by Michael West
Kim turned her eyes back to her attacker, pleading, “Professor, please ...”
But Burke was gone.
There was only the demon.
It slapped Kim hard across the face, sent her reeling into the opposite wall. And then it came after her, cackling. Its blade slashed. Kim’s cheek suddenly crawled with bees, blood trickling down toward her chin, joining the blood she’d already coughed up.
Shelly’s apparition materialized between Kim and the demon like a gathering mist, held up glowing hands, screamed into the thing’s snarling face. “Stop! Don’t hurt her!”
The demon walked through Shelly as if she wasn’t even there.
Shelly’s form broke down into a thousand fireflies that swarmed around the demon and reformed in its path. “Please! We’ll do whatever you say, just please, don’t hurt Kim!”
The Burke-thing growled, waved its sleek arm, and Shelly’s apparition scattered like chalk dust on a rising wind. The demon then stepped closer to Kim, held up its box cutter, twisted the blade in the air. “I’ll cut it out of you,” the thing hissed through its teeth. “Your parents need never know what a slut you’ve become.”
Kim fumbled blindly with the key ring, feeling for the largest, sharpest key she could find. She slid it between her fingers and made a tight fist. “Get ...” She coughed blood into the thing’s face. “... out ... of my way.”
“Harlot’s blood. Ahhhhh.” The demon’s tongue lolled out of its mouth; licked Kim’s blood off its split lips. Then it leaned in and lifted its blade toward her abdomen, ready to carve. “Let me taste more.”
Kim punched the Burke-thing in the face with all her might, burying the key in its left eye.
The demon screeched; an ear-splitting sound of agony that shook every brick, board, and light fixture in the cinema. Rivulets of blood poured out over Kim’s fisted hand, racing down the length of her arm, pouring off her elbow and onto the floor in thick, braided streams. Then the thing took a step back and jerked its ruined eye socket free of the key.
“Fucking bitch,” it shrieked at the ceiling.
The thing brought its free hand up to its face, dark blood oozing out between its fingers. It staggered backward.
“Whore!”
Kim drew in as much breath as she could stand, then turned and hobbled down the hall toward the stairway.
The demon caught up to her easily, however. It grabbed her by the shoulder, tossed her back against the wall. Kim cried out in pain and it was on her in an instant, its single eye wide and frenzied. She could feel the box cutter pressed against her inner thigh.
“You can’t get away from me, harlot,” it hissed at her. “You’re mine! I’ll fuck you with this blade ... carve you open from the inside. The soul of an innocent. The soul of a whore. More power!”
“Let her go!”
Kim recognized the voice immediately. She shook her head and tried to scream —
No ... get away! Run!
— but she could find no air in her ruptured lung to make the words heard.
The Burke-thing’s torso remained motionless, but its neck twisted, crackling and popping as its head spun relentlessly around toward the voice, turning like an owl until it faced backward. “Ah, Tashima.” It chuckled. “The nigger cunt has come to play.”
43
Tashima entered the hallway slowly, cautiously, dragging her dented cinema chair across the damp, soiled carpet.
Kim gasped for air. Blood covered much of her face. Her right hand and arm were completely red.
What the fuck did he do to her?
Tashima’s eyes narrowed at Burke and she took another step forward, her initial shock and revulsion boiling away, becoming hot anger. “You deaf? I said let her go.”
The professor released his grip on Kim and his torso spun around until both his head and body faced Tashima.
Kim slumped and slid forward, still hugging the wall; as if she would float off if she stepped away from it. “G-Go,” she finally rasped, her face knotted in pain. “He — he’s not Burke!”
“No shit. Somebody’s nasty head does a three-sixty, they’re one possessed motherfucker.” And then she saw the box cutter the demon clutched in one of its crimson hands. She snorted. “That all you got, shithead?”
The Burke-thing grinned, contempt smoldering in its single eye. “It will do, I assure you.”
