by C. J. Tudor
“So, ready to see what’s behind the final door?”
She jumps. Wrigley stands behind her, jittering.
“I’m breathless with anticipation.”
He smirks. “It’s good. Trust me.”
She isn’t sure she does, but she follows him back across the landing to the second bedroom. Wrigley pushes open the door.
She steps inside and looks around. “Holy fuck.”
The room is large. A bed still stands in the center, topped by a stained and moldy mattress. Flo doesn’t like to think what might have taken place on it, fuelled by cans of cider and the numerous discarded joints lying around.
But that’s not what makes her gasp. It’s the walls. Covered in flaking wallpaper and plastered with graffiti. Not your usual “Kerry is a slag” and “Jordan fucks bumholes” graffiti. This is far weirder.
Pentagrams, upside-down crosses, evil eyes, weird inscriptions in what looks—to her untrained eye—like Latin, as well as strange stick figures, goat’s heads, the Leviathan cross. A lot of it is crude, but the effect, over and over again, covering every wall and even some of the floor, is skin-crawling in its sheer magnitude.
She walks around the room. Up close, you can see that the drawings and inscriptions are layered, newer ones overlapping older, more faded ones. People, kids, have been doing this for years. And taking it seriously. No one has interspersed the symbols with an errant penis or a jokey scribble.
“Totally Blair Witch, right?” Wrigley says, and reaches out a hand to touch the walls. Flo has the strongest urge to tell him not to.
She fumbles for the camera again.
“So, what is this? Satanic worship? You come up here and sacrifice goats?”
“Not me. I like goats. I come up here to draw pictures.”
“Then who did all of this?”
“Dunno. This stuff has been appearing here for eons. More keeps getting added.”
“But why? Did something bad happen here?”
He wanders around, kicking up dust with his boots. Then he sits down on the edge of the stained mattress.
“Okay, story is that the family who lived here, the daughter disappeared. Along with her best friend. Some reckoned they ran away, some reckoned they were murdered. But no one could ever prove it.
“Then, like, a year after the girl who lived here disappeared, so did her mum and brother. Just vanished one night. Poof! Never seen again, and the house was left to rot.”
“A whole family just disappeared?”
“Yeah. A few years ago, another family were going to buy the house, but then their little girl died in an accident. People say that the place is cursed, haunted, jinxed. Call it what you will.”
Flo snorts. “Doesn’t mean it’s anything to do with the devil.”
“Don’t you think that some places are just rotten? Like black spots in the earth. Bad stuff keeps happening there.”
Flo lowers the camera. She wants to say no, she doesn’t believe in any of that crap, but actually, she remembers an occasion when she was taking some photos in the Rock Cemetery in Nottingham.
She’d walked around it before, but this time found herself in a different part, an area shielded by trees in the shadow of a small rocky outcrop. It was a pretty spot and yet something about it just felt off. She had taken a couple of photos, but all the time she was aware of the offness, like an itch at the back of her neck. She left more quickly than she intended, but the feeling clung to her, like the dregs of a nightmare.
The next day she had mentioned it to Leon, whose eyes had widened. “You know, a girl was murdered there a couple of years ago.”
She had called bullshit—Leon had a taste for the melodramatic—but later googled it to see if it was true. She found the story. A sixteen-year-old girl had been raped and murdered on her way home from a night out, her body dumped in the cemetery. The photo showed the same distinctive rocky outcrop.
She shrugs now. “I’m not really superstitious.”
“I think some kids come up here, hold seances, do Ouija boards, all that sort of shit.”
“Not you?”
“I’m not first pick for any club, not even the worshippers of Beelzebub. Besides, that stuff is rank. Treating death like it’s a game. If someone you loved died, you wouldn’t want a bunch of drunk morons tormenting them for fun, would you?”
She thinks about her dad. She was just a toddler when he died, and Mum never really talks about him. She guesses it’s still too hard. But she gets what Wrigley means. Death isn’t something you play with. The dead deserve peace and respect. She feels herself warming to him again.
“I guess not,” she says.
He rises abruptly. “So, you done?”
“Err, yeah.”
She’s barely replaced the cap on her camera lens before Wrigley is stomping downstairs. She gives the bedroom a final glance and starts after him. Something crunches underfoot. She looks down, expecting to see a bit of broken bottle. Instead, she realizes, it’s a photo frame.
She bends down, curious. The frame still holds an old picture, weathered and faded. She can just make out two children. A dark-haired teenage girl and a younger boy. She stares at it for a moment, and then a sharp crrrack makes her jump. Shit. What was that? Another crrrack, this time followed by the thunder of wings and a chorus of harsh caws. Gunshots, she thinks.
“Wrigley?”
She hurries down the stairs and out into the sunshine, the bright light momentarily blinding her. She blinks and then spots him, crouching down, holding something in his hands.
“What’s going on?”
