The House the Devil Built

by Benjamin Hively

  THE HOUSE

  THE DEVIL BUILT

  BENJAMIN HIVELY

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Benjamin Hively

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Printing: 2017

  For Dad, for always dealing with my demon

  PROLOGUE: 1962

  PART I: THE BEGINNING

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  PART II: LOVE THY NEIGHBOR

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  PART III: INTO THE DARKNESS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  PART IV: LIKE A MOTH TO A FLAME

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE:

  1962

  Reverend Shlepp sat outside the Boudreaux plantation, taking a drag from his cigarette, as he awaited the parish medical examiner. The events that had unfolded in the once happy household during the last five days had worn him to the bone. Elizabeth Boudreaux, the wife and mother, had called him late Saturday evening concerning her daughter. After several attempts to seek medical attention with no answers, Elizabeth was afraid her daughter’s soul was preoccupied by a dark entity. She couldn’t explain the force but insisted that Isabelle was not acting like her normal twelve year old self.

  Shlepp was not a complete believer in possession. He had his doubts and, although stated in black and white in the great book, he was unsure about the situation he was about to walk into. Elizabeth had explained that they had just been turned away at a hospital in Baton Rouge. The doctors had chalked it up to behavioral problems and told them the best treatment was discipline. During the three hour drive back through bayou roads, Isabelle had vomited three times, spoke in “voodoo talk”, and even viciously attacked her younger brother: biting his face. Elizabeth sounded absolutely frightened and at one point handed the phone over to her husband, Paul.

  “Reverend, she is not my daughter. There’s something there, her eyes are so dark, a demon!” Paul screamed into the telephone.

  “Now Paul, don’t jump to conclusions. In times like these, the worst thing to do is to panic. The devil feeds on fear and by God’s grace, Isabelle will get better.”

  “We need you now, Reverend. Please. For the sake of my family.”

  The Boudreaux family had been going to South Bell Baptist for almost twenty years. Shlepp had married the couple and baptized all three of their children. They were devout, attended every Sunday service, and all of the other social gatherings the church held. Shlepp knew them well and had never heard either Paul or Elizabeth in such a terrified state. After a little more conversation, Shlepp agreed to come visit but promised no guarantees. He hung up the phone and sat in silence looking over at his Bible sitting on the desk.

  His car pulled up to the Boudreaux home in the late evening hours. Although it was spring, it seemed the winter temperatures were dropping lately and his breath filled the air around him. He stood outside his car for a few moments staring at the house. The home was massive: two stories, wraparound front porch, and an oversized barn not one hundred steps from the side of the house. From where he stood, he could hear muffled screams coming from somewhere on the property and they only got louder as he placed himself at the top of the steps. The front door opened and the screaming subsided. The silence was almost deafening as the house settled on its foundation. Paul stood in the doorway, the tired expression written upon his face could be seen in the dim moonlight. He motioned silently for the Reverend to enter and Shlepp stepped into the home. An overwhelming smell invaded his nostrils, that of sulfur and human feces, almost pushing him back onto the porch but he caught himself on the wall.

  “Reverend Shlepp,” a voice hissed somewhere in the home.

  “Where is she?” Shlepp questioned, staring at Elizabeth sitting at the dining room table. Her skin was pale, covered in a nervous sweat. She attempted a smile that faded quickly as a roar came from outside. Shlepp looked in the direction of the barn, his view obstructed by several walls, and his question was answered.

  “You have her in the barn?” Shlepp moved towards the back of the house, heading through the kitchen to the backdoor. He had been to the family’s home on a few occasions, although for different reasons than the one he had now, so he knew the property’s layout well. He forced himself outside while the couple stayed behind, a fear stopping them from exiting the house themselves.

  “We had to. Last night she nearly choked Paul to death in his sleep,” Elizabeth’s voice shook. A guilty tear formed in her eyes. “We put her out there, and before we knew it, she was inside our bedroom again.”

  “May I have the key please?” Shlepp said, more of a demand than a question, as he tried to rip open the dark red door. Paul reluctantly pulled them free from his pocket. Shlepp snatched them before returning to unlatch the lock and pulling open the door. They followed him this time, weary of the preacher’s wellbeing. He almost took a step into the darkness before Elizabeth grabbed his arm. She gave him a concerned look and pulled his arm free. He nodded his head and then placed his foot inside the darkened barn. Taking a deep breath he pulled himself together and continued further into the abyss. As his body became entrenched in the low light, a small body scuttled into a dark corner. Isabelle’s feet were the only thing he could see from the shadows so he squatted down to be at her level. He could hear her labored breathing as he slowly moved closer to the girl in the darkness. She pulled her feet closer to her body, howling in a voice deeper than anything he had ever heard. He fell backwards as the girl stood, revealing a tattered blue dress and multiple scrapes upon her once ivory skin.

  She lunged forward at Shlepp with another howl, and soon he was fighting with her on the barren floor. She kicked and punched at his chest, but finally was subdued as the Reverend held her hands over her head. She started to laugh, a small cackle at first then into a full-fledged monstrous chortle.

