Demonologist (21 page)

Too tired...I just want to go inside and rest.

But...what if the limo comes, and then doesn’t leave? What if it continues to wait outside long after six o’clock? It might just wait all night
... He decided that it didn’t matter, because he had no intention of getting into a limo at all—that is, of course, if one actually arrived. If it
did
, well, then he’d just lock himself in his apartment—maybe even call the police.
Yes, just call the cops
, he told himself.
Make a scene. They’ll have no choice but to leave
.

But...what if the people inside the Limo rush the house, break down the door, snatch me before I’m able to make a call?

That’s anxiety speaking, Bev.

Jesus. Too many factors at play. Endless angles to consider. Eventually, Bev convinced himself that he needed to rest, and that coming home hadn’t been a bad decision at all. The limo wasn’t here yet, and when—if—it finally came, all he’d have to do was lock himself inside for the night. Keep a stakeout from his kitchen window.

All alone. Just Bev.

And the bugs.

Shit
. He’d forgotten about the insects. The beetles. That had happened more than twenty-four hours ago—Jesus, it seemed like a century. He frowned, wondering with reluctant curiosity if the exterminator had indeed come. Had been able to alleviate the situation.
They better have
.

Wearily, he climbed the concrete steps to the landing.

Taped to the front door was an envelope.

His heart joggled in his chest. His breathing fell short.
No, not another envelope
. With numb fingers, he felt out the invitation in his pocket. Still there.

He ripped the envelope from the door and quickly eyed the return address:
Huxtable
Exterminating
. Relieved, he reached inside. Pulled out a yellow piece of paper. An invoice. On it, scribbled pieces of information:

Service call—$65

Searched entire apartment, including bedroom closet at customer’s request.

No specimens found. No evidence of infestation as described by customer.

No chemicals applied.

No specimens found
? “Are they fucking kidding me?” Angrily, he slid his key into the door. He gripped the doorknob and received a shock, then turned it and went inside.

Immediately he felt a chill. The air: colder than outside. A slight stench filled the room, something familiar.
Smells like...like burning wood. Must be the insecticide.

No...no chemicals were applied.

The apartment was just as he left it: a sullen mess, the bed unmade, towels piled on the bathroom counter, the jeans from where the first beetle emerged heaped on the bedroom floor. He tossed the invoice on the bed, then gave the apartment a full sweep. A smothering tension rose in the air, like a spring-load.

He saw nothing out of the ordinary.

He looked at the open closet, tentative, not wanting to investigate but knowing that if he wanted to stay here tonight, he’d have to. With one hand on the edge of the bed for support, he leaned down on one knee and peeked inside the shadowy recess.

Plenty of shoes. Folded shirts. A couple of fallen wire hangers. But no bugs.

Slowly he stretched a reluctant hand into the closet. His skin crawled as it came in contact with the dusty wood floor. Using his thumb and index finger, he pinched the corner of a strewn shirt and quickly dragged it out in a motion that suggested the shirt might be on fire. He stood up, holding the shirt at an arm’s length. Shook it.

No bugs.

He tossed it aside. He then reached back into the closet and grabbed a pair of jeans from the pile on the hamper, slowly unfolded them.

Nothing.

He took a deep breath.
Did I hallucinate the bugs? Like the face in the mirror. Or, the bug in the sink?
He then hunkered back down, his bravery starting to bud, accelerating his campaign to unearth
something
. He removed a pair of shoes, shook them, tossed them aside. Then, a pair of sneakers. No bugs. Breathing out, he leaned back down, pressed his head against the floor and peered at the back wall of the closet, where yesterday the insects had been
swarming
.

No beetles.

He stood back up, confusion besetting him yet again. He shifted his eyes around the room. Saw absolutely no evidence of insects.

Scratching his head, he padded soundlessly into the studio room, as though trying to sneak up on someone.

Oh my God
.

He halted. Stared incredulously at the sight before him, at once trying to sort out his emotions. Disturbing. Unnerving. Puzzling. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Bev had two large Marshall amplifiers in the apartment, each housing four 16-inch speakers. Both of them, usually pressed tightly against the foam-padded walls, sat inexplicably in the middle of the room, one stacked atop the other. The ten guitars he kept here, five Les
Pauls
, three Martins, and two Fender Stratocasters, were out of their cases and on the floor alongside the cabinets, arranged in a star-like pattern. Stereo wires formed a circle around the pattern, completing what appeared to be a pentagram shape.

Last night, someone sacrificed a goat on the lawn outside the rectory. It had been decapitated, its carcass gutted and impaled on a large crucifix. Its entrails were laid out into a pentagram shape beneath the cross
.

