Demonologist

by Laimo, Michael

  Bev found this sudden conversation riveting—especially with a priest involved. Schiffer sipped his drink, his gaze deadpan. “What’s the difference?”

  “There’s a big difference. Satanism is a formulated religion based on a crude set of self-serving morals. Satanists, or members of the Church Of Satan, worship Satan as a God, and under his guise and so-called rule, act in immoral and selfish ways. But Satanists...they are also very secretive in their enterprises, and are considered to be merely harmless atheists. Yes, animal sacrifices are rumored to be made, but only within their private confines, and only during black masses, which are conducted solely on their appointed holidays. It’s a systemized and widespread organization that focuses, really, on parodying the Catholic religion, with no true harmful intent.

  “Demon worship, on the other hand, which is also in its own way systemized—albeit amongst smaller cults—carries a much larger a threat with it. Demonologists and their followers take their ancient craft very seriously, utilizing the enigmatic powers of black magic in an effort to raise demon spirits from their slumbers. Demon worshippers are not merely atheists. They are individuals who knowingly and willingly choose to worship evil spirits and fallen angels instead of God. They seek only darkness and death, and are more than willing to go to any extreme to attain their goal. Hence, the sacrifice at the church.”

  “Sacrifice?” Bev asked, stunned.

  Jake, uncustomarily demure, asked, “Father, it sounds as though you’re a bit of an expert on this stuff—black masses and devil worship and everything?”

  Danto shrugged, as if embarrassed. Swirled his drink. “I’ve done my fair share of research on Demonology and its history in religion.”

  Bev asked impatiently, “Please forgive me for prying, but what exactly happened at the church?”

  Schiffer, asking permission: “Father?”

  The priest nodded.

  “Last night, someone sacrificed a goat on the lawn outside the rectory. It had been decapitated, its carcass gutted and impaled on a large crucifix. Its entrails were laid out into a pentagram shape beneath the cross.”

  Danto added solemnly, “The individual—or individuals—who did this somehow made their way inside the rectory during the night. All of the priests, myself included, woke up this morning with goat’s blood on our hands. On one of the walls in the rectory, someone scribbled in blood, Baphomet has risen. History tells us that Baphomet was a bearded demon with a goat’s head.”

  “Jesus.” Bev was stunned.

  “And the goat’s head,” Schiffer added unobtrusively, “was found perched upon the altar of the church, wrapped in sacred cloth.”

  “The most alarming part of all,” resumed Father Danto, “is that there were no signs of forced entry. We have no idea how the person got into the rectory, or the church, since everything was locked up at ten P.M. Father Sandi was on duty last night, and he insists that all the doors were locked when he made his rounds.”

  “Which means that the person who committed this act either has a key, or, was already on the inside.”

  “An inside job.” Jake shrugged. “Sounds like something out of NYPD Blue.”

  There was a wave of uncomfortable laughter. Father Danto said blandly, “It’s certainly reason enough for us to sleep elsewhere for now. Masses will still be performed, of course, but we’ll have to stay away until the smoke clears.”

  Bev took a sip of coffee. Strangely, he felt invigorated. No headache. No ghostly fingers. “Father Danto...you mentioned earlier that you’d had some experience with Satanism. Is there any truth to all this black magic stuff?”

  “Not Satanism,” he corrected. “Demonology. And yes, there is a great deal of validity to it. I attended the Institute of Archaeology in Jerusalem during the late sixties. I’d had a great deal of interest in the beginnings of Christianity, and the course curriculum at the university included an in-depth study of the archaeological finds from the first millennium B.C.E., at a site located just beyond the outskirts of the city. During the Six Day War, some errant shellings in the desert unearthed a burial ground near the site from the lower city section of Hazor, also dating back to the biblical era. There’d been a great deal of excitement at the time, as many of us had thought the discovery might be that of Jesus’ burial site—we religious archaeologists always think that. But eventually, after the heiroglyphs on the tomb were translated, we found our expectations to be misguided. What we’d found was no holy ground at all—it was the site of a massacre where thirteen children had been slaughtered by a man who called himself Allieb, son of the demon Belial. According to the story, Allieb was caught and punished for his sins, buried alive by the townspeople in the very same tomb he constructed for his sacrifants. For months we studied the bones of the children, and discovered that they’d all been flayed. Each of them had been decapitated with their heads positioned atop their groins, hands holding the skulls in place. There had been some attempt at mummification, but as we all know, only the Egyptians had mastered that craft, so there wasn’t much left of the children’s bodies to study, save for their brittle bones and some bristles of hair.”

