The Devil's End

by D A Fowler

“How did you know my name?” she asked, surprised.

  The voice that answered her was not at all the one that had spoken moments before. The quality was completely different. And though the transition was impossible to fathom, she recognized it immediately as Jay’s when he said, “I know a lot of things. Including the fact that you’re going to die very soon.”

  Realization hit Nancy like a freight train; this wasn’t Jay—she wasn’t even talking to a human being. Marla’s words echoed in her brain: Montgomery’s not a man anymore, he’s something that crawled out of Hell! Something had gone terribly wrong with the spells; all she’d done was conjure demons! Her instinct was to flee, but her lower body had suddenly become made of wood. All she could do was whisper through a tightly constricted throat, “Oh, shit.”

  Deep, guttural laughter filled the room. The demon Azrahoth mocked her, “Power, power, I have the power to heal, the power to kill, the Obers will love me. They’ll tell me all their secrets. Well, I’ve got a little secret for you, Nancy. You’re history.”

  “I’m not afraid to die,” she answered as bravely as she could. “I’ve had a glimpse of the other side. It wasn’t anything like I’d expected.”

  “Oh?”

  “I saw a light,” Nancy went on, suddenly at peace in her remembrance. “And love was pouring out from it, toward me. I felt safe.”

  “Ever read something about Satan appearing as an angel of light?”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, you stupid bitch.”

  Dread rushed through Nancy’s veins. “So there really is a Hell?”

  “Of course there is, but you don’t actually have to be dead to live there. It’s not exactly a place; let’s call it a state of mind, for simplicity’s sake.”

  “Well, I can come back here if I want, just like you,” Nancy said, aware that the shadows surrounding them were gradually lightening with a bluish cast, enabling her to see the pustule-infested horror sitting before her.

  “Don’t count on it, bitch. You know nothing. Like a child playing with adult toys, you had no idea what you were doing, but you were certainly willing to try anything, weren’t you? I must admit you had some guidance, but that was possible only because of your natural propensity for such an experiment. Your creativity went beyond suggestion, however. Not that it posed any real problem, but this clay doesn’t keep very well on us. Does get to be a little embarrassing, but we’ll manage. But if you think you have the power to escape the realm of the damned, I think you’re in for an unpleasant surprise, as you’ll soon discover. Very soon…feel that little pain in your chest? I would like to thank you, though, for your help before you go, but we can handle things from here on out. Oh—do give my regards to the Master. I haven’t seen him in ages.”

  Too stunned to speak or move, Nancy watched the demon rise from the rocking chair. She couldn’t die. She refused to die! Bringing up a fist to the cleft between her breasts, she told herself adamantly that there was no pain, none at all, she was just under a great deal of stress at the moment. But suddenly her heart was clenched between merciless jaws, wrenching a loud groan from her throat as she dropped to her knees, her left arm curled up in a seizure. Falling over on her side, paralyzed by the intensity of the pain in her chest, she was equally tormented by the fact that she brought this on herself, and tears squirted from her eyes. How could she have been such an idiot?

  Then a violent, unseen force jerked her up from the floor and slammed her against the wall, centered over one of Eliza Ober’s Ixantra pentagrams, arms and legs spread to match the star’s lower points. She watched in disbelief, the demon’s laughter barely heard, as the front of her blouse tore open from top to bottom and her bra snapped in two, exposing her bare flesh to an invisible razor that proceeded to carve a deep gash down and through her breastbone, spraying blood up into her screaming mouth. The pain was far past bearable now, but nothing compared to the sight of her own heart springing out from its cavity, beating wildly as it strained against the aorta, nerves, and ventricles connecting it to her body.

  “Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Azrahoth chided. “This is just the sort of thing you loved watching in all those movies, isn’t it?”

  Nancy had never seen something like this in a movie, and she thought she’d seen it all. Through the widened crevice in her chest now crawled one of her rapidly collapsing and expanding lungs, immediately followed by her large, purplish liver, the two bloody organs crowding around the still-beating heart. She could feel every organ in her abdomen surging upward for evacuation, just as she had imagined them doing when those religious fanatics had her tied to the chair.

