Barry.
A yellowish glow enveloped him, his eyes blacker than the darkness in the depths of the basement. The corners of Barry’s lips rose in a lecherous smile, his penis also rising in concurrence, pointing accusingly in her direction.
Time for you to make good on your bet,” he said.
CHAPTER 17
Father MacLeod came to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the marble stairway leading to the old post office building. The black vines obscured the white and blue hues of the stone, their darkness rippling over the long rectangular steps. An image of a spider web beckoning prey flashed through his mind. People walking over the stairs took no notice, making it clear he was the only one who could see them. Something was fucking with him, but he wouldn’t be cowered. He climbed, and as he approached the top step, he saw that the vines progressed no farther.
It can’t go into a holy place. At least, that’s what he hoped. He rushed to his office.
“Linda, have there been any calls?”
“Good afternoon to you, too. There’s a message from Mr. Lewis on your phone.”
The priest nodded, slipped into his office, and closed the door. At his desk, he opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of Glenfiddich. Wrapping his lips around the neck, he swallowed, the amber liquid dribbling out of the sides of his mouth. He wiped his lips, capped the bottle, and returned it to the drawer. Withdrawing a small vial filled with a clear liquid marked Lourdes, he inspected it to ensure it was full, pocketed it, and then listened to the message.
He’d do what he could to get the name of the demon. He took a deep breath and left his office.
“Linda, I’m going downstairs. Don’t tell anyone where I am.”
She nodded without looking up at him.
The door to the basement was located at the far end of the hall. Passage through the doorway was secured by a keypad, where he punched in a six-digit code. He heard a click, pushed the door open, and descended the stairway. At the bottom, he paused before a dimly lit hallway with water-stained walls and a cement floor with numerous cracks that betrayed the age of the building. His destination loomed ahead.
On either side of the hallway, equally spaced, heavy oak doors led to small rooms. From past visits, he knew they all stood locked and empty—except for the fifth room on his right. To the side of that door stood a desk. Seated there was a nun dressed in full habit, a large crucifix hanging on her chest.
“Hello, Sister Bernice.”
“Hello, Father.”
The priest stood close, casting a shadow over her. “How is she today?”
The woman’s face was neutral. “Doing well today, Father.”
“Is she lucid?”
The sister hesitated a moment. “She was earlier.”
“Are they in there with her?”
She shook her head. “No. They left for the night, about an hour ago.”
The priest sighed in relief. “I need to speak to her.”
The nun stared hard at him. “You know I can’t allow you to go in there without the exorcist’s permission. I’ve got my orders. Besides, Father, you’ve been drinking, I can smell it on you.”
The priest grinned. “I can assure you that I only had one sip, and that was to fortify me for my conversation with her. As for your orders, you report to me, Sister Bernice, not them.”
Her eyes lingered on the priest’s.
“Look,” he continued, “I don’t want to do this any more than you want to let me. The thing is, I have no choice. Three women are engaged with a demon at this very moment, and their lives depend on whatever information I can get from her.”
The nun broke eye contact. Both her hands went to her crucifix and clutched it tightly. After a few moments, her gaze returned to Father MacLeod. “If something goes wrong in there, I’ll be in serious trouble, Father. You tell me you’re doing God’s work, so I have to believe you. I’ll pray for all of you. Punch in six sixes.”
The irony wasn’t lost on him. “If anything goes wrong, tell them I ordered you to give me the code. Is it the same to leave?”
“No, it’s six nines.”
“Thank you, Sister. The last time I was here, there was a box of dust masks on the table—they’re gone now.”
“Yes, there was no need for them.”
He reached for the digital lock.
“I hope God is with you, Father.”
He punched in the numbers. “Me, too.”
The door opened, and he stepped into Catherine White’s holding room.
