The Devil's Harp String: Hexham Chronicles: Book One

by Anthony Barber

  The priest laughed.

  “You will always be a sister.” Father John clasped her hand a second time. His grip was strong but gentle and warm. “Call me John.”

  The man sitting across from Father John stood up awkwardly. He was very pale. The poor soul looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He was also attractive. His wild sandy hair and beard gave Jeremy Poole the rugged look of a mountain man. A bit like a younger Robert Redford in a movie she had seen once. Wild and sad looking at the same time.

  He stretched out his hand.

  “Sister. Uh..Madeline,” He stuttered tiredly. “Pleased to meet you.” “Jeremy Poole.” The man’s voice cracked. “Grace’s Father.”

  Mads nodded, shook and his hand. Father John waved her into the booth next to him. Father Walter, sat down next to Grace’s father.

  “Why are we here?” Mads looked at Father Peterson, who nursed his beer tepidly.

  “Grace is in the hospital,” her father said shakily. The look of weariness suddenly increased the man’s age by ten years.

  “What happened?” Grace said, looking from Jeremy to Father John.

  “Pneumonia and exhaustion,” Jeremy said with a voice that was splintering into despair. He stared into the bottom of his beer mug. “She is medicated and finally sleeping.” “The Pneumonia is bad, but thank God for it.” “The poor girl hasn’t slept a night all the way through, in weeks.”

  Mads looked sympathetically at Grace’s dad.

  After being served her own enormous mug of beer, and Father Walter ordering iceless water in a water-spotted glass, she was ready to hear it all.

  “Mind if I smoke?” Mads asked, but was already pulling out her tobacco poke. She deftly rolled two cigarettes. Lit one and put the other behind her left ear for later.

  For the next three hours, Father Peterson and Jeremy laid out the story of Grace’s torture. Mads listening intently, interrupting only for occasional clarification. Father John did most of the talking.

  Things really started to get funky for the Poole family after Jeremy had been released from the hospital.

  Grace’s sleepwalking adventures seemed to be the beginning of it that summer. Jeremy recounted the entire scary event on the stairs. He sounded childlike and embarrassed when he arrived at the part of the story when Grace seemed to disappear from the stairs completely. He looked at Mads carefully during this part, searching her eyes for the slightest disbelief. He found none.

  Grace started going through wild mood swings. On the morning of the 4th of July, he awoke to find his daughter sitting on the dresser in his bedroom, staring at him. Startled, believing she was sleepwalking again, he tried to get her back into bed. She jumped, ‘sprang actually,’ he recalled from the dresser and attacked him.

  There were instances of lucidity, but she slowly began to withdraw completely. Her health grew worse as she refused to eat or bath.

  Three weeks ago his daughter was found by his neighbor, Carrie, crawling on her hands and knees in the front yard. She was eating bugs.

  Mads burned through six of her home-rolled and three more beers during the story.

  Much of it bore the resemblance to other legitimate possessions. Father Peterson recorded all of his sessions with Grace and would make these available to her later.

  “This all seems legitimate to me,” Grace said. “Why did it take so long for the church to come around on this one?” “They always have ants in their pants about this stuff, but based on what you have told me and the information from the diocese, it seems straightforward.”

  This last question, she directed at Father John. He shrugged.

  “I dunno,” He said, looking down into his beer. “What matters is, we have it now.”

  Mads let the priest’s lie slide for now. She looked back over at Jeremy Poole.

  “Tell me more about your daughter.” Mads was looking directly into his eyes. “Don’t leave anything out.”

  Grace Poole was your typical high school teenager. She just graduated from high school, and until recent events planned to go away to college.

  Mads could clearly tell that Jeremy loved his daughter. His one fault, that he would clearly admit, is that he had been away a lot for work. The passing of his wife Lilly made it more difficult. By all accounts, Grace adjusted well. At least as well as anyone could expect after losing their mother.

