Evil Eternal

by Hunter Shea

  He shuddered when he heard Father Michael call after him.

  “It will be a pleasure to meet an old enemy.”

  Chapter Three

  Father Martin Rooney accessed his e-mail as soon as he heard the tiny electronic beep signal an incoming message. He was a transfer from New York and the most computer literate in the bucolic Vermont town of South Russell. Farming held more importance than computers here. He never ceased to be amazed at the total absence of iPods when he passed teens in the street. It took him some time to adjust, but he’d eventually come to feel very much at home in this little holdout to a forgotten era. The fact that his home had been invaded by a pestilence far beyond his means of extermination angered as much as frightened him.

  The message was brief and to the point. The Vatican would be sending a representative ASAP. He would arrive by late afternoon, tomorrow.

  The Vatican? The archbishop’s concern must have matched his own to forward his message to the Holy City.

  He was to gather all eighty-five inhabitants of the town, actually eighty when you left out the Carron family, at the church and await Father Michael’s arrival.

  That will be easily done, he thought. Word spread fast in small towns and the news of the past week had left every member of South Russell on edge. What was once a deeply religious, happy town of farmers and small-time custom jelly manufacturers was now a fractured community of insomniacs who jumped at the slightest sound and walked in packs for fear of being alone, clutching rosaries and casting furtive glances.

  Even Father Rooney, the resident city slicker, was at wit’s end. He had seen things up at the Carron farm. Things that turned his view of the world flat on its ass. Things that made him, a grown man, run screaming like a child in the night.

  He lifted a cigarette to his mouth and pressed the Print icon on his computer. He wanted to show everyone that the Vatican had answered their cry and all would be right again. It was his job as priest and confidant to reassure the town, what had become his town, that help was on its way and the plague that had descended on their tranquil hamlet would be expunged. His frantic e-mail to the archbishop two days earlier had prompted a very quick response. That they were sending a representative from the Vatican demonstrated just how serious the situation was, while instilling confidence that the powers that be knew full well how to deal with the frightening matter.

  If I tell them that, will that only deepen their fear? And who is this Father Michael? he thought. What kind of man was dispatched to handle the terror up at the Carron farm? What had he seen and done in the past to qualify him to be the lone representative from the head of the church?

  He rubbed his eyes with his palms, shuddering. Not a drinker by nature, he considered opening a bottle of the wine reserved for services. A glass or two could do more good than harm. He was so, so tired. The limits of his endurance had been passed days ago and he’d even started to experience heart palpitations.

  Dammit, he needed that wine, if only to have a moment’s rest, an hour of calm. Besides, Father Michael would be here soon. Let him be the man in charge. Let him find the light within the darkness. Let him bring peace to the town.

  But deep down, he knew no one in South Russell would ever rest easy again.

  On the way to the small wine rack he kept in the sacristy, he grabbed a large glass, watching it tremble in his hand as if it belonged to someone else, an old man. For each sip of wine he took that night, he shed twice as many tears.

  Father Michael grabbed the few possessions he needed: change of clothes, heavy, ankle-length coat and his gunnysack of necessary tools. It had always been packed and ready, so there was no need to check its contents. Using pathways that only he, the monster of the Vatican, knew of, he quickly made his way to the Hall of Penance. Inhumanly fleet of foot, especially for a man his size, Father Michael made it to the designated meeting place with Pope Pius XIII in minutes. He was aware that it would be some time before the pope, frail or not, would enter the Hall.

  The Hall of Penance, as it was named by Pope Urban II centuries ago, was located deep within the Vatican, many levels lower than even lifelong residents of the Holy See believed existed in the massive city. It was accessible through a hidden passageway located in the subterranean passage that connected the Vatican Palace to the ornate gardens. Only Father Michael and the succession of popes were aware of its presence and purpose. Accessible by a narrow tunnel hewn from the rock foundation of the Vatican itself, the secret hall was a simple, circular room without electricity or fancy decoration. The stone walls had been roughly chiseled, the ceiling just high enough for Father Michael to stand erect.

  In the center of the room, on a rectangular altar made of flawless marble rested an ancient artifact thought by most to be mere myth.

  A long, bronze-tipped spear lay on the altar. It was bathed in an eternal blue blaze that gave off neither heat nor cold. Its tip was crusted brown with blood shed two millennia ago on the most momentous day in human history.

  The Holy Lance was the very spear used by a Roman soldier to pierce Jesus’s side as he died on the cross. Its powers were mighty. Those who possessed it were said to become invincible, and rumors of it being in the hands of great conquerors and rulers over the past two thousand years were as numerous as the number of fake lances that were fought over and stored in secrecy.

  Father Michael knew the truth. How it was given to the Apostle Peter and kept from the world by generations of succeeding men chosen to protect it at all costs. It was eventually placed in his care, and he had chosen to safeguard it underneath a small farmhouse in Austria, far from the town’s church and, what he thought, suspicion.

