At the southwest corner of the house, the man used a key to unlock a paneled door. He opened it and followed the sequestered steps upwards toward the highest room, a sole bedroom set in a large cuppola. His moving shadow fell across the small landing at the top, bathed in white light blaring from an emergency beacon in the ceiling. Here, a door sat waiting. From behind the door droned the low caustic snore of an animal: a bull perhaps, or a sow. He held his gaze against the grain of the door. Then, slowly reached forward. The very moment his hand came in contact with the brass doorknob, the growling from within halted. In the sudden stillness, the man wavered. He swallowed past the dull razors in his throat, then tentatively entered the room, drawing back slightly from the icy cold air and horrific reek that assaulted him like a tangible discharge.
He tried to leash his repugnance as his gorge rose and his eyes teared. He turned and faced the monster that had once been his adopted son—the boy who’d grown into a young man and who’d accepted his calling from below to become the ungodly thing in this room. Allieb was kneeling naked in the center of the bare room, the wood floor beneath him fouled with feces, bile, and vomit; head and neck, jutting sideways to face his stunned father who’d never imagined a horror this severe: black and yellow eyes, bulging in their sunken sockets, pinning the human man before him with irrational corruption and blazing prowess, with true regard, and yet still, with a vindictive bitterness rigidly set into a fiendish mask. The man gazed helplessly at the straggled matting of hair covering his son’s head; at the skeletal limbs ripped with tendons and blue veins; at the swelling abdomen and ulcerated navel; to the horrid sludge tiding out from beneath his grotesquely writhing body; and then, back to his eyes—eyes that pinned and shifted to observe the man entering the room. The door slammed shut behind him. The blinds in the mostly empty room opened on their own accord, allowing pallid slits of light to enter.
“My God, my savior,” the man put forth, his tone weak and prayerful. He startled at a sudden scraping sound emerging from behind him. He jerked his head around. A chair was sliding swiftly across the floor. It stopped just behind him. His heart slammed mercilessly against his chest.
“Take a seat...father.” Allieb laughed, voice inconceivably deep and strident.
The man stepped back, and gently sat, arms guiding himself downwards. He crossed his hands in his lap. Waited.
Using thickly tendoned forearms, Allieb crawled forward through the puddle of sludge, eyes glimmering ferociously, mucous seeping thickly from his nose. His mouth opened absurdly wide, revealing dark brown stumps for teeth. A craggy black tongue fell out, lolling uselessly across his chin. Spittle hung from it like a drawstring. He released a series of menacing barks, then stopped suddenly, gaze pinning the man who sat waiting. “Legion is near,” he uttered, the voice lustful and dominating.
And the man answered, “Excellent...my God.”
“We’ve nine now,” Allieb slurred, crawling even closer. “Three more are on the way. All by calling. I seem to be doing a praiseworthy job, no?”
“Indeed,” the man answered.
“You’ve been commanded to intervene!” Allieb bellowed. “Have you not performed the duty that has been required of you?” He shifted his body back, exposing a scab-ravaged chest and full erection that seeped green fluid. His skin glistened with sweat and blood. His head and neck pranced subtly, like a lizard’s.
“I have,” the man said, remaining motionless. If not for his relationship with Allieb, he might have been served his death for not properly completing his task. Should the demon discover his true intentions...well, then death would be imminent. Please, do not read my mind, do not read my mind...
“So I see...I am communicating with the thirteenth, you know. I’m sure you are pleased with this show of charity from your Godly prince.” A girlish giggle.
“Between the two of us, Allieb, we should find success.”
“Allieb is dead!” the thing hissed, eyes bulging, searing with contempt. He seethed for a moment, breaths quick and shallow and seemingly amplified as though circulating through a respirator. Then, the anger transposed itself: a hideous grin; deep, guttural laughter following. He added, quite composed, “I am Belial, foolish one.” He reached down and stroked his engorged erection, as though aroused upon simply uttering his own demonic designation. The staff appeared to grow darker, thicker.
