by Tillie Cole
“A new kind of baptism.” It was Uriel who spoke this time. Bara walked toward Joseph. Joseph tensed, not trusting the redhead one iota. But Bara only put his arm around Joseph’s shoulders and pointed to the bed opposite where Michael lay still fixated on the vial of blood. Joseph let Bara lead him to the empty bed, then stopped dead when he saw the name etched on the headboard. “Gabriel.”
“Forget who you were before. Now you’re Gabriel.” Bara smiled his unnerving smile. It didn’t seem real. As if it were a mask he wore to disguise his truth self underneath. “They’ll make sure you forget who you ever were before you came here. Just wait.” Bara turned to the other boys in the room. “All seven names are taken.”
Joseph opened his mouth to protest, to tell Bara he was Joseph and would only ever be Joseph. He wanted to ask what the priests would do to him. What this place even was. What happened here?
But Bara walked away before Joseph could. When Bara reached his bed, he turned to face Joseph, arms out wide. “Welcome to Purgatory.” His smile dropped, and Joseph suddenly saw the boy that lay underneath, unmasked, the one with death in his eyes and a wretched blackness to his soul. “Or, as it’s better known . . . Hell.”
Chapter Four
Joseph woke the next day to the sound of a heavy lock opening. His eyes slammed open in time with the door. He blinked against the darkness, the light from the hallway being the only light in the underground room. Naturally there were no windows. There wasn’t even a clock on the wall. Joseph had no idea how long he’d been asleep. After the introductions were made last night, the boys all fell asleep. James—no, Michael—grasping the vial in his hand. Joseph had stared at his brother from the end of his bed. His throat grew thick as he watched Michael sleep. For as long as Joseph could remember, Michael had been a tortured soul. Joseph had always put it down to the fact he’d been so young when they’d lost their mother and been placed into Holy Innocents Home for Children. But as Joseph had looked around the room at the other boys in the dorm, the ones named after the archangels, he’d wondered if something else truly did live within his brother. These boys . . . his eyes had fallen in the direction of Jegudiel, or Diel, as Bara had said he was named for short. Joseph could hear the clanging of the chain against the metal of the bed as the boy moved in sleep. He was chained to a bed.
He likes to attack . . .
These boys . . . they were all like Michael.
And nothing like him.
Joseph had curled up on his bed and tried to push away the dread and fear he felt choking his heart and soul. Sometime after that he must have fallen asleep.
“Gabriel.” Father Brady stood in the doorway, wearing black-and-purple robes. He was looking right at Joseph. Joseph heard the other boys begin to stir. Joseph got to his feet. He glanced at Michael. His brother was watching him with a neutral expression on his face. Joseph walked toward Father Brady.
Playing his role, he donned the mask of malice he had worn yesterday. As he approached Father Brady, Joseph curled his lip as though the priest’s very presence offended him. Fire lit in Father Brady’s eyes. A challenge. He grabbed hold of Joseph’s arm and threw him forward. Father Brady guided him left and right through the hallways until they arrived at a door. It was wooden, and carved in the center was an ornate medieval-looking “B.” Joseph had no idea what it stood for.
Father Brady pushed the door open and nudged Joseph inside. Gregorian chant music filled the space; the harmonizing voices that were once a comfort to Joseph now seemed like a dirge, the soundtrack to his fear. The second Joseph entered the large room, he felt all the blood drain from his face. His feet were frozen to the ground as he scanned the surroundings. Devices of all kinds, again medieval in nature, were scattered around the room. It was a room of wood and metal and the promise of pain. The fear it instilled was instant. Joseph’s blood ran cold. Joseph recognized many of the tools. He had sat in Father Quinn’s lectures on the Spanish Inquisition. He had heard from Father Quinn’s mouth how the Inquisitors would punish and torture the heathens, pushing them to confess to their sins, to witchcraft, to the fact the devil had visited them and bought their mortal souls. He hadn’t known such devices even still existed. He couldn’t have imagined, even in his worst nightmares, that they were still being used.
