The Devil's Lullaby

by Chris Scalise

  “What is this?” Allison asked.

  “I don’t think Cassidy owns this house,” Aren said. “This is a vacation rental house. I mean, it makes sense. The generic decor, the complete absence of family photos. Even Airbnb houses usually have some personal flourishes. Do you think she was hiding out?”

  Allison puzzled for a moment. “I mean, I guess so. She did think she was being stalked. And I know she’s estranged from her dad.”

  “I want to find out who the owner is,” Aren said. “Maybe they can shed some light on all this.”

  “Do you think they’d know something?” Allison asked, placing the paper back on the fridge.

  “I don’t know, but I can't help but notice a lot of similarities between your friend’s situation and Cindy’s situation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just remember after Cindy’s exorcism, she said something about staying at a friend’s house in Henderson, to ‘rest and recover.’ That’s when she started having the strange sightings and experiences. Now I wish I had asked who the friend was.”

  Allison felt a chill.

  Aren looked around the room. “I’m telling you, there’s something weird about this house. I looked around upstairs, and a lot of things just felt...off.”

  “What do you mean?” Allison asked.

  “Well, I’m not sure you happened to check the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom, but there are two bottles of Immobilon. How does someone even get their hands on that shit? I looked it up. It’s a tranquilizer for large animals like elephants. I know that Dominic is running a circus in that chapel, but I didn’t think it involved large animals.”

  Allison tried to think of a logical household use for elephant tranquilizer. A few things came to mind, but they were all very, very bad.

  “Then there’s the guest bedroom,” Aren continued. “You probably noticed the bookshelf in there, but it’s not your usual books. There’s a really bizarre mix of Christian literature, occult books, and violent crime fiction. Like, it’s hard to ignore a shelf that has the Malleus Maleficarum, The Silence of the Lambs, and The Purpose Driven Life all side by side. And then, in the upstairs hallway, there’s an Aleister Crowley painting. I mean, who the fuck decorates their vacation home with creepy-looking artwork from an occult icon?

  “Look, I don’t believe in anything occult-related, but after spending less than five minutes in this house, I get the very strong impression that whoever owns this place is obsessed with both Christian and occult imagery, kind of like—”

  “An exorcist,” Allison said.

  “Pretty much. And an exorcist who needs powerful sedatives on hand. What the hell is that about?”

  Allison thought for a moment. “Dominic said he could help Cassidy. Maybe part of his plan was keeping her in this house...where he could control and manipulate her.”

  Aren nodded. He then reached into his pocket and retrieved his smartphone. “What’s the address for this place again?”

  Allison gave it to him, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t show up on any vacation rentals website.

  Aren typed the address into his phone and studied the search results. “I mean, it shows up on Google Maps,” he said, “but nowhere else. No one’s listing it as a vacation home. At least, not in a way that’s searchable.”

  “So go out front and take a picture of the house,” Allison said.

  “What do you mean?” Aren asked, looking up.

  “I mean, Google can look at how the house is designed, the pixels or whatever, and show you any other pictures of it that were posted on the internet. It’s like, when someone comes into my shop, my security camera takes a picture of their face and then Google uses their facial recognition algorithm to tell me exactly who they are. Then I can do a quick search and tell them everything about themselves.”

  As soon as the words left Allison’s mouth, she puzzled over why she had been so candid. Aren Anzalone loathed con-artists, and here she was divulging one of the centerpieces of her con. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe she was sick and tired of living the lie. Maybe she just wanted to address the elephant in the room and eliminate the annoying air of awkwardness that existed between them.

  Aren seemed undisturbed. “I don’t think it’s the same with houses,” he said. “Faces are unique and distinguishable. Houses are built using common blueprints, especially a tract house like this one.”

  Aren returned to the kitchen and began rifling through the drawers and cabinets. Allison followed close behind, somewhat relieved but surprisingly taken aback that he hadn’t said anything about her life of deception. He had been so high and mighty about con-artists during his live show. Why was he suddenly indifferent?

  Aren opened the cabinets above the sink, apparently searching for anything that might shed some light on the situation. Allison couldn’t help but pay close attention to the way his biceps naturally flexed as he raised his arms and shuffled the mugs and drinking glasses inside the cabinet. When he didn’t find anything of interest, he closed the cabinet and moved into the dining room.

  As Aren rummaged through the large oak china cabinet, Allison returned to the foyer and made her way back up the stairs. First, she opened the single hall closet located directly across from the upstairs bathroom. The closet was mostly empty except for a black Samsonite suitcase resting on the floor. Thinking it might belong to Cassidy, Allison opened it. Completely empty.

  Suddenly, she heard a creaking noise, like someone was walking nearby. It wasn’t Aren, as she could still hear him rummaging downstairs. She felt her body tense as she leaned her head back and slowly looked across the hall in both directions. No one besides herself was in the hallway. Assuming the whole thing to be a figment of her paranoid imagination, she stood up and closed the closet door. She then made her way to one of the guest bedrooms, where she looked around for signs of floorboards, loose carpeting, or anything out of the ordinary.

