I nodded, but I knew before we resumed our search that we would find nothing. At least nothing to incriminate Peter Sutherland in the Sweet Sixteen murders. I had been deceived. The demon had used me to effect its revenge on the best man I’d ever known, the man whose love and faith made me what I was.
We scoured the house for more than two hours, and when we came together at the base of the staircase, Danny removed his hat and said, “I’m sorry, Father Crowder. I can’t seem to find anything.”
I shook my head. “There’s nothing to find.”
The silence drew out.
Into it I asked, “Will you arrest me?”
Danny compressed his lips, appraising me. There were tears streaming down my cheeks, but I was very much in control of myself. Mine were silent, passionless tears. Danny lowered his eyes, perhaps in embarrassment.
“I won’t resist,” I said, offering up my wrists.
Danny’s voice was gruff. “Put your hands down, Father.”
“I’ve committed the worst sin imaginable. I took a good man’s life.”
“You didn’t do it out of cruelty,” Danny said. “You thought it was the right thing. And you saved Casey.”
“That doesn’t excuse—”
“You know what you did,” Danny interrupted. “You know, and you’ll have to live with that. I can see how it’s weighing on you. I think Father Sutherland would have forgiven you.”
Somehow, this made me feel even worse. The wet heat in my throat was unbearable.
Danny put his hat on. “There’s been enough horror already. Our church will need you to help us through this. And there’s still a killer out there. People will need you to help them keep the faith.”
I knew there was truth in what he was saying, but I also knew he was letting me off too easily. Danny wouldn’t meet my bleary eyes, but I could see he was choked up too, already mourning Father Sutherland and Jack Bittner. Even after everything that had happened, I was amazed at man’s capacity for good. For forgiveness.
“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
It was while we were leaving the dead priest’s house that the idea first occurred to me. We were on the front porch, and though the yellow daffodils and white hyacinths had started to bloom in Sutherland’s front beds, and the pink blossoms of the magnolia trees loomed over the porch like grieving loved ones, there was a chill in the air that day, and while we’d been inside the house, an unbroken caul of clouds had smothered the pink light of dusk.
I locked the door with the key Sutherland concealed beneath a statue of Saint Francis in his backyard. Danny moved down the steps slowly, as if burdened by the weight of our shared secret.
But I stood on the top porch step, frowning.
Danny stopped and looked up at me. “Something wrong, Father Crowder?”
“I was just thinking of something you said to me last night.”
Danny smiled his boyish smile. “Never assume anything about people?”
I looked at him, the corrosive taste of bile searing the back of my throat. “That’s not it. It was something you said after I killed Father Sutherland.”
Danny glanced uneasily up and down the sidewalk, scratched at the nape of his neck. Coming up the steps, he said, “You might wanna keep it down, Father. I know why you did what you did, but others might not feel the same.”
“When I murdered him, you didn’t seem bothered by it. You acted like it was the right thing to do.”
Danny shook his head. “It was, given what you knew about him.”
I stared deep into his brown eyes, my thoughts racing. “But you weren’t in the room when Casey said most of those things. How could you know about that stuff?”
Something guarded came into Danny’s face then, but he shrugged, glanced down at a couple strolling slowly past Sutherland’s black wrought-iron gate. “Maybe I had my suspicions too, you know?”
I felt short of breath. “You were raised in the same part of Greece as your brother.”
“So?”
“You would’ve spoken the language too.”
“Of course I did,” he said, laughing a little. “It was like a badge of honor for my mother’s family. Doing our part to keep tradition alive, you know? We all spoke it. Jesus, Father, what are you trying to imply?”
“Sutherland said the killer spoke that language.”
“Sutherland knows everything about everybody in the church,” Danny countered. “You ever think of that? Maybe he was trying to fool you. Frame Ronnie or me.”
“‘Sometimes you gotta be willing to do a little dirty work’. That’s what you said.”
“What of it?”
“You were glad when I got rid of Father Sutherland.”
