Dark Debts

by Karen Hall

  Michael’s footsteps on the tiled floor punctuated his exit. He reached the door and opened it.

  “Michael?”

  He stopped. Waited.

  “Would you ask Barney Fife to have them send a polygraph examiner?”

  Michael nodded. He left to find the sheriff, his feeling of relief completely eclipsed by a stronger feeling of dread.

  EIGHT

  Jack passed the polygraph. Apparently he passed it convincingly. Randa overheard the examiner tell the sheriff, “I’d be looking elsewhere.” The sheriff was clearly unhappy—both that he hadn’t solved his big murder case, and that he wasn’t going to become the town hero for getting rid of the last Landry.

  Even with the polygraph results, the sheriff kept them there for as long as he could, but time was running out and he had to let Jack go or charge him with something. Finally Michael got testy and asked if they were planning to charge Jack with felony gutter repair. Said he had a friend at the ACLU who’d be very interested to hear about it. At which point the sheriff got some religion; he grunted warnings about Jack staying close to home, and then he let them go.

  Once they were outside, Michael wasted no time.

  “We need someplace to do this. We can’t do it at the boardinghouse or the rectory. We have to go someplace where the noise won’t attract attention.”

  “What kind of noise?” Randa asked.

  “Trust me,” Michael said.

  She supposed the answer was obvious. Demonic noise, whatever that meant. She told Michael about the farm. He nixed it.

  “Too much evil in that place. It would have a home court advantage.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Jack said, looking at Michael. “You’re saying there’s something in me . . . that my body is just a shell and I’m actually this invisible . . . thing . . . that lives in it? And I can be displaced by another invisible thing, which happens to be an evil thing . . . that wants to destroy me . . . and after it’s done with me, it will go after you?”

  Michael nodded. “Basically.”

  Jack shook his head. “Why?” he asked. “What’s the point?”

  “Nothing that I can explain to you quickly,” Michael said.

  “You want me to go along with this without understanding it?”

  “Jack, if I came home and my house was on fire, I wouldn’t stand on the lawn explaining to the firemen how I have all new wiring and batteries in the smoke detectors. I would help them put the fire out.”

  “How?” Jack asked. “By magic?”

  Michael was getting impatient. “I guess so, from your point of view,” he said. “Look, you just explained it yourself. It’s a metaphysical problem. We have to fight it where it lives. If this doesn’t work, you’re welcome to come up with your own solution.”

  “He’s right, Jack,” Randa said. “Let’s just do it.”

  Michael appeared to be deep in thought. “I have to figure out who can help me . . .”

  She waited as he continued to think. For a moment he looked like he’d just smelled a bad odor. Then his face changed to something that looked like resignation.

  “Okay,” he said out loud.

  “What?” Randa asked.

  “Get in your car and follow me.”

  Michael took Jack in his car and headed north on I-75. Randa followed. They drove for almost an hour. Michael exited the interstate just north of Acworth and she followed him through winding country roads. It was just getting dark when he turned down a long driveway lined with huge live oak trees on either side. At the end of the drive, they came upon a large white antebellum house with a columned porch.

  Okay. I’m going to an exorcism at Tara.

  Michael waited for her by his car.

  “You stay with Jack,” he said. “He’s been sleeping since we left Barton. I’ll be as quick as I can be.”

  “Will I be safe?”

  Michael thought about it.

  “Okay. We’ll all go.”

  As Randa went to wake Jack, she glanced back at Michael. He was staring at the house with a look of dread.

  NINE

  After half an hour of being grilled, Michael managed to convince Gabe to put Randa and Jack in adjoining rooms at the end of the hall so they could get some rest. Now the two priests sat in the dimly lit library, going over it all again.

  “What makes you so sure it’s demonic?” Gabe asked.

  “Because of what I learned about Vincent’s past. The family curse. Jack and I are the only ones left and we’re the ones who are going through this insanity.”

  “That’s not definitive.”

  “And because I feel it.”

