The Demonists

  “John, that was over two hours ago,” the doctor cautioned. John looked at the man, and saw the concern in his swollen, bloodshot eyes. It was good that Cho was there; a man of medicine was often needed at the most critical of junctures. Sometimes the human body could only be taken so far before . . .

  “Go ahead,” John said, letting his eyes touch briefly on Theo before returning to the scroll. “But be careful.”

  Cho turned toward the bed, but John grabbed his arm, stopping him. Quickly he checked the wards of protection he’d scrawled on the back of the doctor’s hands and on his forehead earlier. Seeing that they were still intact, he allowed the man to continue on to Theo. John kept one eye on the scroll he was about to read and the other on the man administering to the subject.

  The subject. He hated being so cold, looking at her then not as his wife whom he loved with all his heart and soul, but only as a vessel containing vast amounts of evil, a jar that had to be emptied and cleansed before it could again be filled with good.

  “I’m ready to start again,” John said to the man.

  “John, please,” Cho said. “Her vitals are slipping.”

  “She’s strong,” John said flatly, trampling down on his emotion.

  “Stronger than the vermin infesting her.”

  “I . . . I’m not sure how much longer her body can stand it,” the doctor tried to explain. “Her blood pressure is through the roof. She could have a stroke. . . . I think we should stop for now and—”

  “Get away from her, Doctor,” he commanded.

  “But—”

  “Doctor—please.”

  John saw it on his friend’s face, the realization that he would get nowhere with him. Sadly Cho stepped away from the woman’s bed and back to the corner of the room where he’d been sitting throughout the ritual, waiting to be needed.

  John began again, the powerful words flowing from his mouth, directed at the vessel lying prone on the bed before him. The vessel. Not his wife. The vessel.

  He had to think of her that way, not letting any sign of emotion show. To the demonic, emotion was like blood to sharks. The words of the ancient rite spilled from his mouth, as if the ancient power found in the writings of the Demonists had accepted him, recognizing in him one of their own.

  His wife . . . the vessel, began to scream again, but these sounds were different from the others. He could hear actual pain in them, real fear from the monstrous entities hiding in their stronghold of flesh, blood, and bone.

  The cries made him stronger, feeding him—feeding the power in the words that poured from him.

  The vessel began to thrash, her body to bend and contort in such a way that was physically impossible, but there it was, happening before his eyes.

  “John,” Cho warned. “John, I’m concerned that—”

  “Hold your concern, Doctor,” John commanded in a booming voice filled with the righteousness of the power he was now wielding.

  He continued to bombard the vessel, to get her on the ropes as his predecessor had instructed.

  The subject’s body had begun to swell, the exposed flesh turning a fiery red as it expanded. She arched her back and continued to shriek and wail. Her stomach grew, and grew, the hospital johnnie so taut across her expanding gut that he was certain that it would tear. Evil was attempting to thwart its demise. Evil was attempting to escape out into the world.

  John continued to pummel the demons with the ancient words, sensing their weakness, feeling that victory might be close. The sight of her then was nothing that he would ever have wanted to see, the bare skin of her arms and legs splitting, bleeding. Emotion threatened to overcome John, but he forced it back, refusing to reveal his own weakness. He needed to be strong . . . as strong as the words he read in a tongue that was ancient before the birth of Christ.

  The rite was reaching its crescendo, the words now flowing from him sounding like a song.

  A song of evil’s demise.

  The swollen thing on the bed continued to tremble and shake, expand and bleed, and he had not the slightest idea where this would go. All he knew was that the demonic entities entrenched within the subject . . .

  His wife. The vessel.

  Theodora. . . . were on the cusp of their destruction. Soon they would be gone. Soon they would be no more.

  John moved closer to the bed, holding up the scroll as he read the last lines of the ancient ritual, stressing each and every word so that the entities within the woman would hear, and know that their time on the world of man was at an end.

  Her body shook convulsively, blood vibrating from the gashes that now covered her entire body, spattering the bed, the walls, and even the floor, but he continued to read, unwavering in his determination to see these spiritual monstrosities gone from the body of the woman he loved. The woman he loved. His beloved wife. Theodora.

  John wasn’t sure if it was this brief moment of weakness that was responsible, but the woman’s body suddenly—violently—arched upon the bed, the sound of her creaking spine loud and disturbing as its limitations were tested. It was followed by horrible, guttural screams as her head bent back, and her mouth opened wider, and wider still as if something were about to emerge.

  He felt Dr. Cho grab his arm, but he didn’t waver, finishing the last lines of the rolled parchment.

  “John—what’s happening?” Cho asked, fear dripping from his words. “We’re winning,” John said, and for the briefest of moments, he actually believed that to be true.

  The subject’s body had swollen to more than four times her natural size and had continued to vibrate to the point where the sight of her had become a blur. And then, suddenly, it all came to a stop. The screaming, bleeding, and shaking ceased, filling the hospital room with a deafening silence.