Danny’s smile was gone. “You must think I’m a hell of a bad person, wanting a good man like Peter Sutherland dead. And here I thought you appreciated my keeping quiet about what you did.”
“Is that a threat, Danny?”
“It’s Officer Hartman from now on, and, yeah, if you wanna take it that way, sure.”
“You’ve got the physical strength,” I said. “You were the one person Casey didn’t touch.”
“Christ,” Danny muttered. “You’re just like Bittner. You realize there are damned near three million people in Chicago? What are the odds of you finding the killer when the best detectives in the city can’t?”
I scarcely heard him. “Why did you put me through this whole charade? Searching Sutherland’s house when you knew we wouldn’t find anything?”
“You’re delusional.”
“And you were staying in the same house with Casey when the demon invaded him.”
“What does that have to do—”
“Sutherland said demonic possession could occur as a result of some terrible sin by a family member. You’re Casey’s uncle, his godfather.”
“So now you’re blaming me for Casey too?”
“But why not get rid of me in Sutherland’s house?” I asked. “Did you think I wouldn’t figure things out?”
A change came over him. His eyes became hooded and absolutely cold. “Maybe I should do something about it now, huh?”
“But I’m not a girl,” I said. “And I’m a lot older than sixteen.”
His lips bunched together, trembling with what might have been rage. Then, as if dismissing me, he turned and stalked down the porch steps.
He was almost to the gate when I called, “Is that how old she was, Danny? The girl who broke your heart?”
He froze, his hand outstretched for the gate lock. For a time he stood there, motionless, and I took note of how broad his back was, how muscular.
He looked back at me then, and when he did, I suppressed a gasp of shock.
Gone was the affable policeman I’d known for so many years. Gone was the man who’d stood shoulder to shoulder with me in a battle against blackest evil.
In its place was a face so malign, so shot through with wickedness and depravity, that it took all I had not to faint at the sight of it.
Danny Hartman grinned a grin no less sinister than the demon’s had been on Rosemary Road, grinned at me and said, “We all have our secrets, Father. I’ll keep yours if you keep mine.”
Turning away, he opened the gate and strode down the sidewalk as though he didn’t have a care in the world.
After
The next day the city was rocked by news of the seventh murder, the Sweet Sixteen Killer returning with a furious vengeance and his most sadistic atrocity yet. The victim was a black girl named Makayla Howell. She was, of course, sixteen.
Makayla had been a model student up until her sophomore year in high school, during which it seems she began spending time with the wrong sort of people. She’d taken to defying her parents and dating boys several years older than she was. It was one of these boys who’d gotten her drunk, attempted to take advantage of her, and when Makayla denied him, he kicked her out and forced her to walk home from his squalid apartment.
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Someone—authorities have no idea who—offered her a ride. For reasons inexplicable to the police and to her heartbroken parents, Makayla accepted. The murderer had then driven her to a secluded park, somehow gotten her out of the car and then…done things to her.
The newspapers did not divulge all of the details, but the following facts appear to be true:
Makayla was tortured.
Makayla was raped.
Makayla was still alive when the killer began cutting on her.
Makayla was eviscerated in a way that recalled the worst of Jack the Ripper’s crimes.
And after Makayla finally expired from her wounds, the Sweet Sixteen Killer raped her again.
Officer Hartman is planning on framing me for this most recent killing. Perhaps for all the killings. I’m already a chief suspect in the deaths of Bittner and Sutherland, despite what Liz and her kids have said on my behalf. Maybe Danny means to link Father Sutherland to the earlier crimes and me to Makayla Howell’s death. Maybe he has something in store for me even more horrific than the seven murders he has already committed.
But there is something Danny Hartman doesn’t know. A secret that changes everything.
You see, there is something inside me. Something more intelligent, more bloodthirsty and infinitely more powerful than a thousand Danny Hartmans.
The most important question was one that neither Danny nor Liz nor her soon-to-be ex-husband Ron bothered to ask. A question more important than fallen priests and cheating husbands and homicidal cops.
It is the question of where the demon went after it was driven from Casey’s body.