  Gabe smiled. “Have you explained your ‘feelings’ to a psychiatrist?”

  Michael looked down at his hands. How could he cut through this crap? He felt sure there was no time to waste.

  “No,” he admitted.

  “I strongly suggest you start there,” Gabe said. “And the diocese is going to require it anyway.”

  Michael shook his head. “Look, I don’t expect you to understand feelings, since you don’t have any, but I’m right about this.”

  “Maybe you are. But you need to go through the proper channels to find out.”

  Michael leaned down to look Gabe squarely in the eyes.

  “I know there’s a human being in there somewhere,” Michael said, “and I really need to talk to him.”

  Gabe shrugged. “I’m listening.”

  “I tried the ‘proper channels’ last time. It took months, and in the end, we were denied permission anyway. And three people ended up dead because we wasted all that time. This . . . thing . . . that is attached to my bloodline, it doesn’t just destroy the people it possesses. It takes out as many innocent bystanders as it can along the way. The body count is already high. If you don’t help me, you will have blood on your hands, I promise you.”

  “This is not a minor favor you’re asking.”

  “I know that.”

  “Okay, regarding my feelings? I feel like I don’t want to go back to Syria.”

  “No one will know.”

  Gabe sighed; actually thought about it for a moment.

  “Have you ever had any dealings with the demonic before?” Michael asked.

  “Aside from my superiors, you mean?”

  “The real thing,” Michael specified.

  To his surprise, Gabe nodded.

  “I assisted in an exorcism. Once. A long time ago, in Baghdad. A fifteen-year-old girl who swore she was Ishtar.”

  “Did it end well?”

  “Not for Ishtar,” he said.

  “So you know.”

  Gabe nodded somberly.

  “Is that why you don’t want to do it?”

  “No. I told you the truth. I don’t want to end up in trouble. As meaningless and unrewarding punitive jobs go, I actually like this one.”

  “You were ordained before 1972. So you were ordained an exorcist, just as I was.”

  “And if, like last time, my superior asked me to be involved in an exorcism, I would not hesitate. But that is not what is happening.”

  “We both know you have no respect for your superiors.”

  “Respect is irrelevant. I took a vow of obedience.”

  This was not going to work, Michael realized. He moved to the sofa and sat next to Gabe to underscore the importance of what he was about to reveal.

  “You leave me no choice but to tell you the truth about Vincent, and it’s not pretty.”

  Gabe nodded for Michael to continue, and he did. He spared no detail of the entire sordid mess. Gabe remained stoic, for the most part, but Michael noticed something shift in his eyes. By the time Michael was done, Gabe understood the full depth of Michael’s request.

  “I suspect,” Michael concluded, “that Vincent asked me to bring those books here so that we would meet. I also suspect he didn’t believe I could do this by myself.”

  Michael expected Gabe to concur, but he didn’t. H
e remained quiet, thinking about it.

  “I do realize what I’m asking of you,” Michael said. It was true. He now knew well the weight of a broken vow. “But if no one has ordered you not to be involved, you have merely committed the sin of failing to ask permission. It’s not the same thing.”

  “You’re going to lecture me on obedience?” Gabe asked.

  “You would hear a dying man’s confession if you didn’t have faculties to hear confessions in that diocese, wouldn’t you? Because his soul would be at stake. How is this different?”

  Gabe took it all in. Thought about it for a long moment.

  “All right,” he said quietly.

  Without further comment, Gabe left the library and headed for the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” Michael asked.

  “To get ready,” Gabe said, without looking back.

  Gabe was waiting in the hallway, dressed in his cassock and a surplice, with a purple stole around his neck, when Michael came down the stairs. When Gabe handed him a stole, he kissed it and put it around his neck.

  Gabe had prepared the room and Michael could see Jack already lying on the bed, arms and legs strapped to the mattress frame.

  “I’m sorry about the straps,” Michael said.

  Jack shook his head. “Don’t be. Make sure they’re tight.”

  Michael looked at Randa. “Are you okay?”

