“I’m afraid it is, Mrs. Hartman.” Sutherland crossed his arms, his eyes downcast. “In the two authentic cases to which I’ve been witness, the spirits in question were formidable. The risks in these cases were severe, and though I entered into those ceremonies with a reasonable degree of confidence, I could not guarantee the hosts’ safety.”
We waited in edgy silence. It seemed the temperature in the kitchen had risen by ten degrees, as though the heat emanating from Casey’s bedroom was flooding through the rest of the house.
Sutherland said, “Mr. and Mrs. Hartman, I have never encountered such a fearsome, malevolent presence as the one attacking your son. It uses languages not uttered for centuries, perhaps millennia. It displays unsettling mental abilities; its ability to penetrate the minds of others is nothing short of remarkable.”
Ron, who stood on one side of the island by himself, paced back and forth and looked like he might soon be sick. “So maybe we should wait then, huh? Call your bishop or cardinal… pontiff, whatever the hell you call your bosses? Maybe they could assist you.”
“We could wait,” Sutherland allowed.
Liz moved closer to Sutherland. “But you don’t think we should?”
“This is all surmise, Mrs. Hartman. There are no absolutes in cases like these. We can only act with good intentions and hope our decisions are the correct ones.”
“But what could happen if we wait?”
Liz gazed into Sutherland’s profound eyes, and from the way she began to tremble, it was clear that Sutherland didn’t need to say it. I again went to comfort her, and this time I didn’t pull away. If Ron didn’t care enough about his wife to reassure her during this crisis, I’d compensate for his failure. Compensate with pleasure.
Ron’s voice was as sarcastic as it was resigned. “Well, that’s it then, right? If it’s a matter of life and death, we do the exorcism.”
Sutherland eyed him closely. “You give your consent?”
“Of course I do. I want my boy back.”
“And you?” Sutherland asked Liz.
“Yes,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes.
“Then let us pray,” Sutherland said, motioning us closer.
“What if we’re not Catholic?” Ron said, joining hands with me and Sutherland.
I glanced at him. “Then say a prayer to your mutual funds.”
Sutherland frowned at me, and I looked away, chastened. My tongue has always been too sharp for my vocation.
We had just bowed our heads when a loud, rapid thudding erupted from upstairs. We stared at each other with dread. Sutherland was the first to move. Liz and I trailed closely after him, with Ron bringing up the rear. We had just begun ascending the staircase when Danny appeared at the top. His face was alabaster, his handsome features contorted by fear.
“You guys better get in here fast,” Danny said. “I’ve never seen anything—”
His words were lost in the ungodly roar that billowed down the hallway.
When we burst through the door, we were met with a sight that defied description, though I will do my best to capture the horror of the scene:
I mentioned earlier the manner in which Casey—or rather the thing inhabiting Casey’s body—had repeatedly thrust against the handcuffs encumbering movement. Evidently, the spasmodic thrusting and jerking had recommenced at some point since we’d vacated the bedroom—and had done so with renewed vigor.
For now, one of Casey’s hands had torn free of its restraint, but it had done so at a terrible cost. What jutted from the end of Casey’s left arm was a sickening branch of bones and glistening cartilage—a bloody horror. The thing had wrenched against the steel cuff so violently that a good bit of the hand had been peeled away. Flaps of filleted skin lay on the floor and the bed like slaughterhouse offal. Evidently, finding his hand liberated, Casey had proceeded to gnaw off the ends of his own fingers.
The exposed bones of the Casey-thing’s fingertips shone a lusterless white. The Casey-thing was using these pointed tips as instruments of masochism, digging slow, meaty grooves in the flesh of his pale thighs, of his belly. What remained of its shirt hung in scarlet tatters, its boxer briefs stained a deep burgundy. It was jerking at its remaining three fetters with maniacal violence, with each tug a new seepage of blood splurting from its wrist and its ankles. If the violence didn’t cease soon, I decided, Casey would expire from blood loss.
