The Moore House

by Tony Tremblay

  The seeds of his fortune had taken root when he signed up as a life insurance agent. When calling on new customers, he wove horrific tales of husbands decimated from cancer and how their surviving spouses were financially stranded. When words weren’t enough to seal a deal, he would go for the jugular, pulling out photographs of skeletal patients and of women and children living in shelters.

  The income from selling life insurance was good, but it involved working too many hours for the return. He moved onto the secondary loan market, specializing in payroll advances and used car financing in the largest city in New Hampshire. Manchester was a certifiably blue-collar town with its shoe factories and textile mills. Their uneducated employees made them perfect marks for high-interest loans. His commissions were substantial, and he was soon flush with cash. But it wasn’t enough. Tired of making his bosses rich, he founded his own business, a second-mortgage lending company. He was ruthless when it came to collections, which in turn led to him owning an abundance of real estate. He leveraged that real estate into industrial properties and cleaned up during the Ronald Reagan boom years. Investing those proceeds into the stock market had made him an extremely wealthy man before he turned fifty.

  Fortunately, his business acumen had led to a robust social life. It was during a holiday business gala that he’d met Amanda. He had fallen for the young woman over drinks at the bar, and after a short courtship, they married. It had taken her years, but Amanda had been instrumental in changing his opportunistic view of people. While he never came around to viewing others as his equals, he had become more compassionate and considerate of their circumstances.

  Having a family had a lot to do with this change in perception. His marriage had produced a son, who would eventually thrive in his father’s real estate business. This left Mr. Lewis more time for leisurely activities. In turn, his son provided him with a beautiful granddaughter, who proved to be as endearing to him as his wife. The child was beautiful, intelligent, and she loved him as much as he loved her.

  With his gaze fixed on the pawnshop’s doors, an aphorism came to him—karma is a bitch. Though his gains were legal, they were morally ill-gotten. Many people, many families had suffered because of his greed, enabling him to enjoy his later years wanting nothing and surrounded by family. He had attempted to assuage his guilt with philanthropy—with some success—but he had to admit, even that served a purpose. Appeasing a God he did not believe in had never been a consideration on his path to redemption.

  Now, the bill for his earlier excesses had been served. His granddaughter was missing, presumed dead. His skepticism in the supernatural shaken. After the events of the past two days, he had no doubt there was a seat at a table in hell with his name on it, because if demons existed, there could be no doubt in his mind that God did as well.

  He had no idea how redemption worked—or if God even took it into account. Would He perceive his actions now as atonement, or would it be viewed as an attempt to purchase a get out of jail free card? Either way, he was determined to do whatever he could to save those three women; this he knew was imperative if there were any hope for his salvation.

  The shop doors parted as he pushed his way through.

  The pawnshop owner was leaned over at the middle of the long counter, his elbows resting on its surface, his chin nestled in his clasped hands. The man was staring at him, a bemused expression on his face.

  Was he expecting me? Lewis wondered. He knew the man had gifts, but he didn’t think precognition was one of them.

  The owner nodded. “What can I do for you, Mr. Lewis?”

  Lewis raised an eyebrow. “You knew I was coming?”

  “No. I have cameras on top of the doors. I saw your face when you walked in. You have a worried look.”

  After a pause, Lewis said, “I need help, but I’m not sure what kind.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. It involves the Moore house again.”

  The man closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “Does this involve Celeste?”

  “You—you know her?”

  “Yes, she was here this morning. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Lewis filled him in, starting with his initial visit to Father MacLeod, and concluding with the sounds of gunshots that had come from the house less than an hour earlier.

  “You’ve heard my story, now please, tell me about Celeste’s visit here.”

  The tall, thin man complied. Though the pawnshop owner’s story was not as involved as his, Lewis did find one aspect of the story intriguing.

  “This necklace you gave her—”

  “Loaned her.”

  “I’m sorry—loaned her. Do you think it will offer her, and hopefully the others, a measure of protection against the demon?”

  “It’s impossible to verify the effectiveness of all the items I sell. I research everything, sometimes to the point of exhaustion; nonetheless, I offer no guarantees. Based on feedback and first-hand knowledge, I can tell you I’ve never sold an item that did not live up to its reputation or description.”

  “So, they, or at least Celeste, might be afforded some protection.”

  “I believe so.” The man lowered his eyes. “But as I mentioned, no guarantees.”

  “What more can we do?”

  The pawnshop owner sighed. “This is a demon we’re dealing with, Mr. Lewis, a purview best left to the Catholic Church.”

  “You’ve heard where that has led.”

  “Yes.” The man paused for a few seconds. “I’m not religious, but I’ve learned there are entities beyond this realm whose origin or existence cannot be logically explained. Not many things scare me, but demons – they’re something else. I’ve seen the movies. I’ve read the books. I’ve never dealt with a demon myself, but some of my customers have. Those customers are all dead.”

  “Are you telling me you won’t help?”

