Death of the Body

  Sister Mary Chantale took a seat in the chair near the entrance of the room. It wasn’t long before her eyes closed and her breathing was heavy. I tried to read some more of the Bible in the nightstand next to my bed but the lack of light made the words difficult to read. My eyes quickly grew tired.

  I was having the best dreamless sleep of my life, swimming through the swirling waters of oblivion, when an overwhelming heat caused my subconscious mind to push off my blanket. The fact that my body did not respond caused my eyes to flutter as my conscious mind attempted to regain control. At first I balked at the awakening, trying to force myself back into sleep. The fact that I couldn’t move nagged at my brain until I opened my eyes.

  The room was hot and heavy, blackness swirling around me with such completeness that I wasn’t even sure I had opened my eyes. I tried again to push my blanket off my body but my arms were pinned to the bed.

  My breathing increased as I struggled to move, but the harder I struggled, the harder something tried to keep me held down.

  I screamed as two bright yellow eyes appeared above me.

  “Alexander!” I heard a voice cry out in the darkness, though it sounded distant.

  I started chanting the spell I learned as a boy, the one that was used on the energumen in the snake, and willed the world to cast away this being.

  As the room around me turned a stunning white in response to my spell, I saw the full creature pinning me down. He was literally kneeling on my body, but not in a body of his own. This creature was reminiscent of the horrible monster that killed Simon, just a human-shaped black mass with penetrating yellow eyes.

  I willed my spell to completion. Like a bolt of lightning, the creature was gone.

  For a moment, everything was absolutely silent. Then, slowly, I heard a whimper from the girl in the bed a few paces away from me.

  I bolted upright and turned toward her. I could see her pale skin in the dim light, but my eyes were still adjusting to the room. I was dizzy from sitting up so quickly. It took me a few seconds to see her clearly. Her face was turned upright, her back arched, and she looked like she was in pain as her eyes glared at the picture of the angel in the painting above her bed.

  I followed her eyes to see another black figure standing in the frame.

  I gasped audibly enough for the creature to hear me. His eyes turned toward me.

  I began my spell again, but before I could get out the first few words I felt a tingling sensation in my throat. I reached up and felt nothing, only to have the sensation tighten violently.

  The creature looked at me with defiance and victory in his yellow eyes. With a burning intensity, I was thrown back onto the bed.

  I choked against the pressure on my throat and gasped for breath as I clawed at the invisible hand closing off my airway.

  I flinched at the screams of agony that came from the ill girl. I turned my face toward her and kicked my legs as furiously as I could in an attempt to free myself from my unknown assailant. The energumen ran his dark hands over the girl’s pale skin, causing deep scratch marks that filled instantly with blood.

  He was taunting her.

  I felt anger overpower my fear as I reached out toward her but I couldn’t get myself out of bed.

  The eyes are the window to the soul, I heard him say menacingly, and I knew the words were meant for me. He liked the fact that I was watching him maim this poor girl. He was explaining his actions to me!

  “No,” I managed to choke out. I had seen this already once today. The trees had shown me the horror.

  The air around me charged with pure evil. I tried to look away or close my eyes, but the energumen liked having an audience. His mystic power somehow forced me to watch as his fingers dug into the eye sockets of the girl.

  The screaming grew unbearable and every muscle in my body hardened in horror. The girl was in such pain that her back arched almost to the point of bending in half. I could see the creature, his hands now buried in her skull, manipulating her body like a puppet. Her back arched harder and harder. Finally, with his other hand, the energumen pushed on the lower half of her body and she completely bent in two.

  There was a sickening snap. Her screams trailed to silence.

  But the snap was not the worst sound of the experience. I watched helplessly as the energumen ripped the soul of the girl from her body. The trees had not been able to adequately describe that sound.

  I suddenly had three pairs of hands on me and was sprayed with water.

  “God, whose nature is ever merciful and forgiving, accept our prayer that this servant of yours, bound by the fetters of sin, may be pardoned by your loving kindness,” Father Michaels was chanting, while drawing a wet cross on my forehead.

  “Strike terror, Lord, into the beast now lying waste in your vineyard. Fill your servants with courage to fight manfully against that reprobate dragon, lest he despise those who put their trust in you, and say with Pharaoh of old: ‘I know not God, nor will I set Israel free.’ Let your mighty hand cast him out of your servant, Alexander, so he may no longer hold captive this person whom it pleased you to make in your image, and to redeem through your Son; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever.”

  The energumen was about to leave with his hard-earned soul, but at the words of the Father, turned toward us.

  “No, no!” I cried. Father Michaels was getting the attention of the beast. He needed to stop but must have misinterpreted my protests as a sign that his words were having some affect on me, because he continued even louder.

  I found my hands and legs were now free and the sensation of the hand around my neck had subsided. I sat up and sputtered out a warning to the Father, only to have Sister Mary Rafaela and Sister Mary Chantale push my back down against the bed.

  “Stop!” I pleaded. “You don’t understand!”

