The young boy was close to death, and there was no time to battle the Church bureaucracy to conduct an exorcism. Though forbidden from performing one on his own, Father MacLeod initiated the rite. In the span of two hours, he performed the ritual repeatedly. It was ineffective. Frustrated and afraid, he resorted to personal pleas to God. They went unanswered. When the weakened boy’s body convulsed with blood pouring from his nose and ears, Father MacLeod knew his nephew wouldn’t survive the trauma for much longer. He called on the demon, asking it to reveal itself. If God wasn’t interested in saving the child, the priest would take matters into his own hands. Unlike God, the demon responded to his plea. A bargain was struck. His nephew would be freed. The compensation: two souls. He had made good on half the debt, delivering to the demon a homeless man Catherine had brought to the Church for assistance.
Father MacLeod bowed his head. “You were taking my nephew. I had to do something.”
“And you did. You gave me one soul years ago. You covered your tracks well with that one. I picked up the story from this vessel. Ha! You told her the man was sent to a Church-related facility for the homeless. I wish you could’ve been there when I showed her how you took him away and then dropped him off at the bottom of a bridge in some shit town. She saw what those men did to him. You owe me another soul, priest. Four years is too long to wait.”
Father MacLeod’s eyes burned with fury. “You took Catherine.”
The demon’s smile returned. “But she was not your offering.”
The priest returned the smile. “You know, you screwed up. You reached out to me when you went after my nephew. I’m an exorcist—an exorcist who knows what the hell he is doing. The thing is, I got a good look at you then. I heard your thoughts, I could see what you were, and…I discovered your name.” He paused a moment to let his words sink in.
“I wondered from the start if it were you inside Catherine, but I had no way of knowing. I couldn’t risk using the wrong name during the exorcism. The last thing I wanted was to have two demons living in her. I didn’t know for sure it was you until you asked about my promise. I know who you are now, and I can send you back.”
The demon studied the priest through Catherine’s eyes. “You need something from me. You won’t do it if you want the higher demon’s name.”
“How will I know you’ll give me the demon’s real name?”
“How will I know you’ll let me stay in this vessel after I give it to you?”
The priest peered down at Catherine’s body and nodded. “Fair enough. I give you my word that I won’t banish you from this vessel. After I get the name, I’ll open myself up to you. Let you see for yourself that I’ll do as I say. But if you go any further, I’ll not only stop you, I’ll send you to hell.”
The demon took a moment to consider Father MacLeod’s words. “You intrigue me, priest. You’re willing to prolong the suffering of this vessel, one you’ve had a relationship with, for three other women. Those three women must fuck well. I’ll be making note of them.”
The priest raised his fists. “Give me the name!”
“Once again, we are bargaining, priest. I’ll give you the name. I expect you to deliver on your word fully this time; if not, when we meet again you’ll rue the day. And don’t forget, you still owe me one more soul.”
Lowering his hands, the priest demanded, “What is its name?”
“Belphegor.”
Father MacLeod’s countenance fell, and he took a step back. Belphegor. A shiver chilled his spine and his knees grew weak. This was bad.
A sharp sound at Catherine’s side diverted his attention. Both wrist straps were broken, and her arms were rising. She raised her head and the band across her forehead snapped with a loud crack. The restraint over her chest severed in two.
The demon sat up, closed and reopened Catherine’s eyes, revealing coal-black pools void of pupils, the malefic grin still on her face. “I’m not as weak as you thought,” said the demon.
“Maybe not, Asmodeus,” the priest answered, “But weak enough.”
At the mention of its name, the demon flinched.
The priest reached into his pants pocket and removed a small vial. He screwed off the lid and shook the contents toward Catherine’s body. When the liquid contacted her skin, the demon screamed. Puffs of steam clouded the air, and the smell of burnt flesh filled the room.
“I cast you out, unclean spirit . . .” Father MacLeod recited, beginning the exorcism. He approached the demon while digging into his other pants pocket and pulled out a crucifix. As the priest spoke the ritual, he placed the wooden cross against Catherine’s forehead.
“No!” The demon howled in agony and rage. It remained still, unable to remove the crucifix. “You gave me your word!”
The priest continued with the ritual. Near its conclusion, he paused. “My word, as you have seen, means nothing, demon.” He resumed, uttering the few remaining stanzas of the rite. “Begone, in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. Be gone, Asmodeus, back to Satan and the hell he has dominion over.”
Catherine’s body flopped down onto the mattress. Her eyes were still dark as she focused them on the priest. The demon spoke in a feeble voice. “How? We’ve been watching you. You have lost faith in your god.”
Father MacLeod’s eyes were bright, his grin cruel. “I don’t have to have faith in Him. I only have to have faith in the ritual.”
Catherine’s eyes closed.
The priest lifted her left eyelid, then let it drop. He did the same to her right. They were both back to normal. He removed the crucifix from her forehead and, using holy water, made the sign of the cross in its place.
While he was sure God had abandoned him some time ago, Catherine apparently still had some pull. He figured she should be okay from there on in. He walked to the door and took one last look at her. The familiar feelings of arousal stirred as he gazed at her legs and what sat between them.