The man nodded, eyes shuttered and trembling, silently denouncing his slip-up. “Of course, of course.”
“The thirteenth must arrive in the time of Legion.” Allieb gestured manically, hands groping for unseen objects in the air, eyes darting as though trying to follow their irregular paths.
“Midnight, tonight,” the man answered. “He will arrive before that, I promise you, my Lord.”
The demon sniffed the air. The mucous dripping from his nose shot back in like a runner. Laughter. Then, “Show me your credence, and I will show you salvation.” Something contemptuously feigned, flickered in his black irises.
Is this a riddle? the man thought.
“Perhaps it is a riddle, daddy,” Allieb answered in his boyhood voice. He grinned smugly, then uttered a phrase in Latin.
The man sat stupefied. Don’t pray, don’t pray, don’t pray. The demon waited, fixing him with a flaunting stare. The man spoke: “The thirteenth will arrive in time for Legion.
“Very good, papa. Very good.” The voice...my innocent son’s voice. Allieb smiled, black tongue licking spittle over blistered lips. He giggled playfully, childlike.
The man waited. He prayed to be dismissed, hoping this time Allieb would hear his thoughts. He planted his eyes on the entity before him—his son’s features were still there, contorted horridly by the demon presence within.
“I’m bored,” Allieb said, blowing out a gush of putrid air. “Ask me something.”
“Ask you something...?”
“Anything you want.” Then, in a sharp English accent, “I’m feeling charitable today. Sometimes I amaze myself with my altruism. We demons aren’t supposed to do that, you know. Lordy, lordy, what would dear Satan think of me now?”
“Satan...”
“The thirteenth...but you know that already...father.” Booming laughter emerged from his mouth, vibrating the floor beneath the chair and rattling the blinds on the windows. The man gripped the chair’s arms fiercely, nails digging half-moons into the wood. Allieb slithered backwards, kneeling back down in the fouled puddle. His demonic face contorted, the room filled now with a pungent stench of urine—with a wave of heat like a blast from a furnace.
His head fell forward between his knees, where he began to perform fellatio upon himself.
The man sat stunned. His flesh marbled into goose bumps, icy nails tickling his nape and bringing the hair on his back to stand as a puddle of urine and liquid waste seeped out from beneath Allieb. Abruptly, the blinds rolled shut, seemingly bringing an end to their conversation. The man quickly rose from the chair, watching Allieb’s head bobbing rhythmically, deep rolling snorts and hisses rising as his stride increased. The man stood unmoving as the intemperate act escalated, uncertain if he’d been granted permission to depart. Allieb’s body began to shake, rippling as if insects crawled beneath his skin. Horrid curses and grunts spilled out from his plugged mouth.
Unwilling to further witness this vulgar display, the man reeled from the room, nearly fainting, immediately setting himself to continue his clandestine mission as his ears rang and his breath escaped his lungs in short, strangling gasps.
~ * ~
In the hallway, the man listened as Allieb’s groans of pleasure rose. A booming roar climaxed at the crescendo of his implementation, momentarily silencing the mansion.
Then, dreadful silence.
Soon, the bustle of activity returned.
Attempting to gather his composure, he proceeded down into the cathedral. Seatless. Dimly lit. The altar had been fully prepared, thirteen pentagrams posted on the columnar supports, marking thirteen positi
ons, one for each vehicle. Tears filled his eyes, and he turned and staggered away, trying to erase the looming thoughts from his mind. Ghostly fingers prodded the back of his neck, cold and unrelenting. In the antechamber to the cathedral he heard bells tolling from some faraway point. From the basement below loomed agonizing screams, the sounds of creaking woods and clanging chains, of hissing snakes and snorting bulls and bleating pigs.
The man shuttered his mind and coursed from the antechamber, through the many halls, to his room. Once inside, he gripped the silver cross in his pocket. It felt...different. Its texture had changed. He raced into the bathroom, shut himself inside and pulled it out.
