The Possession

by Michael Rutger

  “We don’t know he’s got his phone with him.”

  “We couldn’t find it in his room. And I told Moll to keep looking. If she’d found it, she would have called. What?”

  I was looking in through the windows of the bar. It was empty and dark. “Thought I saw something.”

  Ken came and stood with me. “Like, a person?”

  “Dunno.” Chairs. Tables. Lamps, none of them lit. We’d spent enough time in this bar that it should look welcoming even under these conditions. It didn’t. Everything about it seemed unfamiliar. “Doesn’t it look different to you?”

  “Well it’s shut, mate. And dark.”

  “More than that. Like you wouldn’t want to go in.”

  Ken didn’t say yes, but he didn’t disagree, either—and when Ken thinks you’re talking crap he’s happy to let you know. “I don’t like this town in general, to be honest.”

  “Me neither. But that’s weird, isn’t it? I mean, look at it. Okay, not right now, because it’s raining and cold and the middle of the night. But apart from that, Birchlake is a three-dimensional postcard.”

  Ken turned from the window, huddling into his coat, and looked down the street. I persisted. “And the first night we arrived. It felt fine then, didn’t it? Okay, it was the start of an expedition, which is always mildly exciting—”

  “Speak for yourself, mate.”

  “But now…”

  Of course everywhere seems different in the dark, as if whatever contract exists between being and place during the day is suspended. But this felt like more than that. I wasn’t sure I even recognized it. The old, faint VANESKI GROCERIES sign on the side of the store. The line of tiles across the top of the coffee shop, each with the letters J&K. The buildings seemed not just arbitrary but insubstantial, as if we perceived them only because we expected to.

  I said something along those lines. Once again, Ken didn’t tell me I was being dumb.

  There was a soft whomping sound. We turned and saw an owl flying down the street. I’m pretty sure it was an owl, anyway—though it was very black and very large. It flew past, and away into the darkness.

  “Let’s get back to the motel,” Ken said.

  Molly was still in Pierre’s room. Thankfully she’d made coffee. My head felt vague and scratchy, and it was probably the last thing I needed, but that wasn’t going to stop me.

  She could tell that we didn’t have any news, and she didn’t ask. Instead she led us over to the desk, now covered in the scraps of paper that had previously been strewn all over the room. “Check this out.”

  She indicated a line of six pages placed together along the bottom row. Each had at least two, and up to five, drawings. They were hard to describe. Strong, confident shapes more like writing than pictures, albeit writing of a very stylized kind, curved letterforms flowing into each other—like tattoo designs. Some suggested symmetry while actually differing markedly between sides, as if there was a willful attempt to pull the mind first in one direction, and then another—to suggest order, then undermine it.

  Two of the designs looked familiar—including a simpler sign of two Vs laid over one another. Others were presumably variations of the same kind of thing.

  Ken looked at me. “Hell are those, Nolan?”

  “Sigils and other apotropaic marks.” I took a photo of the sheets and then swept them onto the floor.

  “What do they mean?”

  “Some are supposed to represent spells. Others are designed to protect, or curse. A few relate specifically to demonology.”

  “Really? The design looks kind of modern. Or at least, not ancient.”

  “The popular framework of witchcraft is relatively modern. Everybody thinks that whole Cotton Mather and Witchfinder General vibe of peasants brandishing Bibles and burning torches was the way it was, back to the dawn of time. In fact, the church was slow on the case. For a long time the official line was not only was it wrong to punish alleged witches, it was heresy to believe in them in the first place.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Secular punishment of witches took place in the Middle Ages, and the church would sporadically get involved, but persecution was discouraged, and doctrinal thought leaders, including Pope Gregory VII, came flat out and said to leave them alone.”

  Molly frowned. “The church was okay with witches?”

  “No,” I said. “More like they had themselves in a tricky ontological bind. Think of the Christian church as a metaphysical start-up, disrupting the way in which people experienced the divine.”

  “Do I have to?” Ken said. “Only, doing that would make me feel like a complete twat.”

  I ignored him. “Up until that point, most cultures celebrated a pantheon of gods, with legions of minor demons and spirits on the side. Polytheism was the norm, with specialized local deities looking after distinct areas of human existence and experience. Judaism started the trimming process, partly because the Jews kept getting kicked around the Middle East and needed a nonlocalized god they could take with them. Eventually, forking off a new beta version of that faith developed by a bearded troublemaker of whom you may have heard, Christianity got the blessing of the venture capitalists of the Roman Empire and said, ‘Hey, everybody, game-changer—there’s definitely only one God. Okay, he had a son who was a big deal, and also there’s this nebulous Holy Spirit thing, but bottom line is we’re shipping Monotheism 2.0. Worship him, and him alone.’ The problem being that under this model Christianity couldn’t take a hard line on witches, because that would admit there were other spirits sneaking around the place: hence the church announcing it was heresy to even believe in witchcraft. After a thousand or so years, though, people were still doing it, which bugged them. Added to which, as a circle-the-wagons tactic when Christianity started to fragment into factions, by the Middle Ages the idea of Satan as the ultimate adversary was gaining traction. Up until medieval times the devil wasn’t actually a big deal in mainstream Christian theology—but when your grip on power is slipping, you need a common enemy.”

