Speed Dating with the Dead

by Nicholson, Scott

  The Roach navigated the first floor, running into several frustrated hunters who decided the bar offered more entertainment than the hunts did. One guest had asked him what was going on, and The Roach shrugged and said, “The hunts got off track. It happens.”

  A surveillance camera was rigged in the top corner of the hallway, and The Roach gave it a little half-salute. He turned down the dim and dirty hallway that led to the basement. Two women stood by the door, wielding EMF meters, cameras slung around their necks.

  “Are you the hunt leader?” said the one with bottle-blonde hair.

  “The basement hunt is tomorrow night,” The Roach replied.

  “Sheezus, Nancy,” said the other woman, who was a decade younger, ebony-skinned, and shaped like a pear. “We’ve wasted an hour.”

  “It wasn’t wasted,” Nancy said. “We got some good readings. But I’d sure like to get in that basement. I know there’s something behind this door.”

  “How’s your spiritual condition?” The Roach asked.

  “I’m born again but getting over it,” Nancy said.

  The pear-shaped woman said, “Well, I usually don’t talk about it, but I’ll tell you anyway. I’m a demonologist. Eloise Lanier. Maybe you’ve read my blog?”

  The Roach bit back his smile. Another armchair warrior in the battle between Good and Evil. He doubted if she’d endured the six-month purification process or undertaken the enlightened conversation with God that separated the Dark Arts dilettante from True Warrior of Light. Eloise had probably seen too many “Touched by an Angel” re-runs and now felt the calling to go forth and save the troubled and wicked.

  “If you’re a demonologist, we’re in good hands,” he said.

  “It was the sin of pride that made them demons,” Eloise said. “And the last thing I want to do is brag about my abilities.”

  “Pride is Lucifer’s main weapon,” The Roach said. “But I doubt if he’s hiding in the basement of the White Horse when he could be out somewhere doing some real damage.”

  “We’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out, I suppose,” Nancy said, a little relieved.

  “Well, I happen to have a key,” he said. While he’d been prepared to work alone and at least make contact with the demons, if not engage in full spiritual combat, he figured God had delivered these two women for a reason. And who was he to doubt the wisdom of God’s ways?

  The Roach fished the key out of his pocket while Eloise beamed and Nancy fretted. Wayne and the rest of SSI would notice his absence, but they were aware of his calling. You could argue religion, you could argue paranormal evidence, you could argue science, but you couldn’t argue faith.

  And The Roach’s faith was strong. Here was proof of God’s blessing. God had provided bait.

  “Are you ready to meet him?” he said, with appropriate gravity.

  “Him?” Eloise said to Nancy. “See, I told you it wasn’t Margaret Percival.”

  God, keep me strong in thy service.

  The basement door opened to the expected musty, earthen smell, but The Roach detected an underlying whiff of coal ash. Lucifer had no problem gathering around the campfire and swapping war stories. But The Roach sensed that Belial was the shaper here, the one treating the inn as his personal dollhouse. Belial, as the demon of lies and deceit, had a special power to corrupt, as humans were all too willing to believe what they wanted to believe.

  “Shall we, ladies?” he said, bowing and ushering them forward with his arm.

  “It’s dark,” Nancy said.

  “Better that way,” Eloise said, though she no longer seemed so eager to enter the basement.

  “Don’t worry,” The Roach said, fingering his crucifix so they couldn’t miss the gesture. “I’ll take care of you.”

  He tried the light switch just inside the basement door, though he knew it was dead. He switched on the miner’s-style mag light strapped to his toboggan and descended the stairs. “Follow me.”

  The two women must have been avid watchers of the popular paranormal shows, for both had flashlights recommended by the “experts.” Eloise came first, her yellowish flashlight beam mixing with the mag-light’s blue beam to cast the basement floor in a sickly green glow. Nancy had enough presence of mind to switch on her audio recorder and whisper, “Entering the basement. 11:56 p.m. Three people present.”

