by David Reed
And . . .
I first saw Karen on a Sunday. She was wearing a sun dress, all flowery and young-looking, smiling with her cousin as they left service. The last time I saw Karen, she had a hole in her belly where I’d stabbed her. Not just once. Over and over, I . . . I lost control of myself. I don’t get scared easy, but I was then—of course I was, she was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I was killing her. Even as I did it, I knew I’d never forgive myself.
But she didn’t die, then. She rose up, blood pouring out of her like I’d opened a spigot in her chest, and came at me again. Using her fingers like claws on me as I stabbed her once more.
Another few seconds and she’d have killed me. Lucky for me, she didn’t have another few seconds. I’d heard a banging noise behind me while she was at my throat, but didn’t pay any heed—I had bigger problems. When the window smashed open, it got my full attention. Through it, I saw a man holding a gun. In my state, I was sure he was there to arrest me for hurting my wife . . . then I looked up at her. Black eyes, covered in blood, grinning like a maniac—it wasn’t my wife anymore. That was the moment I realized that the woman I married was already dead.
A second later the rock salt hit her. Flung her straight into the back wall, blood spraying all over the room, over her favorite chair. Steam hissed off her skin like she was a frying pan that was too hot to touch. The man shot her again for good measure. Had her cornered by the door to the kitchen, gore slicking the floor beneath her.
He pulled out a flask from his jacket pocket, doused her with it, and her skin charred like he had flung acid on her. For a second, that’s what I thought he’d done. In the heat of the moment, I damn near threw myself in front of her . . . like I needed to protect the unnaturally possessed dead body of my wife. I couldn’t see straight, much less think straight.
As Karen (the thing in Karen) sizzled in the corner, the man crawled in through the window. Grabbed her by the hair and dragged her like a rag doll into the kitchen, where he held her head under the sink. The whole while I was just standing like a mook in the living room, barely feeling my legs. I wouldn’t feel so immobile again till the day I landed in a wheelchair, but that’s another story.
Water sloshed out of the sink, almost boiling hot, as the man held Karen’s head under the faucet. She resisted, but didn’t seem to mind the waterboarding itself—until he started praying. I didn’t understand a word he said at the time, but it was clearly some kind of religious rite. Like the old Latin masses I went to as a rug rat. I know now he was blessing the water, trying to drown her in holy H2O. Whatever he was doing, it made her scream like . . . most people would say a banshee, but now I know better. Downright horrible, the noise she made.
Didn’t take long before the thing inside her gave up, decided to make for more infernal pastures. She wrenched herself free of the man’s grip, threw her head back and bellowed—belching out thick, oily black smoke. I understood immediately—the smoke was the thing possessing her, and it was leaving. It twisted through my kitchen with purpose, snaking past me and out the broken window, disappearing into the night.
Karen’s body collapsed to the floor, dead as a stone. Cold to the touch, like she’d been dead for hours. I remember putting a hand on her belly, feeling the cold of her sticky blood on her dress. Didn’t feel natural. Fingers touching the frayed hole where my knife had cut through fabric. I wanted to lie down next to her and die myself. I would’ve, too, if not for the man standing with a shotgun in my kitchen.
I didn’t get even a minute to grieve before he was telling me what to do, telling me how we had to play the situation. How we could clean up the scene, make sure the blame didn’t fall on me for her death. It was the last thing I was worried about. I just . . . I wanted to say goodbye to her. I wanted to know what the hell just came into my house and did this godawful thing to my wife. And here this bastard wants to talk about disposing of the body? I screamed at him. Said things that no sane man would say, because at the time I wasn’t a sane man. And it wasn’t a damn body, it was my wife. The last moment I’d ever have with her, and I spent it arguing with Rufus. Guess I didn’t mention that yet. The day I met Rufus Turner was the day I had to kill my wife. Inauspicious start to a working relationship, if you ask me.
