The Moore House

by Tony Tremblay

  “What?” Mr. Millman asked. “A poltergeist, like in that movie? Even if that were true, isn’t that an evil presence?”

  “That movie was Hollywood clap-trap,” Agnes interjected. “Poltergeist is a German word meaning knocking spirit. Knocking because it uses sound to catch attention, spirit because the one doing the knocking can’t be seen. The most prevalent causes appear to be from adolescents who have severe emotional or psychological issues. These young people feel trapped, unable to explain or share their problems with others. Their frustration manifests itself as psychokinesis, the ability to move objects by will.”

  “Wait … just … a … minute.” Mary’s voice shook. “Are you saying our daughter caused this china cabinet to self-destruct? Are you saying it’s been Amanda terrorizing us for the past two months? She—she couldn’t—wouldn’t do that!”

  “Results from past poltergeist investigations also reveal the adolescents involved usually don’t realize they’re the cause.”

  Mary shook her head. “No, this can’t be. Amanda would tell us if there was anything wrong. Wouldn’t you, dear? There’s nothing going on that you can’t tell us about, is there?”

  Before Amanda could answer, Agnes broke in. “Mrs. Millman. Now is not the time to address this. That can wait until after we leave. I will say, if your daughter is hiding something, she’s not likely to reveal it any time soon under the current circumstances. However, when you do discuss this with her, ask her pointed questions: it may serve to speed the process along and end these occurrences.”

  “Pointed questions? Like what?” asked Mr. Millman.

  Both Celeste and Nora turned to him.

  Nora made eye contact with Amanda. The older woman’s expression softened. After a few seconds, she sighed and then switched her gaze to Mary. “For one,” Nora said answering the question while peering intently at Mary, “Ask Amanda if your husband has been taking sexual liberties with her.”

  Mr. Millman shot up from his chair. “How fucking dare you! Get your black ass out! All of you—get out now!”

  Celeste’s mind went numb at the accusation. She blinked, trying to refocus. Thoughts came back to her, one by one, each one worse than the other. How could Nora and Agnes be so sure of their accusation? Was this the proper way to confront the family? If it’s true, what’ll happen after we leave?

  Images of Mr. Millman reacting violently and then further abusing Amanda flashed before Celeste’s eyes. Her chest tightened, and she gagged. If the man was raping his daughter, what in the world must have been going through the poor girl’s mind right now? How could Mary not have known this was happening? Celeste recalled Agnes’ instructions not to interfere; to remain silent; to learn. She decided to follow those instructions—for the moment—and pay attention to the family’s reactions. She’d fantasize about castrating him later.

  She focused on Amanda first. The girl’s head was lowered, her shoulders hunched. Celeste couldn’t see her expression.

  Mary’s narrowed eyes were on her husband. Her chin was trembling. Tears flowed onto her cheeks.

  Following Mr. Millman’s outburst, outrage framed the man’s face. His eyes were darting, his face red, his lips pursed. He scooted over to Amanda, bent down, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Amanda, honey,” he pleaded, “Please tell your mother it isn’t true.”

  Celeste’s skin crawled as the man held his daughter. He’s intimidating her! Celeste leaned forward, waiting for Amanda’s response.

  Amanda’s voice was low, reticent, and she didn’t raise her head. “No. It’s not true.”

  The debris on the floor rattled, then fell silent.

  Agnes sighed, motioning for Celeste and Nora to rise. The three investigators stood. Agnes addressed Mary.

  “A couple of things before we leave. I suggest you look up poltergeists. With enough digging, you should find some help in dealing with your daughter’s emotional state.

  “We’ll be reporting our findings to the Church. Unless new information comes their way, or there’s new evidence to the contrary of our findings, they’ll consider the case closed. You have some important decisions to make, Mary. For Amanda’s sake, I hope you make the right ones.”

