The Case Against Satan

by Ray Russell

  “Where is she?” Garth rasped, glancing about, breathing heavily.

  “She’s upstairs and she’s perfectly all right,” said Gregory. “Now please listen to me—”

  “I’ll listen to you all right. Here. Explain this.” Garth pulled a rain-soaked sheet of paper from his pocket and thrust it at Gregory. The wet had made holes in the paper and the ink was smeared, sometimes so badly as to render the words illegible, but Gregory could make out the blaring title, CATHOLIC SEX RITES, and certain isolated phrases: strange sounds in Catholic rectories . . . the screams of poor girls in mortal agony . . .

  Gregory looked up from the paper. “I’m familiar with the work of Mr. John Talbot,” he said. “Father Halloran told me all about him. There’s nothing new in this.”

  “Nothing new?” said Garth. “That thing was shoved under my door just this morning, and the ink was still wet. It’s just been printed. Talbot isn’t talking about something that happened a long time ago. Something’s happening right now that made him print this. What rectory is he talking about, Father? What rectory does Talbot know besides St. Michael’s? And who’s the poor girl, the girl who screams in pain? It’s Susie, isn’t it?”

  “Good Lord, man,” cried Gregory, “you’re a Catholic and you believe Talbot’s ravings?”

  “A Catholic . . .” Garth said it bitterly. “Yeah, I’m a Catholic. I can’t help myself. Born and raised a Catholic until it’s part of my blood. When my wife died . . .”

  “Yes, Mr. Garth?” Gregory said gently.

  “. . . I ripped the cross off the wall of our bedroom. I don’t know why. I just did. But it’s funny—I still went to Mass every Sunday because I’ve never missed a Sunday since as far back as I can remember. I go to Mass like I go to the bathroom, because that’s the way I’m made and I can’t do anything else. I’m a Catholic, all right, but I don’t have to like it.”

  Gregory said, with understanding, “Have you ever confessed this? Would you like to?”

  “Confession!” Garth scoffed. “What good does that do? You ought to hear what Talbot says about confession!”

  “I’m sure I know—”

  “Listen, this guy Talbot may not be the crackpot you think he is. I’ve talked to him now and then, off and on for years. He wanted to, like, convert me over. At first, I used to make fun of him. But now I don’t know. He’s no dumbie. He’s a hell of a sight smarter than I am! He’s educated. He’s read a lot of books, has a lot of ideas. Why, you know what he says about Christ?”

  “I know,” said Gregory patiently. “He was just a crazy Jew. They nailed Him to a piece of wood and suddenly He became a god. A crazy Jew god who’s been pulling the wool over our eyes for a couple of thousand years.”

  “That’s it,” said Garth. “And when you stop to think about it, it makes a lot of sense. Those Jews—”

  “May God forgive you, Garth,” said Gregory.

  “I don’t need anybody to forgive me for anything. All I need is for you to take me to Susie.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m her father, that’s why!”

  Her father. He it is whose name you desire. Could that be believed? Which was worse, Father Halloran or Garth? The girl’s spiritual father or her fleshly father?

  “All right,” said Gregory. “Follow me.” They walked upstairs.

  “If any harm has come to her,” panted Garth as they walked, “if you’ve hurt her in any way . . .”

  They had reached the door of the spare bedroom. Gregory knew what to expect when Garth saw his daughter in clothes not her own, tied to a bed, unconscious, with blood trickling from her mouth. With reluctance, he opened the door.

  The Bishop stood there, blocking the way. Mrs. Farley stood in a corner. Both were clearly shocked at the sight of Garth. “Ah,” the Bishop said softly, “that was you knocking at the door . . .”

  “Yes, it was me.” Garth looked past the Bishop and saw Susan. With a croak of anger he rushed to her side. “Baby! What are they doing to you?” There was no response. “Honey, can’t you hear me? It’s me, Dad!” With fury, he turned upon the priests. “What’s going on here? What have you done to her?”

  “Mr. Garth—” Gregory began.