  The man stared hard at him. “A demon can’t be killed. From what little I know, the best we can ever hope for is banishment, to send it along its way—or back where it came from. From what you’ve described, this demon is entrenched in the Moore house. An exorcism is the only way to remove it that I know of.”

  “We don’t have time for an exorcism. There are three women in that house, and their lives depend on quick action. We have to get them out of there first, and then have the Church perform an exorcism.”

  Moving to the end of the counter, the proprietor surveyed a shelf on the wall. He moved a few items, then stood still. He gazed at an item at the back of the shelf, frowned, and returned to within a few feet of his visitor.

  “You need to find out the name of this demon, and gather any other information you can.”

  “You’ll help, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call Father MacLeod. He told me he was going on an important errand, so I may not be back in touch with you for a while.”

  The pawnshop owner handed him a card. “I’ll be here. The phone number for the shop is on that card.”

  They walked to the exit, and Mr. Lewis stopped at the doors. “You were going to say no, then you changed your mind. How come?”

  “I want my necklace back.”

  

  The pawnshop owner was at a loss on how to proceed. Before he could take any action, he needed to know the demon’s name. During Mr. Lewis’ visit, he’d searched a shelf for a set of reference books that dealt with demonology. He’d acquired those years earlier for a client who had never collected his purchase.

  Three of the books were ancient, Demonology of King James I, The Grand Grimoire, and The Grimoire of Pope Honorius. They were originals or first editions, highly sought-after by book collectors and occult practitioners. The fourth was a widely available book called the Dictionary of Demons, which was included in the set at no extra charge.

  He reflected on his conversation with Mr. Lewis. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he’d given the man a flippant answer when asked why he was agree
ing to help. The old man had cocked an eyebrow at his answer. Apparently, Mr. Lewis wasn’t buying it. The old man was astute.

  Not only had the pawnshop owner been aware of a presence in the Moore house for the past month, he’d felt its influence growing beyond the confines of the building. Over the last few weeks, his customers had appeared ill-at-ease when discussing business inside the shop. While general inquiries could be discussed over the phone, he always insisted serious discussions be handled in person or with a representative.

  Of those he had recently met with, many were overanxious, jittery, and concluded their business quickly. Others had confided that they were inexplicably drawn to his store—people searching for items that could cause immeasurable harm to others. Those potential customers were assessed within minutes and told they had been misinformed about the nature of his business. At first, he chalked these incidents up as unrelated coincidences. But after another disturbing occurrence earlier that week, he now considered them all possibly connected.

  Three days earlier, he’d tried—and failed—to change the location of the pawnshop. As proprietor, he was gifted with the ability to pull up stakes and locate elsewhere, instantaneously, without a loss of basic services. He wasn’t sure how the process worked, but the bills and taxes delivered to his post office box would always be marked with the latest address. There was one limitation to this supernatural ability—the shop couldn’t be moved outside of Goffstown. Locals were vaguely aware of the existence of the business, and their reaction upon seeing it in a new location was either indifference or mild confusion. He used this ability sparingly, usually after a prolonged interaction with a local who might portend police involvement, or if he perceived a credible threat to the business. Recently, after an episode involving his associate, Rex and a traveling nightclub called Painfreak, he’d decided to move again. Though his own involvement in the Painfreak incident was minimal, he wanted to err on the side of caution. Only it didn’t work this time; the pawnshop remained in its present location. Further attempts yielded the same result.

  It was a simple, offhand remark from Rex that completed the puzzle for him. Rex, over 400 pounds of pure muscle, feared nothing. But the hulk was visibly shaken when the pawnshop owner asked him to check the Moore house for unusual activity. “I’d rather not,” Rex had responded. “There’s something bad living in that place.”

  What was in that house that had Rex, of all people, so intimidated? Mulling it over, he suspected he had the answer.

  Mr. Lewis had contracted with him to burn it down because he thought the building was haunted, and that the house had something to do with his granddaughter’s disappearance. After the discovery of the two dead arsonists, his customers had started acting strangely. Could his involvement in the attempted arson have made him a target? If the house was indeed haunted, he’d never heard of a ghost with such a reach and capable of causing him this much trouble. He made his way to the front doors, locked them, returned to the counter and waited impatiently for Mr. Lewis to provide him with a name.

  CHAPTER 16

  Nora moaned, the nerves in her right leg screamed. She was on her back, with a lump beneath her, extending from her butt to lower spine. She rolled her shoulders forward and arched her back, trying to ease the pressure. It helped, but the relief was minor. She took deep breaths through gritted teeth, focusing on the crux of the pain. The worst was coming from her knee. It was intense, constant, but there was also a throbbing elsewhere vying for attention.

  Spasms developed from arching her back; she wouldn’t be able to hold the position for long. She willed her leg to move and regretted it instantly as what felt like a thousand paring knives hacked away at her knee. But the lump shifted, bringing some relief, and giving her the courage to try again. This time, she was successful. The lump was gone, but she had bit her tongue trying to cope with the pain. Her mouth filled with blood and she choked on the taste.