His last visit, a month earlier, had sown the seeds of many nightmares. The urge to gag had overcome him when he’d entered the cell, which stewed in a cocktail of pungent odors: sweat, urine, infection, and unwashed genitalia. The taste that had wormed its way down his throat, combined with the stifling heat of the room had him retching and reaching for the door. He’d left the room to ask for a mask, taken a few minutes to walk off the upset, and then dabbed the mask with a few drops of lavender oil from a bottle he’d spotted beside the box. After pulling on the mask, he’d taken a deep breath and re-entered the room.
Catherine had been screaming and cursing in tongues, alternating between Greek, Latin, and French. She had been naked, her body covered in sores that oozed a foamy yellow fluid. Brown festering boils spotted her face. A large one beside her nose erupted, spewing a viscous umber tinted pus that dripped onto her lips. Her head had been shaved clean and placed in a brace. A strap had run tight over her forehead to restrain her from fracturing her neck. Her wrists and ankles strapped taut to the corners of the bed frame.
The exorcists had tied a leather strap over her stomach to prevent her from levitating and breaking her back. Her legs had been parted wide, her vulva shaved, though he had questioned the need aloud to the exorcists. Her mattress had been stained by vomit, feces, and blood. He’d left the room shaken, vowing not to return until the exorcists were successful.
This day’s visit was different; Catherine’s transformation was startling.
She was restrained, but the straps on her wrists were connected to the bed frame on either side of her hips. The straps to her ankles had slack in them, enough so she could close her legs. The restraint over her waist was gone, as was the binding for her head. Fuzz adorned her scalp. She wore a nightgown, and while it was flimsy, it covered her from neck to mid-thigh. The mattress was unsoiled. More startling, her face was clear, and there was a smile on her lips. It was a sad one, but considering her situation, the priest was grateful to see it.
“Father MacLeod! I wonder what brings you here.” Her voice, though weak, had the lilt of humor.
The priest grinned. “First, how are you doing, Catherine?’
The woman sighed, then the smile returned. “I’m beating it, Father. It’s still there, but very weak. Every day I get a little better. They tell me it’ll be over soon.”
Father MacLeod frowned.
Catherine squinted at his reaction. “You don’t seem pleased.”
“I’m happy for you, Catherine. It’s just that something’s come up, and I need your help.”
The woman’s face stiffened. “What do you want?”
“I need to speak to the demon inside you.”
Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “No—ask of me anything else but that.”
“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
“What could be so important you would want that damned thing to come back out?”
“Agnes and Nora are in trouble. Serious trouble. Their lives, maybe even their souls, are in jeopardy.”
Catherine closed her eyes. “Tell me.”
The priest filled her in on the details of the team’s investigation. When he finished, he went to her side and placed his hand over hers. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it would help them. There’s another player in this that might be of aid to me. From what I understand, he’s involved somehow with the supernatural. He’s asking for the name of the demon that torments
the team. You’re the only hope I have of finding it out.”
Catherine opened her eyes. “You have no idea what you’re asking of me. I’ve been in hell for the last couple of months, and I mean that, Father—in actual hell. It’s real, and even more evil and terrifying than we’ve been taught.”
“I wouldn’t ask you if there were any other way.”
Catherine gritted her teeth. She looked away and then brought her gaze back, locking eyes with the priest.
“When it comes, it’s all over me, Father. It burns my skin, violates me. I know it’s not real when it happens, but I can feel it tearing at my arms and legs. It plucks my eyes out, holds them up, and I swear to God I can still see out of them.” Her voice drifted. “It makes me watch what it does to me.” After a pause, Catherine’s voice rose. “Insects burrow into my skin, Father. My body ignites and the flames dance over me while they consume me. Creatures tear me apart, even as they use me. It shows me friends and family members doing horrible things to others, and to each other. The suffering is never-ending. Through it all, it either tells me there is no God, or it insists He exists but doesn’t give a shit about me. All I have to do, it says, is renounce Him. Then all the pain, all the suffering, all the visions will stop.”
