. It’s the same look I saw on George’s face. The same look I saw on Ethan’s.
“Every time, you were there.”
Confusion and anger fill my chest like a water-soaked sponge, expanding, overwhelming me. “You’ve plagued my family for decades. You’ve stalked me, and when you couldn’t hurt me physically, you filled my head with doubt and fear. Why? Why us?”
The expression on his face changes, becoming flat and bored. “Why not you?”
It makes no sense. But it has to. I can’t believe it was all random. There has to be a reason. “And those men. George, Ethan . . . why would you make them do such hideous, repulsive things?”
He frowns and a growl-like rumble rises from his throat. “You still don’t get it, do you? We can’t make you do anything.” He moves toward me, hands slicing through the air as he talks. “All we can do is present you with options, suggestions. We can make a situation available to you, entice you, tempt you.” Now he’s standing right in front of me, toes almost against mine. “We can show you the possibilities. Arouse your senses. Fill you with desire.” He stops, and the next words shoot out of him like machine gun fire. “But we can’t make you do anything.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
“You people love to shift blame to someone else. I’m fat because of the fast food industry. I had an affair because that woman is just too sexy. I embezzled the money because the economy is so bad and it’s the only way I could put my kids through college. But sometimes, you can’t find anyone else to blame, and then what do you do?”
He waits for me to answer. When I don’t he sneers and goes on. “When you’ve got no one else to blame, you say ‘The devil made me do it.’ As if that absolves you from any responsibility. All that free will is wasted on you. You have no idea what to do with it.”
His eyes narrow into slits. Before I have time to react, he grabs my arm and pulls me against him so that my back is flush against his chest. His arm snakes around my neck and he grabs my chin with his hand, pointing me toward the screen again. “I think I’ll show you something else.”
Waves of heat envelope me. It’s hard to breathe, and I think I might pass out. But then my head clears.
I’m looking at the inside of a garage. It’s dark, but enough light comes in through three big windows at the top of the door that I can make out a car. It’s a light blue, four door sedan with a huge chrome grill, sporting the Chevrolet logo. While I’m no car expert, I’d say this one is from the fifties.
“Why are you showing me this?”
“You’ll see.”
A squeal echoes through the room. A crack of sunlight squeezes through under the garage door and grows fatter as the door goes up. But it doesn’t go up all the way. A long, flat box is pushed under it. Then a child rolls through. Then another. Then one more. After the last one is in, he jumps up and pushes the garage door closed with his foot.
They move around in the shadowy room.
The tallest child, a boy, waves to the others. “Set it up over here.”
He sits cross-legged beside the car. The other two, a younger boy and girl, join him. The middle boy opens the box. He takes out a board and puts it in the center of their circle. The girl turns on a flashlight and shines it on the board. It’s made of wood. The letters of the alphabet stand out fat and black in two curved rows. At the top is the word OUIJA.
The girl looks at the older boy and shines the light right in his face. “What do we do now, George?”
He screws up his face, swatting at her hand. “Dang it, Betty, watch where you point that thing.”
My body begins to shake. George. Betty. That must make the little one . . .
“I want to go first!” The small boy grabs a triangular piece of wood with a round piece of glass in the middle. He holds it up to his eye like a monocle.
“No fair,” Betty whines. “It should be ladies first.”
“Yeah, well, you ain’t no lady.” George laughs and points at the other boy. “Let Robby go first.”
Robert.
Betty.
George.
My knees start to give out and I almost fall, but Ba’al’s arm tightens around me. “Oh no you don’t,” he hisses. “You’re going to watch this.”
The kids lean toward the board. Robby is about to put the piece of wood down when George stops him. “Don’t you want to know the rules first?”
The other two nod. George goes on.
“We’re about to consult with Ouija, god of the magical, mystical talking board.” His voice has taken on a tone of overdone reverence. His siblings are a captive audience, which he clearly relishes. “We all get to ask it a question.”
“How do we get an answer?” Robby sounds as if he’s in awe of the whole process.
George points at the piece of wood in Robby’s hand. “That’s called a planchette. You put it on the board, and we all touch it with our fingertips. Then it will move around the board and spell out the answer.”