  “Oh Reverend, you want her don’t you? You want to stick your cock in her virgin pussy,” she growled, “Come on Shlepp, take her. Take her from behind you sick man of God!” Shlepp was astonished at this once beautiful and serene girl speaking in a 40 year old smoker’s voice and writhing her innocent body underneath him. She continued laughing as she looked with blackened eyes at Shlepp’s confusion. Isabelle kicked him square in the groin. As he fell over in sheer pain, she raced to the closed door and slammed into it with the weight of a full grown man. The door began to give and Shlepp could hear Elizabeth screaming from outside. Shlepp gathered his strength and raced to her as she turned around to beat him with her now bloodied hands. Though her strength was impressive, he was finally able to pull her away from the door and they continued to wrestle on the dirt floor. Shlepp screamed for restraints,
and soon Paul was at the door with two leather belts. Paul watched as his daughter fought the Reverend, but he was able to place her onto a wooden pole as she screamed out profanities and even spat towards them a number of times. Paul pulled the leather belts tight onto his twelve year old’s arms, and he cried as he watched his little girl howl, the belts cutting into her arms, as she fought against them. Shlepp pulled the man outside and back into the safe haven of the home.

  Several hours passed before Shlepp or the Boudreaux’s could say anything. Shlepp’s thoughts lay within reason, this girl was mentally disturbed and needed medical attention. The Boudreaux’s didn’t share the sentiment, only allowing themselves to believe that their lovely daughter had succumbed to a demon, and believed Reverend Shlepp was the only person who could help.

  “You can’t keep her chained up in a barn like that,” Shlepp spoke, shattering the silence, “The law will have you put away for good if they find out about any of this.”

  “With all due respect Reverend, that girl down there is my daughter and I don’t want to see her locked down there myself, but we need your help. You need to free her from the torment,” Paul shakily said. The Reverend could see the pure agony in Paul’s eyes and the sense of urgency in his voice.

  “Paul, there are many other viable reasons she could be acting like this. She could be sick…”

  “Oh you know goddamn well she is not sick,” Elizabeth shouted.

  Paul slammed his fists on the table as a cackle rang through the kitchen as if Isabelle was standing right next to them. Paul looked at Shlepp with anger in his eyes. “That thing has a hold of her Reverend and you’ve gotta fix it or I will,” Paul shifted in his seat lighting a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. His hands shook as he light the carcinogenic tranquilizer. He inhaled deeply allowing the toxic air to invade his lungs, and exhaled, and looked towards Shlepp again, this time with sadness in his eyes, “I’m scared Reverend, for both Isabelle and my family.”

  “I understand Paul, I really do,” Shlepp agreed, allowing himself to come to terms with the fact that if someone believes something enough it becomes fact in their eyes. He fiddled with his thumbs, picking at a hangnail clinging painfully to his nail bed. There was a sting from the cuts he had suffered from the shuffle outside and he grimaced. He pulled a cigarette from his own pack and placed the cylinder into his mouth, lighting it with the same lighter as Paul.

  Elizabeth sat on the edge of the couch watching the two men talk back and forth about baptism, deliverance, and God. She couldn’t understand why God himself would allow her beautiful baby girl to become afflicted with a demon. A demon. All the pictures she had seen of a gargoyle-type being sitting on the chest of a woman had become a reality in her household. A demon, she thought, was something non-believers were tortured with, and only by bringing themselves to allow Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior was their salvation. Isabelle was different; baptized shortly after birth, attending church services every Sunday, and even rode the bus to Bible Study every Wednesday. She continued her studies at home; reminiscing on lessons taught, even days later. She’d bring up the stories of Moses, David and Goliath, and the Lord Jesus Christ. Yet there she was tied up in the barn like an animal as a demon consumed her being. Elizabeth searched for the reasons and came to no conclusions as to why this happened to her family, to her Isabelle.

  “Momma?” the little girl’s voice came from the backdoor. Elizabeth stood and quickly walked over to the door placing her hand on it, Shlepp rose from his chair and placed his hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. The Boudreaux’s suspicions of possession had become a root in his mind, interlacing with his biblical thoughts and his scientific discoveries. He pulled her back from the door knowing, whether it be biblical or neurological, that Elizabeth or Paul were not safe within the confines of the wooden barn outside.

  The despair had immediately wrapped itself upon him before Paul had answered the door, and he looked towards the ceiling as he quietly questioned the Lord of his next actions. Elizabeth had sat down, and the only sound within the home was a whispering coming from the open window. Shlepp fell upon his knees and begged out loud for God to answer his questioning. Paul and Elizabeth stepped back as Shlepp fell upon the floor, convulsing. The convulsions continued as horrid visions infiltrated Shlepp’s mind. A war was being waged within the walls of the compound, that of good and evil. The Devil seemed to have a domain of the premises and God seemed to be an outsider, pushing forth to own the land. Every emotion pulled through his soul, the trance broken only by the screams of a young girl a hundred feet from his current position. Shlepp began to breathe normally again, allowing all the information to connect itself in a sinister tone.