  She screamed the word NO over and over, but no one heard. She didn’t know it yet, but she was already dead.

  The fire blazing in the hearth had made the room too hot; she had started it for atmosphere, not heat. She opened the library window and went back to sit on the Persian rug among the cardboard boxes.

  Pamela’s eyes were dry now, her emotions numbed by alcohol. Perhaps her world was falling apart at the seams, but with her brain steeped in alcohol, she honestly didn’t give a damn. What a perfect time to walk down Memory Lane…not her memories, but those of a woman who had written the final chapter, had typed The End on the last page of her life’s manuscript.

  Jasmine had saved dozens of her grandchildren’s scribblings, report cards, homemade Valentines, and other priceless artifacts like the ones Pamela had carelessly tossed away. Locks of hair. Baby shoes. Badly crayoned family pictures.

  Once an aging but still graceful woman had rocked a bundle cradled in her arms, cascaded in moonlight, gentle shadows swaying. For hours upon hours. No wonder Marla had grown up so spoiled. But that was a later chapter, not very many years before the plot had turned sour, before a rational, spritely human mind had become ravaged with senility. Too close for comfort.

  Pamela opened another box and reached in, drawing out a framed black and white photograph of her parents on their wedding day. Her father wore a high-necked white shirt under an ill-fitting black coat with a carnation attached to the lapel, looking as though someone had just crushed a boot heel down on his bare toes. He had long, bushy sideburns into which merged a thick moustache. His wavy black hair was brushed back, revealing a high, clear forehead above the stricken eyes staring bravely into the camera. A beautiful, slightly plump Jasmine stood proudly beside her captured prey, her expression a mixture of triumph and joy. Her long brunette tresses were covered with white lace that fell below her elbows. In her smooth, unwrinkled hands she held a single long-stemmed white rose.

  So much life ahead when that picture was taken. So many blank pages waiting to be filled. The writers, now a team, pooled their dreams and ideas and planned the creation of the greatest love story of all time, as all such couples did when the sun rose and fell in that uncomplicated era. Now the writers are realistic, adaptable to chaos, Pamela thought cynically. The acceptance of divorce was no more significant than having your hair done, the confusion of roles, the competition to succeed, the disintegration of the family unit—best not to count on anything more than a poignant short story.

  Yellowed letters in matching envelopes; worn, tattered books; dusty trinkets. Small porcelain dolls, probably worth a fortune in an antique shop. Another photograph, this one of two young girls holding hands. The one on the left Pamela recognized as her mother. Holding the picture up to the fire’s light, she studied the features of the other girl. Black hair hanging wildly, dark, piercing eyes, a secretive smile. Black dress. Aunt Jovanna? No, the girl was too young…

  Pamela’s hand began to shake. Morganna Ober.

  She tore the photograph to separate the two images, accidentally cutting off her mother’s left hand. Growling with wrath, she tossed both halves onto the burning logs and watched through a haze of tears as they curled into meaningless black cylinders.

  She was immediately sorry for bur
ning the half with her mother in it. That image of her was now lost forever, as Jasmine was. Turning her gaze bleakly to the floor, Pamela’s eyes fell again on the pile of letters. She leafed through them slowly. Most were addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Charles L. Colter, the various return addresses in the upper left-hand corners familiar; other relatives, her parents’ close friends. Then she came upon one without a return address, marked only “Jasmine” in her father’s handwriting. Tenderly, she opened the loose flap, drew out the single sheet of brittle stationery, and began to read:

  My darling wife, I know you won’t discuss this with me, so I will tell you in this note what I have to say, and nothing more need be said about it. I know now what’s been troubling you because you poured it out last night in your sleep. I understand why you must feel tortured over what you did, but my love, we both were on the brink of desperation, and I myself would have stopped at nothing to save our Pamela. The fact is that she is well now, and that’s all that matters. The end justifies the means, as they say. Please don’t punish yourself any longer.

  Your loving husband, Charles.

  The phone rang. Pamela jumped, startled. Her head throbbed when she stood up and weaved toward the desk, answering on the third ring.