We did have fun for a while, didn’t we, Catherine? Sighing, he punched six nines on the keypad and left the room.
Sister Bernice sat at the desk, peering at him with a frown. “Is Catherine okay?”
Father MacLeod nodded. “Yes.”
The nun sighed, relaxing her shoulders. “Thanks be to God. Did you get what you needed, Father?”
“I did. Thank you, Sister.”
“Can you save those women?”
“I—I don’t know. I’m going to try. Can you go in there and make her comfortable? You can remove her leg restraints. She shouldn’t be a problem anymore. I’m sure the exorcists are going to have some questions. You can tell them I was here.”
Sister Bernice did not reply.
“I’m not going to ask you to lie, but if you can, please keep the part about Agnes, Nora, and Celeste out of it. I don’t want them involved with the exorcists at this point. I’ll fill them in later.”
Father MacLeod didn’t wait for her answer, but he did hear her say, “I will,” as he walked down the hall.
Back in his office, he called Mr. Lewis. “Tell your contact I have a name. You have a pencil and paper? Okay, now this is important: do not speak the name aloud. Never. Tell your contact not to, either. Got it? Good. I’m going to spell it out for you. B-e-l-p-h-e-g-o-r.” Mr. Lewis began to recite the name as he wrote it. “No! I told you not to say its name out loud! What the hell! You want to make this even worse than it is?”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Look, this demon is powerful,” the priest went on. “It’s a higher demon, said to be the closest to Lucifer. You don’t want to be calling its attention to you. It’s imperative you tell your contact this.”
Mr. Lewis emphasized that he would.
“I’m going back to the Moore house. Tell your guy to meet me there in two hours. It’s going to be dark, so bring flashlights for all three of us.”
The priest hung up. After considering some of the potential disasters that could transpire at th
e Moore house, he made one more phone call. When finished, he reached for the bottle of scotch. He gulped down two swallows. He let the liquid burn in his belly as he pulled on his beard.
CHAPTER 20
The pawnshop landline rang.
Customers who had heard it would often remark how it was reminiscent of phones in old movies and television shows. Located on a shelf underneath the shop’s counter, the vintage device—original to the 1960s—sat out of view. While the proprietor had made some upgrades as concessions to the times, namely installing a plug cord so he could use a modern phone jack, he preferred its bulky, worn appearance over modern digital handsets. The raised push-buttons made calling slower, and its aqua color was hideous enough to raise eyebrows, but he was comfortable with it. Truth was, he took comfort from old and obsolete objects. He made his living off them.
The handset was snatched before the fourth ring was complete, and as was his practice, he waited for the caller to speak first. After several seconds of silence, a tinny voice called out to him.
“Hello? Hello? Are you there?”
It was the call he’d been waiting for. “Yes. I’m here.”
Mr. Lewis was on the other end. “The priest called me back,” the old man said. “He wants to meet with you in about two hours at the Moore house.”
“Did he give you a name?”
The old man was quiet for a moment. “Yes,” he said hesitantly, “But I’m not supposed to speak it out loud, and neither are you. He was quite firm on that. Do you have something close by to write it down? I’ll spell it out.”
“Hang on.” The proprietor searched the shelf for a pencil and paper. He moved a few items aside—rusty knobs, grease-stained rags, a coffee can that contained blue metallic stars, and a stack of year-old newspapers. His fingers brushed against a pencil and he removed it, along with a newspaper from the top of the stack. “Okay,” he said, “Spell the name.”
“B-E-L-P-H-E-G-O-R. Remember, don’t say it out loud.”
The owner copied the letters onto the newspaper as they were read to him. When finished, he silently read what he had written. The name meant nothing.
“You still there?”
Nothing. “Hello? Are you still there?”
“Um, yeah, sorry,” he replied. “I’m still here.”
“You know,” the old man said, lowering his voice, “I don’t even know your name. All this time we’ve been doing business and I’ve never learned it.”
“Look,” the owner said, cutting the man off. “If I only have less than two hours, I’ve got to get working on this. Call me Smith for all I care.”
“Okay, I understand. I’ll also be there. Father MacLeod asked me to bring flashlights, so I’ve got to stop at the hardware store. It’s near to you. You want me to swing by after and pick you up?”
The pawnshop owner rolled his eyes. He didn’t need Lewis watching over his shoulder. “No. I’ll meet you at the Moore house.” He didn’t wait for an acknowledgment, returning the handset to its cradle. He proceeded to the end of the counter where the occult books were laid out.
Half an hour later, the man closed all four books. He gathered up the few notes he’d taken and brought them to his computer. As expected, the internet provided information on the demon, but he had no idea how accurate it was. One of the sites mentioned that Belphegor was so vile he could only be summoned with excrement. Despite the seriousness of the situation, an obvious joke came to mind about how shitty this demon was. Dismissing the claim, he clicked away from the site before he traveled down a rat hole of puns.