The silver had rusted to a dull, muddy brown.
The man closed his eyes and prayed to Jesus Christ.
He knows. Allieb knows.
There is no likelihood for good to prevail.
TWENTY-FIVE
Jake’s dead, Bev thought, falling into yet another state of utter disbelief. He stared at his hands, at the palms, where the scars used to be. Not eight hours earlier, he’d awoken with a series of deep red gouges running across his palms—thin, bleeding, burning, as though guitar strings had been ripped across them. He thought back to his recurring dream from last night, while asleep at Jake’s house. The lava. Jake standing at the shoreline alongside Kristin and Rebecca, then pouncing forward, falling into the lava and burning away. Dying. And at that precise moment, thin metal wires (guitar strings?) had jutted up from the lava and wrapped themselves around his hands, digging deeply into his flesh.
He rubbed his eyes, terribly confused. Jesus, what the hell is going on?
He looked up toward the front door of his apartment, at once cursing his decision to return home, despite it seeming his only logical move. He felt awful, the reminiscing horrors of the preceding events pushing him toward a promise of insanity. The world, once comprised of fame and excess and inherent fortune, had been shattered and was now drowning in misery and wailing for help. He stood his ground at the foot of the steps, mind boiling with unbalance and indecision. He gripped the iron handrail and thought hectically of Kristin, of Jake, and even of Father Danto, who, Bev believed, might be somehow akin to all the freakish events taking place. He was in my dream too. I remember it. He’d said, ‘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.’ But what does it mean? Bev thought of his own gathering disorder: the scratching, the voices, the hallucinations, the loss of control. Where was it all coming from? Was there some deep-rooted cause? Was it guilt? Remorse? Or something more clinical, like fatigue, anxiety, or depression, as Palumba so explained?
Or...is it what the texts in Kristin’s office had conveyed. Is it what Danto talked about in his dream?
Is it...demonic invasion?
Shuddering with uncertainty and fear, Bev eyed the steps, and despite his sudden need to rest, again second-guessed his decision to return home, given the menacing circumstances: the arrival of the mystery limo, now less than ninety minutes away. Who knew what additional horrors it would bring? He considered leaving, going to Alondra Park and staying there until six-thirty or seven. Sit near the lake, meditate, try to ease away the discomforts of the day. I could return home long after six—long after the limo is gone. Shit—should’ve made this decision an hour ago! Then I wouldn’t have had the displeasure of contending with Detective Frederick Grover. Who knew?
It’s not too late.
Too tired...I just want to go inside and rest.
But...what if the limo comes, and then doesn’t leave? What if it continues to wait outside long after six o’clock? It might just wait all night... He decided that it didn’t matter, because he had no intention of getting into a limo at all—that is, of course, if one actually arrived. If it did, well, then he’d just lock himself in his apartment—maybe even call the police. Yes, just call the cops, he told himself. Make a scene. They’ll have no choice but to leave.
But...what if the people inside the Limo rush the house, break down the door, snatch me before I’m able to make a call?
That’s anxiety speaking, Bev.
Jesus. Too many factors at play. Endless angles to consider. Eventually, Bev convinced himself that he needed to rest, and that coming home hadn’t been a bad decision at all. The limo wasn’t here yet, and when—if—it finally came, all he’d have to do was lock himself inside for the night. Keep a stakeout from his kitchen window.
All alone. Just Bev.
And the bugs.
Shit. He’d forgotten about the insects. The beetles. That had happened more than twenty-four hours ago—Jesus, it seemed like a century. He frowned, wondering with reluctant curiosity if the exterminator had indeed come. Had been able to alleviate the situation. They better have.
Wearily, he climbed the concrete steps to the landing.
Taped to the front door was an envelope.
His heart joggled in his chest. His breathing fell short. No, not another envelope. With numb fingers, he felt out the invitation in his pocket. Still there.