  Judd Schiffer asked, “How did you know that they’d been flayed?”

  “What remained of children’s bones contained deep gouges consistent with that of a sharp stone tool. It stood to reason that the angles of the gouges showed a successful effort to remove the flesh from their bodies. The story on the tablets found later revealed that Allieb had successfully summoned the spirits of thirteen demons, his father Belial being the first, each of which had possessed the bodies of the thirteen children. One by one, he ate the flesh of the children—while they were still alive—in an effort to possess their demonic souls, and grow stronger in his battle to dethrone Christ.”

  “The Antichrist,” Bev said.

  “Precisely. Or, his attempt to become the Antichrist.”

  “Sick,” Bev said.

  “From what we gathered, Allieb carved the hieroglyphs while trapped in his dark catacomb. He’d survived a fortnight with no food or water before succumbing.”

  “How long were you at the dig for?” asked Jake.

  “Almost a year. It was an amazing discovery, and I’d learned that the ability to possess one’s body with the souls of demons was in fact a true belief of the ancient Israelites, and not just Bible stories of Jesus casting pig-demons out into the desert. It was soon thereafter that I left school and turned to the priesthood in an effort to rinse my soul of any taint I might have picked up while at the dig.”

  “Taint?” asked Schiffer.

  The priest nodded. “The site was discovered about a mile from the scene of a mass murder. Nine bodies had been found outside an abandoned vehicle—nothing too uncommon considering the sudden onset of the war. The bodies had been dead about two weeks when found, and had not survived the elements: the heat, the wind, the scavenger dogs. We eventually located the exposed tomb. Inside we made the discovery. But...we found something else as well. A young boy. Alive. Inside the tomb. Apparently he’d escaped the attack on the car in the desert—or so we’d presumed—and had found his way across a ravine into the shade of the tomb. In shock, he’d hid inside alongside the bones of the slaughtered children. When we asked him how long he’d been here, his only reply was, “a fortnight.”

  “Odd,” Bev said, “considering what you found in the writings.”

  “Right...but remember, we wouldn’t have had those writings translated until about six months later, after we were well into the dig. By then, the child had been sent by the Israeli government to live with a family in America. All we found out from him was how long he’d been there, and that he’d survived that time by consuming the carcass of a dog he’d dragged into the tomb with him.”

  “That’s enough for me,” Jake said. “My stomach can’t handle this.” He thumped away to engage in a conversation with Jamie Zetlin.

  “I’m sorry...” Father Danto said. “I shouldn’t have elaborated so much.
Brandy loosens my tongue too much for my own good.”

  Both Bev and Schiffer waved him off. “No, not to worry about Jake,” Bev said. “He’s got a weak stomach for anything horror-related. Shoulda seen him bailing out of the theater during The Blair Witch Project.”

  “Please continue, Father,” Schiffer pleaded. “This is very interesting.”

  “Well, to make a long story short, I worked at the dig for about a year, all the while studying ancient religion in school. I became alarmed after locating some additional texts analyzing Allieb’s scriptures, and felt no alternative at the time to enter the priesthood.”

  “What did they say, these scriptures?” Schiffer asked.

  “You have a year? I could go over it with you.” He took a sip of brandy, then said, “Let’s just say that Allieb was indeed the demonologist the tablets proclaimed him to be, and had spent his entire life making sacrifices in an effort to hone his skills in raising demon spirits, and possessing their souls. There’d been a lot of trial and error, resulting in the deaths of many at his hand. Eventually came the child sacrifices—it is said that Belial had somehow escaped the bonds of Satan and guided his son toward the proper course of action.”

  At that moment there was some loud laughter in the background, and the clutch dispersed before Father Danto was able to continue. Bev got the impression, by the apprehensive look on the priest’s face, that there was much more to the story than what he’d told. Perhaps it’d triggered a distinct anxiety from the crime at the rectory? A few people, readying to leave, came over to say goodbye. Bev noticed that Father Danto had grown suddenly pale. He gazed intensely at Bev, then kindly excused himself. “I have a mass at 8:10.” He ambled away and located Jake, who immediately escorted the priest upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Bev watched as the priest disappeared behind the hallway wall on the landing. He then looked at his watch, noticed the time: 11:30. Where was Kristin?

