Father

by Patrick Logan

  You can’t let her know… you don’t know what she will do to me.

  Kendra’s hand closed on the key and a small smile spread across her lips.

  You don’t know what she will do to us.

  Her smile vanished.

  Chapter 61

  Shame.

  It was rare for a priest to feel shame, but Father John Simone felt it in spades.

  He could barely listen to Father Callahan’s retelling of what happened with Christine Barker, despite his heavy censoring.

  They had water boarded a psychologically damaged woman, for Christ’s sake. And despite what he had said to Father Callahan, he doubted he could do it again.

  He gripped the burlap sack that Horatio Callahan had given him so tightly that his fingers started to go numb. He didn’t have to look inside—in fact, he hadn’t looked inside—but he knew what was in there. He knew what was in there, because more than two decades ago, he had been given a bag just like this one. And all those years ago, when he and Father Callahan had failed to exorcise a demon that never existed inside Christine Barker, in the bag had been a Bible, a cross, and a vial of holy water. But despite the weight of these items, he knew now that they weren’t the most important items for the exorcism.

  The most important item was himself. After all these years of trying to forget, of living a simple life in Rickshaw County listening to problems that generally ranged from minor alcohol abuse to abuse of the domestic nature, he had returned to the same dark place he had left so long ago.

  Father John knew that Brett was looking at him, short, darting glances when he wasn’t paying attention to the road, but he didn’t bother returning the stare. The man was a non-believer, and it wasn’t his place to try and convert him. Not now, at least.

  With a shaky hand, Father John reached into his pocket and withdrew his nitroglycerin. He had already taken four pills and knew that taking any more would be risky. Still, with his heart thumping away in his chest like a jackhammer, he had little choice.

  It took him six tries to open the container and four more to remove two of the small white pills.

  As he held them in his mouth before swallowing, he let go of the burlap sack. The items within were important, he knew, but he was more important.

  Father John swallowed the pills and closed his eyes.

  An image of Father Callahan hovering over Christine as she spewed water, shouting, “Enter me!” over and over again to no avail appeared in his mind. But as quickly as it appeared, he willed it away.

  Fatigue came next, washing over him in undulating waves.

  Sleep would be good. Sleep was important.

  Just like him.

  Because for what was to come, he was the most important element.

  And he knew just what he had to do.

  He just wasn’t sure that he could do it.

  Chapter 62

  Kendra wrapped her good arm around Lacy and quickly looked around. The hallway was lined with cells that extended in both directions. At the end of the hallway to her right she saw a large metal door covered in peeling red paint. To her left were more cells, one of which was bathed in the artificial glow from incandescent lighting. Squinting hard, she could see directly through the first few cells, all identical with single cots and buckets lying on the floor. Beyond that she saw a larger cell with what looked like several wheelchairs parked every which way, and a bunch of random-looking medical equipment.

  We sleep in the basement, one of the girls—Kendra couldn’t remember which one—had told her. A shudder ran through her as she imagined all twenty or so girls ranging in age from four to late twenties lying here at night in the damp darkness, maybe brushing each other’s hair and telling stories.

  It wasn’t right.

  “Let’s go this way,” she whispered to Lacy. She guided the girl, who was visibly trembling now, toward the metal door at the end of the hallway.

  Their feet slid across the damp cement floor, barely making a sound. Kendra moved Lacy to behind her as she reached for the door handle, praying that it was unlocked.

  The knob felt like an giant iron ball bearing in her hand, and she was unexpectedly struck with a vision of Brett, back when he had first seen her naked. It had been an accident, thinking that she was out when in fact she was in the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. Kendra had watched the doorknob turn, but for some reason had decided not to warn him.

  Poor Brett.

  He probably loved her, she realized. Despite being clear about their ‘arrangement,’ the man cared for her; he cared for her too much. He shouldn’t have given her the keys to Martin’s handcuffs, let alone the keys to his rental. He loved her, but she was incapable of loving him. Kendra, scarred from being abandoned and raised in a church with a handful of other unwanted girls, not so much unlike the present house in the swamp, couldn’t love anyone.

  Lord knows, she had tried.

  As Kendra felt the knob turn in her hand, the scars on her stomach started to itch again.

  She couldn’t even love herself.

  With a shove, the door swung open and the dank smell of the basement was replaced by the foul smell of the swamp.

  Peering around, she was struck by the silence of the swamp, the sounds of the bullfrogs, the occasional gator tail flap, the insects that Kendra had heard when she had regained consciousness following the car crash all vacant. Somewhere deep down, she knew that this wasn’t a good sign.

  Although the door had been the basement exit, it opened to ground level, as the ground sloped away from that side of the house. Approximately forty feet separated the door from several larger trees that dotted the edge of the property. Beyond that, Kendra could only see more birch trees.

  Home free—if we can make it to those trees, we’ll be home free.

  She turned back into the cellar.

  “Come on!” She gestured to Lacy, who had slunk a foot back inside the basement. “Come on,” she urged, “it’s clear!”