There was one piece of information he’d gleaned from the texts that the internet sites confirmed—that the appointed enemy of Belphegor was Saint Mary Magdalene. But this wasn’t as straightforward as he’d hoped.
There was some confusion as to whether this saint was the same woman who had stood by Jesus as he was crucified and the one from whom Jesus had exorcised seven demons. Many websites strongly hinted these were two separate Mary Magdalenes. If that were true, the pawnshop owner faced a dilemma. Which one was the demon’s enemy?
Artifacts belonging to the exorcised Mary Magdalene were readily obtainable. Their significance was not lost on the apostles, who had collected as many of her possessions as possible. Over the years, many of these were acquired by the Catholic Church and placed in storage. Those not claimed were available through back channels. There were enough in circulation to devalue them, and worse, to enable cheap counterfeits. The pawnshop owner had a wooden serving bowl that was purported to have belonged to her, but he couldn’t obtain a respected authentication on it. It sat on his shelves unsold. The bowl had been included in a lot he’d purchased on behalf of a customer. His client took what he wanted but had no use for the bowl without proper certification.
If there were indeed two Mary Magdalenes, he might be out of luck. Even if the bowl were authentic, it could belong to the wrong one. There was no time to seek an authenticated object connected to either of the women. Though he had no idea what power the bowl could possess over the demon, if it did belong to the right Mary, it was all he had to work with.
A bothersome notion crowded his thoughts. Owning this bowl appeared to be fortuitous. While he was often fortunate enough to own objects that clients might be desperate for, the outcome of this situation was far too serious to be determined by luck. Was he somehow being played? During his conversation with Celeste, he’d mentioned that the influence of the Moore house was growing. Had it reached the pawnshop? Had it reached him? Could the demon have discovered the presence of the bowl, and be using it as a distraction? If this were true, he had no other supernatural method to combat the demon—that would be up to the priest and Mr. Lewis.
However, he did have one other type of assistance at his disposal.
Rex was often called on when a situation required extreme strength or when it was too dangerous for the owner to handle on his own. The problem with Rex was that on occasion, he could be mentally unstable. He had changed after following a client’s wife into a nightclub called Painfreak. When he returned from the club, he’d brutalized the client’s wife, and then killed the man.
Rex was aware of the changes inside of him, and he’d come to the pawnshop owner seeking relief from his physiological torment. As his mentor, he did what he could for Rex. For the most part, he was successful, but Rex did suffer from relapses, leaving carnage in his wake.
The giant agreed to meet up at the Moore house, but only after he finished a task at hand.
He found the wooden bowl and stuffed it into a plastic grocery bag. The less attention called to it, the better. Before leaving the shop, the owner set the alarm. After hearing a confirming beep, he stepped through the front doors and locked them. Standing in the street, he stared at the storefront.
Who would take over the business if I died?
CHAPTER 21
The sounds of cracking floorboards chased Celeste up the stairs. She held onto the handrail tightly as she sprinted, until it split in her hand. It was pulled from her grip, and the weight of the rail threatened to take her with it. Her hold relaxed, saving her from tumbling down into the chaos, but she lost her balance and landed hard on her knees. She cried out, reaching to grab a stair above her. She rolled up onto her toes to ease the pain to her knees, straining to hold herself up on all fours. She glanced toward the living room where ragged fragments of wood sailed through the air. The shrapnel embedded into the surrounding walls with soft thuds. More holes opened along the floor, creating miniature tornados that sucked in debris and whirls of dust.
Nora’s down there!
The staircase shook, sending vibrations coursing through her body, and making her hair dance before her eyes. She focused on the top of the stairway. She needed to get up there, now. She pushed off with her toes and struggled up the remaining stairs until she reached the second-floor landing. Thoughts of Agnes and Nora caught in the carnage below caused her to turn around. At the bott
om of the staircase, Officer Jones stared up at her. His eyes were wide, empty, and pitch black; his grin enormous. He stepped onto the bottom stair, which vanished beneath him, yet he hovered over the jet-black chasm that appeared under his feet. Jones took another step; the second stair disappeared.
Celeste stood and scanned the hallway; one door to her right and three to her left, all closed. Choosing the last door on her left, she rushed to it, entered the room and slammed the door shut behind her. She twisted a simple lock on the handle and then turned to survey the room for something to push against the door. The bedroom was empty.
“Oh, come on! How ‘bout some fucking furniture?” she entreated the ceiling in frustration.
She hurried to the only window in the room, brushed back the curtains and yanked upward on the lower sash, but it was jammed. Visions of the table and bullet embedded in the window downstairs flashed in her mind and she presumed there was no way she was going to open or break this one, either. Daylight was nearly gone, and the room was bathed in shadow.
She slumped to the floor, sat with her back against the wall and cradled her head in her hands.
A blow to the door snapped her head up.
The doorknob moved. The lock held.
There was a long silence. Celeste stared at the door. She couldn’t look away.
Another blow startled her.
The middle of the door wavered, and the wood stretched, pushing inward toward her, its shape like that of a closed fist. Inches above it, the wood also transformed, this panel looking more like a face. As it protruded forward, she recognized it…Officer Jones.
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