Death Do Us Part

by JG Faherty

  * * * * *

  “You’re lucky we grew up together.” Father Anthony Donello—Tony to his friends—took a beer from the fridge and pointed it at Art. “Anyone else would have Child Services on the way over here to take Connor away from you.”

  For the past hour, Father Tony had listened to Art detail all the strange happenings in the house. To his credit, he hadn’t laughed, although he did smirk a bit when Art mentioned how the clock radio in the bedroom kept turning on and playing Art and Catherine’s wedding song whenever he and Missy tried to make love. But when Art asked Connor to “show Uncle Tony the bruises on your arms” Tony’s face had grown serious and he’d shaken his head.

  “Those are too small for a man’s hands,” he’d said, pointing at the five finger-shaped welts on Connor’s skin. “And too big for a child’s.”

  Now, standing in the kitchen, Art sipped his own beer. “So, you believe me?”

  Tony shrugged. “I believe that you and Missy would sooner slit your own throats than hurt Connor. I believe there are things in this world science can’t explain. But ghosts? That one I have trouble with. And why would Catherine want to hurt her own son? Or terrorize you, for that matter?”

  “How the hell do I know?” Art heard the frustration in his voice, took a breath to calm himself before continuing. “She was half crazy for a long time. Maybe she finally lost it and that’s why she killed herself. Or maybe it happened after she died. Maybe she’s pissed about me and Missy. Frankly, I don’t care why. I just want it to end.”

  In the living room, four light bulbs popped. Tony’s hand twitched and beer spilled down his arm.

  “What the hell?”

  “Exactly.” Art gestured at the broken bulbs. “That’s the kind of shit we have to deal with every day.”

  “It could just be an electrical problem.”

  Art rolled his eyes. “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? We’ve had electricians, contractors, plumbers, anyone you can think of, check the place over. Nothing.”

  “All right, so something strange is going on. But, c’mon, ghosts?”

  At that moment, a terrified scream filled the apartment. Tony jumped and his beer fell to the floor. He turned towards the living room, where the television had turned on by itself.

  On the screen, children and adults watched in horror while a woman in a gray uniform stepped off a ledge and hanged herself.

  “Did that just happen?” Tony’s eyes were wide.

  “Happens at least once a day. Same movie every time. The Omen. Always at the exact same point, where the maid commits suicide.”

  Tony’s hands shook as he picked up his beer.

  “Let’s go down to my car.”

  Art frowned. “Why?”

  “Because we’re going to bless the shit out of this house.”

  * * * * *

  Art opened the door and cringed at the pungent scents of musk and sandalwood that rolled out in a heavy cloud. In the three weeks since Tony Donello’s last blessing, the heady mélange of incense had become a constant—and increasingly unwelcome—companion. All their clothes reeked of it, to the point where the other officers had begun making comments. The smell had even contaminated Art’s car. Most days, he felt like it was permanently crusted inside his nose.

  And the incense was only the beginning of what Tony had done to the house. Crosses hung on all the walls, so many of them that Art, Missy and Connor refused to bring guests over because the place looked like part of the movie set for a sequel to Carrie. Bottles of Holy Water sat on every windowsill and above every doorway. Stains on the walls and carpet showed where Tony had splashed jars of the stuff everywhere as he went from room to room, murmuring blessings and prayers in Latin.

  Meals, once the high point of each evening, were no longer a time to bond over cooking and eating while conversation and delicious aromas filled the kitchen with love. Instead, they’d devolved into incense-drenched desultory affairs ended as soon as possible.

  “I’m home,” he called out.

  Something went thump in the back part of the house.

  Art’s pulse kicked up a notch. The sound hadn’t been loud; most likely it was nothing more than Connor tossing his sneakers into the closet or Missy shutting the door to the dryer.

  Except those were noises for a normal house. He’d experienced too many odd happenings the last few months to ignore anything.