  “I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord for judgment, that you tell me by some sign your name, and the day and hour of your departure. I command you, moreover, to obey me to the letter, I who am a minister of God despite my unworthiness; nor shall you be emboldened to harm in any way this creature of God, or the bystanders, or any of their possessions.”

  The energumen, to my surprise, responded. “We are legion, for we are many.”

  “It mocks us!” Sister Mary Rafaela cried.

  “Let us pray.”

  Then all three chanted together, “Almighty Lord, Word of God the Father, Jesus Christ, God and Lord of all creation; who gave to your holy apostles the power to tramp underfoot serpents and scorpions; who along with the other mandates to work miracles was pleased to grant them the authority to say: ‘Depart, you devils!’ and by whose might Satan was made to fall from heaven like lightning; I humbly call on your holy name in fear and trembling, asking that you grant me, your unworthy servant, pardon for all my sins, steadfast faith, and the power—supported by your mighty arm—to confront with confidence and resolution this cruel demon. I ask this through you, Jesus Christ, our Lord and God, who are coming to judge both the living and the dead and the world by fire.”

  The energumen was behind them now as I cowered on the bed.

  “This is wrong,” I warned. “You aren’t doing it right. It isn’t inside of me!”

  The Father continued his chanting after putting his right hand on my head.

  “Maybe he’s right. We should listen to the boy,” Sister Chantale said, frantic over the look on my face.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the pair of yellow eyes that weaved unseen through the three physical bodies.

  “God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, I appeal to your holy name, humbly begging your kindness, that you graciously grant me help against this and every unclean spirit now tormenting this creature of yours
; through Christ our Lord.”

  I cast my own exorcism, but the blinding white light seemed to only aggravate Father Michaels more, and to my dismay, did not dismiss the bright yellow eyes.

  The energumen was playing with us now. I could see his eyes smiling darkly at me when my spell failed. “I’m not in a body,” I heard him whisper. “You don’t know the ways to send me back to Hell, and neither does he!”

  His laughter was so loud that even the nuns heard it echo off the walls of the room. Sister Mary Chantale took a step backwards and crossed herself.

  I locked my eyes on hers and pleaded with her to run.

  “I adjure you, ancient serpent, by the judge of the living and the dead, by your Creator, by the Creator of the whole universe, by Him who has the power to consign you to…”

  Mid-sentence, Father Michaels fell silent. His hand was authoritatively raised above his head, his face red from the strain of shouting. His eyes bulged and he drew in a staggered breath.

  “God almighty!” he exclaimed, falling limp to the floor.

  Sister Mary Rafaela shrieked as the air around me charged again.

  I looked into the worried eyes of Sister Mary Chantale. “Run,” I groaned. “For the love of God, run.”

  But it was too late. The two nuns didn’t even have time to draw in another breath before the energumen sprayed me with their blood.

  Ten

  I found the sound of the rain pelting the windowpane to be rather relaxing. The overcast day was a nice change to the usual sunny weather that prevailed year round in San Diego, California.

  Nicholas was nonchalantly playing with the plastic cap at the end of the cord that adjusted the blinds, bouncing it off of the glass as he stared out at the rain. I paid no attention, although the sound of the cap pelting the windowpane was not as soothing as the sounds of the storm.

  I heard his mouth drop open before he said anything. “You’re doing it again.”

  I blinked away from my computer screen, and stared at him. “What?”

  “You’re zoning.”

  “Sorry,” I lied.

  “So what is it this time? Fire, flood, or little crickets eating the wheat destined to be shipped off to the children of Cambodia?”

  When I didn’t laugh, Nicholas became more somber.

  I didn’t know exactly what to tell him. It had been nine years since that day in the orphanage. We never spoke about it, but now I was staring at an online version of an article in a Grand Junction, Colorado newspaper that I knew I couldn’t not talk about with him.

  “It’s Ruth,” I started.

  The name only caused him to flinch a little.

  “She died last week.”

  I couldn’t meet his gaze. This was a subject Nicholas wanted nothing to do with. Not only did he doubt his own memories of the events leading up to our last day in Saint Vincent’s Orphanage, but also he hadn’t been in contact with anyone from the orphanage until he and I happened to bump into each other at a Starbucks near the UCSD campus. We were both in our senior year of high school at the time, had been accepted into UCSD, and were there for a campus tour and scholarship interviews.

  “How?” he finally asked, though I could see in his expression he only wanted an answer to his question, not a dissertation on the past.

  I debated telling him something about how she was devoured by man eating crickets that grew abnormally large after eating flour on a boat headed to Cambodia—my morbid sense of humor still perfectly intact—but decided that this subject was one that required a bit more sensitivity.

  “Suicide,” I answered. “It says she hung herself in her dorm room, but the details are sketchy.”

  “Is there an obituary?”

  “Yeah,” I pulled it up with a few mouse clicks.

  Nicholas stepped forward and peered at the screen where the black-and-white thumbnail of a beautiful young woman with easily recognizable facial features peered back at us. “Yup, you should have boned her,” he jeered, taking a small Nerf ball off my desk and tossing it into the air.

  Obviously I had overestimated his sensitivity to the issue. “We were twelve!”