To this day, I can’t remember exactly what I said to him. All I know is that words were exchanged, brief and angry, as I tried to explain what had happened, and he tried to explain what really happened. Rufus was already a hunter with plenty of notches on his shotgun, and knew a possession when he saw one. I was a mechanic who could only spit out gibberish. This’d be a good spot to tell you something about Rufus, but I think that’ll have to wait. Till I’ve had more to drink, or I’m closer to being six feet under. Sore subject.
The one thing I can remember about our conversation is what he called the thing that possessed Karen: demon.
Demons
THERE’S A STORY I HEARD when I was little. About a boy who goes to his mother every night, tells her that a demon’s outside his window. Every night, she tells him it ain’t true, go back to sleep, try not to piss your sheets. The boy knows something’s out there, so he gets a flashlight, goes out to find it. Stupid kid, you ask me. His mom catches him as he walks out the front door. Tells him to go back to sleep, don’t let the bed bugs bite. Kid doesn’t listen, ten minutes later is outside, looking for the demon. The happy ending? Kid was never heard from again. Moral of the story: listen to your mother. How’s that for an uplifting children’s yarn? Guess I had weird folks.
Demons are about as bad as bad gets. There’s a good reason for it. Every demon was originally a human soul that was sent down to hell for whatever bad stuff they did while they were living. Hell is not a fun place, and I have a few friends who can attest to that. It twists you, breaks you, squeezes you, like coal into a diamond, except the ugliest, meanest, cruelest diamond you’ve ever seen. Was that not a clear analogy? Whatever. No human deserves to become that, no matter what messed up crap they did on earth.
The native form of a demon is black smoke, like that monster on LOST. Maybe they were clued in to real demon lore when they made that up. Happens more than you’d think. In case it wasn’t clear from my Karen story, demons possess a human by entering their mouths. Like barfing, but in reverse. Sick stuff. You taste the sulfur for days. Right, that reminds me—
Demonic signs:
• Sulfur. If you’re investigating a suspicious death or disappearance, first thing to look for is sulfur. Demons leave it behind when they smoke in and out of bodies, through windows—anytime they come in contact with physical objects. Luckily, sulfur smells like balls—easy enough to find in a crime scene.
• Lightning storms. It’s hard to tell whether a lightning storm is a demonic omen or just bad weather. Both happen often enough that it’s usually worth checking up on areas that have had dry lightning, looking through the newspaper and seeing if anything else suspicious is going on. Like:
• Cattle mutilations. Not sure what they’re doing with those cows, but all the cattle mutilation stories in the Bumfuck Nebraska Post aren’t ’cause of little green men, it’s ’cause of demons. Far as I’ve heard, they don’t get anything advantageous out of it. Wouldn’t be surprised if they do it to pass time, or just to confound us.
Lore on demons goes waaaay back. Cave paintings of stick figures show black smoke pluming out of people’s mouths . . . friggin’ Barney Rubble was drawing demons on the walls of his house thousands of years before humans discovered agriculture. If that doesn’t tell you how ingrained in our culture these things are, nothing will. Demons are the anti-human—they’re what happens when we’re not governed by a conscience, the rule of law, community . . . they’re the worst parts of us, amped up a thousand times.
Biggest identifying mark? Black eyes. Not just the iris, the whole shebang. They’re capable of hiding their black eyes and revealing them when they choose, but there are certain times when they can’t help but show their tru
e color (or lack thereof). When an angel is in their presence, when they hear the name of God (they really don’t like Jehovah), when they’re splashed with holy water . . . plenty of ways. Problem is, identifying the demon is usually the least of your worries.