Joseph’s hands hung at his sides. He fisted them when he realized they were shaking. These were the exact torture devices from that period. His breathing turned shallow. A fireplace sat in the right-hand side of the room, the flames climbing high up the chimney. And in front of it was Father Quinn beside a wooden bed. When the priest turned, Joseph stared at his clothes. He was dressed in black robes, but instead of being white, his clerical collar was red. And on the center of his robes was a red embroidered “B.” The same design as the one on the door to the chamber.
Joseph didn’t know what was happening. He couldn’t understand what this place was. This wasn’t the church. It wasn’t even modern Catholicism. It was something ripped from the past . . . a vicious cruelty that should never be reborn.
“Gabriel,” Father Quinn said, walking toward Joseph. He heard rustling behind him, then Father Brady stepped forward; he now too wore the strange robes. Father McCarthy came through a door on the opposite side of the room, wearing the same attire. Joseph’s mind raced. What is all of this?
“I had high hopes for Joseph,” Father Quinn said, stopping before him. He wasn’t addressing Joseph, but speaking about him. He lifted his hand and ran his fingers along Joseph’s cheek. Joseph froze, not a muscle within him moving. Father Quinn had never touched him like that before. Joseph had trusted him implicitly, and his favorite priest, his mentor, had never violated that trust. Father Quinn leaned in closer. Joseph’s instinct was to pull away, but he stayed where he was. He couldn’t give them any indication that each minute of being in Purgatory was torture to his soul. He couldn’t let them know that he was good but pretending to be damned. “Joseph was my prodigy. The boy I knew was meant for more than life had afforded him. God had put him in my path for a reason.” Father Quinn took a step back and tipped his head to the side as he regarded Joseph. “Little did I know it was to test me. Little did I know it was to show me the lengths to which the devil and his denizens will go to corrupt good men. Men like me and my brothers.”
Joseph’s legs shook. He was sure his knees would give way any second. Father Quinn believed him to be hell-created? He believed him to be possessed by demons?
Joseph opened his mouth to protest, but closed it when he knew his confession would take him from his brother. His brother who no longer went by his name and was instead remade as Michael.
“We are the Brethren.” Father Quinn nodded at Fathers Brady and McCarthy, who flanked his either side.
“B” stood for Brethren.
“The Catholic Church abandoned the harsher punishments for demonic possession years ago. Inquisitors fell and faded away with the modern times. And in that time, demons flourished, hiding in the least expected places. Waiting . . . just biding their time until they could unleash their fury and evil on the unsuspecting world.” Father Quinn smiled, but it was unlike any of the smiles Joseph had been on the receiving end of before. “You see, a group of priests, a century ago, realized that evil was prevailing. So they formed a group of like-minded holy men who took on the burden of challenging this evil even when the main church let it slide.” Father Quinn spread his arms wide. “The Brethren. We are the Brethren. And we are warriors of God and the devil’s worst nightmare.”
The Brethren. This group operated separate to the church? His favorite priests . . . they were a sect, a secret group of exorcists? Joseph couldn’t wrap his head around what he was being told.
“I believed Joseph would join us one day. He was exactly what the Brethren are. Devout and pure and intent on dedicating his life to the church.” Father Quinn walked to the wooden table before the open fire. “Here at Holy Innocents, we scouted out those who were evil. Born under the guise of inno
cence, but unable to escape our attention for the demons that they were. Or are. The demon you are, Gabriel.” Fathers Brady and McCarthy grabbed Joseph’s arms and dragged him to the wooden bed. As Joseph got closer to the fire, he started fighting to be free. It wasn’t an act. Terror and fear were all he was made of in that moment. Joseph gritted his teeth, kicking out with his legs. Father Quinn gathered shackles and attached them to the bed. But he couldn’t win. He couldn’t stave off the fathers holding him in their strong grips. A fist smashed into his jaw. The following dizziness caught Joseph off guard. In his daze, he was thrust upon the wooden bed. When his head stopped spinning, his hands and feet had been chained to the bed. He tried to fight the chains, but it was no use. Father Quinn nodded at Father Brady. Father Brady hovered over Joseph and sliced down Joseph’s robes. The material fell to his sides. The sticky air slapped his skin.