  Four minutes until midnight. In many occult systems, midnight marked the thinnest point between the physical and spiritual realms. In locations of high energy or turbulence, invisible doors opened and realms overlapped. The lost and the weak from both sides wandered where they shouldn’t, and some never made it back to their side of the border.

  The trio reached the concrete pad at the foot of the stairs, the crumbling gray platform giving way to a sea of dirt. The Roach surveyed the battlefield and decided it was as suitable as any. Higher ground was easier to defend, but frontal assaults were best made on level terrain.

  “What was that?” Eloise said, her flashlight cutting frantic swathes along the support timbers and slick stone walls.

  “Something moved over there,” Nancy said, drawing nearer to The Roach.

  He pulled the tiny flask of holy water from his belt. His Latin was rusty. The Catholic Church got all the credit for holding back the tide of demons, but in truth it just had the best publicity department. With their coy denial of exorcisms and their pretense at secrecy, the church leaders held a monopoly on awe. They were no more immune to pride than any of God’s servants.

  The beauty of a dead language was that the average person had no idea what you were saying. Demons spoke in tongues and cared more about intention than literal interpretation. But words conveyed magic and gave force to beliefs and desires. Spoken aloud, they were the difference between mere thought and true will.

  “Repeat after me,” The Roach whispered.

  The two women would assume he was casting a protective spell, though cloaked in the church instead of witchcraft. From the shadows, Belial pulsed with pleasure at the trickery. But he would not make a full appearance until the hosts were ripe and willing, and in its greed and lust the demon would become vulnerable. The best time to slay a pig was when its nose was buried in the trough.

  “Beati possidentes, et di minores abyssum invocat.”

  The women echoed a jumbled, half-hearted imitation.

  The invocation was swallowed by the dead, heavy air of the basement. The Roach waded a few more feet into the murk, luring his sacrifices closer to the portal. As he swiveled his head, the mag-light bounced along the walls, illuminating chinks and crevices in the stone. A low suspiration wended through the maze of beams and pipes, a noise that could have been mistaken for flowing water or the hum of the ventilation system.

  “What did he say?” Nancy whispered, but Eloise shushed her.

  Belial was dangerous because he had a chip on his shoulder. Whereas most of the demons in the pantheon were happy to commit evil for its own sake, Belial had once been celebrated as the main fallen angel, and early texts even called him the father of Lucifer and the one who inspired the revolt against God. Yet somewhere between the butchering of the Old Testament and the giddy pop presentation of the EZ Read Bible, Belial had slipped down the ladder and Lucifer now lorded over the lesser gods.

  While Lucifer was content lapping up the cream God so generously dished out, growing fat and contented, Belial was working overtime. The Roach had crossed paths with it before, but that was years ago and The Roach had made many mistakes, most of them born of overconfidence. Belial had no doubt grown stronger, for the world was ripe with the fruit of sin, but The Roach was wiser, too. He’d learned to play the game on their terms and turn their own arrogance against them.

  “What’s that sound?” Nancy said.

  The breath of your worst nightmare.

  “It’s a discarnate spirit,” Eloise said, her sureness waning as they moved deeper into the basement.

  “11:59,” Nancy whispered into her recorder. “A
pparent audio evidence noted.”

  “Belial, master of this world,” The Roach intoned. “I offer you these gifts and hope you find them worthy.”

  At the edge of the mag-light’s reach, swirls of darkness struggled to coalesce. The beam dimmed and The Roach’s skin puckered despite the surge of warmth. Even the rectangle of light from the doorway above went a shade toward orange, as if Belial were draining the hotel’s electrical system to power up and drag himself into the material world. Belial could manifest in any form it chose, though most demons went with the old standby of horns, fangs, and reptilian eyes, at least until they found a suitable subject to possess.

  “I see it,” Eloise whispered.

  “Margaret Percival?” Nancy said.

  “Yes,” came the response, though the sibilant word was lost in the distant thrum of the elevator.