For the first time since the ordeal began, I realized how negligent we’d been with regard to Casey’s physical well-being. In retrospect, I know now we should have called a doctor earlier that evening. But how were we to know how violent the spirit inhabiting Casey would become, how severe Casey’s injuries would be?
Something flashed past me on the right. I had halted at the foot of Casey’s bed, and I realized with alarm that Liz was wrapping her arms around her son, obviously thinking to restrain him by force. Unceremoniously, the Casey-thing rammed an elbow at her face and cracked her a glancing blow in the temple. Liz was hurled against the interior wall hard enough to crack the plaster with the base of her skull.
I felt the first kindling of rage within me. I strode around the bed, and without tarrying further, flung my arms around the Casey-thing’s waist. The bony frame immediately began to buck and writhe against my grip; I was unsurprised to hear the Casey-thing shriek with mocking laughter. It called me a eunuch, a pedophile, several hateful epithets associated with homosexuality. But the sight of Liz’s motionless body was newly burned into my consciousness, and I was resolved to subdue this vindictive creature at any cost. Beneath the cackling taunts of the Casey-thing, I heard Father Sutherland’s raised voice reciting the Apostles’ Creed.
I had succeeded in corralling the left side of Casey’s body, but the right arm—though still cuffed to the bedpost—was near enough for the fingernails to gouge my cheeks and neck. The free arm, which I’d pinned between our writhing bodies, was like a bloody boa constrictor, wriggling against me in a ceaseless campaign to break free.
“Help me!” I shouted to Ron, who was gaping at Casey from several feet away, and though I’m loath to assign Ron Hartman credit for anything, he did respond to my entreaty. Clumsily but resolutely, he seized Casey and helped me drive the thrashing body against the mattress. As I clutched the boy, the febrile heat radiating from his flesh conjured fears of brain damage, of fatal fever. Surely Casey couldn’t withstand much more of this trauma.
“Tie him!” I shouted to no one in particular, but in the next instant Danny was beside us, wrapping a green extension cord around Casey’s savaged wrist and looping the rest of it around the mahogany bedpost. I realized that Casey was talking again, though in a voice as ancient and deep as a fairy-tale dragon’s. Further, he was staring avidly at his father.
“…lying in your reports and keeping it all for yourself…”
“Someone shut him up,” Ron said.
“…and used it to buy that condo for your mistress,” the voice croaked.
“Shut your mouth!” Ron demanded, but there was something naked and raw in the man’s voice I’d never heard before.
“Another child,” the Casey-thing went on, staring up at Ron with those venomous black eyes. “Another child, another woman, another house. A very expensive mistake, Ronald. Very expensive indeed.”
“Stop it, you little shit,” Ron hissed.
I realized with alarm that Ron had his son by the throat.
“Mr. Hartman,” Sutherland said.
“You stole from your clients. But even that wasn’t enough,” the voice went on. “Your mistress wanted more, more, and what could you do? If your wife found out, she’d leave you, and then she’d take half of all you had, but your concubine kept wanting more, more—”
Both of Ron’s hands were on his son’s throat, throttling the boy.
“Damn it, Ronnie!” a voice shouted, and in a flurry of limbs, Danny tore his big brother away from Casey.
Aside from the livid red fingermarks on the boy�
�s throat, Casey looked undaunted by his father’s assault. “Wait’ll she wakes up,” the Casey-thing said, flinging a glance at Liz’s prostrate form. “Wait’ll she hears about all the hookers you buy, all the drugs you do on your business trips. But it was the waitress of all people who got her tenterhooks into you, wasn’t it? The cute, flirtatious waitress who waggled her ass at you.”
Ron yelled at the Casey-thing, gesticulated wildly for it to stop, but Danny would not relinquish his grip on his brother.
“You rutted with her in your bed, didn’t you? Your wife was shopping with the kids, and you took a long lunch and impregnated that harlot in your marriage bed.”
Ron was weeping now, his struggles weakening. I glanced at Liz, unconscious on the floor, and I must concede that the basest part of my nature wished she were awake for this revelation.