  Randa nodded. “Father Novak said I could stay.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to,” Randa said. “I’ll stay out of your way, but I don’t want to leave Jack.”

  Michael nodded. Out in the hallway, he could see Gabe motioning for him to come there. He excused himself.

  “I want you to hear my confession,” Gabe said, “and vice versa.”

  Oh, hell.

  Of course Gabe was going to say that. Michael gave himself a mental kick for not anticipating it. Now what was he going to do?

  They went to the library. Confession had never bothered Michael in the least, even if he knew the other priest. But he hadn’t been since he’d met Tess. And the last person on earth he wanted to tell was the guy who was about to hear his confession.

  Just do it. Leave Tess out.

  That was it. He had no other choice. He’d deal with that later.

  Once he’d made the decision, it was relatively painless. No surprises, except that Gabe actually admitted to pride. A sprinkling of sins against charity, some anger, some envy, the occasional impure thought. All routine stuff. Then Acts of Contrition, Hail Marys, absolutions, good to go.

  Outside Jack’s door, they ran through the plan like a rock band going through a set list. Holy water. Litany of the Saints. Our Father. Psalm Fifty-Three. Gospel readings. And then . . .

  They began. Jack showed no reaction to the holy water. They knelt and began the Litany of Saints, which Gabe had insisted they chant in Latin, so Michael made him take the lead. He didn’t mind. The chanting calmed him, and Gabe had a pleasant voice. But if his friends could see him now . . .

  “ . . . Kyrie eleison . . . Spiritus Sancte Deus . . . Sancta Maria . . . Ora pro nobis . . .”

  The room remained calm through an hour of prayers. Jack kept his eyes closed and did not move. There was no smell, no heavy feeling, no voices in Michael’s head. He began to doubt himself. He’d never seen any sign that Jack was possessed. He’d assumed it because of the blackouts Randa had described and the story of Vincent’s demon. He was the one who had experienced the voices, the nausea, the presence. Maybe the wrong person was lying on the bed?

  There was a rustle as Jack shifted his body weight to face the priests. His eyes were open now and, as Michael watched, his mouth twisted into a strange smile.

  “You’ll get your turn, Padre.”

  The putrid odor started to fill the room. Michael and Gabe exchanged a glance: an unspoken “Here we go.” Michael continued the prayer.

  “God of Heaven and Earth, God of the angels and archangels, God of the prophets and apostles, God of the martyrs and virgins—”

  This prompted a howl of laughter that clearly did not belong to Jack. It was tangible. Michael could feel it on his skin. Randa was staring at Jack, wide-eyed.

  “Virgins!” The demon laughed with delight. His eyes were fixed on Michael. “What do you know about virgins?” He laughed again, and then slowly turned his head toward Gabe.

  “And what have we here? If it isn’t the high priest Caiaphas.”

  Gabe didn’t look up from his book. Michael picked up the prayer again and mumbled it to its conclusion.

  “You’re wasting your energy, Padre,” the demon said, suddenly. “You can’t put out the fire from inside the burning building.”

  “By the authority of Jesus, I command you,” Michael said. “To what name will you answer?”

  “You know my name,” Jack said. He chuckled. “You need to learn your own name.”

  The air was heavy. It felt like a living thing. The odor had intensified; it smelled like an open garbage can on a hot summer day. Michael stopped and took a couple of slow breaths, trying to brace himself for the presence. Randa recoiled and steadied herself against a dresser. Gabe remained unfazed.

  “Mi casa es tu casa, Padre,” the demon said. “Salsipuedes.”

  “Digame tu nombre,” Michael demanded.

  “No,” Jack said, grinning.

  “Tu nombre,” Michael repeated.

  “No te acuerdas de mi?” Jack asked, the grin widening.

  “You will obey me,” Michael said, “by the—” He stopped. The pressure in the air had grown much worse in an instant, bearing down on him. A pain shot through his head. It took his breath and he couldn’t speak. He shot a look at Gabe, who took the baton.

  “Quod nomen est tibi?” Gabe asked the demon.