Father MacLeod’s gaze went to her restrained hand. It was small, delicate, and it trembled under his.
“But, you know what?” Catherine went on. “I never did. I won’t renounce God. Demons are the kings of lies, the kindling used to stoke evil.” She sighed. “There were periods when it vanished. I had brief moments of relief. When I was alone in my head, I’d ask myself why it was going through all the trouble to convince me God wasn’t real, or that He had abandoned me. Why ask me to reject God if the Devil had me already?”
The priest raised his head. “Tell me, did you come up with an answer?”
Catherine nodded. “Yes. You see, I was convinced I was going to hell for what I did. Even after you asked me to work for the team, I didn’t think I could be saved. To be honest, I had hoped at best that I could mitigate my punishment. But I was wrong. As the exorcists drove it farther away, closer to the hell it came from, I came to realize there was hope for me. This is a test. A way for me to acknowledge my sins, to pay for them. I am not a lost soul. There’s a place for me in God’s kingdom. This conversation is further proof I’m right. They showed me your sins, Father. Not just the ones I was involved with. If what it showed me was true, you’re in the position I was. I want to tell you now, Father, there is a chance to be saved.”
Father MacLeod’s tore his hand from Catherine’s. He stepped back, eyes wide and mouth open. “Catherine, whatever it showed you, you have to dismiss it. You yourself said demons were the kings of lies.”
She sighed, tilting her head back. “I did. But I’ve always thought the most effective lies were the ones based on truth.” The woman met his gaze. “It doesn’t matter whether it was the whole truth or not: what I’m trying to tell you is that redemption is possible. Have faith.”
If he had the time, the priest would’ve made more of an attempt to discuss or dissuade her of the notion. Instead, he smiled. “If you believe that, then you understand why I’ve asked you to do this.”
Catherine’s face tightened. She remained silent for almost five minutes, an eternity for the priest.
“I’ll do it for Agnes and Nora, as well as the new woman—”
“Celeste.”
“Celeste. I’m going to try to keep it under submission, not let it take complete control over me. I’m not sure if I can. It’s very weak, so I have a chance. When you get what you need, you have to bring me back. Call to me. Pray for me. Do whatever you have to but bring me back.”
He nodded. “I will, Catherine.”
“Thank you. Please, place the restraints on my stomach and forehead.”
The priest hurried to do as she asked. When she was secure, he stood by the door and waited.
When the demon returned, the lights didn’t dim. There was no smoke. He couldn’t smell anything out of the ordinary.
“Hello, Father,” it said. “You here to deliver on your promise?” It wasn’t Catherine’s voice.
CHAPTER 18
Agnes twisted the cellar doorknob and yanked with all her strength, but it wouldn’t budge. “Nora,” she screamed, pounding on and kicking at the door. She leaned forward, pressed her forehead against the wood, and sobbed hard enough to make her shoulders hitch.
“Agnes.”
She stiffened. The voice was male, soft, yet loud enough to catch her attention. It was distant as if someone had called her from the next room. The only person alive in the next room was Celeste, and it definitely wasn’t her. She backed from the door, looking to her left. No one stood in the entranceway. Whoever it was had to be in the living room.
Agnes was certain her name had been called, but what if she had been mistaken about the caller’s gender? What if it were Nora, in the basement, distraught, and hurt from the fall? Agnes knew it could be the demon, but what if it wasn’t? She listened. The house was unnaturally quiet.
She took hesitant steps toward the living room. The cracks in the floor ended at the threshold to the hallway, near where she stood at the room’s entrance. There were too many for her to jump over to get to the hole Nora fell through.
Officer Jones’ lifeless body remained crumpled on the chair. Celeste was nowhere in sight.
“Nora?” she shouted. There was no reply.
The only way Agnes could get to her partner was through the door leading to the basement. She’d have to find something to hammer the doorknob off, and if that failed, she’d have to somehow destroy the door. With that thought, she turned to head back down the hallway, but it was no longer there.