  Jeremy trusted his well-adjusted, mature daughter, and she was left to her own devices for weeks on end while he worked on oil rigs in the gulf. He was able to check in with her daily by phone, and one of his neighbors, Carrie Mythsol also kept an eye on her.

  Grace’s grades were above average and she participated in extracurricular activities and sports. She was popular and well-liked by students and teachers alike.

  Jeremy stopped several times during talk of his daughter’s life to compose himself. He appeared, to Madeline, to be a man very much trying to maintain control of his sanity.

  Grace applied, and been accepted to several universities on the strength of her academic record. She was particularly interested in the arts. She drew and painted constantly, and was never seen without her sketch pad and pencils.

  “What about boys?” Mads asked, a little embarrassed.

  “She dated a few guys, but nothing serious as far as I know.” Jeremy flushed a little bit and sighed.

  “I need to know if she is, or was on any drugs, having sex, or into the occult,” Mads asked the last questions with a quiet compassionate tone. “Anything and everything about her is important right now.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “No drugs that I’m aware of.” “I’m not a Nazi parent who digs around in his kid’s bedroom searching for paraphernalia.” “I know she has been out to parties with friends, but Grace never came home drunk or stoned.” “She’s a responsible kid.” Jeremy finished.

  Father John reached across the table and clasped his hands in reassurance. “She is only trying to help Jeremy.”

  “I know.” He nodded and relaxed a bit.

  “Father Peterson tried to explain what you are doing here, but I’m not clear on it.” The weary father added. “I’m not a Catholic, fuck our family isn’t even religious.” “Why does the church call in an excommunicated nun to investigate a possession?”

  Father Peterson opened his mouth in an attempt to answer on her behalf. He looked at Mads and his mouth shut with an audible click. He returned to nursing his beer.

  “I have no fucking idea what the Father has told you.” “Yes, I was a nun.” She took a drag from her cigarette. “Yes, I was excommunicated from the church.” Mads eyes gleamed with fire. The effect of the beers seeming to burn off in an instant. Jeremy Poole shrunk down in his booth a bit.

  Mads smiled now, but that brightness was still in her eyes. “I get shit done.”

  Father Peterson grinned but said nothing as he finished his beer.

  The late fall sky was gloomy but seemed bright compared to the dark interior of Gator Tails. Visiting Grace in the hospital right now was out of the question. She was in the intensive care unit and medicated.

  Father Walter was charged with driving Jeremy Poole home and Mads rode with Father John back to the rectory. She wanted to review his investigation notes and audio tapes.

  The wind started picking up and the sky was a lot darker than earlier. It was still warm to her by compared to perpetually chilly Portland. She brought her hoodie with her this morning out of habit, but removed it long ago and tied it around her waist.

  Father John had his own living space in the deep recesses of St. Patrick’s massive compound. It was a stand-alone bungalow he could access through the rear gates for privacy. The Church was situated on the southeast shore of Lake Pontchartrain, and the neighborhood relatively secluded.

  The priest’s bungalow was a smart two room job that outdid Mad’s own small flat in Portland. To her delight, Father John also had an entire wall dedicated to his personal library.

  Father John ushered her to a chair si
tuated around a small table doubling as a work desk and dining table.

  “Drink?” Father Peterson asked. It seemed a question he was asking himself, rather than her. He was already pouring brown liquor from a bottle retrieved in the kitchen.

  “Brandy.” He handed her a glass, then poured himself one.

  “Nothing fancy here.” His smile was infectious. “You never have to ask me that twice,” Mads said, taking the glass.

  “Cheers.” John tinkled his glass against hers. Mads nodded and took a long drink.

  “Do you mind?” Mads pulled out her leather tobacco pouch.

  “Not at all,” John said. “I gave it up decades ago, but the smell brings back pleasant memories.”

  Mads rolled, then lit her cigarette and took another drink of brandy

  “Father, what is your gut feeling on this one?” “Before you show me the evidence, I would like to hear it from you.” She stood up and surveyed the priest’s library.