  Of all the tales told about the Holy Lance, only its plundering by Hitler holds a shred of truth. To this day, Father Michael didn’t know how the maniacal leader managed to find it. The Fuhrer and his top men, all driven insensate by their desire to master the mystical arts, thought that with the lance under their control they would win the war and conquer the world. But like all men, they only knew of half-truths, and even those were greatly outnumbered by all the falsehoods under which they had operated.

  They also weren’t aware of Father Michael, who waged a one-man war within and behind the lines of combat to recover what rightfully belonged to no man. Hitler heard of the deeds done by a hulking, mad priest that witnesses claimed could not be stopped by weapons. It was a sign, that God had sent a soldier to reclaim his prize. In the last days of the war, he took the lance into his bunker, sure in the knowledge that it would, at the very least, spare him from death. Father Michael arrived at his bunker moments after US soldiers, who discovered Hitler’s body, his head shattered by a single bullet. General Patton, knowing the history of the lance, handed it to him, the lone priest in the scarred battleground, offering a military escort so he could safely return it to the Vatican.

  And here, in the Hall of Penance, it had remained for close to seventy years, where it waited for him to hand over to the new Christ. So much about the Holy Lance and he were similar that he felt a strong connection to the relic and their intertwined destinies.

  Father Michael tentatively reached out to touch the blue flame, the sole reminder of his purpose, his rebirth.

  He quickly pulled his hand back at the sound of shuffling feet. Pope Pius XIII entered the room, winded and pale. Father Michael offered no help, stayed silent as the mystical blue flame.

  “Here is everything Cardinal Gianncarlo has on the state of affairs in Vermont,” the pope said between ragged breaths. He held out a thin, bound report to the mysterious priest, careful not to make any sort of hand-to-hand contact. “Your plane will land at Logan Airport in Boston. From there you will take a helicopter to South Russell, Vermont. Our only concern is the weather, as it appears you will be arriving at the same time as a terrible winter storm. I know full well that a mere storm could not stop you. I just hope it doesn’t delay you so much so that you will be too late.”

  Father Michael nodded an
d quickly scanned the pages, absorbing every minute detail of the mission before him. To the untrained eye, the tale coming out of Vermont would appear as either the ramblings of a priest who had suffered an obvious break with reality, or an exaggeration of something far simpler and benign than it seemed. The cardinal was a wise man who took nothing lightly. This was no false alarm.

  The pope took that moment of silence to stare wide-eyed at the Holy Lance. Devout as he was, the sight was almost beyond belief. He was a modern man as well as a man of the cloth, believing that most miracles had some scientific explanation, rooted in more mundane details as yet undiscovered. The lance, followed by his initial meeting with Father Michael, had forever changed or, better yet, solidified his Christian belief system. Science had since become so much minutiae in the greater and wondrous workings of God the Father.

  “This will get worse before it ends.” Father Michael’s voice, a guttural growl that commanded attention, shattered the pope’s reverie.

  “Yes, I’m…I’m sure it will,” the pope replied.

  “There’s no telling what demonic force is behind this or how far its limbs reach. The minds of men are more pliable than ever before. It will be difficult.”

  “And that is why we have you.”

  Father Michael nodded in reply.

  The pope looked briefly into Father Michael’s ivory eyes, hoping to see something of the man beyond the frightening exterior. He could only imagine the tortured soul that lived behind those dead man’s eyes.

  “Go with God.”

  Father Michael left the Hall of Penance with the speed of a fleeing wraith, the flap of his coat echoing down the long tunnel.

  Pope Pius XIII felt his knees buckle. He slumped to the floor and clasped his hands together in silent contemplation of events to come. Father Michael was the church’s only physical weapon against the evil that had resurfaced. All that was left now was prayer.

  It was literally the calm before the storm as the helicopter touched down in an empty field a hundred yards beyond the Vermont church. The pilot had unsuccessfully tried to make conversation with the blind priest the entire ride over. At least he had assumed he was blind, judging by his eyes. The man moved with incredible dexterity but the pilot figured he was one of those sightless people whose other senses had increased tenfold to make up for the loss of the one.

  “Do you need help getting to the church?” he shouted above the sharp whoosh of the blades. He touched down in a hard-packed field with a harsh jolt.

  The priest merely grabbed his bag, opened the cockpit door and trudged across the field.

  “That’s one strange dude,” he said.

  With a shrug of his shoulders, the pilot waited until the odd holy man made his way to the church doors in the distance before taking off, thankful to be rid of his bizarre cargo and anxious to get back before the storm hit.

  Father Michael trudged through the eight inches of old snow that blanketed the field, crunching through the thick layer of ice that crusted the hardpack. He paused at the massive red double doors to the church. There was a stillness in the frigid air that devoured all sound. Ominous gray clouds filled the sky, ready to burst at the seams. Beyond the coming storm was a feeling, like a faint static electrical charge, that confirmed he was not too late.

  Behind the doors he could hear the quiet murmur of dozens of hushed voices. No doubt they had heard the helicopter and were buzzing about his arrival. He opened one of the doors and was immediately inundated with gasps from the expectant congregation.

  Here stood a man, larger and more imposing than everyone’s worst childhood nightmare of the boogeyman, who was supposed to deliver them from evil. Silence enveloped the church as he strode down the aisle to Father Rooney, who stood aghast before the pulpit.