  Celeste, Nora, and Agnes saw themselves out. Once they arrived at their vehicles, Celeste was unable to contain herself. “Is that it? We lit a match in there—what if it all goes up in flames once we’re gone?”

  Nora placed a hand on Celeste’s shoulder. “Honey, as cruel as this may sound, we’re not social workers. You’re going to find yourself in situations that will be worse than this one. At best, those situations may break your heart. At worst, they’ll leave you angry and doubting your faith. At this moment, our place in life is to do God’s work by recognizing and identifying the presence of evil. There are others who are equipped to handle the containment and removal side of things.”

  Celeste grimaced. “Yes, I understand that, but it feels wrong to leave Amanda in that situation.”

  Agnes spoke up. “If you repeat what I’m about to say, you’ll lose any trust I would’ve placed on you in the future.”

  Celeste nodded.

  “I’m going to call the local Department of Health Services and ask them to do a wellness check on the family and to do it as soon as possible. It’ll be an anonymous call from a pay phone at the gas station close to where I live. Before you ask, yes, they have a pay phone—I’ve used it before. You know as well as Nora and I do that we’re not to make our work public. Father MacLeod handles that. Besides, I’m sure if I told the DHS we’re empaths doing an investigation of demonic possession, they’d hang up on me.”

  Celeste grinned.

  Agnes broke from the conversation and walked to her car. She paused at the door and asked Celeste, “We good?”

  “We’re good.”

  “Okay. See you at my place around six to write this up?”

  Celeste waved. “See you then.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “Father MacLeod?”

  “Yes, Linda?”

  “Mr. Lewis is here to see you.”

  “Thank you, Linda. Give me a minute, then send him in.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Father MacLeod pushed back from his desk and exhaled loud enough for the sound to reach his ears. Mr. Lewis was here at the behest of the bishop; this did not bode well.

  Possessing a tic that manifested itself whenever he was feeling uneasy, he fought an impulse—and lost. His right hand rose to his unkempt beard, squeezing both sides of the rat’s nest as if he could shape its end to a point. He would often pull on the beard until the pain was too much to bear. He liked to do this in sets of threes. Linda had seen him tug away often, once quipping the reason he was bald was that he had yanked so hard on his beard, he pulled the hair down to his chin. His retort had her in stitches: “You should see my pubic hair—it’s so long, I’m amazed my beard isn’t stubble.”

  There was a courtesy knock, and his office door opened. Mr. Lewis stepped through without escort, closing the door behind him. He was elderly, well dressed, and rather thin. He clutched a file folder in his left hand.

  “Father MacLeod. I’m Kevin Lewis.”

  The priest stood, held out a hand, and smiled. “Please, sit. The bishop tells me you have an interesting topic you wish to discuss.”

  Mr. Lewis hesitated, using the time to appraise the priest. A few moments later, he responded. “Yes, Father, I do.”

  “Well, then. I assume you’re a busy man. Shall we get to the matter?”

  What might have passed for a grin flashed on the old man’s face. “I appreciate your tact. Allow me to follow your example. I am a wealthy man, Father MacLeod. I consider myself a philanthropist, one who employs due diligence when selecting recipients for my charity. I give extensively to those organizations that might somehow, someday, benefit me. For instance, one of these beneficiaries is my hometown, Goffstown, New Hampshire. I enjoy its tranquil setting and upscale nature. Those traits ar
e beneficial to me and my family. But Goffstown does have problems that are immune to my largess. It suffers from the same societal ills that beset other small towns, issues money cannot fix. In addition, it also has a unique problem that I have been unable to solve. That problem is the Moore house.” Lewis placed the file folder on Father MacLeod’s desk.

  The priest opened the folder, then gazed at his visitor. “This is a police dossier. How’d you come into possession of it?”

  “As I said, I donate to those organizations that might benefit me in my own time of need. The town’s small police force is housed in a new building in no small part because of my donation toward its construction. The chief is very grateful.”