  A greedy grin exposed his white teeth, which contrasted with his tan skin. “Never too early, right?”

  I just rolled my eyes.

  “Edmund, Edmund, Edmund,” he sighed. “You need to get out more. What is it about these newspaper articles that interest you so much anyway?”

  “You really want to know?” I already knew his answer.

  “Not really.”

  So I made something up as I got up from my desk and turned to face him, “I just like to keep informed.” I stole the ball as it fell from his most recent toss.

  Nicholas may have been stronger, darker, taller, and better looking than I was, but I was faster. Over the years his Native American blood had asserted itself, turning his brown hair and grey eyes into almost equal shades of black. He had grown proportionately up and out and obviously took great pride in maintaining his muscular physique.

  I hadn’t gotten any wider at all, just taller. My black hair was still unruly, but I had become rather fond of my honey colored eyes and the strength and determination with which they sparked. Sure, Nicholas could win a physical fight with me, but it would never come to that; he would have to get past my eyes first.

  We had never really argued, but I always got my way. I got the bed I wanted and the desk I wanted, all because of how determined I looked when I wanted something badly enough. This was a tool I often used to my advantage.

  “I’m bored. I want to go surfing,” Nicholas said, but I knew that he was thinking about Ruth, about his time in the orphanage. He often changed the subject rapidly when the conversation was drifting toward a place he didn’t want it to go.

  I didn’t push it. I never did. Instead, I just pointed toward the window. “It’s raining.”

  “I’m going to get wet anyway!”

  “It rains maybe two or three days a year and you can’t think of anything better to do?” I jested.

  “Well, it is the perfect kind of day to cuddle with someone in bed. What are you and Quon doing tonight?”

  He didn’t mean to run the two sentences together, and didn’t realize how funny his question sounded. I laughed anyway.

  Quon was our other roommate; a student from Japan.

  “I was just planning on registering for next semester tonight. Nothing exciting. I don’t know what Quon’s plans are.”

  Nicholas rolled his eyes. “Your big plan on a rainy Saturday night is to register for next semester?”

  I grinned.

  “Fine. I’ll bite. At least tell me what classes you are going to sign up for.”

  “Probably another literature class,” I hesitated before adding, “and a few theology courses. Strangely enough, there is a class on the history and meaning of color in the interior design department I think might be kind of interesting.”

  “And what, exactly, are you majoring in again? I mean, come on Edmund, history of color?”

  Nicholas had gotten used to my rather odd taste in… well… everything, but he still enjoyed giving me a hard time about it. Currently my desk was littered with as many translations of the Bible as I could get my hands on, as well as a few scattered newspaper clippings and a couple of journals—not exactly your average college student’s reading materials.

  “Color,” Nicholas scoffed when I didn’t answer. “Whatever. I’m going to the gym.”

  I made a few more mouse clicks while he gathered his gym bag and headed toward the door. He paused just before pulling the handle closed behind him.

  “Hey Edmund, how did you hear about Ruth’s death anyway?”

  The fact that Nicholas had returned to this subject was nothing short of shocking. “I was looking for her.” I said carefully.

  “Hmm,” he responded, and closed the door behind him.

  ***

  I lied to Nicholas; I did have plans that evening. I had called the Cath
olic Community Center and had set an appointment with Father Paul. I had never met this man, and, in fact, had not stepped into a Catholic church since my foster parents grew tired of the weekly struggle to get me to attend mass. Father Paul seemed soft spoken on the phone and I found comfort in the fact that the Catholic Community Center of UCSD actually met in a rented space in a nearby Episcopal church.

  I was ushered into a small office by a kindly woman with fiery red hair and an abnormally large mouth. When she spoke to me it was always with her lips pulled far over her teeth. A few days ago, on campus, I was witness to an event where the participating students were required to see how many Twinkies they could shove in their mouth without chewing. The winner fit nine. I was suddenly filled with the desire to start stuffing the little cream filled cakes into this woman.

  “I’m Kathy, if you need anything,” she said after seating me in front of a large, but underused desk. “I’ll be just outside in the administrative office. Father Paul will be with you shortly.”

  I idly twisted the ruby ring on my finger while I waited. This office, though much more plain than Father Michaels’ back at Saint Vincent’s, was all too familiar… and creepy. A large picture of Christ hung behind the desk and it seemed to me that every artist who decided to paint Jesus focused too much on making me feel like I was being watched. I supposed it made some people feel comfortable, believing that a great God was watching over them. It probably made some people feel guilty; I was sure that helped a great deal when it came to terrifying people into avoiding sin. I just found it spooky: all the idols, the candles, the images of a man’s torture and death on a cross, the holy saints portrayed in various positions of judgment; the whole idea of religion seemed to me to be based more on a fear of (rather than a love of) an omnipotent, caring creator. But I sort of assumed I felt that way because of the few days that had been seared into my memory at Saint Vincent’s orphanage. If people wanted to worship out of love, I had no issue with that, but when they did it out of fear—fear of death, fear of punishment—that was something I just refused to understand.