  Lacy took another step backward and shook her head.

  “Lacy!” Holding the door open with one hand, Kendra leaned back into the musty cellar. “Come on, I won’t leave you!”

  The girl’s eyes suddenly went wide and her gaze went from Kendra to somewhere over her shoulder. Kendra whipped her head around and a curse slipped out of her mouth.

  There, by the edge of the swamp, was a girl, six or maybe seven years old, her head hung low, her blonde hair wet and hanging in front of her face as if she had just emerged from the fetid swamp.

  Kendra, keeping her eyes fixed on the girl who slowly began to walk toward them, extended her hand back into the basement.

  “Please, Lacy, grab my hand! We can still make it!”

  The girl’s thoughts echoed in her head.

  Please, don’t let Mother know I helped—you don’t know what she will do to us.

  As Kendra watched, another girl emerged from the darkness of the woods. And then a third.

  Kendra closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and then, with all of the focus and strength she could muster, a single phrase visualized in her mind.

  Lacy, come now!!!

  Tiny, cold fingers met her palm and Kendra finally let her breath out and sucked in another of fetid air. She squeezed the hand, gripped it, and yanked the girl toward her.

  Only then did she open her eyes.

  You shouldn’t have done that. Mother is not happy.

  Kendra froze. There were a dozen girls, maybe more, all with the same hunched posture, all moving toward them. As she watched in sheer horror, more started to emerge from the woods.

  My god, she thought, there are so many of them.

  Mother is not happy.

  Tears unexpectedly began to spill from Kendra’s eyes. And then the sobs hit.

  Please.

  Kendra turned back to the interior of the basement, pulling Lacy into her arms at the same time.

  Still sobbing, she moved back into the house, wrapping her arms aro
und Lacy who was now in front of her.

  One of the older girls—Charlotte?—was standing in the hallway now, just a couple dozen paces from the duo. Kendra snaked her injured arm to her pocket, feeling the familiar outline of the syringe that she had filled with the caustic fluid that had leaked from beneath Agent Cherry’s smashed car.

  A thought echoed in her mind, but she wasn’t sure if it was new or if she was just remembering it.

  Please, don’t let Mother know what I’ve done.

  She pulled out the syringe when two more girls appeared behind Charlotte.

  The oldest of the sisters slowly raised her head, and Kendra saw that the girl’s bright blue eyes had been replaced by red ones, glowing with hatred.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Ken-Ken,” the woman said, her words imbued with a strange airy quality. The two girls that flanked Charlotte repeated her words. “You shouldn’t have done that, you shouldn’t have done that, you shouldn’t have done that.”

  The sentence droned on like a bizarre mantra, and Kendra realized that the sound was coming from all around her now: in front of her, and behind her from the girls in the swamp.

  Still sobbing, Kendra brought the syringe to Lacy’s soft throat. The girl didn’t even squirm or try to break her hold.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered, but even Kendra wasn’t sure to whom her words were directed.

  Please, don’t let her know what I did.

  Kendra wasn’t using Lacy to help her escape; she was trying to save the girl.

  To make it seem like she wasn’t involved.

  To save her from whatever wrath Mother and Father would incur.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, you shouldn’t have done that, you shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

  She was crying so hard now that the needle point kept jumping, and it was all she could do to make sure that it didn’t actually puncture Lacy’s skin.

  “I’m so, so—”

  But a strong arm suddenly snaked around her neck from behind, choking the words from her.

  Kendra tried to struggle, but the grip was too tight.

  It was Father.

  When the grip tightened even more, she let go of Lacy and the girl scrambled away from her, joining Charlotte and the others.

  Her breaths were coming out in wheezy gasps as the thick arm squeezed around her throat.

  The syringe fell to the floor and shattered.

  I’m so sorry, she thought, staring into Lacy’s eyes.

  But then the girls were suddenly upon her, kicking and punching and scratching and biting.

  Someone grabbed hold of her hair and yanked, and Kendra let out an abbreviated yelp.

  Before she could fully comprehend what was happening, she was on the ground, curled in the fetal position, trying desperately to catch her breath.

  As consciousness began to fade, Kendra was struck by a vision of her father’s face, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  And in this chaotic moment, the revelation that she had had inside the cell, locked in the basement, came back to her.

  This was why he had given her away. Her father had abandoned her to try and save her.

  Mater est, matrem omnium.

  To keep her from the swamp, from this place, from Mother and Father.

  I’m sorry, she thought again as the darkness closed in and suffocated her.

  Chapter 63

  The swamp was dark and humid, rendering Brett’s headlights worse than useless—he had no other choice but to cut them out and drive in near darkness. The road was packed dirt, and although they were following the vague directions provided by Father Callahan, they really had no idea where they were going.

  But then something caught Brett’s eye and he squinted over the steering wheel.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Dunno,” Father John said quietly. It was as if the man had been in a trance ever since they had left the rundown church. Twice Brett had touched the man’s neck to make sure that he was still alive.