  “Missy? Connor? You guys okay?” He headed down the hall, checking the different rooms along the way. Kitchen, dining room, bathroom, laundry room—all empty.

  At the end of the hall, both bedroom doors were closed.

  The feeling in Art’s stomach grew worse. Normally, no one closed doors unless they were getting dressed. A chill passed through his body and his shoulders twitched in response. He gripped the knob to Connor’s door and took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for anything. Then he threw the door open.

  Connor, seated on the bed, looked up from his comic book and pulled one ear bud off, releasing the tinny sounds of pop music.

  “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

  Art shook his head and looked across the hall at the master bedroom door.

  Another thump, this time louder.

  “Missy.” His throat constricted, reducing the word to a whisper. Ignoring Connor’s “What’s wrong?” he hurried to the door and grabbed the knob.

  It refused to turn.

  “Missy!” Art pounded his fist on the door. In response, more muffled thumps came from inside the room, and this time he felt sure he recognized the sound.

  Someone stamping their feet on the floor.

  Art reacted instantly, taking two steps back and then slamming his body into the door. It bowed but didn’t open. He hit it again and was rewarded with a cracking sound from the area of the knob. For his next attempt, he started all the way from Connor’s room and ran full force into the door, bending slightly at the waist so his arm and shoulder hit with maximum force, the way he’d learned back in high school football.

  The door crashed open, wood splinters flying from the shattered molding. Art stumbled and then caught himself against the doorframe, his eyes already locking onto Missy’s prone form.

  For a moment he froze, his brain refusing to accept the reality of the scene before him.

  Missy, dressed only in a bra and panties, on the floor by the foot of the bed. Something blue in her mouth. Her eyes terror-wide and her hair in shambles. A pair of jeans wrapped tightly around her ankles, binding her legs together.

  Movement caught his eye. More clothes—pants, shirts, one of Connor’s Spider-Man bed sheets—winding themselves around her chest, pinning her arms to her sides. As Art watched, one of his dress shirts rose from the laundry basket and dropped over Missy’s head. The sleeves quickly tied themselves across her face and she pounded her feet harder.

  It’s choking her.

  The thought of Missy’s imminent death broke Art’s paralysis and he grabbed the murderous shirt, tearing at the cloth until it released from Missy’s face. The sleeves slapped his cheeks, beating him so hard the buttons left circular welts on his skin that wouldn’t fade for days. More clothes rose from the basket and attacked. Rolled-up socks flew through the air like fastballs and hit with bruising force. A lace bra whipped him over and over with its strap. The shirt came at him like a boxer, battering his face with lefts and rights until he clutched it with both hands and pulled, tearing the material in two.

  Everything stopped.

  The clothes in the air dropped to the floor. The two halves of his shirt fell limply over his arms.

  There was an instant where the only thing Art heard was his own gasping and his pulse pounding in his head. Then Connor burst into tears and wrapped his arms around Art’s leg, pressing himself tight as he cried.

  “It’s okay,” Art said. He pri
ed the boy loose and held him in his arms, hugged him close. “It’s okay. Now let’s help Missy.”

  Art knelt down, one arm still around his son, and used his other hand to untie Missy’s wrists. With her hands free, she quickly released the cloths binding her feet and he helped her up.

  The three of them hugged and cried for several minutes, their love and relief demonstrated far more effectively in actions rather than words. Then Missy pulled them towards the door.

  “We have to leave.”

  They went into the living room, but Art knew she wasn’t talking about just the bedroom. She meant the house. As long as Catherine’s ghost was around, none of them were safe.

  Except where would they go?

  His wife’s evil spirit had already followed Missy from her apartment to his house. It would surely follow them if they moved somewhere else. So how far would they need to travel before they were out of her reach? Another state? Another country?