He ripped the envelope from the door and quickly eyed the return address: Huxtable Exterminating. Relieved, he reached inside. Pulled out a yellow piece of paper. An invoice. On it, scribbled pieces of information:
Service call—$65
Searched entire apartment, including bedroom closet at customer’s request.
No specimens found. No evidence of infestation as described by customer.
No chemicals applied.
No specimens found? “Are they fucking kidding me?” Angrily, he slid his key into the door. He gripped the doorknob and received a shock, then turned it and went inside.
Immediately he felt a chill. The air: colder than outside. A slight stench filled the room, something familiar. Smells like...like burning wood. Must be the insecticide.
No...no chemicals were applied.
The apartment was just as he left it: a sullen mess, the bed unmade, towels piled on the bathroom counter, the jeans from where the first beetle emerged heaped on the bedroom floor. He tossed the invoice on the bed, then gave the apartment a full sweep. A smothering tension rose in the air, like a spring-load.
He saw nothing out of the ordinary.
He looked at the open closet, tentative, not wanting to investigate but knowing that if he wanted to stay here tonight, he’d have to. With one hand on the edge of the bed for support, he leaned down on one knee and peeked inside the shadowy recess.
Plenty of shoes. Folded shirts. A couple of fallen wire hangers. But no bugs.
Slowly he stretched a reluctant hand into the closet. His skin crawled as it came in contact with the dusty wood floor. Using his thumb and index finger, he pinched the corner of a strewn shirt and quickly dragged it out in a motion that suggested the shirt might be on fire. He stood up, holding the shirt at an arm’s length. Shook it.
No bugs.
He tossed it aside. He then reached back into the closet and grabbed a pair of jeans from the pile on the hamper, slowly unfolded them.
Nothing.
He took a deep breath. Did I hallucinate the bugs? Like the face in the mirror. Or, the bug in the sink? He then hunkered back down, his bravery starting to bud, accelerating his campaign to unearth something. He removed a pair of shoes, shook them, tossed them aside. Then, a pair of sneakers. No bugs. Breathing out, he leaned back down, pressed his head against the floor and peered at the back wall of the closet, where yesterday the insects had been swarming.
No beetles.
He stood back up, confusion besetting him yet again. He shifted his eyes around the room. Saw absolutely no evidence of insects.
Scratching his head, he padded soundlessly into the studio room, as though trying to sneak up on someone.
Oh my God.
He halted. Stared incredulously at the sight before him, at once trying to sort out his emotions. Disturbing. Unnerving. Puzzling. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Bev had tw
o large Marshall amplifiers in the apartment, each housing four 16-inch speakers. Both of them, usually pressed tightly against the foam-padded walls, sat inexplicably in the middle of the room, one stacked atop the other. The ten guitars he kept here, five Les Pauls, three Martins, and two Fender Stratocasters, were out of their cases and on the floor alongside the cabinets, arranged in a star-like pattern. Stereo wires formed a circle around the pattern, completing what appeared to be a pentagram shape.
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.
Very tentatively, he paced about the room. On further inspection, he noticed that other items had been moved. Two collapsible chairs, usually folded and stored in the hall closet, were opened and stacked against the wall where the amps usually were; CD’s had been dumped from their tower into an open guitar case; a pile of two-inch recording tape lay atop the console, purloined from its steel reel and strewn indiscriminately like ticker-tape ribbon.
Amidst it all, something caught his blank and uncomprehending eye.
On the floor.
Black. Shiny. Bulbous. Skittering across the carpet on many legs.
“Son of a bitch!” Bev cried. He backed up and watched the horror: a four-inch beetle, quickly racing across the carpet into the one-inch space between the floor and the studio closet.
A moment of indecisive horror passed. Gingerly, Bev stepped over a guitar, flesh from head to toe writhing dreadfully on his bones. He stood in front of the closet, tense and waiting.
He placed a shaking hand on the knob. It was icy cold.
Scratch, scratch, scratch, from behind the wood door—tiny nails picking away along the edge of the jamb. Sounds like...like the scratching in my head...
Demonologist Page 13
