In the darkness of the bedroom, the fingers curled under my buttocks, then snaked over my thighs. They found the underside of my scrotum, applied pressure, and a wave of arousal so powerful rippled through me that I feared I might faint. In my mind I was still thrusting into Liz’s warm sex. She was offering herself up to me, begging me to give her more, more. She was moaning, and the hands in the darkness found me, began to stroke me. The citrusy scent of her skin was intoxicating. I swayed on my feet. The silky hands kneaded up my body, slithered over my shoulders, and in the dense, sultry air of the bedroom I heard Liz’s voice whispering to me, cajoling me. I realized I’d closed my eyes at some point, and now I opened them, and when I did I let loose with the wildest shriek of horror I have uttered in my life. It was the thing that had aroused me, the demon that had possessed Casey, but now the boy’s face was a goblin-like nightmare, the heavy eyebrows arched above eyes that were a lambent, hellish red, the pupils narrow and vertical, the pupils of a cat.
Lightning strobed in the tenebrous bedroom and I saw the demon’s maw was stretched wide, the hot slaver dripping off its bared incisors. It was about to sink its killing teeth into my throat, and by instinct I jerked up my right hand to ward it off. It lunged at me. Fire erupted in my hand. When I brought it to my face for inspection, another triple flash of lightning revealed the jetting stumps of my pinkie and ring finger, both torn off by the demon’s razor-like bite.
Backpedaling, I clutched my hemorrhaging hand and wished futilely that Father Sutherland were still beside me. I heard it chewing, watched the unblinking red eyes drifting nearer in the gloom. The backs of my legs connected with something, and I realized too late it was the footboard of the bed. I toppled onto it, kicking at the demon despite the fact that I had lost sight of its infernal scarlet eyes. I did hear it laughing at me though, and the effluvium that filled the bedroom was so powerful that the urge to vomit nearly surpassed my terror. Dread of the demon reduced my movements to feeble twitchings and ineffectual kicks. I was drowning in the odors of shit and fur and sex and death and my own spraying blood.
With a fresh surge of panic, I realized I was lying on the exact spot Casey had occupied earlier, and with the realization came the sensations of moist sheets, cold and clinging to my flesh like sluggish parasites. There came the briefest hint of quicksilver through the windows, and in the attendant rumble of thunder I caught a shadowy glimpse of the figure striding around the bed for me.
Rolling sideways, I hit the floor, and in my childlike fright, I scuttled under the bed to put something between me and the presence.
The darkness under the bed was greater than any I had ever experienced. Though the space from floor to bedframe was at least a foot, it was as though the bed itself possessed some light-eating quality that ensured absolute blackness. I felt blind, and though I continued to hear rumbles of thunder, no shimmer of light reached me where I lay.
I listened for the laughter of the demon, for the creaking of a floorboard. So great was my terror that I actually expected the thing to compress the whole bed on top of me, thus smothering me while I let loose with one final soundless shriek.
But other than the sounds of the storm, there was nothing. I wondered vaguely where the others had gone. Were they still with Carolyn? Was she still being attacked? I didn’t know, but I confess here that any concerns I had for the child were as secondary as they were ephemeral. In my childish dread, I even flirted with the notion that the demon had forgotten me.
Until I heard my mother’s voice.
Had my mom not died when I was twelve years old, the sound of her voice would not have been so disconcerting. But she had. Just a senseless traffic accident. Coming home from work. Black ice. A loss of control, her little car veering into the oncoming lane and hitting a semi head on.
I never knew my father. Nor did I know the men my mother used to bring home. After she died, I went to live with my uncle, but though he was a decent person, the damage had already been done. I associated men with meanness, with drunkenness.
It was with a man named Joe Wilson that I discovered my mom one night many years before her accident. I’ve since blocked out most of the memory, but as near as I can tell, I was five years old. Just five and completely naïve about men and women. So when I awoke that night and heard my mother’s and Joe’s voices calling out together, I automatically hurried to her room to make sure they were okay.
When I stepped through the doorway, they were locked together, my mother sitting on top of Joe, a man whose hairy body reminded me of a werewolf movie I’d glimpsed on cable TV when my mom didn’t know I was watching.