Tashima tightened her grip on her chair. “Then bring it.”
The demon lunged at Tashima, its blade held high, ready to slash her throat.
She brought her chair up hard and fast. The metal connected with the demon’s chin, knocked its head back, sent it stumbling, but it did not fall.
Tashima quickly cocked her head at Kim. “Run! Get Joss out of here!”
“No one’s getting out of here.” The demon’s head rocked forward again and it rubbed its chin. “You’re mine! All of you! Mine!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Tashima swung her chair again, slammed the Burke-thing’s face against the wall. Blood splashed; a few teeth flew from its skull.
The demon’s torso turned independently of its pinned head, slashing out with the box cutter, catching Tashima’s arm just below the wrist. Her skin tore and wept.
Tashima gnashed her teeth against the burn. Furious, she raised her knee, spearing the thing in the crotch. One, two, three jabs in quick succession. She then pulled the chair away and watched as the demon doubled over in agony, hands clutching between its legs.
Tashima grabbed for Kim, pulled her hard toward the stairs.
The demon stood and hobbled after them. It made a woeful, tortured mewling sound. Tashima noticed a dark red splotch spreading out from its crotch and wondered if she’d ruptured one of its testicles.
“Get back, asshole,” she warned. “The power of God commands you to —”
“God has no power here!” the demon roared, its tongue lolling out through the raw gap in its grin, blood cascading over its cracked lower lip. It kicked the chair from Tashima’s grasp and leaned in, slashing, the blade narrowly missing Kim’s back.
Tashima ducked down and reached out, hoping she could snag the chair and reel it back, but it was too far away. She straightened and fled backward, picking up the pace, tugging on Kim, listening to her friend struggle for breath, to the animalistic sounds of the bloody thing behind them, hearing the whoosh of its blade through the air as it closed the gap.
“Black bitch,” the demon spat, limping forward, blood now darkening its entire thigh. “You can’t get away from me!”
Tashima’s frantic eyes searched the corridor for something, anything she might be able to use as a weapon. She spotted an open door on her right. The Popping Room. A cardboard box lay on its tiled floor, more on the metal racks above, the word FLAMMABLE in bold red letters above a smiling drop of oil.
Tashima rushed over, pulled Kim to the doorframe. When she was certain her friend would not fall, she bent and picked up the container, feeling fluid slosh within as she spun around, ready to hurl the box into the demon’s face.
The Burke-thing was right behind her.
It roared and slashed at her arm, but its razor caught the box instead, slicing cardboard, tearing the bag within. Golden oil gurgled out through the slit, splashing the demon’s sleeves, soaking its pant legs.
Tashima dropped the box, letting it bleed out onto the carpet at the demon’s feet. She shoved her hand into the tight pocket of her jeans, yanked out her lighter and flicked the silver hood open.
“Nigger whore!” the Burke-thing bellowed. It looked at its dripping arms, then lifted the box cutter, ready to strike again. “Your soul is mine!”
“Go to Hell!” Tashima ducked down, sparked a flame and touched it to the oil.
The greasy pool ignited. Fire raced up the demon’s legs, spread quickly, turned its whole body into a living torch. Its anguished screams echoed through the room as it stumbled back into the hall, arms flailing, fanning the flames. The foam tiles above its screaming, spinn
ing head blackened and burned, spreading fire across the ceiling.
Tashima grabbed Kim. They raced for the stairs and the flames followed them.
44
Cornstalks loomed on either side of the car.
Robby Miller opened his door, stepped out onto the strip of grass that stood between this asphalt road and the vast field beyond. He felt a cold breeze buffet his face and shuddered against it. In his hands, the Rite of Exorcism. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the task ahead, then he clutched the pages a bit tighter, hearing the paper crinkle in his grasp, and walked slowly toward the corn.
He felt their eyes upon him, the demons; knew they were still out there, hiding among the rows, waiting for this moment just as he himself had waited. Some twenty years before, he’d been unable to save his friends from their influence, but tonight ... tonight all of his study and preparation would finally bring their terror to an end.