  “Got her drugged or something! . . .”

  The Bishop assured him, “Susan has not been drugged. She has not taken so much as an aspirin.”

  “No? Then what the hell’s wrong with her, why the hell—”

  “Please remember,” said the Bishop, “that you are in the rectory of the church. Control your language.”

  “Don’t pull that stuff with me!” yelled Garth. “Talbot was right—and I’ve been right for listening to him—you priests are nothing but a bunch of—” He broke off, red-faced and short-winded. “You two have a lot of explaining to do,” he finished.

  “Yes, that’s true,” said the Bishop, coolly. “And perhaps we are not the only ones who have some explaining to do . . .”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh . . . nothing in particular. Do you always knock on doors so hard? You seem exhausted. Wouldn’t you like to go downstairs and sit down while we—”

  “No, I would not,” said Garth. “I’m taking Susie home.”

  “We can talk about that,” said Gregory, “after His Excellency and I discuss the matter. Will you excuse us for a moment, Mr. Garth? Your Excellency, will you step into the hall with me, please? . . .”

  Out in the hall, Gregory whispered, “What should we do? Should we tell him?”

  “Tell him what?”

  “What we’re doing, of course.”

  “Don’t you think he knows?”

  “How?”

  “Perhaps the same way that thing on the bed knew who was knocking at the door. There is a bond, a link between the Devil and his own . . .”

  “She said no name! Anyone could have said what she said—it means nothing!”

  “This is getting us nowhere,” said the Bishop. “You ask what we should do and I think we should try to get rid of him.”

  “That may take some doing,” said Gregory. “He’s stubborn. Right now, he’s probably wondering what we’re plotting out here. When we get back in there, I’m going to try to get to the bottom of all this business. Will you just follow my lead, Your Excellency?”

  “As you say.”

  Inside the bedroom again, Garth immediately confronted them. “OK, now suppose you tell me exactly what’s been going on here. There’s been some pretty strange talk going around, talk about draped windows and locked doors and people turned away when they come to visit the rectory. Talk about horrible sounds coming out of here—any time of the day or night. All night long. Screams—like someone was being hurt, hurt real bad . . . yelling . . . laughing . . . things being thrown around, things being broken, somebody sobbing and begging and being sick. Then I come here and I see my daughter—who you said you were going to help!—out cold, tied up, blood all over her face. And I don’t like it! You two start talking or else I’m the one who’ll start talking—to the newspapers and the police. I’ll split this place wide open and tell the world the filth that goes on here! So,” he concluded, running out of breath, “you better tell me something that makes sense . . .”

  “All right,” said Gregory. “But I wonder if you don’t have something to tell us first?”

  Garth’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the second time you two have been hinting around about me telling you something. Something about what?”

  “About you,” said Gregory. “About you and Susan. About you and your dead wife. About what happened six years ago on the day your wife died. How she died. And why.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snarled Garth. “And you don’t either.”

  “Come now, Mr. Garth,” said Gregory. “Suppose we take this slowly. Suppose we just re
turn to that day six years ago, and reconstruct it. And since I don’t know what I’m talking about, suppose you do the talking. You were there, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, sure I was there . . .”

  “Then suppose you tell us just what happened. Let’s hear your story.”

  “My story? What, am I on trial or something?”

  “No,” said Gregory. “Not yet.”

  “You trying to frame me or something? What are you up to?”

  “Stop stalling!” snapped Gregory. “It’s only because I’m a fair man that I haven’t called the police before hearing your side of the thing.”

  Garth’s rough voice squeaked in outrage. “Police? My side of what? What is this?”

  “There’s a phone just a few steps down the hall,” Gregory said. “You prefer me to call the police now?”

  “Go ahead! You’re out of your mind!”

  Gregory opened the bedroom door.

  “Wait a minute,” said Garth. Gregory looked back at him, his hand still on the knob. Sighing with exasperation, Garth asked, “What is it you want to know?”