He turns, and she recoils. He’s cradling a large crow. Its feathers gleam like oil in the sunlight, sharp beak gaping slightly. One eye has been blown away, the socket a raw mass of gore. The other still gleams with a faint, terrified light. As she watches, the bird twitches and the eye dims to darkness.
Wrigley stands, whole body jittering with anger. His face is pale and taut. He yells into the woods:
“You killed one. Are you happy now?”
Silence. Enormous in the aftermath of the echoing shots and terrified bird cries. Flo stares across to the woods. Pretty earlier, sunlight dappling the forest floor with gold. Now, they seem thick with threat.
“Wrigley,” she starts to say. “I think—”
Another shot rings out. A roof tile jumps from the building and shatters at their feet. Wrigley stumbles backward, clutching at his face. Flo can see blood running down his cheek.
“Wrigley?”
He moves his hands away. There’s a nasty gash just above his eye. It looks shallow, but it’s hard to tell with all the blood.
“We need to get out of here.” She turns, and then stops.
Two figures have emerged from the woods. The tall blonde and the boy from this morning. Rosie and Tom. What are the fucking chances? An airgun swings from Tom’s hand. Even better.
Wrigley lets out a low breath. “Fuckers.”
“You know them?”
“Rosie Harper and her cousin, Tom. Total twats.”
“I ran into them this morning.”
“How did that go?”
“Not well.”
“Not surprised.”
Harper, she thinks. Why does that ring a bell? And then it clicks. The little girl and her dad. Could Rosie be her sister?
The duo draws closer. She can see now that Tom’s nose is swollen, bruises forming beneath his eyes. They jump over the broken-down wall.
Rosie smiles. “Well, look, it’s Vampirina and wriggly Wrigley.”
Wrigley stares at her darkly. “Look, it’s the morons who kill innocent animals for fun.”
“Just shooting some vermin.”
Tom grins. “Nasty graze, Wrigley.”
“How’s your nose?” Flo says
sweetly. “Painful?”
The grin fades. “You’re lucky you ran, you psycho bitch.”
Wrigley turns to her. “You did that?”
“It was an accident.”
“So, what are you two doing here?” Rosie asks. “Fucking?”
“What’s it got to do with you?” Flo says, staring at her hard.
“Well, seeing as my dad just bought this land, plenty. You’re trespassing.”
“Fine. We were just leaving anyway.” Flo grabs Wrigley’s arm. “C’mon.”
They start to move. Tom raises the airgun.
“We didn’t say you could go yet.”
Flo stands still, heart thudding.
Tom gestures at the camera. “Give me that piece of shit around your neck. Then you can go.”
Show no fear. Show no fear.
“No.”
Wrigley steps forward. “Just leave her alone.”
“Stay out of it, retard. Unfinished business.” Tom aims the gun at Flo’s chest. “I said, give me your camera.”
Flo grasps the strap. Blood pulses in her throat.
Give him the camera. It’s not worth it. That’s what her mum would say.
But it is worth it. To her.
She lets her hands fall. “Go fuck yourself.”
He grins. “Bitch.”
And pulls the trigger.
We all have our hiding places. Not just physical ones. Places deep inside where we put away the things we don’t want others to see. The less palatable parts. Our St. Peter’s box, I call it. The one we pray he won’t find when we’re trying to sneak in through the pearly gates.
I take my smoking tin and papers out of the hollowed-out Bible on the bookcase, roll a cigarette and stand outside the kitchen door, inhaling deeply, savoring the nicotine hit. We all have our vices too. Addictions, needs, desires. Again, some more palatable than others.
I think about the small black tape recorder.
Exorcism of Merry Joanne Lane.
The Church hardly has a glorious track record when it comes to the treatment of women. Exorcism is no exception. It’s no coincidence that the majority of exorcisms were carried out upon young women. Women who might have been depressed, suffering mental illness or simply displaying “wanton willfulness” by not doing what a husband or father instructed them.
All manner of “undesirable” female behavior could be ascribed to demonic possession and therefore “cured” by abusive and violent exorcisms. All performed in the name of God.
The Church of England has, over the years, taken a more moderate approach. Pastoral care over violent expulsion of evil. Although it would probably surprise many people if they knew that, even now, in these days of scientific advancement, many dioceses have a Deliverance Ministry. Basically, a specialist team called in to deal with paranormal experiences. These might often be in conjunction with mental health advisers, but their presence is real and recognized. Even regular priests can occasionally be called to investigate incidents of demonic possession or haunting.
I remember a visit I made as a curate with my mentor, Reverend Blake—a heavy-set, balding man with a fierce gaze and a fiercer Mancunian accent. I was twenty-seven, three years into my training, and we had been called to see a young woman in the Meadows area of Nottingham.
I expected the usual. Drug abuse, alcoholism, perhaps domestic abuse. But that wasn’t it (although I suspected that drugs or alcohol might still be involved). The young woman we were visiting believed that her flat was possessed, haunted. She wanted us to perform an exorcism.
“Do you believe in God?” Blake had asked me.