  “Ana-Sin-Emid,” the demon answered, laughing.

  “Quod nomen est tibi?”

  “Naramsin,” the demon said, and then cackled again.

  Michael had recovered enough to speak. “What was that?” he asked.

  “Ancient Babylonian names. Ana-Sin-Emid means ‘I trust in sin’ and Naramsin means ‘he who exalts sin.’ He’s playing with me.”

  Gabe returned his attention to the demon. “Quod nomen est tibi?”

  The demon issued a deep-throated growl in Gabe’s direction, followed by:

  “Father Brilliance. Proud of that IQ, aren’t you? So what? Every single thing He gave you is meaningless.” He laughed heartily and then continued: “When you die, you will have had no effect on the world. The Jesuits did my work for me.”

  Without taking his eyes off Jack, Michael groped on the nightstand and found a crucifix. He grasped it tightly and held it up to face the demon.

  “Quod nomen est tibi?” he demanded.

  “Yes, I know. You can speak Latin, too.”

  A sound filled the room. A gruesome symphony—thousands of voices at once, all screaming in utter agony. Souls in complete despair. The demon was opening a window of their prison, allowing the sound and the feeling to reach out and grab all of them.

  Michael lifted the crucifix and held it over Jack. He was trying to speak, but could not. Jack’s smile turned into an equally hideous frown. He stared at the crucifix with a look of pure hatred. A low and inhuman groan came from somewhere deep in his throat. At the same time, something in the air broke loose, and the pain and the sounds started to fade. Soon they were gone entirely. The only sound in the room was that of Randa and the priests trying to catch their breath.

  Suddenly the demon spoke again. “Put . . . it . . . down . . . you . . . bastard . . .”

  The voice was different now. Grating. Each word seemed to take an enormous effort.

  “He . . . doesn’t . . . control . . . me . . .”

  “He cast you and all like you into the pit,” Michael said. “And by His power I command you to return.”

  “I . . . am . . . not . . . stained . . .” The demon’s voice was getting stro
nger. “. . . by . . . his stinking blood.”

  “You are not saved by His blood,” Michael said. The thing growled again.

  “You don’t know him!” the demon spat, his words now coming fast and sharp. “You know lies! He was no one!”

  “Then why hate Him?”

  “Because, you useless pig! He gets power from you brain-dead slime and your fairy tales! He had no power until you gave it to him! He was no one! You don’t see the most obvious thing.”

  Michael didn’t respond for a moment and Gabe jumped in.

  “Lord, hear my prayer.”

  “And let my cry be heard by you.”

  “You weak shit!” the demon spat at Michael. “Your bread is bread and your wine is wine and nobody is going to save your ass! You’re going to stand in front of the same wrath I did, and you’re going to get the same amount of mercy!”

  “Our Father,” Gabe began, and Michael and Randa quickly joined in. When they finished, Gabe picked up the prayers again.

  “God . . . it is an attribute of Yours to have mercy and to forgive . . . Hear our prayer, so that this servant of Yours—”

  “You’re not a skillful confessor, Father Holy Pants. Padre Pio would have known.”

  Gabe kept praying as Michael could feel his stomach constrict. He hadn’t remembered that the demon would blurt out his unconfessed sins.

  “He forgot to mention the leggy redhead in New York. He goes up there every other week for . . . spiritual direction.”

  Gabe stopped praying and looked at Michael.

  Demons lie. Don’t believe it.

  Gabe knew. He might not be Padre Pio, but he’d looked up too quickly for Michael to lose his shocked expression. He handed his Roman Ritual to Randa.

  “Hold my place,” he said.

  Jack’s eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep. Gabe headed into the hallway and Michael followed him, feeling like he was being called to the principal’s office.

  “You have a girlfriend ?” Gabe barked.

  “You’re going to believe a demon?”

  “Absolutely not,” Gabe said. “I want to hear it from you.”

  Michael was trapped. To buy some time, he made his way to the library. Gabe followed on his heels.