  She sat up slightly, wiping away tears and spitting red phlegm out the side of her mouth. When her eyes had run dry, she was clear-headed enough to assess her situation. Though her view was constrained by darkness, some light fell into the basement from the tattered floor above. She pushed herself into a full sitting position. Arms outstretched for support, Nora leaned back on them and assessed the damage to her legs. Her left leg appeared uninjured, resting straight out on the floor. Her right leg was another matter. The kneecap was twice its normal size and twisted to one side. Her calf and foot were at an unnatural angle, pointed toward her crotch. When her gaze rested at the tip of her sneaker, she understood the source of the lump against her back.

  Oh God, help me, I can’t feel anything below my right knee.

  Her arms ached—they wouldn’t support her weight much longer. Her choices were to lie exposed on the floor or find something to lean against, so she could see if anything was coming for her. She didn’t want to be anywhere near the hole in the floor in case Officer Jones or more debris came crashing down, she decided to try to make it to the wall behind her. Lifting her bottom off the ground, she slowly pushed backward. Her knee screamed from the pain, but she gritted her teeth and dealt with it. She continued to slide backward until her back contacted something solid. It was hard and smooth, so she leaned against it and took deep breaths.

  The light was much dimmer against the wall and she could barely make out her right leg. Dragging her body backward had straightened it somewhat, but even in the darkness, she could see the swelling had spread beyond her knees. She needed to find a way out of there, and soon.

  If she was to think clearly, she had to externalize the pain. She concentrated on Agnes and studied the hole in the ceiling. Is she still up there? There was no visible activity, and she heard no sounds. A sudden image of Agnes, dead, flashed in her mind, and Nora choked a sob.

  No, she can’t be dead! I’m sure she and Celeste are coming for me.

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Nora stiffened. The words were taunting, assured. Her first reaction was to search the basement for their source, but the limited light from the hole did not allow access to its darkest corners.

  “Does your leg hurt Nora? It must hurt quite a bit,” the voice mocked her.

  With a shiver, she acknowledged the voice originated inside her head. “Agnes, it’s here, down in the basement. Please, I need you,” she whimpered.

  “Agnes can’t hear you anymore.”

  God, please. Nora cupped her face, her tears returning.

  “He can’t hear you either.”

  Nora recalled Celeste’s warning about letting the demon know what she was thinking. She tried to block him out, to make her mind go blank.

  “It’s too late, Nora. I’m already inside. Let’s look around, shall we?”

  A heaviness overtook her, her chin dropping to her chest. Her head bobbed several times. She fought back. Determined, she raised her head, focusing on keeping it level. It worked: her tiredness subsided but her view had changed—she was no longer in the basement, but sitting in a kitchen chair, her leg uninjured.

  No. This can’t be happening. I don’t want to be there again.

  Sitting across from Nora at the other side of a table were Sheri and Sandel. Sandel appeared every bit the same adorable toddler that Nora remembered. The girl seemed healthy and displayed no outward signs of abuse. Her mother, on the other hand, had bruises on her left cheek and both arms. Sheri was explaining to her daughter why Nora was visiting.

  “Sister Nora is here to check on you, Sandel, to make sure there are no bruises on you.” Sheri’s eyes closed, her lips tightening. She opened them and smiled at her daughter. “Sister Nora wants to make sure you haven’t fallen off your bike or tripped and bumped into anything.”

  The girl nodded and replied, “Yes, Mommy.”

  Sheri addressed her visitor. “I can tell you, Sister Nora, that Sandel is fine. Sandel, stand up and show Sister Nora your arms and legs.”

  The toddler slid from her chair and appro
ached the nun.

  Despite the surreal nature of the situation, and the mother’s obvious leading and coaching of the child, Nora inspected the girl’s arms and legs.

  “Thank you, dear,” Nora said. “Can you pull your shirt up for me?”

  Sheri lowered her head. “Sandel, do as she asks.”

  The young girl complied. After a few moments, Nora told her to push it back down.

  “Sandel, please go to your room—I have to talk to Sister Nora.”

  Her daughter nodded and left the kitchen.

  Nora stared hard at Sheri. “It looks like he’s leaving her alone, but I can’t say the same about you.”

  Sheri didn’t reply. She frowned, and tears formed. “We can’t leave. He says he’ll find us again and kill us both this time if we try.”

  “Come with me then; the Church will take you in.”

  “No,” said Sheri. “The police said that the last time, and he found us. He’s got connections with the police, he pays them off and cuts them in on his drug dealings. He will kill us both if we ever leave him again. We need money, Sister, not empty promises. Money to get far away—somewhere he can’t find us.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Upstairs. He’s got the guys over. It’s Wednesday, poker night. He runs the games. They play for big stakes. If he wins, everything is fine until next Wednesday. If he loses, nobody here is safe.”

  Nora struggled to keep from replying. None of this was real. The demon was forcing her to re-live that day, a day she had tried so hard to forget. But she couldn’t stop herself from responding.