STALKER7

Wrote this a long time ago. With the imminent release of When Nightmares Come it seemed appropriate to revisit it.

***

ONE – THE FALLEN

I know the Blood of Jesus covers; Eternal, Omnipotent, Second Person of the Godhead and all that, but I’m not feeling very protected right now. Terror is icing my skin. My own blood is dripping into my eyes from a gash on my head. It’s warm and sticky, smells like iron. Oddly familiar. I’m blinking all spastic, wiping it away as fast as I can to try and see.

Not that it really matters. The power’s out, so there’s not a single light in the entire house. The place reeks like the bowels of Hell just emptied out. I can’t hear jack for the ringing in my ears and I wracked my knee so my left leg is dragging like dead wood.

To be honest, the whole situation went south the minute I walked through the door and now I’m stumbling around, retching, bleeding, deaf, half-blind with no idea where the Fallen is right now.

Sure feels like help is far more than ‘just a prayer away’.  Sure as Hell.

I lurch past the kitchen, hyperventilating. Breathe in the nose, out the mouth, in the nose, out the mouth. Count to five and calm down.

It’s not working because I keep forgetting what comes after three. My heart is hammering so loud I just know the rat-bastard can hear it. Might as well paint a bulls-eye on my shirt.  Evil shit’s probably homing in on it like a missile and will claw it out of my chest like a cereal box prize.

Breathe. Breathe.

My hand is shivering with adrenaline dump. I’d drop my pistol if my bloody fingers weren’t stuck to the grip.

I shot the hell out of the living room, ignored my spares and swapped the spent magazine for a special clip I carry, a sort of a talisman.  Eight, silver .45 caliber lucky charms. Souvenirs from my previous occupation.

Not that the metallurgy is some kind of sacred ace-in-the-hole. Holy water, crucifixes, wooden stakes made from the True Cross – that’s all Hollywood horseshit. The Fallen don’t give an archangel’s ass about that stuff. Other than Eviction, only way to stop them is to disable the host. Force them to leave for lack of mobility. They possess to express, Father Amroth used to say. Deny them their vehicle and they will flee. 

Most of the time that solution ends up being permanent for the host too.

So why a clip of silver bullets? Well, I thought it was cool back in the day – And in case there’s a shred of truth in the old fables. Besides, they’re still .45 caliber. Silver expands on impact, so it’s not like it’s going to hurt less if they’re silver rather than Federal Premium HST hollow points.

But the way this incident is unfolding, I might as well be throwing communion wafers around.

I wipe my eyes for the hundredth time. Shit.

I swear when I’m scared and right now I am fucking petrified. 

Here I thought this was going to be a happy domestic sit-down with old friends: catch up, enjoy some nice food, small talk, remind them that marriage is a gift so kiss and make up.

The wife, Beverly, was a former parishioner. Someone must have seen me at the supermarket or in one of those little downtown coffee shops. Either way, she found out I was back in town and tracked me down. She called, and after pleasantries, mentioned Lou had been acting odd lately. She knew it had been years, but he had always respected me and she hoped I could come over, talk over old times and maybe chat with them.

She was concerned, not weeping, so that was a good sign. Tonight around 8:00?

Sure.

The front door was open when I arrived. Talk about a clue.

I slipped in what was left of Bev right before her husband launched out of the side parlor and tried to scalp me with a meat cleaver.

So is now a bad time, Lou? 

No signs of kids. Thank God for small mercies.

Screams, howling, gunshots; I have maybe ten minutes before local PD storms through the door. 

Wood creaks above me. Wet, snuffling noises. God, I hope it’s a lesser one. 

I head for the stairs.

Pistol up and out, I limp up one at a time, trying to dredge up one of Chrysostom’s exorcisms and not piss myself in terror. There’s an oak curio cabinet in the upstairs hall. It’s filled with statues, religious miniatures, a couple knock-off icons. The tiny eyes of dead saints scold me as I pass.

Come on, Lord. I know it’s been a while, but a little help would be good right about now.

Sirens in the distance. I keep stumbling. 

I find the Fallen – Lou – in the master bedroom. Moonlight’s oozing through the Martha Stewart woven jacquard curtains and there’s a brass bed on the far side of the room, tidy, plump, and perfect. Smiling family photos are lined up on the colonial dresser next to a hairbrush, perfume bottles, wallet, and keys. I spy a wooden cross on the wall to my right, next to a typical framed print Jesus, the one with glowing face and feathered hair. He hates that picture. Says it makes Him look like the Bearded Lady at a carnival.

The Fallen is crouched in the corner eating something. I don’t want to know what.

I step through the door. He spins to face me.

Pistol up. “Don’t you fucking move.”    

“Language, language,” it slurps. “Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks.” He takes another bite, but stays in the corner. Sirens wailing three, four, blocks away now.  

I blink some more and keep the pistol center mass. Lou Anders is big: six foot, two hundred plus pounds. At least one of my shots hit; there’s a stain spreading across his Oxford button-down. He looks almost normal. Except for the hole in him and his putty stretched face twisted, bulging in the wrong places.

His mouth is a grinning blood smear. A too-long tongue licks his lips.  Sly eyes lock onto me.  “Ahhh, Papadakis… the little voyeur. You here to watch, again?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Why… Why are you here?”