  He squinted harder until his eyes were reduced to but narrow slits.

  About a hundred meters ahead, there was a dim yellow light that, unlike his headlights, seemed to cut through the night.

  He rolled down his window and listened, breathing through his mouth to avoid smelling the fetid air. The only thing he heard was the crunch of his tires and the purr of the engine.

  “You see that?”

  This time he got no answer.

  As he neared, he felt his heart begin to sink.

  It was a car, he realized. And it looked like his rental.

  “Shit.”

  This time, Father John answered.

  “Is that your car?”

  Brett nodded and pulled up behind it, terrible scenarios running through his mind. He pushed these aside, slammed the car into park, and jumped out into the night.

  The first thing he noticed was a barely audible ding ding ding and the open doors. The light that he had seen from a quarter mile back had been the dome light, but it was dim.

  If he had come even an hour later, the battery would have likely been dead and he might have never seen it. As he hurried through the mud, he was only partly aware that Father John had also stepped out of the car.

  “Please, no,” he whispered, fearing the worst.

  When he made it to the car, his heart was pounding in his chest. Part of him expected to see Kendra in the front seat, her throat slit, her eyes open.

  Relief washed over him as he surveyed the empty cabin. Both airbags had been deployed, and there was blood on both of them. For some reason, he focused on the passenger seat.

  Kendra’s blood.

  She would have been in the passenger seat, of that Brett was certain. He leaned into the car, trying to find something, anything that would offer clues as to what had happened here.

  He spotted an empty syringe in the backseat, wedged between the cushions. Other than that, the car was completely empty, just the way he remembered it.

  Brett pulled his head out of the car and stared at the thin stream of black smoke that leaked out from beneath the warped hood.

  “What happened?” Father John asked.

  Brett jumped and turned to face the man. He had the bag that Father Callahan had handed him clutched to his chest. He shrugged.

  Martin crashed the car, and somehow he escaped… maybe?

  “I think—”

  But a little girl’s giggle coming from somewhere in the swamp cut his words short. Brett lifted his head and squinted into the darkness.

  What the fuck was that?

  His heart was racing again. After a moment of silence, he turned back to Father John’s gray face.

  “Did you hear that?”

  The priest nodded.

  “Kendra’s out there somewhere,” he said, and then quickly ran back to the director’s car. He went to the passenger seat and popped the glove box.

  “What are you doing?” Father John called after him.

  Brett reached inside and pulled the director’s pistol out of the holster. Then he stood and turned back to Father John.

  “You have your bag of tools,” he said, indicating the burlap sack with his chin. Then he held up the gun, which reflected a shaft of moonlight. “And now I have mine.”

  Father John’s eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, the dinging stopped and the dome light blinked out, leaving them both in total darkness.

  Chapter 64

  Despite the warm, humid air, Kendra was shivering. The girls had stripped her naked and now she stood barefoot, the mud pushing up between her toes.

  Through blurred vision, she glanced at the faces of the girls that had lined up on either side of her, making a passage for her to walk.

  They were all the same, she realized. All blonde with blue eyes and cherubic faces. All with expressions of scorn plastered on their young features.

  They were siste
rs, Kendra realized, but this wasn’t what stuck with her.

  It was their matching expressions.

  How can girls so young feel hatred? How can they look so angry?

  Kendra slowly raised her eyes and stared down the passage that the girls on either side of her made. Twenty paces away was a large tree, the circumference of which must have exceeded five feet. There was a small wooden stool at the base, beneath which were several pieces of chopped wood.

  “Walk,” a female voice demanded, and Kendra’s eyes darted to the right side of the tree.

  Mother was there, the mater est, matrem omnium, wearing some sort of white nightgown, her lips twisted into a snarl. Despite the order, Kendra remained stationary. But then a male voice repeated the instructions.

  Father, the man that she had once known as Martin, his hair nearly white in the moonlight, stood on the other side of the tree. Unlike Mother, however, she detected a hint of sadness in the man’s features.

  When Kendra still didn’t respond, she felt a pair of small hands on her back, shoving her forward. She tried to look around quickly, to see who had pushed her, but the girls had fallen back in line, their eyes blazing into her.

  Kendra took a step forward, feeling more of the warm mud underfoot.

  “Walk,” one of the girls said, and Kendra was pushed again, this time more forcefully. Disoriented, she stumbled forward, barely able to keep from falling.

  “Please,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

  “Walk!” someone ordered again, and then this command was repeated by several of the other girls. “Walk! Walk! Walk!”

  And then they were all shouting that single word, their voices carrying up to the canopy above and bouncing back downward in a horrifying organic echo.

  “Please,” she repeated, but the response was the same.

  “Walk!”

  Someone pushed her again, and this time she went down. The mud rushed up to meet her, and she collapsed into it with a sickening plop. Her knees sunk down a couple of inches, and her hands were buried up to her wrists. She tried to push herself to her feet, but the mud pulled back and she found herself unable to get up.