She didn’t know I was watching now either, but I was. And, what was more, I was so transfixed by the appalling sight of her straddling Joe that I grew dizzy. I swayed on my bare feet as Joe reached up and fondled my mother’s breasts. I became nauseated as my mother moaned out words I knew were bad words because I’d heard Joe holler them sometimes when he watched football.
I felt no excitement at the sight of those writhing bodies, no inchoate sexual thrill. There was only a dismal sense of betrayal. And the nausea. At some point I threw up, the creamy acid bubbling out of my mouth and painting the front of my pajamas. It must have been the splattering sound that drew their attention because they looked at me then, my mother with surprise, Joe with unconcealed disgust.
“Go back to bed, honey,” my mom said.
I started to cry.
“Jesus Christ,” Joe muttered. “Get him the fuck out of here.”
I thought my mom would defend me, but she just scowled. “Go to bed, Jason.”
I cried harder, wanting my mom to hold me.
“Get him out of here, Linda!” Joe demanded.
She scrambled off of Joe, whose glistening member made a slurping sound as it left her body. The sight of it made me want to puke again, but then the sight of my mom’s milky flesh filled my vision. She was yelling at me, her fingers biting into my shoulder. She drove me from the room and into the bathroom across the hallway.
I plopped down on the closed toilet seat and waited for her to clean me up, but she flipped on the light and continued berating me, shouting that she’d be able to find a man if she didn’t have to worry about me all the time, telling me what a good guy Joe was, what a great provider he would be. But I scarcely heard what she was saying because I’d noticed her black nest of pubic hair—it was difficult not to notice as I was sitting on the toilet and her midsection was at eye level.
As I watched, I saw something pearlescent begin to seep from between her legs. At first it reminded me of the cold medicine she sometimes fed me from an eyedropper. But as I watched, the drooping stream of mucus-like liquid grew longer, attenuating, then plummeted to the pale-green, tiled floor with a quiet splat. I threw up again, spraying orange liquid all over my mother’s legs and the white shower curtain beyond.
Then she was shrieking at me, railing at me for ruining her night. I heard Joe cussing in the hallway, his heavy footfalls retreating toward the door. My mom left me sitting there. She implored Joe to stay. But he didn’t, and when my mom returned, she bellowed at me as she never had before, sobbing and screaming and occasionally slapping my cheeks. She left the bathroom after that, and I heard her weeping in her bedroom. I thought of going to her to apologize, but I was too afraid of getting smacked again.
Eventually, I went back to my bedroom and lay on top of the covers. The vomit stank, but it had dried to a moist crust on my chin and the front of my pajamas. At some point, despite the bitter taste in my mouth, I must have fallen asleep.
Lightning strobed in Casey’s bedroom, and I sucked in air, realizing I’d been lost in the suppressed memory. I turned to the left, half expecting to discover the demon or my mother or even Joe Wilson lying beside me under the bed. But there was no one there with me, just empty space. I began to wonder if the demon had left the room, perhaps to prey on someone stronger, and I resolved to escape a space that had begun to feel like a dusty coff
in. Moving slowly, careful to make no sound, I wormed my way sideways toward the down-hanging corner of a sheet. At every moment I expected a face to appear in the gap between the floor and the bed, an inverted face with glowing red eyes and a malicious smile.
But no face appeared. Nor did I hear anything other than the storm. Had the demon really moved on from me? I knew the thought should have filled me with concern for the others, but I promised at the outset to record the events of that night as faithfully as I could, and so I will.
It is therefore with deepest shame that I admit to experiencing a gust of relief at emerging from my hiding place and finding the room barren. The door was closed, but that meant little. The demon could have easily gone out noiselessly and shut the door behind it. Or perhaps it had opened a window and leapt into the night in pursuit of new victims. Such a feat of physical prowess would not have surprised me. For now I was convinced that the demon was none other than the Sweet Sixteen Killer. Its knowledge of the crimes, coupled with the strength and ferocity it displayed, made it easy for me to imagine it doing those terrible things to the six dead girls.
