The Demon Senders

by T Patrick Phelps

  “Cardinal,” the girl said as a grin played on the corners of her mouth. “I should have no say in your approach. Though, I must tell you, that a wrist is not an area of a woman’s body that brings about pleasure. Maybe to some, but certainly those who enjoy the finer art of seductive wrist foundling are in the minority. Shall I guide your touches?” She slowly spread her legs apart, her torso not adjusting to the movement of her legs.

  “Just your wrist, if you please. I am here only to help.”

  “Your inexperience is showing, Cardinal.”

  O’Keefe kneeled, his face even with the child’s. He reached a trembling hand out, extended two fingers and searched the child’s wrist for the sign of life he was certain Father Cortez had missed.

  “I told you,” the child whispered. “You’re much, much too late.”

  He felt no pulse.

  Without asking permission, he moved his hand slowly to the side of the child’s neck.

  “Getting better, Cardinal. Your touches are increasing in their effect. You have done this before, haven’t you? I won’t tell a soul. Wouldn’t want a scandal to come to light and send your holy career up in smoke.”

  O’Keefe stood and backed away from the mattress as quickly as his tired legs could move him.

  “There must be something medical,” he said in English, absently forgetting that no one in the shack could understand him. “Has a doctor been here to see the girl?” he asked to the mother in the corner.

  “There are no doctors here,” the child responded in English. “That one,” she said, shifting her eyes to the woman huddled and now sobbing in the corner of the room, “that one is your mother. I brought her with me as I know how terrible it was when you lost her all those years ago. And the manner in which she left you? How horrible it must have been for a boy to come across his deceased mother, her parting caused by her own hands. How old were you, Cardinal? Weren’t you twelve when you found your mother dead on the couch? Or were you eleven?”

  O’Keefe darted his eyes to the huddled woman. Her face still turned down and her long, grayish hair hid her face. “Was her hair gray when I walked in?” he thought to himself.

  “Mother,” the child said. “Your son is here to see you.”

  O’Keefe felt his stomach began to twist and turn. He raised his hand to cover his mouth and prayed that the woman kept her face hidden.

  “Mother,” the child said again. “See how your return has affected your only child. Relieve him from his plight of fear and wonderment.” Then, louder, like a growling wolf, “Show your face to your son, you selfish, suicidal bitch!”

  The huddled woman slowly lowered her hands from her face, then pushed back the unwashed hair that covered her face.

  “I’m so sorry, Joey.”

  <<<<>>>>

  He was outside, away from the child and the woman huddled in the corner beside the child’s mattress. His heart was beating too quickly, too hard. He bent over, his hands bracing his body on his legs. He drew breaths deeply, trying to clear his mind and bring some energy back to his muscles.

  “The odor,” he said to Father Cortez. “The odor in the house. It is a gas, a hallucinogen. What is it?” With all the strength he had remaining, O’Keefe stood, charged and grabbed Father Cortez. “What are you doing to me? To this family?”

  Father Cortez pulled away from the grip of O’Keefe. “The girl is not alone, Cardinal O’Keefe. She is no longer pure.”

  “It must be carbon monoxide,” O’Keefe said. “That can cause hallucinations. I saw things,” he said, his voice trailing off as it followed his mind’s journey back to the events that happened moments before. “Things that cannot be real.”

  “Cardinal,” Cortez said, “whatever you saw, they were not hallucinations. It was the demon inside the poor girl’s soul that twisted reality.”

  “The father. The man in the outer room.” O’Keefe started back towards the shack, then stopped and pointed towards the shack. “Did you see him when I left the room? Did you see his face?”

  “Forgive me, Cardinal. I did not notice his face.”

  O’Keefe’s eyes filled with a mixture of terror and tears. He raised both hands to his face, palms opened, fingers extended. “His face was fluid. It was like a cloud covered it. What was that? What happened in that home?”

  “The child is infected, Cardinal, but not by any poison, gas or drug. She is possessed and she has been waiting for you to arrive. The family, I fear, have lost whatever battle they were still fighting when I visited last. They, too, are infected.”

  Cardinal Jeffrey O’Keefe steadied his breathing and calmed his trembling body. He drew a deep breath through his nose as he pulled himself to his full six-foot frame. He turned to face Father Cortez. “I need to go back in with the child.”

  “I know you do,” Cortez said. “It knows you must as well.”

  O’Keefe walked towards the ramshackle home, through the opening guising as a front door, and disappeared from view.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The speed and ease at which she climbed through the political ranks amazed and astonished her. She had help from others and certain obstacles, namely certain people, were disposed of. But still, ascending from supervisor of a small Ohio town to Congresswoman in less than five years? Astounding.

  Once she accepted the promise and the conditions of Henry’s offer, she knew there would be forces laying clear her path. Forces that drove others in her way to do things that destroyed their careers. Things, but for this force, they would have never done.