  “God bless you sister,” Father John took another drink and stood up also. For the first time since meeting him, she could see real fear in his eyes.

  “There are a lot of rumors about you Madeline.” He said. “Not just here at our Podunk dioceses in Louisiana.” John looked at her directly and for the first time, Mads noticed the man’s age. He was well into his sixties and been around. All of it etched into his face.

  “No one is happy about it quite frankly,” he said, taking another drink of brandy. “Some in the Vatican believe you’re a phony.” Father John walked into the living room/bedroom of the small cottage and pulled a book down from the wall shelf.

  “Not everyone,” Mads said, blowing smoke rings, letting the brandy warm her center.

  Father John thumbed through the book and whispered something under his breath. To Mads, it sounded like ‘shit.’ Father John walked back into the kitchen and began rummaging around in one of the drawers.

  “Getting old blows.” The aging priest pulled a pair of reading glasses from a drawer in the kitchen.

  Mads still said nothing. She took another pull from her cigarette and continued her inspection of Father John’s impressive collection.

  “And I really do not give a shit what the Vatican thinks,” she said.

  The priest ignored this and smiled, sitting back down at the kitchen table with a pair of reading glasses, which looked older than her, perched on his nose.

  “Some believe that you are in league with the devil himself.” The priest grinned. “At least those left in the church who still believe in such things.” Father John tipped the brandy bottle towards Mads

  “Are you trying to get me wasted?” Mads grinned but did not refuse the drink.

  “No No.” Father John laughed and poured himself two more fingers.

  “I bring up the reputation because I do not want to have any doubts.” “I believe in you Madeline, your abilities, at least.” He peered up from the book.

  Mads could see a little bit of silvery fear flash across the man’s face.

  “And it scares Me.” the priest said, finishing his brandy.

  Chapter Six

  When Father Walter dropped Jeremy off after the meeting with Madeline and Father John at Gator Tails, he was a little tipsy. Walter stayed until Mr. Poole finished showering and went to bed. Father Walter was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid enough not to follow Father Peterson’s instructions. He was told to make sure the man made it to bed. Afterwards, he would return to the hospital to monitor Grace.

  Jeremy promised the priest he would go to bed, and there wasn’t a need for him to wait around. Father Walter waived him off politely and told him he would only leave after Jeremy had gone upstairs to go to bed. Jeremy Poole collapsed on his bed, falling asleep immediately. Effects of little sleep and two or three too many beers this morning. Father Walter removed the man’s shoes and covered him in a blanket.

  It was after three when Walter Kline left the house. He was very glad to be away from it. The young priest just recently started assisting Father Peterson on the Grace Poole investigation. It had seemed like a great opportunity at first, but he soon realized he was in over his head.

  He’d been in the room alone with Grace Poole on two prior occasions. Both left him feeling uneasy and terrified. Both times, Grace had been dosing. The growling noises she continually made, even while heavily tranquilized, scared the living hell out of him. Pun intended.

  The last time he was in the house alone with her for two hours so Father John could take Jeremy Poole to a doctor’s appointment. He was told to sit in the same room with the girl (thing).

  Grace no longer resembled a young lady in the prime of her youth but carried the visage of a monster. Her face was swollen and pocked with open sores.

  Father Walter was not a coward, but he was truly afraid. He tried to sit quietly and pray over the girl. The young woman was completely knocked out, but that low growl continued. The lights in the room were shut off but constantly flickered.

  He was told to expect all of these things by Father Peterson, and his only warning was not to engage with her no matter the circumstances.

  So Walter Kline sat and watched. The growling from the Grace/thing subsided after a while and he relaxed a bit. The room was freezing, and frost accumulated on the windows, despite the thermostat being turned up to eighty degrees.

  At one point during his vigil over the young girl, he stood to stretch his legs and walked to the window to look outside.