  Bev again dialed her number on his cell. No answer. When he disconnected, Rebecca Haviland drifted over. She smiled, her lips full and pouty, like Julianne’s, her blue eyes twinkling, like Julianne’s used to, her blonde hair flowing smoothly to her shoulders.

  Just like Julianne’s.

  Jesus.

  “Hi there...enjoying the party?”

  “Rebecca, it’s about time you came over to say hello.”

  “The guys from Holloway Girl had me cornered.”

  “Did they impress?”

  “Their music speaks well for them. Their personalities...different story.”

  “Yes, the party has been interesting. I just spent the last hour and a half speaking to a priest whose expertise is demons and witches.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, sort of. Interesting fellow, to say the least.”

  “Where’s Kristin?” she asked.

  “No clue. I just tried calling her cell. No answer.”

  They locked smiles, then spent the better part of a half hour, maybe more, engaged in conversation. They stood against the wall by the kitchen, talking about their careers, comparing musical tastes, and Rebecca even mentioned to Bev that Kristin might be a good fit at Rock Hard Magazine as an assistant writer. Bev made a mental note to mention that to her, and wondered again with dismay as to her whereabouts. She’d never pass up an opportunity to shmooze with those she’d want to impress.

  With Father Danto secured away in his room, Jake reverted back into his usual self: extroverted and caustic. The whiskey flowed continuously into him, and by the time midnight rolled around, Jake was staggering about the place like a three-legged bull, spilling his drinks and drooling and accusing the servers of watering down the whiskey. The guests had begun to filter out, many having Saturday evening intentions at the clubs on Sunset Boulevard. The lines at the clubs would be long, but everyone here held VIP status, which allowed them to pass those who might never get in.

  By one A.M., the last of the guests had left and it was just Jake, Bev, and Rebecca, sitting at the kitchen table. The servers had cleaned all the rooms and were now gone. Jake held his head in his hands, complaining incessantly about a headache and the douchebag servers who slipped him Wild Turkey instead of JD. Bev and Rebecca sat alongside one another, their knees touching beneath the table, grinning playfully at one another over Jake’s drunken demeanor. Cool shivers raced continuously across Bev’s skin at the flirtatious contact. It felt good being this close to her. I’ve known the woman for over a year now. How come I’ve never felt this way about her before?

  Soon Jake went silent and his eyes began to close. Bev and Rebecca helped him to rise and moved him to one of the living room sofas—a feat not so easily accomplished—where he plopped down in all his deadweight glory, shirttail out, white stomach exposed. In seconds he was snoring.

  “It’s late, and I’ve had a very long day,” Bev told Rebecca, leaning against the banister leading upstairs. “I’m gonna spend the night here. Got a bug problem at my place.”

  “Bugs? Ecch.”

  “Yeah, I know. Exterminators sprayed today. Should be okay tomorrow, though.”

  Rebecca, expectantly, placed her hands across her waist. “I left my jacket upstairs,” she said.

  “Which room?”

  “To the left of the stairs.”

  “I’ll walk you up.”

  ELEVEN

  In five minutes they were both sitting Indian-style on a made bed in one of Jake’s guest rooms.

  Facing one another. Hands locked. Staring into each other’s eyes.

  Leaning forward.

  Lips, touching.

  In Bev’s mind: Julianne.

  He glanced away from her face; in the darkness, it gave him the haunting impression of being with his wife again. In this moment of distraction, he discovered a long tear in the dark curtain. The moon’s beams branched into the room and found the bed. Bev kissed Rebecca’s tossed hair as she fell upon the pillow. He remained silent. She caught him by the arm. Her touch was tender. Warm. Caring. Not lust-driven, like those girls he’d met on the road. It was gentler. Kinder. It brought him down to her.

  She pressed against him. He could feel her heartbeat, a rhythmic pounding, filled with passion. He accepted her approach. Pressed back against her. They removed their clothes, piece by piece, taking turns, until their naked heat blended into one.

  He made an impulsive turn to face her. She pulled away, pressing her warm buttocks against his groin. With a fitted thrust, they became one. He, within her. She, filled with him.

  Bev was filled with a fresh and exhilarating sense of awareness. All his physical and mental pain vanished, all negative memories of the day washed away. He relished in the pleasure, every beat and rhythm between them coming naturally, with no awkward attempt to work it all out. The moment was perfect. Bev felt as if he were in chamber of pleasure floating amid the harsh reality of the outside world, this moment of ecstasy a shroud of protection from the pains of the day.