  Father MacLeod stared at the old man for a moment before nodding. Thumbing through the folder’s contents, he cringed. There were pictures of men, women, and children, seven in total—all dead. Some were mutilated, and many were missing body parts. The last picture showed a pair of severed legs on the ground. Local police reports and documents from the New Hampshire Attorney General’s office accompanied the photographs. All the papers listed the location of the pictures at the same address in Goffstown.

  Father MacLeod dropped the folder onto his desk. “Mr. Lewis. These are gruesome photos, and I’m very sorry this is occurring in your hometown. But this is Haverhill, Massachusetts, not even close to you. Besides, we’re a religious organization, not a homicide squad.”

  The corners of the older man’s lips curled upwards. “Father, I know what you do here. Your office is a liaison to the Vatican on matters of the supernatural. To be blunt: demonic possession. I believe that address in the dossier, the Moore house, is haunted. I want your office to investigate it.”

  The priest was no stranger to politics or dealing with people of wealth—money had ways of gathering information and opening doors. Still, he was surprised by the old man’s knowledge of his office. His funding did come directly from the Vatican, and his operation was known only to the Pope, a few at the top of his hierarchy, and his bishop.

  “Mr. Lewis, I’m not sure where you got your information, but—”

  “Cardinal Rosa.”

  The priest stared at the man. The cardinal was one of the Vatican’s most trusted advisers.

  “I’ve made sizable donations to Catholic charities. Cardinal Rosa and I have become well acquainted. Much as I’m doing with you now, I’ve presented him the facts on the Moore house. He directed the bishop to set up this appointment.”

  The priest leaned back in his chair. “What makes you think this house is possessed?”

  “As you’ll read in the reports, none of the deaths could be solved. They’re all open cases. I should add that not all of the deaths connected with the Moore house are included in that file.”

  “How do you know this?”

  The old man lowered his head. “Father, will you hear my confession?”

  “What?”

  “I’m requesting confession.”

  Mr. Lewis explained. “What I am going to tell you is a matter of illegal activity and sin.”

  The priest considered the request. He could deny it—it would be in his rights to do so, but that might create a new set of problems with the bishop. So far, his only opinion of Mr. Lewis was that of indifference. Hearing his confession might change this. If he was going to investigate, he needed to be impartial. However, he’d also need to be informed. Father MacLeod had yet to hear the older man’s motivation for investigating the house, and a confession might bring it to light.

  “Go ahead.”

  “That’s it? No Latin? No prologue?”

  The priest sighed. “If it makes you feel better, I can whip something up. I haven’t heard confession in over twenty years. I have dispensation from serving mass as well as hearing confession.”

  “No need. You guarantee this stays between us?”

  “And God. Yes.”

  The old man slumped in his chair. “My granddaughter is one of the people missing from that police report. She is a junkie, Father MacLeod. She disappeared two months ago. After hiring private detectives to find her, I learned the last time anyone saw Gam, she was looking to purchase drugs from someone inside the Moore house. I was informed it was unoccupied so with a police escort, I visited it. From the street, its facade unsettled me for some reason, but that did not deter me. I asked the police officer to remain outside, and I approached the house. Once I went inside, I grew more uncomfortable. Darting in and out of corners, shadows fluttered in my peripheral vision. Turning to them, they vanished. I heard noises but could find no source for them. It sounded like people sobbing, some of the voices, I thought belonged to children. Then, came the muffled laughing. When I heard my granddaughter screaming my name, I fled. Her voice did not have the inflection of someone begging for help, Father MacLeod. It was primal, evil. After leaving, I dug into the history of the house both documented and rumored. I came to the conclusion that the house was haunted, possessed by an evil spirit, so I contracted with two men to burn the damned thing down. Two days later a pair of unidentified men were found hanging from a tree a mile away from the property, their bodies burned beyond recognition. Based on missing person’s reports and DNA, they were identified. They were the two men I’d hired. So, you see, I’m guilty of attempted arson, not to mention complicity in the death of those two men.”