Most demons are confined in the Pit. There are ways in and out, but it’s tricky; the average demon can’t swing it on their own. Most demons wandering topside got their ticket punched by a hellspawn way high up the pay scale, somebody the likes of Azazel (also known as the Yellow-eyed Demon), Alastair or Lilith. Once they’re out of hell, they scud around in their smoke form, looking for a human meatsuit to possess. I’ve even heard of a demon possessing an animal, but that’s a rare case. (Also heard about an animal’s spirit possessing a human, but that’s a looong story, and best told by Sam and Dean, who lived it.) Demons don’t need permission to possess someone, but there are certain tricks to avoiding it. First off, strong-willed folks are less susceptible to it in general. It’s your weakness that demons thrive on, since that’s what they’re made of in the first place. A demon is nuthin’ but a human soul that was too weak to keep resisting the torment of hell. Makes sense that they’d have trouble possessing someone with stronger will. ’Course, there’s demons out there that’ll bore their way into your skull no matter how tough you are. The good news is that there are symbols and sigils you can use to prevent possession. Here’s a symbol the boys have tattooed on their chests, keeps all but the most powerful demons out.
Now, the most important thing to know about demons? They might as well be the Terminator. You can’t just shoot one in the head and expect it to go down. They’re tough in a way that almost no other creatures are, because the demon’s soul isn’t bound to the meatsuit in the same way a human’s is. If a human’s body dies, their soul leaves. If the body a demon’s in gets damaged, the demon will hold it together through force of will alone. Shot, stabbed, dropped out a window, you name it, they’ll live through it—but there’s a big catch. All of those injuries are still affecting the poor sap whose body the demon is riding around in. The minute the demon leaves, the body falls apart. That’s what happened to Karen. Had I only known, my life’d be a lot different. I’d be. . . . Well. Let’s leave it at different.
Depending on the pay grade, demons can manifest different abilities, but here’s the basic set:
• Superhuman strength. No matter the size or strength of the human they’re possessing, a demon brings with it an impressive set of guns. I’ve been on the receiving end of enough demon beat-downs to know that their strength comes from something supernatural, some magical connection to forces we can’t see or understand. Yoda meets the Incredible Hulk.
• Telekinesis. This one’s not factory standard, it’s more an aftermarket upgrade thing. Some demons, if they’re powerful enough, can move things with their minds. And by “things,” I really mean me, Sam, and Dean, and by “move,” I mean “smash.”
All that being said, they also have vulnerabilities up the ying yang:
• Devil’s trap. A symbol similar to the warding tattoo, the “devil’s trap” is about as old a hunter trick as there is. Once a demon enters a devil’s trap, they can’t step outside of it—or leave the body they’re possessing. Very helpful when you need to get some answers from one of the slippery bastards. They’re only freed once a line of the trap is broken. Memorize the symbol. Right now.
• Holy water. Burns them like it’s fire, and as Rufus taught me, it can even drive the demon straight from the meatsuit. Not that hard to come by in most towns, either. Contact the local priest, see if they’re willing to bless a couple gallon jugs, keep ’em in your trunk. It’ll save your ass one day, I guarantee it. If the padre won’t play ball, I’ll leave it to you to decide whether stealing sacred water from a church is karmically kosher, provided it’s gonna be used for smiting hell folk.
• Iron. Demons can’t cross an iron line, and it burns them almost as bad as holy water. Samuel Colt famously built a devil’s trap out of iron railroad tracks in Wyoming, with a church on each point of the pentagram. Damn near impenetrable for demons, and for good reason—at the center of the devil’s trap is a gateway to hell itself. The only way to open the gate is with the Colt, which, now that you mention it:
• The Colt. It’s a gun that can kill anything. One bullet, one dead critter. Except, of course, for the exceptions that prove the rule. Sam and Dean tried busting a cap in Lucifer, barely gave him a headache. He said that he was one of “five things the gun can’t kill,” which probably means that the other three archangels (Gabriel, Raphael, Michael) and God round out the list. Or maybe he was lying. He’s Satan, after all. Can’t be trusted to tell you the time. Either way, any run-of-the-mill demon will spark out like a flashbulb if they’re hit with a bullet from the Colt. ’Course, that means their human host will die as well, but there are times when it’s the only option. Samuel Colt built the gun in 1835, basing it on his Colt Revolver design. I’ve got no idea what kind of extra mumbo jumbo he had to throw in to give the gun its everything-killing mojo. Text on the side is Latin, non timebo mala. “I will fear no evil.” Sorry to say, the Colt is one of a kind. It was last seen in Carthage, Missouri, but I wouldn’t bother looking for it . . . its last owner was none other than the Devil himself.