  The dizziness subsided and Shlepp gathered his thoughts. The visions he had were a confirmation of the fears that both Elizabeth and Paul had expressed. Shlepp knew of the dangers he was about to encounter at that moment, not even permitting himself to go to another official of his church for fear that he might be dismissed. He was now a permanent fixture within the home, and he was there until he could salvage Isabelle’s soul.

  Five excruciatingly, tiring days later, Shlepp had failed. He had tried to provide release to poor Isabelle, tried to protect the girl from the attacks provided by the Devil, and, sadly, he was unsuccessful. It came to an end when Paul entered the barn with his own brand of Deliverance, a promise he had kept to remove the problem himself. He listened as the sirens grew closer, coming down the country road. Paul had stayed behind in the barn, reconciling his actions as Elizabeth’s wailing penetrated the Reverend’s heart, and as the flashing lights reflected from his eyes, Shlepp heard another gunshot, Elizabeth screamed and Shlepp knew what Paul had done with that second shot. He was at the mercy of God now. The demon had won.

  PART I:

  THE BEGINNING

  ONE

  Tap. Scribble. Tap.

  It was the last hour of his rehabilitation journey at Bayou Laurent, and Ashton was eager for a cigarette: it had been three months since he had flicked his last one away in the parking lot before walking into the confines of his self-created Hell. Sitting quietly across from Dr. Wicke, he watched as she wrote onto the paperwork situated in the manila file: hearing every dotting of the I’s and crossing of the T’s. The sound of the pen and paper within the office was nerve-wracking. The dark gray walls were a stark contrast of the cigarette stained walls within the labyrinth of resident rooms and nurses stations situated only a few feet beyond the doors of where he sat. Normally, gray couldn’t be considered soothing, yet he felt a strange comfort in the space; his eyes going through every detail of the mass produced duck print on the wall. There was one window in the office that the sun peaked through, but was halted by bamboo shades, giving the office a weird glow. Every so often the doctor would look up at him before quickly returning to her paperwork. Ashton found it odd that there was no computer system she was inputting the details on but figured that was for some underpaid secretary in an office hidden beneath the crazies and drug addicts that kept the hospital afloat.

  Ashton’s mind began to wander, going through the walls to the city beyond. The French Quarter was only a few blocks away but seemed a world away. His home was situated there, among the throngs of tourists, bustling bars and restaurants, and he was excited that in just a few more minutes he’d be headed back to his own fortress among all the din. Spending three months away from the general population doing the exact opposite of what people came to New Orleans for was an unwelcomed entry into his life story but each day inside became easier, a healing vacation from the choices he had made and would have continued to make if he hadn’t been pushed into it. It was no surprise to him that Dillon had chosen to wait outside for this last step in the road, the entire center reeked of broken promises and shattered dreams, a smell to get accustomed to slowly.

  Although similar to the many characters of the Quarter, the rehab center was a place where most people didn’t want to be; some forced by family members,
a betrayal in their eyes, and some were forced by the judicial system, an alternative to the conditions at New Orleans Parish Prison. Unlike many of the gaunt faces that Ashton became familiar with during his stay here, his alcohol and drug problems had been a recent decline. While many had spent years chasing their high, some as early as their preteen years, Ashton’s demons started a year and a half ago, an alcohol and cocaine riddled eighteen months that nearly cost his life, his career, and relationship. Dillon had given him an ultimatum of losing him or getting better and Ashton had reluctantly chosen to get better. With five bestsellers his management found him the inpatient program at Bayou Laurent, and he soon became a patient: leaving behind the self-destructive grieving process that had become routine in his daily life.

  The first nights of his imprisonment were the worse for him. Between the first day intake with the embarrassing strip search and millions of questions, to the meeting of his roommate (one of many for the next three months), to a few days in with little to no idea when he would actually speak to a degree awarded physician that would ask him many of the same questions that the intake “social worker” had asked, it was pure torment: a never ending succession of suicide checks, screaming and fighting from fellow addicts, bland food that can only be found in the sterile cafeterias of hospitals, and group therapy sessions where he would hear people who had no hope of surviving on the outside without the aid of drugs and alcohol. He spent many nights at the beginning fully awake, the bags under his eyes growing larger. He spent most his days in an exhausted haze. In the group therapy sessions, he would hear the wreckage of people’s lives that he could care less for, not sharing the details of his own downfall.

  Rumors began to circulate among the victims of their own lives of his “fame”, as one girl found his picture on the back of a book, and the spotlight turned to him. Many were excited to be in the presence of someone that accomplished something. They felt like they had something in common, never realizing that addiction isn’t just a poverty problem, it’s a societal issue. For the most part Ashton couldn’t relate to any goddamn one of them, no matter how hard he tried and although being a celebrity in here, he felt completely alone. His childhood, while far from perfect, didn’t involve sexual abuse from a relative or a broken home. No, Ashton had attended good schools, public but well taught, and a curfew of 10 p.m. even into his late teen years. His parents had believed in discipline over abuse only spending a few weeks a year banished to his room for normal teenage bullshit. His parents were elated when he graduated from college, extremely proud of his success as a writer, and attended his book signings when they were in the vicinity.