We were sitting in his car, a beaten-up Honda Civic, grabbing a quick McDonald’s on our way to a grim tower block where the woman lived.
I stared at Blake over my quarter pounder, wondering if this was a trick question. Up until now, I had known all the right answers. Or rather, I had learned them. Night after night, studying while also working part time. I had passed everything so far with flying colors. Because I was good at exams, good at debating. Good at saying what people wanted to hear. I had learned fast and hard. But I couldn’t lie to or bluff Blake. He knew me too well. He ought to. He had rescued me from the streets when I was sixteen.
“I have faith,” I said.
“And nothing could shake your faith?”
The quarter pounder lodged uncomfortably in my throat. I reached for my Coke and took a swig. The straw gurgled in the plastic cup.
“I don’t believe so.”
“So, in a way, it doesn’t matter if God exists or not, as long as we have faith that he does?”
I frowned, unsure how to reply.
He smiled. “It’s okay. I’m not trying to engage you in some religious Schrödinger’s cat–type debate.”
“Then why are we discussing this?”
“Because I sense your skepticism about our visit today.”
He was right. As usual.
“I just feel uncomfortable about it.”
He nodded, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin and chucking it into his empty container of fries.
“Because?”
“It sounds as if this woman needs the care of mental health professionals, counseling, maybe medication.”
“And what if those haven’t helped?”
“But exorcism? Really?”
“You don’t believe in demonic possession?”
“No.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I believe that evil exists,” I said. “In the hearts of all men and women. Our dark side, if you will. External demons—no, I don’t believe in that.”
“But this young woman does. She believes absolutely. She is desperate and she has turned to us for help. Should we turn her away?”
“No, of course not.”
“Jack, our belief is not the point. She believes it, and the human mind is a powerful thing.”
“Aren’t we just enabling her delusions?”
“Do you pray for God’s help in times of trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you know he’s probably not going to drop everything just to deal with your problem?”
I made a noise of assent.
“But it provides comfort?”
“Yes.”
“Our job is to perform the exorcism rites. Whether the demons are real or not, the exorcism will provide comfort. The young lady will believe that the demon is gone and that her flat is cleansed. God has triumphed. Faith, to an extent, is a placebo. If you believe it works, it works.”
“I suppose,” I said doubtfully.
He winked. “Good. Now, let’s go bust some ghosts.”
I feel a sadness settle over me. Blake died five years ago. Time. It’s scary when you think about it. I stub my cigarette out and walk back into the kitchen. The box from the cellar sits on the table. I take the tape recorder out and press play, without much hope. Predictably, nothing happens. I turn it over. The screws to the battery compartment are coated with rust. I try to eject the tape again, but to no avail. The mechanism is stuck, and the tape looks like it’s caught up inside.
Okay. I rifle through the drawers, looking for a screwdriver or a pen. I finally find what I’m looking for in a Tupperware box I seem to have labeled “Keys.” There are no keys in the box. Instead, there are paperclips, Blu-Tack, clothespins, an old pair of headphones and, buried underneath, a small silver screwdriver. I pluck the screwdriver out triumphantly and start trying to dislodge the tape. I manage to loosen it and then, suddenly, it pops out…and the tape snaps.
“Damn!”
I’m still staring at the broken cassette, wondering if I can remember how to fix it—Scotch tape?—when the front door slams, hard enough to shake the cottage. I quickly drop the cassette and tape rec
order back into the box, dump it on the floor and shove it under the table with my foot.
I turn. Flo stands in the doorway with her arm around a skinny teenage boy whose face is streaked with blood. Her hair is disheveled and the Nikon around her neck is smashed.
She stares at me and utters the words guaranteed to strike dread into every parent’s heart:
“Mum—don’t be mad.”
“An airgun? Christ. I thought it was in Nottingham we had to worry about guns, not here.”
I dab at Wrigley’s head. Cleaning blood off someone for the second time in three days.
“I know,” Flo mutters.
“Did you see who was shooting?”
“No, too far away.”
I want to contradict her. I don’t know much about airguns, but I don’t think they have a particularly long range.
“We need to report this to the police.”
“It was just an accident.”
“How do you know? You could have been killed. The pair of you.”
“Owww,” Wrigley moans.
I am dabbing a bit too hard at the wound, not that I’m blaming him for this or anything. Not totally.
“Sorry.”
I chuck the bloody cloth at the sink. The wound is shallow, but head wounds bleed like bastards. I have retrieved the first-aid box from the bathroom upstairs. I dab on some antiseptic and stick two large dressing plasters on his head. I tilt his chin up to regard my work. He’s actually a good-looking young man. I wonder what the story is with the odd jerking and twitching. Some kind of neurological condition?
“There. That should do you, for now.”
“Thanks, Reverend. I really appreciate it. My mum’s not as cool about this sort of stuff as you.”
I stare at him. “Cool? I’m not cool about it. I am very far from cool about it.” I turn to Flo. “Some loon is wandering around the countryside firing off airguns. You could both have been killed. How many times do I have to say this?”