  “The script is only as good as your villain.”

  “Exactly. And this focus on Satan also finally gave them a doctrinally consistent rationale for attacking witches. Witchcraft was deftly repositioned as evidence of Satanic influence, and—bang, case closed. The big fifteenth century manual on witchcraft, Malleus Maleficarum, says right on the title page: ‘Not to believe in witchcraft is the greatest of heresies.’ A total reversal, and so now it’s okay to throw women in lakes tied to chairs or set fire to them.”

  “So why did the witchcraft thing go so luridly nuts here in America, when there was none of that backstory?”

  “This country was shaped by the fact that we’ve always been prepared to believe any old shit, the weirder the better. It was founded by Puritans, a group who operated on a loose trigger when it came to the idea of possession and evil spirits. Also bear in mind that these were small, isolated communities, and they weren’t having a great time. The winters were much colder than they’d been used to back in England. It wasn’t easy to grow food. There were periodic epidemics, and once in a while the local tribes—often with good reason—would stop by and kick the crap out of them. This was a hard, dangerous life, and suffering people reach for scapegoats and desperate solutions. Other factors. A distrust of any woman living alone, or women who were sexually proactive—especially a servant who might cause trouble by revealing that some of the fine, upstanding husbands in the village had upstood inappropriately. More prosaic reasons, too. Poverty and greed. If a couple was childless and the man died, his house and possessions went to his wife. But if the wife should happen to meet with an unfortunate accident—like, say, drowning in a lake after being tied to a chair—then his goods went to the community instead.”

  Molly looked personally affronted. “Seriously?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a theory. I don’t know a lot about witches. Never looked into them much.”

  “Why?”

&nbs
p; “Because it’s all bullshit.”

  I went outside. It had, miraculously, stopped raining, though the lack of stars suggested there was plenty more on the way. As I wandered across the lot I checked my watch. Four a.m. Not a good time, ever. Even in the dim and distant days when I’d have been up at that time because I was having fun, it’d be the point where you’d wonder whether you’d actually had enough fun now and should go to bed.

  At the far side of the lot the asphalt stopped in a ragged line. Beyond was a couple yards of grass, then a bluff that dropped down a rocky incline to the frigid river ten feet below. The water was moving fast. It’s a sound I love. Back in the days when we’d muse about such things, Kristy and I agreed that when we got old and gray we wanted a cabin in the mountains, with a creek. I’d build a deck (using skills I would presumably have acquired in the meantime) and we’d sit on Adirondack chairs and sip local beers and listen to the water and think serene thoughts. The smell of fresh bread was somehow mixed in with the idea, Kristy having presumably gone to baking school while I was learning carpentry.

  This water didn’t sound that way. It was loud, but there was a sibilant note, like whispering. Running water often sounds like it’s a short sample, running on repeat. This didn’t. It sounded like it kept saying different things.

  I squatted down, head cocked, trying to work out what was strange about the sound. As I did so I glimpsed something in the water. Dark shapes. Like fish.

  Though they couldn’t be. They were too large. And when I tried to focus on one, it dispersed. The longer I stared into the water, the louder the sound of it seemed to get.

  I heard someone coming across the lot and got out my cigarettes, assuming that would be why Ken had come out.

  It wasn’t him, however. Molly stood next to me. “Where did Pierre get those symbols from?”

  “A book, I guess.”

  “Have you ever seen him read? And why’d you mess up the sheets of paper I’d carefully put together? Why sweep the symbols or sigils or whatever onto the floor?”

  It was a question I’d asked myself. The gesture had not been planned. My hand seemed to reach out and do it of its own accord. “I’m tired. I’m worried about Pierre.”

  “I know you are. But I don’t think that’s why.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re a sensitive man. You know stuff. You feel stuff, too. Maybe things that other people don’t feel.”

  “I don’t really believe in that kind of thing, Molly.”

  “Belief is a funny thing, though. I used to get in these huge discussions about God with my grandmother. She was in the local church, forever trying to get me to come along even during the phase when I was too cool for school, never mind the freakin’ Lutherans. I eventually snapped and said, ‘Look, I don’t believe in God,” in that way teenagers do. As if they’ve proved something. And she smiled and said, ‘That doesn’t matter, Molly. What matters is he believes in you.’”

  “I’ve heard that neat little metaphysical maneuver before,” I said. “It’s annoying.”

  Molly nodded, looking down into the river. “Irritated the heck out of me. But what if she was right? How about climate change? A ton of people don’t believe in that. It’s still happening. God might be the same.”

  She looked at me. “And if it’s that way with God, it might work the same with the other side.”

  Chapter

  33

  An hour before this, Pierre had been standing in the shadows on the next street back from the main street, listening to the wind moving through the trees on the mountains all around, and the steady patter of rain. Mist was curling around the bottom of the buildings, but Pierre avoided looking into it for long.

  The back door to the Stone Mountain Tap opened. Kurt came out carrying a couple of bags. He set them down, locked the door, bent to leave the key under the mat. The sound of each of these events was very clear. Pierre waited until he set off along the road, hunched against the rain, and followed as Kurt hurried to a car parked halfway to the next corner.