At thought of the victims, I remembered my severed fingers and realized that I’d neglected to keep the blood flow staunched. I endeavored to stand up, but the loss of blood defeated me. Swooning, I flopped sideways onto the bed, and doing all I could to tend to my bleeding hand, I lay on my back and closed my eyes.
I decided that if I survived the night, I’d see a therapist about the memory this experience had just dredged up. I knew psychology wasn’t a linear subject and understood the folly in attributing all my difficulties with the opposite sex to a single traumatic event involving my mother and Joe Wilson. But I thought the experience at the very least germane to my troubles and wondered if I might not enter my thirties with a healthier view of women and maybe even explore the possibility of entering a relationship with one. The night had certainly revealed my lack of fortitude, so it would be no great loss to the church if I left the priesthood. Perhaps it would be a relief to Father Sutherland. At least he wouldn’t have to fire me.
Thinking of Sutherland, I opened my eyes and beheld the figure glued to the ceiling above me, the red eyes glaring at me in triumph.
The demon fell. As it swooped downward, its splayed limbs groped for me as if eager for my blood. Forgetting my injury, I brought up my hands to fend it off, but its snarling body slammed against me, setting off a conflagration in my mangled hand and pounding the wind from my lungs. Its head rose, the mottled fangs catching glints of pale light, and I jerked up a forearm a moment before it could chomp into my face. The scimitar teeth punctured the flesh of my forearm, pierced the surface of my ulna. The pain was excruciating, but I was barely conscious of it. The demon crunched down harder, its black tongue flicking at the blood that gushed from the wound.
I shot a knee into its crotch, but if anything this only whipped its bloodlust into a more violent frenzy. Its talons harrowed my shoulders, shredding my robe, my T-shirt, and carved deep slashes in my deltoid muscles. I bellowed in terror and agony, implored someone to intervene, and as though one of my prayers had at last been answered, I heard footsteps in the hallway. There were shouting voices, the sounds of a struggle. What sounded like a man screaming.
The beast gave off the attack to stare over its shoulder at the door. My angle afforded me a glimpse of the doorway just as it burst open. I muttered a mental prayer of thanksgiving, thinking Father Sutherland or perhaps Danny Hartman had arrived to save me.
But it was neither Sutherland nor Danny who came through that door.
It was Jack Bittner.
The question of how he’d gotten out of the cruiser did not occur to me at that moment, though I would learn how later. The only thoughts I had at that moment were the desperate hope that the demon would release me and a sudden fear of being shot.
For Jack Bittner had not only escaped the cruiser, he had managed to arm himself. He strode toward the bed with the gun trained on us, a look of deadly calm on his pitiless face.
“This is for your victims,” Bittner said. “This is for those poor kids you destroyed.”
The door behind Bittner slammed shut, but he hardly seemed to notice. He lumbered inexorably on, looking intent on finishing what he’d begun earlier.
Bittner stopped just shy of the footboard, the barrel fixed on the back of the demon’s head. I realized then that the beast hadn’t even watched Jack Bittner approach, had instead watched me watch Bittner. And as I gazed into those lurid red eyes, I understood why. Its lips stretched into a sly grin. Bloody slaver drooled off its teeth and pooled onto my face.
I don’t know now if it would have made any difference had I warned Bittner of the impending attack. My conscience says it would have. My reason, however, points out the appalling suddenness of the onslaught, the manner in which the creature sprang and spun at Bittner like some agile jungle cat.
The gun fired once, and the plaster over the headboard exploded, showering me with grit and dust. I pushed onto my elbows to see Bittner windmilling his arms as he blundered backward, the demon affixed to his upper body like an inoperable tumor. I crawled forward on the bed just as Bittner landed on his back.
He was slapping at the demon—at some point he had apparently dropped the gun—and I could hear the demon’s deep, throaty voice taunting him in some indecent-sounding language. I thought at first the demon would simply lean down and bite Bittner’s face off, but that, I soon understood, would have been too quick.
The demon actually climbed off Bittner’s supine form. Bittner scrambled to his knees and had just retrieved the gun when a new voice said, “No, Daddy.”