  Gregory closed the door. “I just want you to tell me—in your own words—the circumstances surrounding the death of your wife six years ago.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” said Garth, shrugging, “nothing everybody doesn’t know. It was a Sunday. We went on a picnic, me and my wife and Susie. Susie was only ten. This place where we went, a few miles out of town, it was like a park. And we ate our lunch on the grass, and then we decided to go for a little boat ride in the lagoon they had there. You could rent boats—little rowboats. So we rented one and all three of us got in it and I started rowing. Rowed way out, out of sight of the boathouse. Susie loved it—but she wouldn’t sit still. Kept standing up, walking back and forth in the boat, stuff like that. I kept telling her to sit down, but it didn’t do much good. I told her something bad would happen.” Garth swallowed. “And it did. She lost her balance and fell in the water.”

  “Could she swim?” asked Gregory.

  “Not a stroke. Right away I dropped the oars and jumped in after her. But when I jumped, I must have turned the boat over. I’m pretty heavy, and I moved so quick I guess I wasn’t very careful. Next thing I knew, my wife was in the water, too. The boat was overturned. Susie was throwing herself around in my arms and screaming—I almost went under myself—she wouldn’t let me swim—I tried to reach my wife—she kept calling to me—but I couldn’t let Susie go—and—” Garth dropped his head.

  “And your wife drowned,” said Gregory.

  Garth nodded. “So did I, almost. But I managed to grab hold of the overturned boat and pull Susie and me onto it. By that time, a powerboat from the boathouse got to us. I guess they must have heard the screaming. But they were too late to save my wife.”

  Gregory watched the Bishop. The older man returned his glance, then, entering into the spirit of Gregory’s hunch, said to Garth: “Tell us about the insurance.”

  “What are you getting at?” Garth demanded.

  “Now don’t tell me,” scoffed the Bishop, “that the death of Mrs. Garth didn’t bring in some insurance money.”

  “Listen,” said Garth, indignantly, “I’m not the first person in the world who ever collected an insurance policy . . .”

  “No indeed,” replied the Bishop, with a slight smile of triumph, “nor the last.” His voice dropped as he tried a new tack. “But you got more than money.”

  “No I didn’t,” Garth protested. “The policy—”

  “You got Susan.”

  “What??”

  Picking up the Bishop’s thread, Gregory closed in on Garth, saying, “Susan. You got Susan. All alone in the house with you. With no mother to interfere. Even when she was only ten years old, Susan was a pretty little girl, wasn’t she? You liked to bring candy home to her, and toys, and take her to the movies—just you and Susan—and dandle her on your knee . . .”

  “Sure I did!” said Garth. “If a father can’t—”

  “But with you,” Gregory went on, “it was always a little more than just a father, wasn’t it? There was another feeling . . . a feeling you couldn’t express with her mother around . . .”

  “You’re crazy!”

  The Bishop tried something new. “And before Susan was born, even before you were married, you had gotten into trouble because of this sort of thing—isn’t that true?”

  “No!”

  Gregory, overriding him, said, “And isn’t it true that, after your wife was safely dead and out of the way, you tried to make love to your own daughter?”

  “No! No! You’re crazy, both of you!”

  “And,” Gregory pursued, “isn’t that why you didn’t want Susan to see a psychiatrist? Because you were afraid she’d tell him everything? Isn’t that true?”

  “No! No! No!” cried Garth.

  “Yes, of course it’s true!” It was Susan. Her eyes were open and she was watching Garth’s face with evil relish. “Her mother hadn’t been dead a week before he started in on the girl.”

  “Susie!” said Garth.

  “Telling her how lonely he was with his wife dead,” she went on, “and how she would have to take the place of her mother, and be the woman of the house, a big grown-up lady—those were his words—a big grown-up lady in every way.”

  “Susan, shut up!” yelled Garth.

  “And according to him there were many ways a little girl could show her father she loved him . . . all sorts of ways . . . ways that he described in some detail . . .”