  There was the county legislator who was found with a hard drive packed with pictures and videos of children, most in a very vulnerable and compromised situation. The state senator who, despite eight years of sobriety, found it impossible to resist the temptation of the offered needle and liquid euphoria the needle’s promise afforded. The popular congressman who, driven mad by the allure of available power and wealth, accepted one too many offers from a lobbyist and saw his own meteoric rise to power sent crashing to the ground in an embarrassing and criminal heap.

  Of all the events that paved and leveled her climb, it was the lack of inquisitive minds that astonished her the most. When one level above hers was vacated, she was the obvious choice. When another level, more respected and filled with even greater responsibilities and expectations, became in need of someone trustworthy and confident, it was her shoulder that was tapped. And when the office doors to which she was destined to obtain were thrown open, she strolled in, voted in by an overwhelming majority of citizens grown tired of the embarrassing and attention-commanding scandals.

  As she sat behind the mahogany desk in the Capitol’s wing reserved for junior members of Congress, Stacy Flannigan waited for the expected call to ring her cell. She knew he would be calling, not to congratulate her, but to remind her of her mission. As she waited, the thoughts of her success fuel to her burning fire of hatred, she turned her attention to her true desire.

  To what she had been promised. To what was being held over her.

  “Follow me,” he had told her, “and you will sit beside me and rule as you choose.”

  He had warned her countless times of the dangers of succumbing to the transitory glory and power that her inevitable earthly position would offer.

  “It will be fleeting, a momentary flash of pride. And you know as well as I do, what pride can do. Wait,” he scolded, “until our mission is completed. Then pride will not result in burning pain, but in everlasting power.”

  She didn’t trust him, nor did he expect any trust to be extended. He only asked for loyalty over the one who they all believed demanded it. That one, impotent in his rule and void of all manner of due respect, was, in the end, their unionized target.

  “He is twisted in his thoughts,” her leader had told her. “His original choice still causes regret and remorse in his vacant being. And that, his regret and remorse, are a weakness that cannot be strengthened and must be manipulated.”

 
As the steady stream of well wishers and hopeful ass kissers began to slow, her office began to take on a silence too deep for her comfort. For when the silence came, the distant screams of horror could be heard. Congresswoman Flannigan called out to her aide, whose name was too far down the list of important names to remember.

  “I need you to collect some information for me and to arrange a few meetings.”

  “Of course,” the nameless aide responded. “What information and with whom would you like to meet?”

  “I’ll give you the names shortly. I am expecting a constituent to call soon who will tell me with whom—to mirror your proper use of the English language—I need to meet. As for the information I require, I do insist and expect that whatever I ask for and whatever I share with you will be kept confidential.”

  “Of course,” the aide said, smiling proudly after being entrusted with something of such importance despite her young age. “Everything will be considered confidential unless you suggest otherwise.”

  “Very good,” Stacy said. “I realize that the information I require may take some time for you to assemble, so my timeframe is flexible. It is more important that you fetch all of what I require rather than retrieve some of it in short order. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes. Thoroughness is more crucial than timeliness.”

  “But that does not mean that my patience is something to be taken for granted.”

  “I understand and will make gathering whatever information you need my top priority until my task is complete, or you require something else.”

  “You will do fine working for me…” Stacy said and then paused, fully expecting her aide to remind her of her name.

  “My name is Jennifer,” the aide said, humbled. “Jennifer LaMore.”

  “Jennifer. How nice. I’ve written the information I need on this sheet of paper,” Stacy said as she handed a neatly folded sheet of paper to her aide. “Commit the contents of that paper to memory as soon as possible, then shred it.”

  As Jennifer slowly began to unfold the paper, the cell phone on Stacy’s desk vibrated softly. “This is the call I’ve been expecting. Please shut the door as you leave. I will give you the list of people I need you to arrange meetings with as soon as my call ends. Thank you.”

  Jennifer made her way to the door, closed it behind her, and sat behind her small desk. Though she had been working for Congresswoman Stacy Flannigan for all of six days, the meeting she just had with the Congresswoman was her first. Having recently graduated from Georgetown with a degree in Political Science, she was elated when her father, a retired army General, was able to pull some strings and help her land the position as Associate to Congresswoman Flannigan. Though Jennifer had no political aspirations of her own, she wanted to get close to the action. Get some real-world experience and, possibly, move her way up in the non-elected government world.

  She glanced at the note after ensuring that no one passing by her desk could steal a glance. Jennifer was excited about her first assignment and though her introduction to her boss was a bit unsettling, her desire to “do a bang up job,” as her father would say, was too strong to let first impressions sully her attitude. She read the note through once, twice, then furrowed her still wrinkle-free brow.

  “What the fuck?” she whispered.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It had been so long. Too long, he thought. Surely, his promises and their lack of realization would cause those he led to question his position. The position he fought for. The position he longed for in his other life and offered in trade for something he had held so dear.

  He felt no remorse for what he had done, for not only were his actions directed, they served a much higher purpose.

  “Or rather, a much lower purpose,” he chuckled to himself.