Despite how bloody Bittner’s face was, I could distinguish his eyes well enough. They were huge, starey. “Celia?” he said.
“No, Daddy,” the voice repeated. “Don’t leave me, Daddy.”
Jack’s face crumpled, the enormous man breaking down.
“Why are you moving away, Daddy?” the girl’s voice asked, and when I turned and stared at the demon, I received another shock.
Though nothing at that point should have amazed me—not after all I’d seen—the vision of Celia Bittner standing there in the murky bedroom still took my breath away. She had long blonde hair tied into a ropy braid. She wore pink pajamas that emphasized her little potbelly. She looked perhaps five years old.
“I didn’t wanna move,” Jack said, and after all the man had said and done, I have to admit that I still pitied him. Never on a human face had I beheld such an expression of sorrow and longing. “Daddy didn’t wanna move away, honey. It was your mother…”
“Mommy says you don’t care about us anymore,” Celia said. I noticed she was clutching a small beige teddy bear to her chest and had no doubt that this was the same stuffed animal Celia had carried with her when she was a young child. The demon, I felt certain, had mined these images, this voice, from Bittner’s memory. But the effect was uncanny. It was like time had reversed and the child Celia had been was standing in the room with us.
Bittner was up on his knees. “Honey, you’ve gotta believe me. Daddy would’ve never left if it were up to him. I love you—” his face crumpled again, his words coming in a ragged rush, “—I love you more than anything. I didn’t want to go.”
“Then why did you?” the voice demanded, and I fancied I could hear a hint of the demon’s true malicious tone buzzing around the edges of the child’s voice.
If Bittner heard it, he gave no indication. “It was your mom’s decision. She…she didn’t want Daddy anymore. She—”
Celia’s face hardened, a cold, calculating intelligence permeating it. “Are you saying my mommy’s a whore?”
It acted on Bittner like a slap in the face. He actually recoiled and blinked for a moment. “Honey, please don’t talk like—”
“Please don’t talk like that,” the voice mimicked, and though the pitch was still the same, the tone was eerily wicked, the buzzing darkness in the voice more pronounce
d. “You always want control.”
I began to edge around them. The closed door was perhaps twelve feet away. Someone was on the other side of it, hammering. Yet the sounds were oddly muffled in here, as though Casey’s bedroom existed in a separate reality, another dimension.
Bittner was on his knees, had a hand extended toward Celia, or the thing pretending to be Celia. “I’m not trying to control you, honey. Don’t think that. I just want to teach you the right things, you know?”
Was there a flash of vermilion in the girl’s blue eyes? The skin seemed to be tawnier, more aged. “Control is all you want,” the voice said, and now there was as much of the demon in it as there was the young Celia. “You wanted to control Mommy, and you want to control me.”
If Bittner sensed the changes, he didn’t let on. He walked on his knees toward Celia, the gun holstered now, both his hands extended. “No I don’t, baby. I only want to be near you. I just want to be—”
“No pierced ears, Celia!” the voice said in a vicious singsong. “No going on dates!”
Bittner’s chest shuddered, his voice thick and weary. “I didn’t say that. I only said I wanted to meet the boy before you went out with him. You know, so I could—”
“So you could intimidate him!” Celia snapped, and now there was nothing at all girly about the voice. It was all hornets and echoes, the demon’s full-throated drone. “So whoever went out with me could see what a tough guy you were, so he could see the gun on your hip.”
Something finally clicked in Bittner’s mind. His face went slack with dismay. “You’re not…you’re not…”
“Celia?” the voice roared. The sound of it made me want to squeal in terror.
I was five feet from the door.
The Celia-thing was expanding, the demon no longer resembling a child, but rather a noxious, misshapen beast. Its face loomed toward Bittner’s. “Celia despises you. You abandoned her!”
Bittner whimpered, his hand quivering toward the grip of the gun.
“Yeeeesss,” the demonic voice said, nodding, the eyes a hellish red now, the vertical disks of pupil narrowing in savage glee. “Go for your weapon, Jack. See where it gets you.”
Exorcist Road Page 8