“All of them,” Father Quinn ordered. Joseph tried to fight again when Father Brady moved to his briefs. But it was useless. Within seconds he was naked, bared to their eyes.
Father Quinn’s eyes roved over Joseph’s naked skin. For the first time in years, Joseph felt tears sting his eyes. He was fifteen. He had been looking after his brother for all these years, drowning in the grief of losing his mother. The only solace he’d found was in these men . . . these men who had now stripped him bare and revealed they were not the men he believed them to be.
The Brethren.
Joseph tensed when Father Quinn’s hands ran down his bare chest and stopped just above his crotch. Joseph’s breath was uneven and choppy like a raging sea. “Such a guise,” Father Quinn whispered. His hand traveled to Joseph’s blond curls. “Like an angel. Not a single devil’s mark on his flesh. Not a scar or blemish. The perfect demonic ruse.” All of the fight drained from Joseph when Father Quinn lifted a branding tool from near the fire. An upside-down cross. “In all my years of fighting evil I have never seen a possession so excellently done.” He smiled. “It will make the exorcism all the more gratifying . . . You will receive my special attention.”
Father Quinn pushed the brand into the flames of the fire. Sweat beaded at Joseph’s brow. He pulled at the restraints as the fire began to heat the iron and turn it orange. “Some see an upside-down cross as a symbol of devotion. Saint Peter’s cross. A man crucified upside down as he believed he wasn’t worthy enough to be crucified in the same way as Jesus. Noble. True piety.” Father Quinn pulled the brand from the fire and held it above Joseph’s chest. “But here at the Brethren, we have discovered that those possessed by demons, those whose veins run with the blackness of evil, fear all forms of the cross, a beacon of light against their evil ways. Like Saint Peter, they are not worthy enough to wear the cross of Christ, the way Christ was killed for mankind.” Father Quinn maneuvered the upturned cross over Joseph’s torso. “But their aversion to the cross is the first step toward confession, of purging, of exorcising those who threaten to bring their evil into the world.”
“No,” Joseph whispered, trying to arch his back and avoid the scalding brand that Father Quinn began to lower. “No!” he shouted, thrashing and pulling on the shackles.
“See how they fight,” Father Quinn said to the other priests. “See how the sight of the cross sends them into a frenzy.”
“No,” Joseph wanted to argue. It wasn’t possession; it was fear of the pain the brand would bring. But then Father Quinn plunged the brand down on his chest. White-hot pain engulfed Joseph as the heat seared his flesh. He screamed. He screamed until his voice grew hoarse and Father Quinn ripped the brand away. He felt dampness between his legs and knew he had wet himself. He gasped for breath, but his lungs wouldn’t work. Blackness danced in his vision, but he held on to consciousness; he held on and met Father Quinn’s victorious blue stare.
Father Quinn was evil. He claimed he fought demons and those on the wrong path, but he was more wicked than anyone Joseph had ever met. Father Quinn placed the branding iron down. “We name you after archangels to taunt your wicked souls. Name you after heavenly princes, warriors of the faith. Of course, the church only recognizes three—Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael. But we at the Brethren recognize more. And now we have seven demons in the husks of young boys to defeat.” He leaned closer and whispered in Joseph’s ear. “And defeat you we will.” Tears fell from Joseph’s eyes and trickled down his cheeks. “Cut his hair,” Father Quinn ordered one of the other priests; Joseph didn’t see who.
Joseph’s hair was cut close to his head, then Father Brady pulled him from the bed. Joseph barely kept consciousness as he was dragged along the hallway and dumped on his bed in the dorm. When the door was slammed shut, a lamp immediately came on. Joseph closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the pain. The priests were in a sect of some kind. One who believed he was a demon disguised in the flesh of a boy. Born evil and with the intent to bring harm to the world.
Gabriel. He was no longer Joseph. He was Gabriel in their eyes.
“Breathe,” a voice said. Joseph cracked open his eyes. The boy with the golden eyes was sitting on the end of his bed. Joseph hadn’t even felt him sit down. His name was Raphael, he remembered. Raphael was wrapping the string around his finger over and over again. “The pain eventually goes.” Joseph tried to frown, but he couldn’t move a single muscle to do so. The brand was ripping him apart, slowly, piece by piece. He disagreed with Raphael. He believed the pain would never subside.