And now I must conclude my narrative. I have much work to do. It is grueling, at times, maintaining control of my actions. It is even harder to master my thoughts. Last night I awoke at the bathroom mirror with a razor blade pinched between my thumb and forefinger. I had been about to slash my own throat.
I shall take pains to remove all lethal objects from my cottage at the rectory. Or at least place them where I cannot access them when my defenses are weak. My mind is teeming with impure thoughts, ideas that make me shudder. Images that make me grow pale.
Yet I am still in control.
And that is why the thing inside me wants me dead. It needs another host, one without such tremendous willpower, without my discipline.
But it will not usurp me. I am not a fourteen-year-old boy. I am a man on the brink of a new life, a man of faith. I plan on using my unique knowledge of evil and the supernatural to wage war on the powers of darkness.
According to one source, there are over a thousand exorcisms performed each year in the United States. A great many of these are conducted in error, cases in which medicine or a trained psychiatrist would be more effective.
Yet even if a fraction of these cases—say a tenth—are authentic, who better to do battle with these malevolent spirits than a priest who has thwarted one already? A man who has so overmastered the offending demon that he can bend it to do his will?
But there is still the matter of the Sweet Sixteen Killer.
I aim to end his reign of terror.
Danny Hartman will be coming to my cottage tonight. I’ve invited him.
He was pleasant enough on the phone, but I know what’s in his mind.
But Danny has no idea what’s in store for him. He has no idea what I’m capable of when I unleash the presence inside me.
And after Chicago learns of how a shy, boyish-looking priest brought to justice the most vicious serial killer in the city’s history, they will revere me and accord me the respect I deserve. And during the warming light of day, I will gladly play the figurehead. I will lead my church. I will be a pillar of the community.
But at night, I shall sate the presence that dwells within my flesh. I shall use its unspeakable powers for good. I will only permit it to prey upon those who deserve its wrath.
The hour is growing late, and I must prepare. The presence within me is restless. Ravenous. And though it is difficult, I must maintain control of these urges. I must bide my time until Danny arrives. I will await his coming.
Await him in darkness.
About the Author
Jonathan Janz grew up between a dark forest and a graveyard, and in a way, that explains everything. Brian Keene named his debut novel, The Sorrows “the best horror novel of 2012.” Library Journal deemed his follow-up, House of Skin, “reminiscent of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House and Peter Straub’s Ghost Story.”
In 2013 Samhain Horror published his novel of vampirism and human sacrifice, The Darkest Lullaby, as well as his serialized horror novel Savage Species. Of Savage Species Publishers Weekly said, “Fans of old-school splatterpunk horror—Janz cites Richard Laymon as an influence, and it shows—will find much to relish.” His vampire western, Dust Devils, was released to critical acclaim this February, and his sequel to The Sorrows (Castle of Sorrows) followed in July. In addition to Exorcist Road, he has also written three more novellas and several short stories.
His primary interests are his wonderful wife and his three amazing children, and though he realizes that every author’s wife and children are wonderful and amazing, in this case the cliché happens to be true. You can learn more about Jonathan at www.jonathanjanz.com. You can also find him on Facebook, via @jonathanjanz on Twitter, or on his Goodreads and Amazon author pages.
Look for these titles by Jonathan Janz
Now Available:
The Sorrows
House of Skin
The Darkest Lullaby
Savage Species
Dust Devils
Castle of Sorrows
Savage Species
Night Terrors
The Children
Dark Zone
The Arena
The Old One
Coming Soon:
The Nightmare Girl
Wolf Land
You can’t escape the creature in the catacombs!
Castle of Sorrows
© 2014 Jonathan Janz
A year ago composer Ben Shadeland traveled to the Sorrows, a reportedly haunted island off the California coast, to find inspiration for a horror movie music score. Instead, he found madness, murder, and an ancient evil. His family barely survived the nightmare, and Ben swore he’d never return to the island or its accursed castle.