  “Taking a flash photograph,” Nancy duly noted for the benefit of the recording. The Roach wondered which image the demon would allow to be captured. The flash illuminated half the basement, and Eloise gave a choked squeal.

  Belial decided to give the full Monty.

  Though it was only for a split-second as the flash died away to a beeping that indicated dead batteries, the image burned itself into The Roach’s retinas. At least eight feet tall, three horns brushing against the floor joists, a wrinkled, trollish face, narrow eyes with yellowed, elliptical pupils, grotesque green musculature of the torso set atop scrawny legs that ended in cloven hooves, and between its thighs dangled—

  The door slammed as their flashlights died.

  “God help us,” Eloise shouted in the utter darkness.

  Must be midnight. Let’s party.

  The Roach held up the crucifix, confident that he’d be able to sear Belial’s form back to ash and sulfur. A hot wind rushed by him in the dark.

  There was a thump and a heavy, sodden sound as one of the women moaned.Forgive me, Lord, for I have been mistaken.

  Belial grunted and smacked drenched lips. The Roach slid his night-vision goggles into place, crouching into a defensive posture. He wielded the crucifix like a knife, shocked to see the demon bent over Nancy, slavering away at her throat.

  Sucking her soul…

  Belial dropped Nancy’s corpse and roared, dark liquid dripping from its serrated fangs. It snarled at The Roach, no trace of cunning in its beady eyes.

  “I rescind my invitation,’ The Roach said, his voice quavering.

  Belial either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. It turned toward Eloise, hot breath raising the temperature of the basement. Eloise backed away, probably seeking the stairs but inadvertently heading deeper into the basement. The Roach’s night-vision goggles painted a green landscape that looked like the surface of an alien and hostile planet. And, indeed it was, for this world was now ruled by Belial.

  “God have mercy,” Eloise blubbered. God had been merciful by darkening the room and taking away the vision of the horned beast before her. But her faith was weak. And that only made Belial stronger.

  “Leave her, Belial,” The Roach challenged. “It’s me you want.”

  The demon’s claws reached for the woman’s tear-stained face, but then it hesitated and turned its hideous face toward The Roach. The crucifix didn’t deflect the hostility of the stare, nor the wariness in the hooded eyes.

  Obey me, you horny-headed bastard.

  The Roach listened for God’s instructions. He was a mere emissary, and only through the power of the Lord could he stand a chance here. Otherwise, he would share the fate of the two women whose faith offered no protection in the face of supernal evil.

  But Belial’s bellow drowned out any message God might have delivered, and it set upon Eloise like a torrid lover, wrapping her in sinewy arms and squeezing her in the throes of depraved passion.

  She issued a final gasp as her lungs emptied in Belial’s embrace. The forked tongue whipped out and licked its cracked, wet lips. Belial’s head dipped and the creature buried its grin against the woman’s gaping mouth.

  Eloise struggled with the last of her energy, her digital camcorder bouncing to the dirt. Her eyes bulged and then she went limp in Belial’s grasp. He exhaled and filled her with loathsome unlife. As her fingers twitched and curled, The Roach took a tentative step forward, begging God for courage and wisdom and strength.

  “Now you are mine, Belial,” The Roach said. “You have taken what I gave and must do my bidding.”

  Belial hesitated, still pumping his foul wind into Eloise. Her eyelids fluttered and she reached one hand to Belial’s neck for support.

  The Roach lifted the crucifix higher, expecting the demon to recoil in disgust. “By the master of angels above, I command thee to obey.”

  Belial gave a bone-deep shudder and threw its head back, growling in agony and rage. The Roach pressed his advantage now that the demon was caught between its intended host and its current corporeal manifestation. He jabbed the tip of the crucifix into the creature’s back, the silver slicing through the scaly flesh.

  Ichor gushed from the wound, appearing black through the night-vision goggles. The roar of rage gained pitch and intensity, almost the keening of a teakettle. Belial thrashed about, sending a clawed fist toward The Roach, but he’d already withdrawn his weapon and stepped away. He reached for the holy water, knowing it would burn like acid on the split skin.