Betty’s eyes are round with amazement. “It moves all by itself?”
George nods. “Yep. But only if we do it right. First, we have to hold hands and welcome the spirit of Ouija.”
He reaches out and takes first Robby’s hand, then Betty’s. She sets the flashlight on the ground so the beam points at the board, then she grabs Robby’s hand. When they’re all connected, George takes a deep breath.
“Oh spirit of Ouija,” he intones. “We welcome you in the middle of us. Bring us your wisdom and tell us the future.”
They look around as if expecting something to be different, but nothing has changed. They let go of each other’s hands. George points at the board. “Okay, Robby. What do you want to know?”
Robby can’t be more than five or six. He wrinkles up his nose. Then he sits up straight, smiling widely. “I know!” He gazes at the board. “Tell me what my future holds.”
Betty wags her head. “That’s no fair. You read it off the side of the box.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Robby shoots back. “It’s still a question, and I wanna know.”
George raises his hands. “Pipe down you two. Do you want to drag Dad out here? Robby said what he wanted to know. Now let’s get the answer.”
The boy puts the piece of wood on the board. Six sets of fingertips rest gently on it.
Nothing happens.
“See, you did it wrong,” Betty says.
George frowns at her. “Say it again, but this time, say it like a question.”
Robby stares at the planchette, his eyebrows drawn together. “What does my future hold?”
The room is silent. The piece of wood starts to move. It stops over a letter.
D
It moves again.
E
The fear in the room grows until it’s palpable. The children watch, terrified, as the planchette moves, hovering over three more letters, and the mystic board spells out the answer: DEATH.
The silent, shadowy room explodes in shouts and movements.
Robby bursts into tears.
Betty scrambles backward, kicking the board, and sending the planchette flying.
George jumps to his feet.
“Why did you do that?” Robby cries.
“I didn’t do anything,” Betty shouts. “It was the board.”
Robby cries harder.
George steps to his brother. Puts an arm around him. “Calm down. It’s just a stupid game. It didn’t mean anything.”
The door to the house opens. Someone flips the light switch, bathing the area in light.
“What’s going on in here?”
A man walks into the garage. He’s got a beer bottle in one hand.
“Sorry, Dad. We were just playing, and Robby got upset.” George tries to kick the Ouija board under the car, but he’s not fast enough.
“What’s that?” His father stalks over. Looks down. Then he looks back at George. “You know better than to bring that kind of filth into this house. I’m going to beat the devil out of you, boy.”
He grabs George by the collar and pushes him toward the door. Then he looks back at the other two children who are now both crying. He waves his beer bottle at them. “When I’m done with this one, I’ll come back for you other two.”
30
The Drive-In
The movie is over.
Ba’al lets me go and I stagger, stepping away from him, turning back to look at him. He’s getting uglier by the minute.
“You wanted to know why I’ve shown such an interest in your family,” he says. “Now you know. They invited me.”
My mouth tastes like metal. “No,” I barely croak out the word. I swallow and try again. “No. They didn’t invite you. They called for some made up spirit of Ouija. They were just kids. They thought they were playing a game.”
He grins like an evil jack-o-lantern. “That’s the crazy thing about calling on a demon. Sorry, a spirit. You never know which one you’re going to get.”
I still can’t believe what I just saw. “They were only kids.”
He snorts in exasperation. “Look, it’s not my fault the little brat asked such a stupid question and then couldn’t handle the answer. You all die eventually. The kid was going to die, and I told him. If he didn’t want to know, he shouldn’t have asked.”
My mom’s Uncle Robert died of pneumonia. When he was only six. “How long after that did he die?”
“About a month. Which proves that I’m honest and accurate.”
George and Betty must have been terrified after their brother died. It explained Betty’s obsession with Jesus pictures and self-help books. But what about George? Why did he turn out the way he did? His father said he was going to beat the devil out of him. Obviously it didn’t work.
Which brings me back to Ba’al.
“You’re a liar and a manipulator. If you’d just left those kids alone, everything would be different.”
He purses his lips and looks down at me as if I am a slow-witted child. “I think you need another example. Let’s use Ethan.”
“No!”
“Yes.” He snaps back at me. “What could have caused Ethan to do the things he did? It’s possible that his father abused him so he grew up feeling weak and powerless. And it’s possible I might have filled his head with thoughts about how sex is really all about being dominant and in control. And I might have whispered to him about how strong he’d feel if he bagged a babe like you. I might even have let him have you in his dreams.”
He reaches out and runs the tip of his finger lightly down my arm. The touch burns like a soldering iron even though he barely makes contact. I jerk away, scramble backward, and he continues.
“It’s possible that I put all those thoughts into Ethan’s mind. But in the end, the choice was his.”
With each sentence, the demon moves closer to me.
“He chose to fantasize about pretty young girls. He chose to put his hands on you. He is responsible for the choices he made, not me.”
With every step he takes, I hear the crunch of his footsteps, like boots on sand. And now another memory comes to me. During the accident. I thought I saw a man. I swerved the car to avoid hitting him. That’s why I’d gone into the ditch. And after, when I was lying injured in the car, before Vinnie came, I heard the crunch of boots. I heard the voice, sweet and melodious, saying “Let me help you.” And then the flash of white.
“It was you.”
He doesn’t answer, but I know I’m right. Ba’al is the one who put me in this position. He tried to take me when I was lying in that car. But Vinnie stopped him.
Ba’al takes another step. He’s so close to me now, I can smell his breath. It’s putrid, like rotten meat. My stomach roils, my head swims. The ground undulates beneath my feet and I fall, first to my knees, then my hands hit the pavement. Little pieces of rock and grit bite into my palms. I hold up my left hand and stare at it. Pain radiates from my fingertips and up through my arm. I try to stand, but fire shoots through my legs and I fall back down.
This is very bad.
I force myself to look up. From this perspective, Ba’al seems to tower over me. I’m like a bug at his feet, one he could easily crush. “What’s happening?”
“You’re very weak. I’m afraid our little chat has taken a lot out of you.” He cocks his head, looking at me like a bird looks at a worm just before pecking it up. “And now, it’s time to choose.”
I let my head fall. That’s why he’s been so willing to share all this with me. He knew it would wear away at what strength I had left. Once more, I try to stand, but collapse in a heap by one of the speaker poles. I grab at it, trying to steady myself, but I only succeed in pulling the speakers off and sending them clanging to the ground. I grip the pole to hold myself up and look around, searching for the diner. Vinnie said I could go back any time I wanted. Where is it?
“I want to go back to the diner.”
Ba’al just laughs at my request. “You’re in
no shape to go back there. But you don’t need to. I can help you more than that angel can.” He kneels down in front of me, and I see he’s put on his beautiful face again. “Just let go, Alexandra. You don’t need to suffer anymore.”
The world turns sideways, and I clutch at the pole. Is the ground really moving? I’m light-headed, and my brain is muddled. Ba’al leans in closer.
“Think of all you’ve been through. Think of how much pain you’ve already endured in your life and how much more is to come.”
A searing pain shoots through my arm, like someone’s taken a chainsaw and hacked into the bone. I scream and sweat breaks out on my forehead. The inside of my body is burning up but chills dance across my flesh.
“What is there to go back to, anyway? Men who only want to use you. A mother who hates the sight of you. But it can all be over. I can take away your pain.”
The tones in his voice lull me, tempt me. No more pain. How wonderful that would be. “How?”
“Just come with me, and your earthly pain will cease.”
He holds his hand out. I stare at it. A spike of pain shoots through my head, in one temple and out the other. Oh, how I want this to all be over.
Choose life.
But I hurt so much.
Choose life.
But I don’t want to go on like this.
Choose life.
Why? What have I got to live for, anyway?
I collapse, and my head hits one of the speakers on the ground. I close my eyes, ready to give up, ready to end it all, when I hear voices.
“I wasn’t a good mother.”
Mom?
“I wish I could have a second chance.”
So do I.
“Bobbie, will you pray with me?”
Two voices, the ones I’ve heard my entire life, blend together.
“Our Father . . .”
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