No more games.
No more death.
Robby looked down at the script in his trembling hand and read aloud. “I cast you out, unclean spirit, along with every satanic power of the enemy, every specter from Hell, and all your fell companions; in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
The text instructed the exorcist to make the sign of the cross.
Robby did so, hastily, then read on. “Be gone and stay far from this ... this ...”
As written, the text said “creature of God.” He changed the wording to fit his needs.
“... this field planted by those whom God has created. For it is He who commands you, He who flung you headlong from the heights of Heaven into the depths of Hell. It is He who commands you, He who —”
The wind died unexpectedly, and an eerie quiet descended over the vast acreage. No birds. No insects. Nothing but the loud thumping of Robby’s own heart in his ears.
He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand and returned his attention to the page. “He who once stilled the sea and the wind and the storm. Hearken, therefore, and tremble in fear, Satan, you enemy of the faith, you —”
A sound like a hard rain, like a fast-moving stream. Robby’s eyes sprang from the text and saw the stalks in front of him sway violently back and forth, their leaves brushing against one another.
He glanced around.
The rest of the world was quiet, still.
Robby fought the urge to retreat and read on, “You foe of the human race, you begetter of death, you robber of life, you corrupter of justice, you root of all evil and vice; seducer of men, betray —”
Something moved out there in the field. He could feel the ground tremble beneath his feet with its every step.
“Betrayer of the nations,” he read, “instigator of envy, font of avarice, foment —”
Whatever the thing was, it stalked closer. He heard it breathing.
Robby read faster, “Fomentor of discord, author of pain and sorrow. Why, then, do you stand and resist, knowing as you must that Christ the Lord brings your plans to nothing?”
He looked up from his script, saw the stalks in front of him part like green curtains, and he slammed his eyelids shut. “Fear Him!” he cried out. “Fear Him who ... who ...”
Damn it!
Robby opened his eyes again, wanting only to read the text on the page, not wanting to see —
A dead woman with red hair and pale skin.
Her silky party dress clung to her bloated form, tattered and torn; her right breast hung out, bruised, distended, swaying like a pendulum with her every step. Her skirt barely kissed the tops of her swollen, splotchy knees. Strands of cornsilk clung to her fiery hair, and her head lolled from her neck at an odd angle, blue veins lacing her milky face. Her eyes were gone, gouged out or eaten away, yet she seemed to be staring right at Robby.
He gasped and the loose pages of text slipped from his trembling fingers.
She hobbled out of the shadows onto the grass, and while decomposition had left her unrecognizable, Robby thought he knew her.
“Welcome back,” the dead woman croaked, taking one shaky step after another, each one bringing her closer to Robby. “All of your friends are still here.”
She reached out to him, an ex-lover seeking one final embrace. He could see the dirt caked beneath her fingernails, as if she’d just clawed her way out of a grave.
“The evil spirit ... it’s here too, waiting for you.”
Robby backed away, tried to escape her touch, escape his own guilt, but he could avoid neither. “I cast you out! I cast you —”
He tripped over his own feet, fell backward onto the grass. His feet and elbows dug into the soft earth, continuing his retreat. He looked over his shoulder at the car. The door hung open, inviting him into its safe interior.
“You thought you could do an exorcism?” The dead woman threw her head back and laughed. “You?”
Robby bit his lip. Why had he tried this alone? Why had he not asked someone to help him?
But he had.
He’d asked the doctor. Tyler.
And it wasn’t the cornfields. Not yet. It was the theater of his youth, the Woodfield.
He thought of the old cinema.
Suddenly, he was there. The cornfield melted away, replaced by a vacant lobby. Night skies were covered over by the golden molding of a foyer ceiling. The soft earth became matted carpeting.
But the dead redhead remained the same.
“It won’t work,” she told him. “Stay away.”