  But before he could react, Belial collapsed.

  The tip must have reached his heart and poisoned it with the love of Christ.

  The Roach stood over the trembling bulk. He had eradicated demons before, and they could only be defeated, never destroyed. Belial would return at another time and place, and The Roach or some other soldier of light would be there in God’s service. He tested the corpse with the tip of his boot, but the corrupt flesh was already decaying to ash and dust.

  Eloise moaned and The Roach knelt to her prone form.

  “May God bless you,” The Roach said, checking her pulse. With luck, she would remember nothing, and he’d only have Nancy’s corpse to deal with.

  Eloise rolled to her knees, graceful for such a robust woman recovering from shock. “Dark....”

  “Easy,” The Roach said. “I think you fell down the stairs and bumped your head.”

  “Dark is....”

  He reached for her, intending to help her to her feet. The blow came suddenly and powerfully, taking his breath and loosening his teeth as bone crunched in his cheek. He lay in the dirt, blood pouring from his nostrils as he squinted through the cock-eyed goggles.

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” Eloise said, though her voice was rough and thick as if she were unused to the size of her tongue. The woman knelt and wiped a hand beneath his nose, then licked at the blood on her fingers. He watched her walk toward the stairs, his green field of vision going gray.

  CHAPTER 26

  “The jumper is awesome,” Duncan said.

  Ann didn’t understand him at first. She’d drowsed after the hurried round of lovemaking, intending to recharge her batteries and be at full alert for the after-midnight hunts. She opened her eyes thinking they were in Duncan’s apartment, a cramped walk-up two blocks from campus. The smell of coffee reminded her of Sunday morning, and she smiled at the thought of those languid hours ahead, with no classes, no responsibilities, and nowhere else to be. Duncan clicked the computer keys, the first out of bed as usual, browsing all his favorite Internet haunts.

  This is how a woman should awaken. The only thing missing is breakfast in bed.

  She’d been dreaming of horseback riding, an activity she’d pursued in her teens before the high maintenance costs forced her family to sell her pony. The metaphorical connection was so obvious that she jarred fully awake and recalled she was at the White Horse Inn.

  Duncan, not realizing she’d been asleep, said, “That footage is so good it almost fooled me. Who shot it for you?”

  “What footage?”

  “The jumper. The guy who skewered himself on the lamp p
ost. I thought you weren’t going to have time to do that one.”

  She kicked the blankets away and reached for her blouse. “All I shot was the Jilted Bride.”

  “Come on, Ann. I’m not one of those idiots who believes anything you tell them.”

  She grabbed for his coffee mug and took a mouthful of cool, bitter brew. “We’ve already used up all the footage. I told you we’d have to go into replay mode.”

  “Well, I don’t know how this got on the hard drive, then.”

  Duncan leaned away from the screen to reveal grainy, pixelated movement. She squinted and recognized the room. It was 312, the curtains featuring ornate braided piping that was at odds with the furniture. The room appeared to have been outfitted with leftovers, with imitation Queen Anne chairs, hand-hewn tables, a sagging art-deco vase holding flowers, and an impressionist painting that suggested a wooded lake. Though the picture was monochromatic, her memory filled in the autumnal color scheme of the room.

  “We didn’t put a projector in 312,” Ann said. “Remember, we ran out of time.”

  Duncan consulted his notes, brow furrowed, face stark and haggard in the lamplight. “You sure that’s 312?”

  “That ugly painting. I made a remark about a flea-market find.”

  “Yeah,” Duncan said, tapping the keys. “Let me run the program again.”

  A window popped up on the bottom of the screen, revealing a video-editing program. He scrolled backward with the mouse and hit “Play.” The footage loop began. The first 10 seconds showed the still room, but then a man entered the camera view and threw the curtains wide, nearly knocking them from the rod in his haste. He wore a bow tie and had slicked-down hair, pouches under his tired eyes. He flipped the window latch and lifted the lower pane, shaking with what appeared to be sobs or rage.