Now Ben’s infant daughter has been kidnapped and Ben is convinced that the malevolent creature that lives in the catacombs beneath Castle Blackwood is responsible. Ben joins three federal agents, a sultry medium, and others in an attempt to save his daughter. But what awaits them is far worse than they ever imagined. The creature—an ancient god named Gabriel—has grown more powerful than ever. It has summoned unspeakable monsters to the island—both human and supernatural. And Gabriel won’t rest until he has his revenge.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Castle of Sorrows:
It all began with the music. Quinton Early sensed an alteration in his partner during their fourth day on the island. Nothing obvious, just a strange shadow about Agent Moss’s face that had appeared when Early, stuck for a diversion from their investigation of this godforsaken place, had suggested they use the old-fashioned record player to spin some tunes.
The first album Early had selected had been a collection of Robert Blackwood’s most famous music. The first song was “Forest of the Faun.”
Caleb Moss’s sunny expression—the guy was always cheerful, which was one of the reasons Quinton was glad Moss had been assigned with him to this investigation—had quickly been replaced by a gloomy, almost saturnine expression. As if an old memory were being dredged up in Moss’s psyche.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” Quinton asked.
“Turn that thing off,” Moss growled.
Quinton blinked at his partner. Moss had never spoken to him like that. No one ever spoke to Quinton like that. Quinton was six-five, for one thing, and for another he went two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, and not a bit of that weight was fa
t. Add to that Quinton’s jet-black skin and the cold-blooded glare he’d perfected, and it wasn’t any wonder folks treated him with respect.
But Moss had just spoken to him as though Quinton was his servant or something. Quinton felt a dangerous heat begin to build at the base of his neck.
“If you have a problem with the music,” Quinton said, “you can move to another room.”
Quinton remained facing the record player, showing he was into the music. And he was. “Forest of the Faun” was a peculiar, atonal piece, but it had a way of reaching into you and grabbing hold. Besides, Quinton reasoned, Caleb Moss wasn’t a bad dude. Was in fact Quinton’s favorite of all the guys he’d worked with over his ten years with the agency. He shot Moss a furtive glance to see if the man had taken him up on his offer to leave, but there Moss still stood, bending over, his hands squeezing the back of one of the couches positioned near the sixth floor studio’s center. Moss’s face was pinched in what Quinton first mistook for concentration, but soon realized was physical pain. Was his partner suffering from a headache? A migraine maybe? If he was—and Moss certainly did look like he was in a hell of a lot of pain—that would explain the disrespectful way he’d spoken to Quinton moments ago.
The ball of rage between Quinton’s shoulders began to loosen. He reached out, twisted down the volume on the record player. “Hey, Caleb. You don’t feel good, why don’t you go downstairs, rest for a while? There’s nothing we can do anyway with all this rain.”
It was true too. They’d spent the first three days busting their asses trying to piece together just what the hell might’ve happened here two months ago, taking what the forensics team had given them, crosschecking that information with what little testimony they were able to squeeze out of Ben Shadeland and Claire Harden, two of the three survivors of the bloodbath that had taken place here. The third survivor, the little boy, had been completely ruled out for questioning by the higher-ups; Ben Shadeland, the boy’s father, didn’t want his son Joshua interviewed, and so far the FBI had respected those wishes. If it had been Quinton’s call, he would’ve talked to the kid anyway. As a father of two little girls, Quinton Early understood a father’s protective urge as well as anybody, but this was a special situation. This had been the deaths of ten different people, and these weren’t just any run-of-the-mill lowlifes either. Among the victims were Stephen Blackwood, a perennial member of the Forbes 500; his son and heir Chris Blackwood, who’d supposedly incurred the ire of some very nasty gangsters; Lee Stanley, who just happened to be one of the hottest directors in the world, and who on a more personal note, had made three of Quinton’s favorite horror films; Eva Rosales, Stanley’s gorgeous assistant; Ben Shadeland’s ex-wife, Jenny, which to Quinton was damned suspicious; and Ryan Brady, a respected commercial pilot and the man who’d stolen Ben’s wife away from him, and to Quinton that part was really damned suspicious.
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