  “You rotten little liar!” screamed Garth, rising from his chair. “Damn you, damn you to hell!”

  The girl on the bed exploded with laughter.

  Garth sat down again slowly. “It’s a lie . . . it’s a lie . . . don’t believe her . . . she’s a filthy little liar . . . it was her, it was her—her that went after me!”

  The Bishop said, scornfully, “Do you expect anyone to believe that pitiful lie? After you murdered her mother?”

  Garth sighed longly. “Yes, yes, I know. I see where you get that. From her. She’s never stopped saying it. Ever since her mother died. ‘Why did you let Mama die? Did you want her to die? Did you kill her? You did, you killed her!’ Over and over. ‘You were mean to Mama when she was alive. You didn’t love her. You wanted her to die.’ Well, I guess I wasn’t what you’d call a model husband. And I guess that drowning is pretty suspicious, what with no witnesses except Susie—and her saying I killed her mother.” He looked up. “I didn’t. I’m not a good man. But I didn’t.”

  Gregory asked, “Why did you tear the cross of Our Lord from your wall? So you wouldn’t have to look at Him and cringe under His eyes?”

  Garth looked down again. “Maybe. But not because of murder.” Pocketing his sodden handkerchief, he said, “Let’s stop this nonsense. Get those ropes off my daughter. I’m taking her home.”

  “No you’re not,” said Gregory.

  “Oh, no?” Garth stood up. “Listen, Father, I don’t care how many connections you got at the police station—it’s not going to sound so good when I tell them you got my daughter here against her will . . .”

  “Not against her will.”

  “Then why is she tied up? That’s going to make a nice story! Couple of priests keep a young girl in the rectory all night, tied to a bed, and when her father breaks in and tries to save her, they won’t let him take her home. Not very pretty. So are you going to untie those ropes, or do I have to do it myself?”

  “I’ll do it,” said Gregory, “when His Excellency and I have finished what we’ve started.”

  “Now.”

  “When we’ve finished,” Gregory said firmly. “You can go to the police right now if you want to. In fact, I wish you would. It would give us some time.”

  “Time for what?”

 
“I don’t think I’ll tell you, Mr. Garth,” said Gregory. “You haven’t been exactly cooperative with us; why should we be with you? Besides—I think you may already know, and that’s why you’re here making trouble.”

  Ignoring Gregory’s last remark, Garth said, “If you think I’m going to walk out of here without Susie, leave her alone with you two again—”

  “Then stay,” the Bishop said.

  “Stay?”

  “Stay and watch. Stay and protect your daughter from the wicked priests, if you wish. But, really, we’re not going to do anything very sinister. Just read a few words from a book.” There was a silence in the room; outside, the storm raged still, and a newly rising wind rattled the loose old window. “Well?”

  Garth said, “If this is some trick . . .”

  “Stay and find out,” said the Bishop. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Gregory to say, “I suggest you start the ritual again.”

  Gregory lit the ceremonial candles.

  “Mrs. Farley,” said the Bishop, “I think it may be better if you leave the room this time.” He nodded imperceptibly in the direction of Garth. Understanding, Mrs. Farley left the three men in the room with the bound girl, stationing herself in the hall near the door.

  Gregory read aloud from the book. To Garth, the words were Latin gibberish; to Gregory and the Bishop, they tingled with meaning. Minutes later Gregory had drawn near the end. “Wretched dragon! And ye whole devilish legion! We abjure you by the living God . . .” Gregory crossed himself. “. . . by the true God . . .” He crossed himself again. “. . . by the Holy God . . .” A third time he crossed himself. “. . . by the God who so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son so that all who believe in Him might not perish but have eternal life . . .”

  The window chattered loudly in the grip of the wind.

  “. . . Cease in your deception of human creatures!” cried Gregory, and now he seemed not to be reading but bringing up an exhortation from his inmost parts. “Cease tempting them with the poison of eternal perdition!” The wind rose to a howl outside as Gregory took a deep breath and said:

  “Begone, Satan!”