“You urged her to have an abortion…you pleaded. But she had the child anyway, and now you’re chained to her forever. Eighty thousand dollars the first year. Now it’s a hundred, plus the condo. How much more next year? How many diamond rings? How many— Well hello there!”
The Casey-thing had swiveled its foul countenance toward the open doorway, and when we discovered who stood gaping at us, I believe we all lost the ability to speak.
“Little Carolyn!” the Casey-thing said. “Come hear how your daddy sired you a half sister! Come hear how he plays dress-up games with his waitress whore, how he loves for her to piss on his face, how he…”
¨¨¨
I need not record the rest of the thing’s abhorrent diatribe.
¨¨¨
Ron shouted something at Carolyn, and looking shell-shocked, she exited the room. With my help, Danny was able to secure Casey’s bonds. Together, we carried Liz from the room and made her as comfortable as possible in the master suite. She was breathing evenly, and though she had two new bumps on her head, Danny and I agreed that she would recover from her injuries with nothing worse than a concussion.
Yet we refrained from calling an ambulance. Because when we returned, Casey’s wounds appeared to be mending. When I commented on this, Father Sutherland only shook his head in wonderment. But there was little doubt of this miraculous improvement. For though his wrists were still bloody, in no place was the bone denuded.
With Casey lashed more securely to his bed and Liz resting peacefully, Danny took Carolyn back to her room and endeavored to calm her and to palliate—if such a thing were possible—the effects of the monstrous freak show she’d just witnessed on her young psyche.
We were in the hallway when Ron said, “You know, maybe Bittner could help.”
Danny stared at him in amazement. “He pulled a gun on Casey.”
“At least he tried to do something,” Ron said. “All you do is talk. And forgive me for saying so, Danny, but what you say rarely exhibits much intellect.”
Danny ignored the dig. “You want your son in jail? That’s what you’re saying. Because that’s where he’s gonna be if we let Bittner out now. And that’s best case.”
Ron waved a dismissive hand.
“You saw him,” Danny persisted. “He damn near shot Casey. I can’t believe you’d let him within a hundred feet of your family.”
Ron shook his head distractedly, and as he did, a horrible thought occurred to me. I was about to give voice to it when Danny said, “Maybe you should take some time to cool off, Ronnie.”
With a muttered oath, Ron disappeared. Looking disgusted, Danny soon followed.
Perhaps it was just as well that no one witnessed what Father Sutherland and I soon saw.
Chapter Seven
It started with Casey’s knees.
I once witnessed an injury in a pickup basketball game that is indelibly inscribed on my memory. The young man—the brother of an acquaintance, I’ve long since forgotten their names—had driven toward the basket on a fast break and was attempting to jump stop with the evident intention of faking out the defender giving chase from behind. The young man did evade the defender, who leapt into the air to block a shot that never came. But the ball handler’s left knee, rather than planting solidly on the hardwood and allowing him to gather himself for an uncontested shot, hyperextended in the most unnatural manner, the sight of it almost as grotesque as the protracted popping sound his knee made in giving way.
That incident, as terrible as it had seemed at the time, was a mere sprain compared to the ghastly contortion occurring on the bed.
The alteration in Casey’s legs coincided with the beginning of a familiar rite. Father Sutherland read, “Deliver us, Lord, from sin.”
I answered, “Deliver us, O Lord.”
Father Sutherland: “From your anger.”
“Deliver us, O Lord.”
“From unexpected death.”
Casey’s extremities, as I have stated, were securely bound to the four ivory bedposts by handcuffs and extension cords. Once his parents and uncle had departed the room, Casey had seemed to relax to some degree, as if it had been the presence of his blood relatives that had agitated him. At this point, I tested each of Casey’s bonds to make certain he would not attack us. Then I rejoined Sutherland’s reading. “Deliver us, O Lord.”
“From the snares of iniquity,” Sutherland read.
“Deliver us, O Lord.”
“From fury, prejudice and enmity.”
“Deliver us, O Lord.”