  Theo lay on the bed, perfectly still, eyes so wide that it appeared the milky orbs were about to explode from their swollen sockets. John had reached the end of the last scroll, quickly darting over to the box to make sure that was really the case. It was, the box was empty. He waited, eyes riveted to the body on the bed.

  The gurgling came first, a bubbling, roiling sound from within the woman’s still-expanded body.

  Cho’s grip on his arm was back, growing tighter in anticipation, as John continued to watch, and wait, and pray, for a sign that the ritual had succeeded.

  That the power of goodness had won.

  The subject’s mouth snapped violently open, the sounds of bubbling internal happenings filling the room, followed by a rush of burning bile shooting up from her open mouth in a stinking column that struck the ceiling and cascaded down upon the room.

  The vomit was like lava, burning everything that it touched. Within seconds, sections of the room had started to burn. Once again fire alarms blared and the sprinklers triggered, dousing the room in another round of artificial rain.

  “It’s still burning,” Cho said, panicked.

  John’s eyes were still locked to the subject, who was now convulsing. “Get an extinguisher,” John said, pushing the doctor toward the closed door. “I’ll be fine for the moment.”

  Cho dashed for the door, going out into the hall.

  John approached the bed, avoiding smoldering piles of bile eating away at the floor. He had grabbed the first of the scrolls he had read, ready to begin the rite all over again if that was what it would take. Looking at the subject, he was preparing to affirm his authority and power over the evil when she turned her head and looked at him. “John,” she said, and he knew at once that it was her. His wife. Theodora.

  “John, you have to listen to me,” she said. Her voice was a harsh whisper. “I don’t have much time. . . .”

  He moved to sit upon the bed, taking her hand in his to lend her strength.

  “We’re going to help you,” he said. “We’ve almost succeeded, we just need to—”

  “Shut up and listen,” she said in near panic.

  John fell silent.

  “If this continues, I’m goin
g to die,” she said.

  “You can’t,” he interjected. “You’re strong, you’ll—”

  “Please, shut up,” she said again, with a sad shake of her head. “I’m going to die, and then . . . and then they’ll be free. It’s what they want.” Her words slowly began to sink in, filling him with a weighty dread.

  “This is their plan, to fight you, to let you think you’ve won . . . but I’ll be dead, their prison no longer able to hold them . . . I’ll no longer be able to hold them.”

  She squeezed his hand.

  “You have to do something . . . something now,” she said to him, bloodshot eyes begging.

  “What?” he asked.

  Cho came storming into the room with the fire extinguisher. He paused, watching.

  “Take care of the room,” John ordered, and he immediately went to work putting out the burning piles and stains on the ceiling, walls, and floor, as the artificial rain fell down upon them.

  “What?” John repeated to his wife, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing the swollen, blistered skin.

  “They need to be kept in my body,” she said, nodding. “But I can’t do this any longer. . . . I’m not strong enough to go on.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” John said.

  “Kill what’s me,” she said. “But leave my body alive.” And then he realized what it was that she was asking of him. She wanted him to destroy her mind, her brain, but allow her body to remain alive.

  A living, breathing prison for the demons festering inside her. “No,” he said.

  “Yes,” she affirmed. “I can’t hold them for much longer, and if they were to escape . . .” She closed her eyes, and the tears began to fall.

  “I’m . . . I’m not strong enough.”

  John released her hand. He stumbled back, banging into Dr. Cho, who was still extinguishing what was left of the smoldering bile. “What?” the doctor asked. “Is she all right . . . did we . . . did we win?” John could not answer as he continued to back away, moving toward the door.

  “Please, John,” Theo called weakly to him, trembling hand beckoning. “You have to . . . need to do this.”

  John knew then that he wasn’t strong enough. He’d been convinced that the Demonist writings would work, that he would expel the demonic entities inhabiting his wife, and all would be well again. But he had been so wrong, things had progressed so much further than he’d been willing to see.

  “John,” she cried as he reached the door.

  He couldn’t bear to look at her anymore, to see his failure before him. Yes, he had beaten back the demons, perhaps even hurt them in some way, but they were still inside the subject.

  Still inside Theodora, ready to be strong again. Ready to be free, or to take control if they could. Either would most certainly be fine for them.

  Out in the hallway he nearly collapsed with exhaustion, but he pushed himself toward the stairs. He had to get out of there, he needed to breathe air not stinking with the smell of evil and despair. He heard it as he stepped out onto the first floor, the rumble of thunder. He was drawn to it, toward the exit, pushing his way through the glass doors out into a real rainstorm and not an artificial one. The rain pelted him, soaking through his clothes to his skin, and what felt much deeper than that.

  John Fogg knew then and there that he was at a crossroads. Deep down he knew that Theo was right, that the twisted things inside her could not be allowed to escape, but he couldn’t bear the thought of what she was asking him to do.

  It would kill him, that he knew.

  But there was another option, one that he hadn’t wanted to consider, but now, looking at the choices he might be forced to make, it seemed to be the lesser of two evils.

  He reached for his wallet as lightning cut the sky in a jagged jack-o’ lantern smile, and removed the business card that he’d been given in Romania.