  Art looked at Missy and Connor, both of them with their heads buried against his chest, dampening his shirt with their tears. He clenched his jaw to keep a frustrated scream from escaping, enraged at his own impotence. As a cop, he’d always felt in control. Sure, there were dangers to driving patrol, but you had your training, your gun, an entire force for backup. But a ghost wasn’t something you could apprehend and arrest. You couldn’t shoot a malevolent spirit, no matter how much you wanted to.

  If only it was that easy. Just go into bedroom, get your service pistol, and…

  Jesus Christ. No.

  His gun. It was still in the bedroom safe where he stored it each day after coming home from his shift. Missy’s gun was in there too. Plus both their backup pistols.

  If Catherine could attack with clothes…

  “Stay here.” Art pushed out from his family’s arms. Connor tried to hold on and it nearly broke Art’s heart to pry the boy’s fingers loose, but he’d apologize later.

  After he made sure his crazy ex-wife couldn’t murder them from beyond the grave.

  Missy pulled Connor into an embrace, whispering “Hush, honey, it’s okay,” while giving Art a confused look. Art shook his head and ran down the hall.

  How long before Catherine either regained her strength or remembered the safe? Was he overreacting? She’d been haunting them for months and had never done anything with the guns.

  She also never tried to kill her own sister before.

  Art pulled open the double-doors of the closet just in time to see the dial on the portable safe turning. He reached up and spun the wheel in the opposite direction in an attempt to buy time and make Catherine start over. The fact that she needed to open the safe the normal way, instead of just tearing the lid off, gave him hope that he could prevent her from getting to the guns.

  With one hand gripping the knob so it wouldn’t turn, he pulled the safe down from its shelf, ignoring the sharp pain in his shoulder as his arm took the full weight of the heavy box. He ran back down the hall. Missy gasped at the sight of the safe, realizing instantly why he had it.

  “Connor, hang on tight!” She hefted the boy in her arms and rolled off the couch onto the floor. Not that it would save them if Catherine got control of a gun. Nowhere in the house would be safe. Built in the sixties, it had thin walls and no basement. Even the backyard offered no protection. Surrounded by a six-foot-high wall to block the noise and the view of the nearby freeway, it was essentially a dead end.

  The only chance, Art knew, was to get the safe out of the house and drive as far away as possible. But where?

  The station.

  As soon as he thought it, he knew the precinct armory represented his only chance. It was halfway across town, but there he could lock the safe away so securely even a ghost couldn’t get at it.

  He made it to the door and had his car keys in hand when Catherine made her presence known again. The locks on the door clicked shut and invisible hands tried to pull the safe from him. He fought back, clutching it against his chest and wrapping his arms around it.

  Something crashed into the wall next to him and shattered, peppering his cheek with tiny shrapnel. Afraid to let go of the safe, he closed his eyes and pressed his face into the corner between the wall and door. A sharp blow hit him in the lower back and a glass figurine fell to the floor. Another caught him in the shoulder, and he realized Catherine was throwing the contents of the curio cabinet at him. He ducked down, doing his best to protect his head. If she managed to stun him or knock him out, he’d lose his grip on the safe and it would be all over for him and his family.

  “Leave him alone, you bitch! Sister or not, I fucking hate you!”

  Missy’s voice. Art wanted to turn and look, see what the hell she was thinking, when the supernatural force fighting him disappeared. At the same time, he heard objects crashing in the living room and understood exactly what Missy had done.

  Bought him time.

  He unlocked the door and rushed outside. Twenty feet to his car and he covered the distance like he held an empty cardboard box in his arms instead of a twenty-pound safe. He had the engine started and the car going down the driveway before he grabbed the door and pulled it closed. Then he was speeding down the road and saying a prayer for Missy and Connor to stay safe.

  * * * * *

  Art hung up the phone and let out a sigh of relief. Missy and Connor were fine. The barrage of souvenirs and collectibles had ended a few minutes after he’d left. And since he’d had no problems getting to the station house and locking his safe in the armory, he had to assume either Catherine had finally run out of steam or she was still looking for him.