  Would have stopped at nothing to save our Pamela…

  “Hello?”

  Mother, what did you do?

  It was Pamela’s oldest and dearest friend, Beth. She seemed upset. “Pammie, is…is Nancy over there by any chance? I know the girls have been in some kind of a tiff lately, but…we don’t know where else she could be. We thought she was in her room, but I stopped to check on her before we went to bed, and she was gone; she’d snuck out through her window. Do you know if Marla picked her up?”

  “Marla’s been in her room all night, as far as I know,” Pamela said thickly.

  The end justifies the means, as they say…

  “But I’ll go up and check if it would make you feel any better.”

  “Please. There were two…two men over here last night looking for her. Religious fanatics. I don’t even care to repeat what they said, but I’m afraid…well, just please go check with Marla.”

  Pamela put the phone down and left the library, wondering if her dear friend was aware the whole town was talking about her behind her back. She didn’t seem to be. That was fortunate. Otherwise she would also know who was responsible for the rumors about her daughter being a witch, and she might not let her husband come over to play anymore.

  She was back a few minutes later. “Marla’s sound asleep; passed out with her clothes on, and the light…guess she was really upset after Harold raked her over for some stupid thing she’d done. She always did that, you know, ever since she was a little girl; if either of us got mad at her, she’d go to her room and fall asleep. Her way of escaping, I guess.”

  “So Nancy’s not there.”

  It was a morose statement, not a question. “All right, well, I guess we’re going to have to call the police. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up before Pamela could say another word.

  The letter was still in her hand. Half consciously, she walked over to the fireplace, tossed it in, and watched as the orange flames devoured her haunting questions.

  Twenty-One

  “Please, try to calm down, Mother. I can’t understand a single thing you’re saying.” It was only six-thirty in the morning; Harry was still in bed snoring profoundly, the sound ripping through the whole trailer. Jane hadn’t slept for five minutes the whole night, and she was definitely in no mood for hysterics. It seemed her mother had said some nonsense about her father being in jail, but Jane thought she must have misunderstood. Her father couldn’t be in jail. That was simply ridiculous.

  But when Rose Hester was finally able to speak clearly, that was exactly what she repeated, her massive breasts rising and falling in shallow, tremorous heaves. “They came to question him early this morning. Two detectives. They’d already been to Brother Mitchell’s house, and he told them what they had done yesterday, admitted to takin’ the girl against her will, but explained why they done it and how the girl had got delivered and saved and all, and that they took her back home. But they arrested him anyway, and then went after the others; Brother Gibson, Daniel Laker, and your daddy.”

  Jane’s eyes grew wide. “They took the girl against her will? Mother, that’s kidnapping! Daddy could go to prison for that! What in the world were they thinking?”

  “They were only doin’ what the Lord told ’em to do,” Rose blubbered. “And it was a good thing they done it; Frank told me when that demon finally showed itself, it liked to have scared them to death, and spewed out the worst string of profanity they ever did hear. They got her freed of it, though, praise God. We got the victory on that.”

  “You’re saying…the girl was really possessed?” Jane clutched at the T-shirt she had worn to bed, twisting it tightly around her fingers as she stared blankly at her mother. She could feel all the repressed fears getting ready to jump in front of her face like a huge, obscene jack-in-the-box.

  “A’course she was really possessed, just like the Lord told us. Your daddy said her face twisted up all grotesquelike, and she was foamin’ at the mouth and everything. Told ’em in this horrible voice that it wasn’t gonna leave that body till it was good an’ ready. Sounds like a demon to me.”

  Jane stopped twisting the T-shirt and sat frozen for a few seconds. Then she began to laugh, loudly and hysterically. Her mother was incensed.

  “Now just what do you think is so funny about that, Jane Rachel? You stop that right now. Your daddy’s up at the jail. This is no time to be laughing.”

  But Jane couldn’t stop. At least, not until a disheveled, disgruntled Harry appeared at the end of the hallway. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  Jane clapped a hand over her mouth to shut herself up. Rose pushed herself out of Harry’s chair and said, “Well, I’m not a’gonna sit around here and listen to a bunch of cussin’. I’m a’gonna get me down to the church to pray for your daddy.”