  Dialing the number on his cell, he placed the phone to his ear and waited.

  “Yes,” a voice answered.

  “Elijah,” John said.

  “Hello, John,” the leader of the Coalition said. “I thought I might be hearing from you.”

  “I need your help,” he said to the man.

  There was a long pause that seemed to last for centuries. “And you are willing to help us in return?” Elijah asked. “Yes,” John agreed, at this stage willing to make a deal with the Devil himself to save the woman he loved.

  “Very good, John. We’ll be in touch,” the old man said, ending their call.

  As thunder crashed and the heavens cried.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Elijah hadn’t been back to the States in over fifteen years.

  The leader of the Coalition sat in the back of the black Land Rover with his handpicked team, on their way to the home of John Fogg and a confrontation with the forces of darkness.

  It was quiet in the vehicle, the seven others lost in thought most likely about what they would soon encounter, what they were about to attempt. They were the best at what they’d been trained for, but that did not mean that this particular evil might not be better.

  To be overconfident could easily bring about a horrible defeat. Elijah knew that better than anyone, being forced to wear the scars of his complacency for such a moment.

  Gazing out the window, he fought to keep his eyes open. It had been a long flight, and the previous two sleepless nights as they had prepared for their journey had left him physically and mentally exhausted. He closed his good eye, convincing himself that a moment’s rest—a brief catnap— might be exactly what he would need to revitalize his energy stores.

  But as soon as the eye was closed, the memories came. Memories of his times in the United States, and how the Vatican had entrusted him with the most important of missions.

  He had been a priest of the Roman Catholic faith, recruited by the Vatican to become one of their chief exorcists. Not something that was openly talked about, the Vatican exorcists were an important step in the ever-growing battle against the forces of evil. They were like the marines of the faith, sent in to vanquish supernatural evil before it could gain a foothold in the material world.

  Elijah remembered how unprepared he had been for the truth of the matter, that powerful supernatural forces were indeed loose in the world, and a perpetual threat to the safety of humanity.

  But he had learned his job well, and soon became one of the Vatican’s rising stars. The evil he had seen, and vanquished. It was a never-ending battle, but one they—he—were ready to fight.

  So many encounters . . . so many victories. There were times when it had been close, that it looked as though the minions of the pit would be victorious, but he never gave up, fighting to the bitter end.

  Fighting until evil could fight no more and had no choice but to succumb.

  His skills became legendary to the others of the profession, instilling in them a sense of superiority that served them all well.

  Until it didn’t.

  Until his fall.

  Elijah stirred in his sleep, fighting to awaken, but the memory had him as it often did, wanting to show him the error of arrogance once again.

  A case of demonic possession had been reported, and verified, in the city of Fall River, Massachusetts, a working-class city on New England’s south coast. He had been assigned to the case, as he was already in the Boston area dealing with a case of Devil worship at an Ivy League school. Elijah went directly to Fall River, wanting to be done with his work as quickly as possible, so that he might return to Vatican City for some welcome time off.

  Elijah twitched, and moaned softly as he remembered the neighborhood tenements, the images inside his mind distorted by a fitful sleep. He recalled how he’d actually been amused when he reached the address given to him by his Vatican superiors. It wasn’t a home or an apartment building, as he’d expected to find.

  It was a convent.

  If his memory had served him right, the Sisters of the Blessed Virgin had been a part of
this working-class community since the early 1920s, establishing schools and building rest homes for the old and the infirm. They were an older order, and one that would likely be gone in a few years because very few young women were joining the convent anymore. It was a sad fact, but a reality nonetheless As if impatient with his recollections, the dream—or was it a nightmare?—skipped ahead to his meeting with the order’s mother superior, Sister Margaret Joseph. She had been so relieved to see him, for the sisters were at their wits’ end over what to do. They were congregated outside the subject’s cell, their mouths moving in silent prayer at they manipulated the rosary beads in their ancient hands. They watched him as he approached with the mother superior, knowing who he was, and why he had come.

  The subject’s name was Sister Bernadette Michael, and she lay on her bed in the sparsely furnished room, wearing only a white cotton nightgown. She stared upward toward the ceiling as if transfixed by something that she saw there.

  There was a stink of something foul in the air, something that Elijah had encountered many times before in his work for the Vatican. It was the smell of the profane, of the unholy.

  Of evil.

  He turned toward the doorway to see the sisters still praying with their rosaries. He had a speech that he would often to give to the loved ones, to the concerned of those afflicted, but he just didn’t have the strength that day, and instead he’d asked the sisters for some privacy. But before closing the door on them, he’d warned that they might hear some things out of the ordinary from within the room, and asked that they remain strong, lending him some of their strength through prayer. They of coursed agreed, clutching their beads all the tighter, and he’d shut the door and prepared to go to work.

  He’d brought his bag of tricks with him. That was what he jokingly called the black leather satchel that carried all the necessary items for expelling demons.

  The old nun had been bound to the bed by what appeared to be clothesline, and lay atop sheets stained with bodily waste.