  She lowered her body to the floor and activated the flashlight on her iPhone so that she could examine beneath the bed. The space was narrow, offering barely enough height for her arm. She wouldn’t need to do much reaching, though, as there was nothing under the bed except for carpeting and the occasional dust bunny.

  Suddenly, another creak.

  Startled, Alison hit her forehead on the metal bed frame and jumped to her knees. Still no signs of human life. This time, though, she was certain it wasn’t just a figment of her imagination. It was a slow, distinguishable squeak, as though someone had gently placed a large foot on a loose floorboard.

  She rose to her feet and crept back toward the hallway. Once again, there was nobody in sight. Am I losing it? she considered before returning to the bedroom.

  She and Aren spent the next two hours examining the house from top to bottom, but neither of them found a diary or any concrete clues that might shed some light on Cassidy’s disappearance. It appeared that any potentially useful items had already been confiscated by the police. There were some stray wires in front of a computer desk in the living room, but the computer itself was now gone. Upstairs, another set of tangled wires appeared to belong to the house’s security DVR unit. The unit itself was nowhere to be seen. Maybe we could have just walked right in the front door after all, Allison thought.

  Allison and Aren realized it was time to give up when they found themselves fruitlessly seated side by side in the large, dusty garage. They were sifting through a blue crate filled with old heavy metal CDs with cracked jewel cases: Metallica’s Master of Puppets, Slayer’s Reign in Blood, Ozzy Osbourne’s Blizzard of Ozz.

  “I think we should call it a day,” Allison said finally, feeling defeated.

  Aren tossed his stack of CDs back into the crate and nodded. “Whoever owns this place, they have decent taste in music.” He pushed the crate against the wall. “But you’re right. This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  Allison nodded, but she didn’t stand up. Not yet. She was seated on the cold concrete floor, her ba
ck leaning against the giant shelving rack that rested against the wall. Though concerned about what the filthy garage floor must have been doing to her jeans, she was still too forlorn to return to her feet.

  Aren looked over at her. “This is why I do what I do.”

  Allison met his gaze, confused.

  “There’s no such thing as an innocent con,” he continued. “Somebody always gets hurt. Sometimes, people get killed.”

  Allison leaned back, considering his words. “Are you comparing my work to the work of a deranged killer?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  Allison was surprised by the quickness and bluntness of his reply. She scowled at him, biting her lip and grasping for the perfect response. It didn’t come to her.

  “I’m not suggesting a moral equivalency,” he continued. “Obviously, what Dominic is doing is infinitely more destructive and more despicable than what you’re doing. But no matter what the end goal is, somebody always gets hurt. You’re not doing people any favors by tricking them into thinking they’re talking to their dead relatives; you’re just messing with their heads and making it impossible for them to grieve in a healthy way, not to mention disrespecting those dead relatives.

  “Tell someone that a citrine crystal will eliminate their depression, and they go off their meds and spiral out of control. Tell someone that a turmeric pill will cure their cancer, and you stop them from getting the real medical treatments they need to stay alive. Come to think of it, that’s not totally unlike what Dominic does. At least, the outcome.”

  “Fuck you!” Allison spat, looking him directly in the eyes, her hands trembling. “You’re completely full of shit, and you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I’m going to bring down Dominic myself, and I’m going to personally see to it that he can never hurt another human being. And guess how I’m going to do it, asshole. By doing what I do best: conning the shit out of him.”

  She jumped to her feet, wiped the thick layer of dust from her jeans, and marched through the garage door that led back into the kitchen. Aren slowly rose to his feet and followed her into the house. He walked slowly and calmly, following her from a safe distance.

  “And how do you expect to do that?” he asked.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Allison asked, making her way toward the front door.

  Aren continued to follow her through the living room. “Don’t you think—”

  Two loud creaks echoed from the ceiling just above their heads. Footsteps upstairs. Aren went silent as soon as he heard the sound, and he and Allison both exchanged nervous glances before gazing upward.

  “There’s someone else in the house,” he whispered.

  “No shit,” she said.

  “Get out of here,” he muttered. “Get far away and call the cops.” He slowly tiptoed toward the foyer and gazed up the stairwell.

  “And what the fuck are you going to do?” Allison said in what began as a whisper and escalated to a near-shout.

  “I can take care of myself,” he whispered as he began tip-toeing cautiously up the stairs.

  Allison continued to shout at him in hushed tones, begging him to come to his senses, but he continued his ascent until he reached the top of the stairs. Then he slowly shuffled into the hallway and disappeared from sight.

  Allison could feel her heart pounding in her chest. What had Aren just gotten himself into? For all he knew, the person upstairs could have been heavily armed. In light of recent events, there was good reason to believe such a possibility.

  “Aren!” Allison whispered as loudly as she could. “Aren!”

  No response. She heard him take two more steps down the hallway, but then the entire house fell silent. All she could hear was the sound of her own beating heart. She just stood beneath the stairs with her sweaty hand tightly clutching the wooden handrail. For nearly thirty seconds, she heard nothing at all. Then, out of nowhere, she heard a loud, shrill scream. It was a booming male voice that most certainly did not belong to Aren.