  Kurt had thrown the bags in the back and was reaching for the front door when he realized someone was watching him. “Hey,” he said, nervously. His first thought was that it was the husband and the night was about to go badly south. Then he realized the silhouette wasn’t chunky enough. “Who’s that?”

  The figure stepped forward. It was the guy who’d hassled him in the bar earlier. Jeez, but this town was getting small all of a sudden. It really was time to leave. “Oh.”

  “You should go,” Pierre said.

  “Exactly what I am doing, dude,” Kurt said, opening the driver’s door, trying to act nonchalant, in case the guy was going to make any sudden moves. “Look, I still don’t get what your problem is, but bottom line is I’m out of here, literally right now, so can we leave it at that? You win. I’m gone.”

  Pierre saw someone was standing the other side of the car, almost completely in shadow, very close to the wall, almost as if he was part of it. A man. Tall, thin. Old.

  “You could hurt him,” he said. The man’s voice was calm, friendly. “Nobody would know. They’re all asleep. You’re invisible. You could do it and walk away.”

  Pierre shook his head. “I don’t want to.”

  “It’s what she would want, though. You could punish him. You should.”

  “She doesn’t want me to.”

  “Sometimes girls don’t know what they want. Sometimes men have to show them. It’s always been like that.”

  “I’m not doing it.”

  Kurt meanwhile was staring at Pierre, confused. “Who…who are you talking to?”

  “Him.” Pierre gestured toward the old man, but he wasn’t there anymore. Just stains on a wet wall.

  “O-kay.”

  “Just go,” Pierre said. “Go now and go fast, or I’ll do what he told me.”

  Kurt hurriedly got into his car and drove away.

  Pierre stood for a time, head bent. He could feel rain trickling down off his hair and onto his neck. See the circles as it fell into puddles in the broken surface of the backstreet. There was oil in these puddles, too, and when the raindrops fell it caused swirls in the iridescence, shapes that almost seemed to mean something. Symbols.

  Then suddenly he started walking.

  He didn’t decide to walk. It just started happening, and the movements of his limbs felt jerky. When he got to the main street he paused. There was something in the mist on the opposite corner. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen something like it. There’d been one in the motel parking lot when he left his room. It went around the corner, like a shadow, exploring. It was slow and slick, like the movements Pierre could feel in the back of his own skull. He knew there was nothing actually moving there, in his head, but that was the closest he could get to describing the feeling.

  He looked up the street. Still and dead. It struck him that there should be a fountain up at the crossroads. People could sit around it while they waited. Then he realized that would make no sense, as it’d block the traffic.

  He was about to cross the road when he heard voices. He shrank back into the shadows. A moment later two people came down the street.

  A man—lean, a little above average height. Another who was shorter, rounder, older. It took Pierre a moment to realize it was Nolan and Ken. It seemed like they were looking for someone.

  Ken said something. Nolan replied.

  Hearing their voices made them seem far more real, and Pierre almost called out. They were his friends. Okay, bosses, but friends, too. People he knew. Who he liked. Who liked him. Probably. Whatever that meant.

  They looked far away, though. And he didn’t know whether he could trust them now. Them, or anyone. Ever since he’d woken up in his room that afternoon, everything was the same but everything was different and wrong.

  He stayed where he was and waited as they walked down the street and disappeared into the mist, until it was hard to be sure they’d ever been there at all.
>
  Half an hour later he was in the woods near the walls. It was dark, but that didn’t seem to matter. Closing his eyes didn’t make a difference. He could walk through the trees safely, without banging into anything. He opened his eyes to check. It all looked the same. Closed them. No difference.

  Walking with your eyes closed feels weird, though, so he kept them open as he tramped the last hundred yards through soaking undergrowth to the walls. In most cases it hadn’t been easy to work out which the drawings referred to—one fairly straight or kinda curvy line looks much like any other—but the fish hook shape had been pretty clear.

  He walked to a point in the middle of the long arm of it. Braced one hand against the wall, and shoved at the top of it with the other.

  Some rocks fell off, tumbling down the other side.

  He kept at it for a while. Then he went to the next wall and did the same. Looking over it from there at the first, he could tell he’d done enough. Rough though these structures had been, they’d had shape, integrity. They had been what they were supposed to be. You don’t have to completely destroy something to stop it being what it previously was—and sometimes, like a mangled relationship, living in the compromised remains of something good can be far more harmful, more the opposite of what was there before, than wiping it off the face of the earth.

  Like erasing the words “Do Not” from a sign on the highway warning “Do Not Pass.” The remains are more dangerous than no sign at all.

  Chapter

  ​34

  I spent a while thinking after we’d gone back to our rooms. I used the motel’s flaky Wi-Fi to look a few things up. Then did some more thinking, sitting in the chair, wrapped in the cover from the bed against the pervasive cold. Finally I checked something on my phone, after which I did not sleep. Eventually at seven I texted Kristy, asked if she was okay with having an earlier breakfast. She sounded surprised—I am not celebrated for early rising—but said sure, half an hour.