  Father MacLeod leaned in. “Why didn’t you just buy the house and have it demolished?”

  “I’ve tried. The property is locked in an irrevocable trust. The taxes have been and continue to be paid.”

  The priest stared at Mr. Lewis for a moment, then gestured with his index finger. “Absolved.”

  The old man’s head angled back. “That’s it?”

  “Well, say two Our Fathers if it makes you feel better. Look, I’m sorry about your granddaughter. It’s a hell of a thing to happen. To be honest, your story, while sad and brutal, isn’t conclusive enough to indicate possession. I’m sure you’ve pulled some strings and have me over a barrel. Moreover, if I say no, chances are I’m going to get a phone call or possibly a visit not long after you walk out that door. Am I right?”

  Mr. Lewis nodded.

  “I thought so.” Father MacLeod hesitated for a few seconds. “I’ve got a team I send into situations for preliminary investigation. They’re good—damned good. They’re finishing an assignment near Boston today, so I can’t call them until this evening. I’ll have them look into the Moore house.”

  “What is this team?”

  “Do you really need to know that?”

  Mr. Lewis stared at him, impassive.

  “Alright. It’s a team of three women. They’re empaths. They pick up emotions from people, and they’re able to discern the history of objects and ascertain whether or not there was—or is—a presence residing in them.”

  “Women?”

  “Yes,” replied Father MacLeod. “Three former nuns who are now in the employment of the Vatican.”

  “I thought the Church considered these types of skills demonic in nature.”

  “All three left the Church because of that very thing. However, that isn’t an obstacle for the branch of the Vatican that employs us. The women continue to serve God, and as a bonus, they’re paid much more than the stipend they were receiving.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know.”

  The priest considered the request. People like Mr. Lewis used information like currency. The more they knew about a subject, the easier it was for them to make deals. Father MacLeod had no idea what Mr. Lewis could do with the information; he decided to divulge only the basics.

  “Agnes Levesque’s the leader of the group. She’s in her late fifties and from New England, as are the other two members. She’s been working for us for over ten years, and she’s very good at what she does.

  “Nora Fournier is younger, but not by much. She’s African American and has been working with Agnes for the
past seven years. She’s also very good.

  “The last member is Celeste Roux. She’s the youngest of the team, in her mid-thirties. She’s new to the group.” The priest smirked. “And I’m sure you already know all there is to know about me.” He watched the old man sitting across from him process the information.

  “Thank you, Father, for agreeing to look into this matter, as well for being forthright with me. I’ll leave the police reports here with you. Please share them with your team. I hope to hear from you within a week’s time. I do have one more request to make before I leave.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Sending three women into that house alone would be ill-advised. I’d prefer that you accompany them.”

  Father MacLeod’s hand went to his chin.

  CHAPTER 3

  Agnes stood on her tiptoes, reached up to the top shelf of the cupboard, and pulled down a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Three fingers’ worth splashed into a water glass. Both the bottle and the glass accompanied her to the living room coffee table.

  “This one’s yours,” she told Nora. “I’m getting ice for mine.”

  Nora didn’t wait for her to leave before taking a deep sip.

  Agnes didn’t blame her. They’d had a hell of an afternoon.

  Agnes made her way to the freezer, her thoughts dwelling on the Millmans; more specifically, Mary. Would the woman do the right thing? Agnes had little sympathy for Mary—it was Amanda’s plight that broke her heart. Agnes didn’t have to use her empathic skills to know the girl’s father was a controlling and self-centered son of a bitch. What troubled her was that Mary might have suspected the abuse on some level, and if so, did nothing to confirm or stop it.

  Agnes also didn’t need special abilities to see that Mary was non-confrontational—a sheep in an apron. She prayed the woman had the guts to get her daughter out of the situation permanently.

  Agnes sighed, opened the freezer door, and dug out a fistful of ice chips from a bucket. She stepped to the cupboard and transferred the ice chips to a second glass.