Her mind clouded. When it cleared, she was in a bedroom, instantly familiar. She now wore street clothes, her arms stretched up and out before her. Both her hands held onto the small, delicate fingers of an African American woman. Though she knew who she would see, Agnes looked at the woman’s face. Agnes closed her eyes and tears gathered.
Agnes shook her head. “No! You bastard. No. Get out of my head!” She repeated the phrase over and again, hoping to chase it away. “Get out of my head—get out of my head—get out of my head—”
“Too late, lezzie, I’m already here and I’m not leaving until I have some fun with you. Let’s see what brought you to me, shall we?”
“Get out of my head!”
There was no reply. Agnes waited a few more seconds before opening her eyes. When she did, she found herself seated at the dais table during a dinner banquet.
Casual conversation echoed through the hall and assaulted her ears. She was dressed in her habit, but those on either side and in the audience were dressed in formal wear. Women wore exquisite evening gowns accented with pearls, gold bracelets, and diamond rings. High heels straightened their stances, and, in some instances, flaunted brightly painted toenails. The men were decked out in tuxedos, all of them black, with color-matched bowties.
A loudspeaker sprang to life with two taps. A man she knew to be the head of the local Better Business Bureau implored the guests to sit. It took a few minutes, but once everyone was seated, the man addressed the crowd.
“Tonight, we are here to honor Mr. Jim Arsenault,” the speaker said, proudly.
Agnes knew this was an illusion, a trick of the mind. Worse, she knew where this scene was headed.
No! Please, God, don’t make me relive this.
But she had no control over the vision; she was forced to participate in the re-enactment.
The speaker went on reciting all the good deeds Jim had accomplished, most of which involved giving various charities boatloads of money. When the oration was over, he called Mr. Arsenault to the podium. Jim gave a self-deprecating, humor-filled speech that went over well with the crowd. Toward the end, he acknowledged his wife, Linda, for all her support. Linda was seated next to Agnes, and the two made eye contact.
&n
bsp; Agnes sobbed. Why didn’t I see it in her then? There had been no sparkle in her lover’s eyes, and despite a generous quantity of makeup, Linda couldn’t hide her fatigue. Thinking back on it, Agnes understood she’d made a horrible mistake. She had mistaken resignation for fatigue.
Linda stood to enthusiastic applause. She gave them a halfhearted smile, then mouthed, “Thank you.” When Linda sat down, Jim then praised the work of Sister Agnes, the Church’s outreach director, for creating the Loving Children’s Society and for her tireless work in fundraising. Embarrassed by the spotlight, she stood, bowed once, and sat back down.
They ate dinner on the dais, taking the time to acknowledge anyone who came by to congratulate them or thank them for their service. Agnes had occasionally reached under the tablecloth to stroke Linda’s thigh. Her efforts were not reciprocated. The most she received in return was a slight smile or a nod. Agnes thought nothing of it, as they were in a public setting. For her own part, she found the surreptitious fondling playful and erotic. A hint of things to come, she’d hoped.
After dinner, the band started up and the attendees danced and mingled. Agnes was alone with Linda, and it gave her the opportunity to talk to her without being overheard.
“Linda,” Agnes said, “Can I stop over this evening, after the ceremony?”
“Yes,” came the reply. “We have to talk.”
Agnes smiled. “I know. I’m going to the head of the convent tomorrow to renounce my vows. I won’t mention us, so please, don’t worry. I’m not sure how long or what’s involved, but—”
“Wait,” Linda interrupted. “Let’s discuss this later tonight. Jim is packed and will be on a flight by one o’clock, so please, come after that.”
Before Agnes could respond, Linda was approached by a local merchant to discuss what he claimed was a matter of importance. She excused herself, leaving the table to talk with the man.
“No, why can’t I stop this?” Agnes screamed.
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