  “Get the fuck on the ground!” the voice bellowed. “Now!”

  16

  Allison trembled, her heart beating frantically. She scanned the room for anything that might serve as a weapon, knowing full well how stupid it would be to rush straight toward an armed killer. At this point, she was acting on pure adrenaline. Smart, stupid, it was all the same. Nothing registered with her at this moment except for two things: Aren was inches from death, and his attacker was probably the same person who had gone after Cassidy.

  Allison rushed into the kitchen, grabbed a large butcher knife from the drawer in front of the bay window, and proceeded to quietly but swiftly crawl up the flight of stairs on all fours. If Dominic or his lackey had a gun pointed at Aren, Allison might just be able to sneak up from behind and wedge the knife into his ribcage. But she had to be absolutely silent.

  As soon as she reached the top of the stairs, she stood up and wiped the thick layer of sweat that was dripping into her eyes. Then, with a deep breath, she clutched the butcher knife in her left hand and took a long but silent step toward the guest room.

  “Are you the owner of this house?” the deep voice shouted from inside the room.

  “No, I do not own this house,” Aren said, calmly albeit slightly out of breath. “My friend was staying here and she disappeared last night. I’m just trying to find out what happened.”

  Allison lowered the knife, puzzled. The man with the deep voice sounded nothing like Dominic. She took another long stride toward the door and peeked inside. Aren was on his knees just inside the room, his hands cupped behind his head. He was facing the wall that separated the two bedrooms, and Allison was unable to see his assailant. This would make a sneak attack altogether impossible, unless she could somehow gesture for him to barrel-roll out of the room while she hid on the other side of the entrance with her knife. As she pondered the likelihood of her scheme actually working, the man spoke again.

  “Please stand up slowly and face the wall,” he said. “Keep your hands behind your head. I’m placing you under arrest for breaking and entering, crossing police tape, and battery on a peace officer.”

  As Aren slowly rose to his feet, the man recited the Miranda warning. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney...”

  “It’s a cop?” Allison whispered as she stepped away from the doorway and puzzled over what to do next.

  “...If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you by the court. Do you understand your rights as I have presented them to you?" The officer finally stepped into view, first frisking Aren in search of a firearm and then lowering Aren’s arms behind his back.

  Allison instantly recognized the officer. It was the tall cop with whom she had spoken the previous night, the one who resembled a bald Denzel Washington. What was his name? He had given it to her back at the station. Johnson. Jenkins. Janson. Something like that.

  “Wait,” Allison said as the uniformed officer raised his cuffs. She tried to speak softly so as not to startle him or seem like a threat. “Officer Jacobs.”

  Aren and the officer turned their heads toward her simultaneously. Not knowing what else to do, Allison held her hands up in front of her.

  “Officer Jacobs, you remember me, right? From last night? We talked out in front of the house, and then I came to the station to answer questions. That’s my friend, Aren.”

  Officer Jacobs studied her for a moment. “What are you doing here?” he asked, releasing his grip on Aren’s wrists.

  “We’re just here to figure out what happened to my friend,” Allison said.

  “So you trespassed,” he said.

  “We just...she’s my friend. If you lost a friend and nobody knew what happened or where they went, wouldn’t you do anything to get answers?”

  Officer Jacobs thought for a moment. “Put your hands down,” he said, slightly annoyed. “That
still doesn’t explain why your boy here tried to tackle me from behind.”

  “I didn’t know you were a cop,” Aren insisted, his forehead still against the wall. “I thought you were the person who took Cassidy.”

  “Oh, you didn’t see the word ‘Police’ plastered across the back of my uniform?”

  “No. I just snuck through the hall and lunged. I didn’t see anything except your shadow. We’re just a little on edge.” He slowly turned around and faced the officer.

  Officer Jacobs looked at Aren and then at Allison. “Well let me explain how this looks,” he said, staring right into Allison’s eyes. “Last night, I find you here at the house where the girl supposedly disappeared, and you say she’s your best friend. Today, I show up to look for more evidence, and you’re here just chillin’.” What kind of conclusion am I supposed to draw based on that?”

  “I’m the one who made the 911 call!” Allison shot back. “I should ask, what are you doing back here? You all seemed so certain that no crime took place here. Why do you have police tape around the house if this isn’t an active crime scene? Clearly, there’s something you’re not telling us.”

  “All right, settle down,” Officer Jacobs said. “I just came back to find out who owns this place. We’re having a hard time coming up with a name. I don’t suppose you know who the owner is?”

  “Actually, no,” Allison said. “Cassidy was renting this place, I think from one of those vacation rental sites. I mean, you have police resources. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding out who the owner is.”

  Officer Jacobs frowned. “Look, I’ll make a deal with you. You’re not a suspect, yet, and you strike me as being sincere. I still have my doubts about your boyfriend here, but you seem okay. If both of you would like to get the hell out of here and let me do my job, maybe I’ll forget I ever saw you here.”