  “My father’s in jail,” Jane explained to her husband with an inappropriate smile, followed by a snicker. “He and some other men from the church kidnapped Nancy Snell and cast a demon out of her.” She giggled. “Can you imagine, Harry? A real live demon.”

  Harry waited to respond until his mother-in-law had lugged her jiggling buttocks out the front door, then turned an icy set of eyes on his wife. “You’ve fucking flipped out, haven’t you?”

  “Flipped out?” Jane cocked her head, musing over his question. Her face cracked in a wide smile. “Noooo, I don’t think so. I’ve just finally accepted it, Harry. I’ve decided to go ahead and swallow the whole can of worms. Mama was right, all those years. Demons are real, witches, angels, God, the Devil—and so I guess UFO’s, werewolves, and vampires are too…what else? Oh yes, ghosts, zombies…I think that about covers it. But that doesn’t mean I’m flipped out, does it?”

  Little did Jane know she would soon become a patient in the same nursing home where she worked. Oh yes, she flipped out, all right.

  Harry’s face was turning quite red; his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. “Goddamnit, I knew you were headed for this. Of all the fucking shit…my wife’s gone blookers on me. They find out up at the school that my father-in-law’s a kidnapper and I’ll probably lose my job. So far this day really SUCKS!” He turned and slammed his fist into the wall, breaking three of his fingers.

  Jane trilled high-pitched laughter over his howls of pain. “Uh-oh! Devil’s got ahold of you, Harry, better watch out! He might make you fling yourself off a building, or onto the railroad tracks when a train’s coming! Devil’s got you, Harry!”

  Holding his swelling fingers, Harry glared at her, wanting very much to strangle her, but he’d just made that an impossibility. “You’d better shut up,” he growled, supposing the only thing to do now was
go next door and tell the gossip-monger to call the psycho squad. His wife’s voice followed him out the door, making sound effects for every monster that man’s imagination had created.

  Half an hour later a dozen or so neighbors had gathered to watch the drama promised by the appearance of the private ambulance. For the last few minutes they had been treated to the sounds of mayhem inside the Bellows trailer, which included much yelling, breaking, and crashing. Finally the star of the scene was dragged out in a straitjacket between two burly orderlies, her hair a total mess, eyes glazed and filled with madness. She struggled vainly inside the jacket as they escorted her to the rear of the panel truck, hissing and gnashing her teeth at her mortified audience, occasionally railing something inane at them along with a considerable amount of spittle: “They’re all real!” “There’s one behind you!” “Are you just going to stand there and let these devil worshipers take me to Satan’s throne?”

  Harry had never been more glad of anything than the closing of those rear ambulance doors. His fingers were throbbing badly, and probably needed to be set, but all he could think about now was buying a couple of six-packs and getting stoned.

  It was seven-forty, and Marla had still not come down for breakfast. Before going to bed, Pamela had covered her and turned out the light, but otherwise had not disturbed her. Fearing Marla might have overslept— Pamela suddenly realized she had forgotten to set her daughter’s alarm—she set her toddy on the kitchen counter and went upstairs to check. Her son and husband had just left.

  Marla’s bedroom door was first on the left in the hallway upstairs. It was slightly ajar, as Pamela had left it the night before. She gently pushed it open. The bed was tousled; at some point during the night, Marla had gotten into it. But she was not in it now. Pamela took a step into the room and peeked toward the closet, noticing a trace of some foul odor which reminded her of the toilet backing up. The closet door was standing open, but her daughter was not in front of it selecting the day’s apparel. Pamela’s sodden brain searched for an explanation. Had Marla already left without her knowing it? She could have purposefully snuck out early to avoid facing her father. So then her car would not be in the driveway. Proud of her clever reasoning—it didn’t come easy during times like this—she crossed the room and parted Marla’s curtains. Looking down over the drive, she could see the sun glinting mercilessly on the polished finish of Marla’s Cutlass, still parked in its usual place. Pamela frowned, then walked back into the dim hallway and called out, “Marla…?”