“Block out the pain. It’s the only way to survive this place,” Sela, the brown-haired, brown-eyed boy, said. He sat beside Raphael. Joseph tried to do what he said. He gritted his teeth and refused to cry. He realized he was still naked. But he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Bara came to the side of the bed, followed by Uriel. The two seemed to be together a lot. Even Diel came over, as far as his chain would allow. Finally . . . Michael came to stand at the bottom of Joseph’s bed. Joseph never took his eyes from his brother. And he wasn’t sure if it was the pain inducing false visions, but Michael’s eyes seemed filled with rage. For a moment it looked like he actually cared that Joseph had been hurt.
But that couldn’t be true. Michael never showed emotion. He’d never confided in Joseph, rarely even spoken to him, had never once told him he loved him.
Bara began unbuttoning his shirt. Joseph wondered why, only for his question to be answered immediately. As Bara’s white shirt fell open, Joseph saw the Saint Peter’s cross brand on his torso. One by one, the other boys did the same. A lump built in Joseph’s throat. Then finally, Michael unbuttoned his shirt. Joseph closed his eyes. Everyone had been branded. The Brethren believed them all to be demons. Evil. Born evil. That’s what Purgatory was. A place for children they believed to be innately evil . . . devil-branded. Joseph didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t equate the priests he’d loved so much with atrocities of this kind. He had always known his younger brother was darker in nature than anyone else he had ever met, but this kind of punishment . . . exorcisms? It couldn’t be the way to help Michael heal.
“You’re not like the rest of us.” Joseph opened his eyes to see who had spoken—Raphael. Joseph met his disturbingly golden eyes. Bara had called him a pretty boy. The title didn’t do his beauty justice. He was as perfect as Michelangelo’s David. Raphael was studying him like he was abnormal, alien. “You’re different.”
Joseph took a soft breath, fighting through the agony blistering his chest. “Diff . . . different?” he rasped out, voice barely audible.
“You don’t seem like you want to kill people, I think he means.” Joseph’s eyes widened at Bara. He was smirking. The brand on Bara’s chest was fully healed. Joseph wondered how long he’d been here. How long they all had been. What they had endured under the Brethren’s hands. Joseph didn’t give a response to Bara or Raphael. He needed the Brethren to believe he was like the rest of them; he wouldn’t confess to his act. He had to be here for Michael. Michael, who, when Joseph looked for him, was staring at the vial of blood Joseph had gifted him, the need and d
esire for the crimson liquid evident on his flushed face. His concern for Joseph seemed already forgotten.
Uriel folded his arms over his chest, pulling Joseph’s attention. He had the face of an angel. His new name suited him. “You’re normal.” Uriel laughed without mirth. “Whatever the fuck that means in this place.”
Joseph tried to bear the pain wrecking his body, but it was becoming too much. All of the boys seemed to see he wasn’t going to speak. They all went back to their beds. That’s all they seemed to do. Exist in this dark room, no light but for a dim lamp, and nothing to do but wait. Joseph pictured the torture devices in the room he had just been in and knew what awaited them whenever the dorm room door opened.
Joseph thought of each of the boys. He wanted to take them from this place. He pictured their chests, the scars he’d noted marring their skin. All of them had been branded. Been hurt. And Michael, Michael had been hurt too. Joseph had failed. He hadn’t protected him. Three months Michael had been in this place. Three months of the torture room.
Joseph would be sure he protected them now.
He thought of the name Gabriel. Thought of the archangel he was now named after. His name meant “God is Great.” Gabriel was a messenger of God, a protector of people, and a warrior of good. Joseph let that name wash through him. A protector. He had been a protector of his brother. He wouldn’t stop now. He couldn’t. It was who he was.
Joseph opened his eyes, only to still when he found Diel still at the foot of his bed. The boy’s blue eyes were fixed on him. His chain was taut, pulled as far as it could go. Joseph met Diel’s eyes. He didn’t think the other boy was going to say anything, until Diel said, “They’ll die one day. They will all die for doing this to us.”