  Father Michael noted the fear in the people’s faces. Not just fear of him, but a disease of anxiety that had nestled within their bones and turned them into a pack of the living dead. Their priest was in no better shape, his red-rimmed eyes marking him as a man who had slept very little in the past week, if at all.

  “Fath—Father Michael, I presume,” he said, his eyes growing wider at the approach of the massive priest.

  “Come with me,” Father Michael ordered, walking briskly beyond the altar to the rear of the church. Dozens of heads swiveled, following him as he walked down the aisle. He heard Father Rooney assure his congregation that he would be right back and to remain calm. He felt a small twinge in his gut at the sound of their frantic replies.

  A minute later, the priest joined him. “Before I go to the Carron farm, I need to know one thing. Had anyone been staying with them recently? Someone who was a stranger to the community?” The air vibrated as he spoke the words.

  To his credit, Father Rooney did his best not to fixate on the intense timbre of the priest’s voice. He thought for a moment, and said, “Actually, they had taken someone in. A transient was passing through town looking for work a couple of weeks or so ago. Now, there’s nothing odd about that in a farming town. Many of the farm owners here employ migrant workers. What made this stand out, I guess, is the season. We rarely if ever have people pass through looking for work just before winter. Joe Carron took him on anyway, I believe to make repairs to the barn and fencing around his land. Why do you ask?”

  “Did you see this man when you went to the farm three days ago?”

  “No, but what does this man have to do with the possessed child?”

  “Everything. How do you know the child is possessed? You’re not a trained exorcist.”

  The small-town priest quickly grew angry. “Because she changed from a beautiful little girl into some sort of demonic beast before my very eyes, that’s how I fucking know she’s possessed! I watched her jump through a pane of glass and tear the back off a cow with teeth that were longer than her arms! And I ran. I ran for my life and I haven’t the courage to go back there and it makes me sick to my stomach thinking about what that family is going through, alone!”

  In a perfect world, Father Michael would have had the time to talk the priest down, allay his fears, his sense of personal failure. This world, however, was far from Eden and about to get much, much worse.

  “You said in your communication that the sheriff went there two days ago.”

  Father Rooney cast his eyes to the ground. “He hasn’t returned.”

  Father Michael placed a hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Go, tend to your congregation. Keep them in the church until my return. No one is to leave the church before then. No one.”

  Relief swept across Father Rooney’s face. His greatest fear would be having the Vatican official ask him to accompany him to the Carron farm. He turned and walked back into the church on unsteady legs, bolstered by the thought that only something as frightening as this Father Michael would stand a chance against the evil at the Carron house.

  The skies erupted as Father Michael took the two-mile walk to the farm. Snowflakes as large as the palm of a child’s hand fell in copious amounts, already covering the unpaved path. The wind began to howl, whipping through the dead limbs of the trees, injecting cold into his veins.

  Less than a thousand feet from the Carron property, he stopped at the sound of crackling twigs to his right. Through the whistling of the wind, he strained to hear any movement in the wooded area that surrounded him.

  A pile of dried leaves crunched to his left.

  A shuffling of feet to his right.

  With one swift motion, he pulled a long staff from his gunnysack while dropping the bag from his shoulder. The staff had a solid-gold cross at the end, encrusted with dazzling jewels: rubies, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds and jade. He twisted the base of the staff and with an audible shikt, six-inch blades slid out of the top and opposing arms of the cross. In an instant, it had become a deadly trident. He held it out before him, his eyes and ears scanning for the approaching attackers.

  Twin howls exploded around him. With lightning speed, he was hit from behin
d while a foot connected with his midsection.

  He was quickly knocked to the ground.

  And without his trident.

  Chapter Four

  Father Michael lay face down in the snow, temporarily winded. His attackers had fled into the woods as quickly as they had come.

  The sound of childlike laughter drifted on the swirling winds.

  He gingerly touched his right side where he had received the kick. Several ribs had been broken. They were the least of his concern. They would heal.

  His trident was missing. No doubt they were planning to use it against him. It was an unwise decision on their part.

  Rising to one knee, he squinted into the onslaught of snow that was rapidly escalating into a major blizzard. He feigned grievous injury, clutching his side and grunting in pain as he rose to his feet. It was the basic law of the hunt in the animal kingdom. Kill the weakest of the herd. They would be upon him and careless in their confidence.

  The howling rose again, this time directly in front of him. They were planning a full-out frontal assault, which meant his plan was working. They were reckless and drunk with the scent of a certain kill.

  Reaching into his coat pockets, he plucked out a pair of palm-sized crucifixes with razor-sharp blades protruding atop each end. Engraved on the body of each were the words of demonic exorcism as old as the church itself. The arcane passage, which was in no way related to the larger rites of exorcism for vanquishing demonic spirits safely from human hosts, had been passed down to each succeeding pope throughout the ages. When needed, the pope would inscribe the words onto a weapon but cover it so the chosen champion of the faith could not read it, for they were human and not meant to know.

  Until Father Michael came to be.

  A burst of adrenaline coursed through Father Michael as his attackers came into view.