  In an adept move, Bev grasped Rebecca’s thigh and brought her leg over his waist, twisting himself on top of her without breaking their slick connection. Here in this position he could see her face clearly, her eyes shut, her mouth drawing tiny gasps that progressed into deeper inhalations as their tempo increased. Her familiar facial features triggered an indescribable eroticism in him, (Julianne’s) lips pouting to taste the finest red wine, (Julianne’s) eyes like onyx, (Julianne’s) nose quivering with pure want and desire. She was irreproachably sensuous. Unparalleled in her beauty. Here he saw her for the very first time, Rebecca Haviland, who in the past had offered herself to him solely on a professional level.

  But, now, offering herself on a higher, emotional level.

  Perhaps sensing his burning desire for her, Rebecca finally opened her eyes. Gazed deeply into his. Bev felt energized at this level of intimacy. He looked away from her perfect face. Lifted himself up so his eyes could explore her damp body: (Julianne’s) svelte shoulders, (Julianne’s) smooth breasts, (Julianne’s) taut waist. Their l
ovemaking grew heavily, both of them gasping across each other’s cheeks. They both cried out in unison, their tiny slice of the world jumping and quaking as Bev thrusted one last time and released himself into her.

  Soon, everything that made up their world flowed away into quiet heaven, setting the room into a breathy silence. They remained in an unmoving position for a period of time. Finally, he withdrew from her. Turned on his side to face her. His head touching hers. Their breaths commingling. Neither of them spoke, and in time they drifted off to sleep.

  TWELVE

  The flow of lava strengthened. Skeletal hands held him, blocking the way like entangled tree limbs in a tar pit, fingers drilling deeply into his flesh, bone touching bone, keeping him immobile as the wicked play commenced on the shore. The Jake-demon backed away from Kristin, gripping his swollen black staff, squeezing it tightly as acid-semen pooled out from the urethra and sizzled on the ground, yellow smoke, rising upon contact. Kristin, still smiling, stood and waved to Bev, blood and excrement pouring down her legs. “Come to me Daddy!” she cried happily. Bev tried to move but the skeletal hands counteracted his efforts.

  “Go to her, Bev. She needs you,” came a reassuring voice from beside him. Bev turned. Father Danto stood beside him, unruffled by the searing flow. He wore his collar and robe, a silver crucifix centered on his chest, glimmering despite the gloom. “She needs you. We need you. There is a long battle ahead.”

  Bev looked toward the shore. Rebecca Haviland was there now—she, too, naked—standing beside the Jake-demon. The Jake-demon stroked its staff, working it back to full erection; blood coated it; yellow smoke geysered from the tip. Kristin continued to wave, robot-like, with no purposeful awareness. The Jake-demon took one step forward, shook its body like a wet dog. Black feathers fluttered away, burning as they hit the ground like straying embers from a campfire. “Bev!” it shouted, voice coarse and guttural. “Round two. Gonna fuck this one in the mouth till it comes out her ass.” It growled and plodded toward her, face contorting, head gyrating, swollen tongue lolling animalistically from its mouth. Rebecca, smiling and waving at Bev, got down on her knees. She opened her mouth wide, willing to accept the Jake-demon’s huge staff. Spasms of rage riddled Bev, and he pressed forward, breaking the skeletal bonds that held him. He stretched his hands forward, then turned, looking for support. Father Danto had remained behind; tears of blood trickled from his eyes. “It’s good that you came,” he uttered, hands gesturing forward, stigmata in his palms. “There are two souls invading you, a man’s and a beast’s. It is the man’s soul that torments you. Follow the beast.” Bev turned. Suddenly, the Jake-demon staggered toward the surf. It slammed into the shallow lava in a spasmodic rage, limbs flailing, throat breaking open, blood pooling out onto the shore. The coarse hide of scales and feathers that had become its skin burned away, leaving a smoking mound of pink flesh behind that drowned in the shallow lava. Rebecca and Kristin remained oblivious of the change. Bev turned back to face Danto. The priest was gone. In his place stood Julianne, also unaffected by the blistering flow. She wore an expressionless mask. Crying, Bev reached for her. She reached for him. Suddenly, thin strands of metal wire thrust up from the lava. They danced in the air as though charged with electricity, then attacked him; wrapping around his hands like coiling snakes; digging into his palms; pulling his arms back until his shoulders snapped. The pain was excruciating. Blood fell from his hands and rode the fiery lava, toward Julianne. Her face morphed into the demon visage Bev had seen in the mirror...