  Either way, we’re not out of the woods.

  There were too many things in the house a malevolent spirit could turn into deadly weapons. Knives, forks, a broken bottle…hell, even a belt could kill someone if used the right way. And they certainly couldn’t empty the entire house, which left only one solution.

  Get rid of Catherine for good.

  He’d already told Missy and Connor to leave the house, check into a hotel someplace. Now he just had to—.

  “Everytin’ okay, Art?”

  Art glanced up, saw Detective Benito Espinosa standing over him, one eyebrow arched up as he stared down.

  “Uh, yeah, Benny, fine. Sorry, I had to use your phone. I left my cell at the house.”

  “No problem, man. You sure you’re okay? Like my pops used to say, choo look like sheeet, man.”

  Art tried to laugh, but the best he could do was muster a weak smile. He pictured himself as Benny was seeing him: sweaty, hair mussed, cuts on his cheek…not the look of a man who’d simply forgotten his phone.

  “Yeah, I feel like it too. We…we’re doing some renovations at the house, and I had to get away for a while, you know?”

  Benny winked at him. “Yeah, I know. My Marta’s a diablo loco too, whenever we’re doing one of her stupid home improvement projects. Hey, how’s your old man doin’? Ain’t seen him around in a while.”

  “He’s good. A tough old bastard, you know?” Over the years, Art had found it easier to answer questions about his father as vaguely as possible. Jeremy Stanhope had a good reputation in the precinct; people still talked about him, even after five years of retirement. “Best desk sergeant ever,” was the number one statement. Usually followed by, “Sonovabitch could drink like a fish and still box your ears in.”

  It was because of his reputation, and his relatively young age—he’d retired at fifty-eight—that he’d been allowed to join the auxiliary police force, which provided backup during emergencies and major events like parades and carnivals.

  Of course, Jeremy had only done it so he could keep his full medical, but the Chief didn’t care. He’d said having Sgt. Stanhope around occasionally was better than not having him at all.

  When Art made Sergeant—the youngest ever on the force—Chief Hir
sch had ended his toast with, “Here’s to Art Stanhope, who’s following in his old man’s footsteps!”

  Since that day, Art’s stomach burned every time he drank champagne.

  “You tell him Bennie says ‘Hi’ next time you see him, okay?” Bennie slapped Art on the shoulder and sauntered away towards the break room.

  Glad for the chance to escape further conversation about his father or anything else, Art left the station and headed for the library, where he sat down at a computer and called up a search program. Then he paused.

  What the hell did you search for when you had to rid your house of an evil spirit? Exorcists? Witch doctors?

  Ghost freakin’ busters?

  In the end, he settled on possessed homes as a starting point. When he got more than 10,000 hits, he quickly narrowed his search to getting rid of ghosts and added in the name of their town. Numerous “self-help” pages came up, and he scrolled past them. He and Missy were well beyond self-help. They needed a professional.

  And on page three of his results, he found one.

  Madam Ileana Prioleau, Spiritualist.

  Art read the first paragraph on the site, unaware he was speaking aloud.

  “Thank you for visiting my web site. I am blessed to have the gifts of clairsentience (sensing) and clairvoyance (seeing). These are gifts that have been bestowed upon me from above. Having these gifts also allows me to reach out and help others, whether they are in need of guidance or help with a spirit problem, or are simply looking to contact a loved one.”

  Below the information was a contact number. There were other pages on the site, but he’d seen enough. He hit print and went to the front desk to retrieve his document.

  Catherine, it’s time to send you back where you belong.

  Hell.

  * * * * *

  “What you ask, this is very difficult.”

  “But you can do it, right?” Art watched the old woman closely. He’d always been good at reading faces, the tiny changes in expression, the body language of head tilts and eye movements. Combined with voice inflection, they were great ways to tell if someone was lying, telling the truth or something in between.