  The idea got into the priest’s head, quite unreasonably so, that Grace was standing on her bed behind him. The girl was strapped down to the bed, so she could not hurt herself or others. He checked the tie downs himself when he first came into the room.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He turned around, reflexively. Grace’s position had not changed. She still lay in her tranquilized state. She almost looked peaceful at this moment. The continual rictus of a grin that seemed to cover her face, like a Halloween mask, was gone.

  The memory gave the priest shivers. As Father Walter drove away from the Poole’s, with Jeremy safely tucked in, he considered asking for reassignment.

  Father Peterson specifically requested him as his assistant on this matter and Walter wasn’t entirely sure why.

  He turned on to Northern Ave. to catch the expressway. Traffic wasn’t too bad at this time of day, but he wanted to get back to the rectory for a shower before going to the hospital to check on Grace. Perhaps, he’d catch Bishop Aguilar for a meeting.

  Father Walter stopped the black Impala on the corner before merging into traffic.

  A chill ran down the man’s spine and gooseflesh broke out on his forearms. His vision flashed for a moment. Like a doctor flicking that small flashlight into your eyes. Momentary blinded, Walter pulled the car onto the shoulder at a crazy slant.

  His vision cleared and he looked into the rear-view mirror. The priest shook his head vigorously.

  “No,” the priest trembled in low terror. His blood seemed to drain away from him and he felt faint. “Not possible.” He mouthed the words, but no sound left Father Walter’s lips.

  Sitting in the backseat directly behind him was Grace Poole. She was smiling.

  Chapter Seven

  Father Peterson dressed in grey sweatpants, black t-shirt and Boston Red Sox cap, was in the kitchen making breakfast. He had only slept for two hours after going over the audio and video recordings with Mads the night before. John insisted Mads crash on his futon as opposed to taking a taxi back to her hotel. She had put up a weak protest, but in the end had opted for the futon.

  Father John played all of the recorded sessions with Grace Poole. Six hours of audio and four more of the video. By the time they finished it was well after two in the morning.

  John watched Mads continue to sleep restlessly. He covered her with an old patchwork quilt given to him decades ago by a parishioner in Boston. Over the years the nuns fixed it up for him when it started to fray.

  He
took several eggs out of the fridge and whisked them in a plastic bowl, while he fried bacon. The smell of sizzling pork filled the small cottage. I love pigs, he thought.

  Fresh coffee brewed in the old-fashioned percolator which was probably as old as the quilt that covered the ex-nun asleep on his futon.

  It was a clear and chilly November morning outside. The threat of rain passed, for now, it seemed. Father Peterson stepped outside for a moment after pouring the eggs into a cast iron skillet on his two burner cooktop. His small cottage at the rectory had a tiny, but adequate garden on its western side. He only planted flowers there. He clipped several and put them in a small white vase on his kitchen table.

  He finished cooking just as the red light on the percolator came on. Sister Mads sat up on the futon. She was bleary-eyed but smiling.

  “Good morning Sister.” “Hungry?” He put two plates piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon and toast on the small kitchen table. “Starving.” “I need to use the bathroom first,” she said and trundled off. Humorously, he noticed, she still had a cigarette cocked behind her left ear.

  After Mads used the priest’s small lavatory, they both sank into breakfast. Neither had eaten the day before and their appetites showed it, hangovers aside. Each finished off two plates and three cups of coffee, before speaking.

  “Thank you, Father,” Mads said, patting her belly. “Beats the Portland frozen burrito diet.”

  The breakfast and unusually sunny morning made her feel almost normal. A whitewash for the horrors she had previewed on the tapes last night.

  While Mads started her fourth cup of coffee and Father John began to do dishes, Mads noticed the book he was thumbing through the evening before. It lay open on the table next to the flower vase. Mads started reading the page where it was opened up to. At the top of the page was a vintage illustration of witch burning at the stake. She read two paragraphs, and at the bottom of the page was another illustration of an unusual Sigil. A circle with an X and four letters around the outer perimeter.