• Exorcism. This is a biggie. Demons are tied to their hosts tenuously, and with the right Latin you can break that connection. Force them back to the Pit. Hopefully, you’re able to trap the demon and say the incantation before the host’s body is damaged. The full text is long—so long that you’re likely to die of boredom before you finish off the demon. Luckily, there are a few juicy phrases that seem to do the trick without all the fat—credit goes to Dean Winchester for this abridged version:
Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Omnis Satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversii. Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo, draco maledicte ecclesiam tuam. Secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.
If that don’t work, run.
• Salt. Kinda like iron, salt drives demons crazy. They can’t cross a line of the stuff, which is more important than you’d think. Of all this crap, salt is the most likely to be stocked in the average house / office / demon-infested riverboat casino (hey, it happened once). Draw a line around yourself or whatever bystanders you’re trying to protect, the demon can’t get to ’em. Of course, that won’t stop a demon from dropping a piano on someone inside a salt line, or, you know, just shooting them, but it’s a start. Another tool of the trade—rock salt shotgun shells. They’re just regular shells with the buckshot traded out for salt. Does the trick.
• Palo santo. Holy wood. Don’t snicker, this is serious. Bursura graveolens is the Latin name. It’s a special type of wood that, if you sharpen it up right, can be used as a stake to pin down a demon. It won’t kill ’em, but it’ll sure rile ’em up good. It’s not common in the States, so you’ll have to go out of your way to find any. But if you find yourself in South America, keep an eye out for it. Also, watch out for a broad named Lucinda Los Diablos, a lady who runs a, uh . . . massage house in Lima. Pretty sure that ain’t her real name, but it sure as hell describes her personality.
• Ruby’s knife. Now this is a long damn story, and I don’t think it’ll do any of us good for me to repeat the whole thing, so here’s the CliffsNotes version—Sam Winchester is an idiot. Okay, I take it back. He may be the smartest guy I know, it’s just . . . his taste in women leaves something to be desired. He’s got too much heart for his own good. There was this demon named Ruby that Sam took to when she promised to help him keep Dean from getting sent to hell. “But she was a demon,” you’re saying. Yeah, I was saying the same thing. Sam trusted her, and for one big reason—she was just as likely to gank a demon as Sam and Dean were. Turns out there’s infighting even in hell, and for a long time it seemed like Ruby was on our team. She carried a special knife that had the same effect as the Colt on demons. A fatal strike with the knife would
kill the demon—not sending them back to hell—killing them. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred quatloos. Dean saw through the demon bullcrap and used the knife on its owner, killing Ruby with it when she turned out to be (of course) playing Sam. Nowadays, Sam usually carries the knife, but he and Dean switch off as need be. I recently sussed out that Samuel Colt may have been responsible for the knife’s construction—wonder how many other monster-killing weapons are out there made by his hand. If I die, somebody better go through my junk and find Colt’s journal, then read it cover to cover.
• The word of God. Demons don’t like God, not one little bit. I know, very surprising. Any of His names will cause a demon to flinch and involuntarily flash their black eyes. It’s painful to them, but nothing like iron, salt, or any of these other things. Won’t send them running, but it’ll get them off your back for a bit.
• Hex bags. Usually the tool of a witch or warlock, hex bags can also be used to shield a person from demon radar. Demons will use location spells to track down people they’re after, and often enough they’re after hunters, so this is an important one. Here’s the recipe:
