Demonologist (12 page)

The flow of lava strengthened. Skeletal hands held him, blocking the way like entangled tree limbs in a tar pit, fingers drilling deeply into his flesh, bone touching bone, keeping him immobile as the wicked play commenced on the shore. The Jake-demon backed away from Kristin, gripping his swollen black staff, squeezing it tightly as acid-semen pooled out from the urethra and sizzled on the ground, yellow smoke, rising upon contact. Kristin, still smiling, stood and waved to Bev, blood and excrement pouring down her legs. “Come to me Daddy!” she cried happily. Bev tried to move but the skeletal hands counteracted his efforts.

“Go to her, Bev. She needs you,” came a reassuring voice from beside him. Bev turned.
 
Father Danto stood beside him, unruffled by the searing flow. He wore his collar and robe, a silver crucifix centered on his chest, glimmering despite the gloom. “She needs you. We need you. There is a long battle ahead.”

Bev looked toward the shore. Rebecca
Haviland
was there now—she, too, naked—standing beside the Jake-demon. The Jake-demon stroked its staff, working it back to full erection; blood coated it; yellow smoke
geysered
from the tip. Kristin continued to wave, robot-like, with no purposeful awareness. The Jake-demon took one step forward, shook its body like a wet dog. Black feathers fluttered away, burning as they hit the ground like straying embers from a campfire. “Bev!” it shouted, voice coarse and guttural. “Round two. Gonna fuck this one in the mouth till it comes out her ass.” It growled and plodded toward her, face contorting, head gyrating, swollen tongue lolling
animalistically
from its mouth. Rebecca, smiling and waving at Bev, got down on her knees. She opened her mouth wide, willing to accept the Jake-demon’s huge staff. Spasms of rage riddled Bev, and he pressed forward, breaking the skeletal bonds that held him. He stretched his hands forward, then turned, looking for support. Father Danto had remained behind; tears of blood trickled from his eyes. “It’s good that you came,” he uttered, hands gesturing forward, stigmata in his palms. “There are two souls invading you, a man’s and a beast’s. It is the man’s soul that torments you. Follow the beast.” Bev turned. Suddenly, the Jake-demon staggered toward the surf. It slammed into the shallow lava in a spasmodic rage, limbs flailing, throat breaking open, blood pooling out onto the shore. The coarse hide of scales and feathers that had become its skin burned away, leaving a smoking mound of pink flesh behind that drowned in the shallow lava. Rebecca and Kristin remained oblivious of the change. Bev turned back to face Danto. The priest was gone. In his place stood Julianne, also unaffected by the blistering flow. She wore an expressionless mask. Crying, Bev reached for her. She reached for him. Suddenly, thin strands of metal wire thrust up from the lava. They danced in the air as though charged with electricity, then attacked him; wrapping around his hands like coiling snakes; digging into his palms; pulling his arms back until his shoulders snapped. The pain was excruciating. Blood fell from his hands and rode the fiery lava, toward Julianne. Her face morphed into the demon visage Bev had seen in the mirror
...

~ * ~

Bev opened his eyes. Dark. The bed beside him, empty. He shivered, cold from sweat. He rose up in bed. Looked around the dark room. Where was Rebecca?

The curtain billowed. The sliding doors, open. In the moon’s light, a figure appeared. A female form. Naked. Rebecca? Yes. She spoke in Julianne’s voice:

“
You killed me...you killed me
...”

“No,” Bev answered, weakly. Ineffectively.”

“
You knew the car was coming
,” Rebecca said in Julianne’s voice.

“No,” he answered more loudly. “The swan...the swan...”

“
You saw the car coming, and still you pulled out into the intersection
.”

“But the swan!” he screamed.

Rebecca backed out through the sliding doors and leaped off the balcony.

Bev screamed.

Beside him, screaming. A woman’s voice.

He twisted around, heart pounding.

Faced Rebecca.

She leaped up, breathing heavily. “Jesus Bev! What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

He looked at her. Gasping. Sweating. The room, now filled with daylight. He looked toward the curtain. Pulled open. The sliding doors: shut. “I...I just saw you...”

She tilted her head, pulling the sheet over her breasts. “Saw me where?”

“By the sliding doors...they were open and you were standing there and...Jesus Christ, thank God you’re okay!” He hugged her head, held it to his chest.

She hugged him back, half-heartedly. “You must’ve had a bad dream.” She pulled away. Looked at him. Her expression turned from concern to fear. “Bev, my God, your hands.”

He looked down at his hands. His heart pounded ferociously.

There were deep gouges running across his palms.

As though thin metal wires had dug into them
.

“Oh...my...God...”

“Bev, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” he lied, remembering the dream. Of Julianne, wading in the lava, the wires jutting out from the searing flow, attacking his hands. ”I think I’d better leave now. And you should too.”

“Bev?” Her expression shifted from fear to disappointment.

“What time is it?” he asked.

She peered at her watch, the only item still on her body. “Nine-fifteen. Bev, what’s going on?”

He leaped from the bed and got dressed in a huff, trembling, ignoring Rebecca’s pleas. Finally, he faced her, on shaky legs. “I have to leave now. I haven’t been feeling well lately, and...and...I just need to leave.” There was really no logical way to explain what had just happened. The continuing dream was an extension of something bigger, something incomprehensible, branching off from the root of the problem, just as the digging fingers had—just as the hallucinations and delusions had. And now, extending further from his dream, a shove into the real world in the form of something material—something painful that would stay with him long after the physical wounds had healed.
I’m sick...very sick. In body, mind, and now, maybe, soul
.
 
He leaned and kissed her forehead. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, and I promise, I will call and explain everything to you.”
Once I find out what the hell’s happening to me
.

He fled the room, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his hands, thinking of his dream and what Father Danto had said:
there are two souls invading your body
…

Bev located his car in one of eight parking spots reserved for Jake’s guests at the forefront of the driveway. He staggered into the driver’s seat, shaking, reached into the glove compartment, found a pack of stale Camels and tapped one out. He lit it, using the car’s lighter; the cigarette jumped in his trembling hand. His entire body fidgeted, sweated. Shuttering his eyes, he inhaled and exhaled deeply, drag after drag, until tobacco became filter. He lit another, then started the car and ran the air conditioning. He thought of Kristin. Quickly dialed her number. No answer. Left her a message, his voice wavering, sounding distant and weak in his head, as though muffled with cotton. He disconnected the phone. Frowned. Not like her to break touch like this. He made a mental note to stop by her apartment ASAP.

He looked at the car’s clock: 10:07. His doctor’s appointment was at noon. Then, he remembered the invitation:
Sunday, November 10th. A limo will arrive at your residence at 6:00. Be available
. He tucked a hand into his back pocket. Not there. Then, the front pocket.
Here
.
Felt the folded envelope.
Why I am so concerned about it? I should be focusing on my health. My sanity
. Bev drove away, slowly, nerves jangling, helplessness floating errantly about him.
Will a limo really show up at my place tonight?

He drove. Carefully. Trying to not rub his injured palms against the steering wheel. He avoided traffic by taking only the winding neighborhood roads, instead of the highway. Along the way, he smoked three cigarettes. Snuffed them out in the car’s ashtray, knowing and not caring at all that the doctor would smell the smoke on his breath. The nicotine helped calm his nerves, for now.

At 10:55, he pulled into a 7-Eleven. Bought black coffee and a roll. A lingering sense of unreality surrounded him while completing this mundane task, waiting in line behind others who were going about their routines with utter normalcy. It felt as though as though he were in a dream, floating through his actions with no promise of self-command. He returned to the car and sat quietly in the driver’s seat, nibbling at the roll, sipping coffee, hiding behind sunglasses, wondering how in the hell he’d felt so fine last night at the party, only to wake up feeling so freakishly lost in his own mind. Nothing right now seemed to make any sense.

Suddenly, he felt it.

It was coming: a chill at first, as if ice crystals had formed in his bloodstream. Then, a tugging at his mind: the fingers. They had returned.
Digging, digging, crumbling
, creating a space between his skull and brain, the scraping sound echoing in his brain. His head shivered. Eardrums vibrated. He dropped the roll and clutched his head with both hands. “Why!” he shrieked. “Why me?” He shuddered with fear: his voice had changed. It was low. Deep and hoarse. His hands trembled, the tender lacerations in his palms throbbing more intensely; breaking open; bleeding. Anger welled in him. His heart rate sped. His skull felt as if it was going to crack. He began to kick and buck uncontrollably, spilling the hot coffee in his lap as his consciousness floated down into the bowels of his intestines. He heard himself howling in pain, body writhing on the front seat, arms flinging, tearing at his hair. He heard a deafening scream in his head, deep, pain-filled; and then, clamorous laughter. He pressed his hands harder against his ears in an effort to blot it out. The laughter faded. Then, the voice:

I want to play,
Bevant
. Come to me
...

The voice quickly vanished, the accent echoing in his head. Then, the anger dissipated. A weak lethargy at once consumed him as his consciousness returned to his mind, and he curled up on the front seat of the car, crying, reeking of coffee, gasping for breath.

He sat up, terrified. Hurting. Tears streamed down his face, blurring his vision. He used his sleeve to wipe them away. In minutes, his heart rate slowed, back to normal. He stayed unmoving for a period of time, hands on the steering wheel, leaving sticky patches of blood behind. His thoughts ran amuck during this time, not making sense, seeming to simply reorganize themselves. When all the waters seemed to calm again, he started the car.

There are two souls invading your body
…

The clock read 11:48.

Time to see the doctor.

Doctor Richard
Palumba’s
office was north of Torrance, in Marina Del Rey. Again Bev drove the back roads, very slowly, very mindfully, set to pull over should another attack occur. Thankfully, all remained calm. He only had to deal with impatient tailgaters, and his trembling fear: the anxiety of what’d just occurred, and if it might happen again.

 
A middle-aged nurse accompanied him to an examining room. She seemed to notice his unkempt appearance, coffee-stained jeans, the injuries on his hands, but made no mention of it. She took his temperature and blood pressure, questioned his reason for the visit with which he replied, “personal”, then left.
  

After ten minutes, Richard
Palumba
walked in. He wore brown poly/rayon pants, a tan dress shirt, and a striped tie beneath his stethoscope. He possessed an uncommonly full head of hair for a man in his sixties. He grinned professionally and opened a blue folder on the steel supply table; scanned it briefly.

“Mr.
Mathers
. Been a few years. Success takes up most of your time, I suppose.”

Bev nodded. “It does.”