  It had been over a year since he made the promise and the decision to assume a leadership position in order to follow another. And while that year was filled with a steady and appreciable climb towards the position he now held, still, a full year’s worth of exposure was a tremendous risk.

  “I’m sure to be noticed,” he said to Henry.

  “I have others in place whose jobs are very clear: Clear your path. You need to follow my instructions. Be smart, however, for I do not have the full oversight I will soon. That we will all soon have. The timing is perfect for your ascension. The other groups have proven useful but what they use as their guidance is apart from us. This will take time and it will take your loyalty. No one will miss your absence and no one would dare question your length of stay. Understand that others have spent much longer on this side. Much longer than what I need you to do. So stay sharp, stay true, and do what the fuck I tell you.”

  Badr’s group was small, too small to raise concerns by those most interested in the activities of groups like his. They numbered less than fifty while other groups numbered in the thousands.

  “We need to keep our brothers and sisters close, and therefore, our numbers cannot grow beyond control. There will be some who leave us to join another family. That will be their own demise.”

  “But our brothers and sisters,” his second in charge had said, “they came to follow you with the promise of glory. The promise to strike at the head of the serpent. I am certainly not one to question your judgement Badr, for I have seen you do wondrous, miraculous things. But their need for advancement is causing restlessness.”

  “Restlessness,” Badr answered, “is exactly what will cause them to fail. I’ve told them all this countless times. If we reveal our faces before it’s time, our faces will never be remembered. Soon. Very, very soon.”

  <<<<>>>>

  The Cleveland morning air brought him back to his before-time: A time when a cool breeze felt like a gift from Allah. They were so rare in the area he lived that thinking the cooling touch of a gentle breeze was anything less than divine was a belief only the ignorant could hold.

  As he lay in his bed, the bedroom windows flung open to allow the breeze to root out and eliminate the remaining stench from the previous day, Badr found himself needing to avoid more enjoyment. Enjoyment, he knew, was like water to fire: It stole essence and weakened abilities. He turned away from the woman still sleeping by his side and took a strange comfort knowing that he had only used her for his pleasure. He made sure she understood her role in the activities of the previous night when he asked her to lay with him, and when he had fulfilled his desire, he reminded her again.

  “Your pleasure, your enjoyment, was not as important as was my release. Be glad and honored you were chosen.”

  He stood from the bed, walked to the window and pushed open the fluttering drapes. He stood, not caring if anyone caught a glimpse of his nakedness from outside, and remembered what it was like to fill his lungs with warm air. That was another pleasure he enjoyed in his before-time and another pleasure that he was promised he would enjoy again.

  But not yet.

  Now, filling his lungs or releasing his infection or finding some glimpse of humor in knowing that his old beliefs and hopes were as foolish as a child’s imaginary play friend, and only stirred anger. Resentment. A desire to earn something to give his past mistakes and sacrifices some value.

  The house he was given was a simple one: One story, two bedrooms and an intentional lack of comfort and of distractions, located outside of the busy city but close enough to see everything unfold. He was seldom alone in the house, as his close associates—those who either understood what he was and had agreed to take his suggested offer, or those who were so blinded and twisted by his charms that accepting the offer was nothing more than a matter of timing—preferred to stay close to his side.

  “Though we have not been discovered yet,” one of his close followers had said in a voice of concern and worry, “the chances are high that we will be. And once that happens, you need to be protected.”

  “I agree,” Badr said. “And having you close eliminates wasted time between me being spotted and the spotter being elimi
nated.”

  Being spotted was becoming so rare now. Henry had delivered on his masterful promise and supplied him with enough protection. When a spotter was identified, his protection would strike. On the rare occasions when his protection failed, his associates were quick to serve him.

  Henry’s plan was ingenious: Twisted in its nature, but still brilliant. Its fulfillment would make everything worthwhile.

  “The risks I am taking,” he had said before agreeing to his role, “I am becoming to see them as necessary to earn that which you are promising me. But understand, I have fallen for another promise and have paid a heavy toll. I am not without my doubts about your promises.”

  “I don’t expect you not to be. In fact, if you weren’t doubtful, you wouldn’t be in the position of joining my cause. You were lied to: That lie did not come from me nor from someone who ranks among those now fluttering in this realm. You trusted an unguided, that was your error. You trusted a blinded, a deceived, a foolishly hopeful liar that used and deceived you. You died, yes by your own hands, but you know you had no choice. Now, you can earn more power and true rewards than any unguided could even possibly imagine.”

  He walked through the house, not caring or worried about disturbing the four or five others he expected to still be resting. When he came upon one he recognized but couldn’t remember his name, his woke him with an easy kick to his ribs.

  “Resting in the hallway?” he asked when the man snapped to respectful attention. “You are a good servant. Go into my bed and enjoy the woman. I am finished with her. She will not resist. Unless, of course, you ask her to.”

  The man hurried off.

  Before long, three men made their way into the kitchen to sit beside him. They were all waiting, hoping that today would be their day. The day when the countless hours and days of preparing the plan would end and the action would begin.