Robby blinked, and for a single, infinite moment, he saw something else standing over him, threatening, something huge and dark, a jigsaw puzzle that made no earthly sense; spiraling ram horns, row after row of triangular teeth, gigantic, leathery wings, and more limbs than Robby could quickly number.
The demon.
Not his demon, he realized, but the Woodfield.
It was there and then gone, replaced once more by the dead redhead from the corn.
“Nice trick.” Robby scrambled to his feet, took in a deep breath and held it. The demon had fooled him into seeing this zombie, had tried to shake his confidence and frighten him off. He exhaled. “But it’s not gonna work.”
He took a step toward the nightmare.
“I cast you out. Out of my head, and out of the God damn movie house.”
The corpse opened her mouth and a garter snake slithered out like a long green tongue, hissing at him. She lurched forward, grabbed him by the shoulders.
Robby’s eyes sprang open and he was instantly awake.
Tyler had a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.
“What ...?” Robby asked.
“We’re here,” Tyler told him.
Robby nodded. He wiped the sleep from his eyes, then reached over to the seat next to him, snatched up the red Bible and folder, the Rite of Exorcism.
“I’m ready,” he said.
45
There were things Tyler had expected to see when they drove onto the Woodfield’s overgrown lot. A dark and crumbling building, erected high on a hill perhaps, staring ominously down like the old house above the Bates Motel; something he could point to and know, without a sliver of doubt, that it was haunted. But when their car finally cleared the surrounding trees, Tyler was unprepared for what he actually found.
A bright, shining marquee illuminated a handful of parked cars.
“What’s all this?” Robby asked from the backseat.
Perry hadn’t expected it either, Tyler could read it in his eyes, but his voice showed no hint of surprise. “Maybe they’ve come for the rest of those theater chairs.”
In the rearview mirror, Robby looked doubtful.
“What’s the plan now?” Tyler wondered aloud.
Perry shrugged. “I think I should check to make sure these people have permission to be here, make certain there’s no theft or vandalism going on.”
The detective reached under the dash for his tear-shaped microphone, hesitated a moment, then pulled back his hand.
“You’re not
going to call it in?” Tyler asked.
“Not yet,” Perry told him. “Not until I know what to call it in as.”
They rolled closer to the building, and Tyler watched it grow larger and larger, picking out new details: the missing panels in the marquee, the broken second story windows, the spray-painted designs on the walls. Yes, this was a place that had been abandoned for some time. Tyler scanned the lot again, looking for the Ernhardt fan, for Mendez, and his eyes locked on the VW Bug instead, sudden recognition making his racing heart beat even faster.
No ... It can’t be. There are a million old Volkswagens out there. That’s not —
His gaze shot to the white van parked along the curb, the van with the Stanley University logo on the side, and he suddenly understood what was happening.
Kim.
It was her car. The Woodfield Movie Palace was her project. They’d come here to hunt for ghosts.
He’d been afraid on the trip out, thinking of a million different horrors that might await him, but the reality of Kim’s empty car trumped anything his mind had conjured. There was a flutter in his stomach again, but these were no meager butterflies this time. No. These were condors. A cold panic consumed him, a terror that threatened to short-circuit all rational thought. He reached out blindly, fumbled for the door handle, the flask of holy water clutched tightly in his left hand.
“Stop the car!” he shouted.
Perry’s eyes widened. “What’s the matter?”
“Just stop the damn car!”
The detective put his foot on the brake, shut off the engine.
Tyler threw the door open, leapt out, and ran. He was halfway to the doors when he smelled the smoke. A horrible shriek filled his ears, as if the cinema itself were crying out in anguish, and then he saw tongues of flame shoot out from the broken windows above, lapping at the black sky, spitting sparks across the void like shooting stars.
He sprinted, and his mind threw an image of Kim’s smiling face over his eyes as he hit the doors. He jerked on the handle, tried to yank and then push them open, but they refused to give.