He wags a ruined finger. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you. Now step aside or pull the trigger, Miko.”

I blink, a thousand memories, questions burning in my mind. Father Amroth always told me not to debate them. They’ve been lying to humans for centuries. You can’t win.

This one knows my name and that creeps me out all by itself. I should just waste him and send the evil bastard back to whatever pit he crawled out of.

It’s dark eyes crinkle, the mouth drops open, that tongue lolling, dog-like. The smell is mounting. Blue lights flashing in the window now.

The demon stares, unmoving. Waiting.

I aim. Take up trigger slack.

Pause.

This makes zero sense. Demons fiend like junkies for a host. They conceal their presence like termites, and suddenly this mazikin bastard wants me to drop him?

No way.

I pray silently. Lord God, I need a dose of instant discernment. What in Hell is going on?

I give it a second. No light bulbs, no angels, just a curious rush of warmth and the nagging sensation of something huge lurking under the surface.

The Fallen shudders, glares at me. “Miklos Papadakis, don’t make me come over there.”

“Shut up.” I repeat as the thought hits me: Interrogate. A possession this profound, this thorough, Father Amroth would want more information: Why the husband? How did the Fallen gain entrance to his life? His soul?

I’ve got five minutes, tops, before the local PD storms in.  I take a deep breath. More warmth. Another shudder.

“Don’t –” Lou’s jaws snap on the word.

I start the prayer, sucking air with each sentence. 

“I adjure you, demon, in the Name of Jesus, the Holy Son of God, speak your lies no more. In that Name, be afraid for I bind your deceit and command you to answer my questions truthfully.”

“Coward. Shit-eater…” It snaps Lou’s body to his full height.

“O Satan, though I am Christ’s unworthy servant, I command thee and all the power which worketh with thee, by that supreme authority, to speak the true reason for your visitation.”

It shrieks a scream that sinks into an alligator hiss. Freezing cold bites the air, bitter frost blooming cancerous on the window panes, across the mirror. I keep speaking, ejecting the words in rapid white puffs.

“I command you by Christ’s Blood and Resurrection, to answer me –“

The Fallen writhes. It vomits refusal deep and raw, Lou’s hands flexed like bird claws. “No!”

It lunges at me. 

I’m firing, blinking, backpedaling, stumbling, swearing.  Roaring fills the room: Heckler, Koch, and demon. Thick cordite and abattoir stench.

I’m clicking empty when I bump against the wall next to Euro-sissy Jesus. The cross falls on the floor. I can’t breathe as I fumble for a reload. I slam it in and snap the slide, jerk it up and exhale.  

The Fallen is gargoyled on top of the dresser, hunched and leering. There’s another hole in his chest. 

It jams a finger into the wound, gulps obscene sounds as it speaks. “The police are… coming, little priest. But they…can’t save you. I’m going to… flay your skin. Wear your face… like a mask. I’m going to –“

“I command you, demon. In the Holy Name of Jesus…”

It leaps, outstretched, howling rage and ancient lunacy.

I get off three shots.

Miss two.

Lou’s bulk slams into me. Pain lances up my leg, my back, and I fold onto the floor. My gun is spins away. He’s on top of me, slathering, spitting, snapping like a rabid thing. He’s screeching multiple voices, male and female.  I’m using both hands just to keep that mouth away from my throat. His fingers rake at my shoulders, arms, shredding fabric, drawing blood.

Lord. Help.

I leverage a knee up under his chest and shove. He reels back, buying me a second to scramble. I’m on my knees when he pounces and flips me on my back.

“Look at me, Miko. You should have done what I asked. Now I want to see your eyes as you die.”

The evil bastard is actually cackling, slurping my face with that tongue. I hit him again and again, but those slimy gnarled hands wrap my throat like steel cable. I’m blacking out.

I hear the front door crash in, footsteps downstairs. Police shouting. This is not the way I want to check out. My groping hands clutch wood – the cross.  

Wielding it like a toy sword, I jam it into his throat so hard it pops out the other side of his neck. Blood spurts, Lou’s eyes startle wide and white. He slumps to one side and I knock his hands away.

Suddenly I’m kneeling over him, seeing dark light leak out of his eyes.

“I adjure you in the Name of Christ, demon, speak the true reason for your visitation.”

Blood pulsed sluggish, pooling under his head. Another writhe and that mouth gargles broken whispers. “Too soon. It was a mistake, little priest.”

I want to protest that I left the clergy years ago.

“This idiot found it,” it hisses. “We weren’t supposed to be summoned yet.”

“We? Who is we, demon? What did Lou find”

The voice is faint, coming as from a great distance. “The appointed one is coming, little priest. You’re going to die.”

“When, damn you. When?”

It sings a mocking ditty. “Damned I am. Damned I shall be. Cursed in chains of darkness for all eternity.”

I shake him. “God damn it. When?”

“Soon.” One last foul breath, then blank eyes. The body goes slack. 

Flashlight beams are jumping in the hall. I flop back against the bed, trembling. Fumble in what’s left of my coat for my ID. The cops burst in.

“Hands! Hands! Show us your hands right now!”

I lay there, not moving, my ID open on my lap. A flashlight beam sparkles the gold shield.  Special Investigator Miklos Papadakis. Department of Homeland Security – Counter-Terrorism Task Force. 

I can pass out now.