At the continuance of our words, Casey grew very still. This wasn’t the stillness I had witnessed upon first arriving that night, but was rather an alarmingly portentous posture, the alertness of his expression somehow gravid with anticipation. I realized at once it was not Casey who was now present in the room, but rather that diabolical other who reveled in torturing its host and frustrating our efforts to free the boy. The creature’s mouth was slack in a parody of a grin, the look in its eyes far away, almost dreamy.
I had a nasty vision of a mentally challenged person nearing orgasm and shooed the notion away, though it seemed revoltingly apt. Drool was leaking from the corners of the creature’s mouth, the teeth apart in that foolish, infuriating grin. And as paradoxical as it might sound, despite the creature’s idiotic expression, the impression its features conveyed was as ancient and knowing as any I had yet beheld.
That was when Casey’s knees began to crack.
My first worry was wholly irrational—perhaps conditioned by countless films about demonic possession and Satanism, I worried the walls themselves were groaning and preparing to give way. I cast a feverish glance at the ceiling, the floor, but found these surfaces as solid as before.
“From vulgarity and carnal thoughts,” Sutherland read.
I stared openmouthed.
“From vulgarity and carnal thoughts,” Sutherland repeated.
I remained dumbstruck, terrified by the groaning, cracking noises that filled the room.
“Father Crowder!” Sutherland yelled.
I jolted, realizing I’d ceased responding to his invocations. But I couldn’t find my voice and didn’t even bother locating my place in the Bible. I was too fixated on Casey’s legs.
They moved at first as though someone had snagged the skin of his kneepits and was hauling steadily downward. Then the movements became convulsive, erratic, the knees somehow grinding deeper into the mattress and then causing the mattress to creak.
The rapture on the creature’s face grew more obscene. I noticed with distant revulsion that its phallus was engorged, made tumid by the damage it was inflicting on its innocent host.
The knees continued their descent into the creaking mattress, and now became audible the discordant twangs of snapped mattress fibers, the force of the sinister gravity actually causing the mattress to split open.
The scrawny legs formed unnatural Vs now. The sounds of tearing cartilage and cracking bone were dreadful. Blood squirted from the distressed flesh. Jagged shards of bone punctured the skin. His patellas, drawn downward into a space unable to accommodate their platelike width, first d
omed the whitened flesh sheathing them, then exploded in purplish geysers, spewing bone fragments and gristle into the air.
I would like to claim I maintained some vestige of decorum despite the grisly scene playing out before me, but I have set out to record events faithfully, and must therefore admit to vomiting then. Thankfully, I was able to thrust open a window before I lost control. I saw, as I gave up my supper to the tempestuous April night, that below Casey’s window there was a precipitous drop-off of three stories onto a stone patio that lay at basement level.
Suddenly fearful of tumbling out the open window and fairly confident my bout of vomiting had ended, I rammed shut the window and turned to find the awful contortion still in progress. Now, though the knees were so far buried in the mattress that I could no longer distinguish their gory ruins, a new, atavistic fear arose in me that the boy would simply be devoured by his own bed. For that was what appeared to be happening. The creature’s bonds, I noticed with crawling dread, were serving now not to contain the creature, but were rather inflicting harm on Casey’s body. Blood flow seemed to have ceased utterly to his hands and feet, which were now bleached of color.
Panting, my hands planted on my knees, I managed to say, “Hospital. We have to get him to a hospital.”
“He’ll be dead by then,” Sutherland said. “His only hope is our intervention.”
Don’t you mean God’s? I thought but did not say. I could scarcely say anything, so great was my horror.
Sutherland seized me by the back of the shirt. With an effortless tug, he straightened my bent back and jerked me closer so that our noses almost touched. “It is an illusion meant to break our will.”
I glanced at the ruins of Casey’s knees, the spatters of blood and the molted flesh. These were no illusions.
As if reading my thoughts, Sutherland shook me, spoke directly into my face. “I have witnessed these marvels before, Jason. They seem real. Our senses accept the deceit completely. Until the trance is shattered and the truth is revealed.”
Exorcist Falls Page 6