Very tentatively, he paced about the room. On further inspection, he noticed that other items had been moved. Two collapsible chairs, usually folded and stored in the hall closet, were opened and stacked against the wall where the amps usually were; CD’s had been dumped from their tower into an open guitar case; a pile of two-inch recording tape lay atop the console, purloined from its steel reel and strewn indiscriminately like ticker-tape ribbon.

Amidst it all, something caught his blank and uncomprehending eye.

On the floor.

Black. Shiny. Bulbous. Skittering across the carpet on many legs.

“Son of a bitch!” Bev cried. He backed up and watched the horror: a four-inch beetle, quickly racing across the carpet into the one-inch space between the floor and the studio closet.

A moment of indecisive horror passed. Gingerly, Bev stepped over a guitar, flesh from head to toe writhing dreadfully on his bones. He stood in front of the closet, tense and waiting.

He placed a shaking hand on the knob. It was icy cold.

Scratch, scratch, scratch
, from behind the wood door—tiny nails picking away along the edge of the jamb.
Sounds like...like the scratching in my head
...

Scratch...scratch...scratch
, in his head.

Scratch...scratch...scratch
, from behind the closet door.

Slowly, he twisted the knob.

The latch made an audible
click
.

The scratching from within abruptly ceased, as though someone had pressed the stop button on the tape recorder from where they surfaced.

He pulled the door open. Slowly at first, and then, all the way.

The closet was completely empty. Everything he’d ever stored in it was gone. Including the beetle. An odor purled out. Something suddenly foul. Like a current of burning sulfur.

“What the...”

Digging, digging, digging.

Crumble
.

And with the sensation in his head came horrible pain. He fell to one knee. Squeezed his head, yelled out. His body twisted at the waist, then slammed to the floor; it was as though he’d been physically thrown by some malevolent force. His heart palpitated irregularly, he could feel it trying to escape his ribcage. He could feel many things, his throat shrieking, a sensation of falling deep into his body, into the churning acids of his stomach. He could sense his mouth and lips moving, could hear wicked moans emanating from his throat...but, he maintained no control of these actions. His arms and legs flailed spasmodically as his back arched up then smashed down violently onto the carpet, over and over, quickly and frequently. He heard himself shrieking nonsensical expletives: “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” over and over again. Unseen hands prodded his body, fingers digging into the place where skull met brain.

And then, it stopped.

He could hear himself breathing heavily. He could
feel
it, as he rose from the dark recesses of his gut, back into his mind and body familiar. He staggered up. Stumbled from the studio, into the kitchen. He gazed out the window.

Black limo. In his driveway. Lights off. He gazed at the clock on the kitchen wall. Exactly 6:00.
Where did the time go?
 

In his head, a voice:
Come to me,
Bevant
.
 

He gripped the sides of his head. The pain had filtered away, leaving behind a sharp resonating tone that trailed the deep voice like a stream of exhaust from a racecar. It had come through clearly, as though the digging in his skull had finally produced a hole through where the voice and tone could travel.

Staring out the window, toward the waiting limo, he whispered, “Who are you?”

Your friend,
Bevant
.

“My friend...”

Your friend
.

“What is your name?” He tone was oddly calm, despite the impossible fear. His eyes searched all corners of the room.

Low, raspy breathing.

“Are you in the Limo?”

Come to me
Bevant
.

“You didn’t answer my question. Are you in the limo?”

A horrible wail filled Bev’s head. Blood curdling; piercing; the sudden presence of a being making itself known in his body. It held his soul, dragged him away from the conscious realm of his awareness then hurled him back with a quick, calculated thrust. A timely show of power. He screamed, fell to his knees. Gripped the sides of his head. “
What do you want from me?
” he screamed, staggering back into the bedroom. The moment turned into a sepia-toned slow-motion nightmare: Bev hurling himself on the bed, writhing, tangling the blanket and sheet, his tongue thrusting uncontrollably from his mouth that gasped and grimaced and spat a melee of odd noises that could only escape the throats of animals: oinks, clucks, neighs. He could feel his eyes rolling into the back of his head, and on the black canvas of his inner lids he could distinctly see the roiling lava and the torn limbs and bones of human corpses. He screamed, “
Stop it! Stop!
” An icy cold wind plunged through the room, knocking pictures off the wall, blowing the blanket and sheets from the bed. The unspeakable presence then left Bev, and he remained breathing heavily on the bare mattress, soaked in sweat, exhaustively convinced of his bodily possession.

In the walls: hideous laughter.

He remained curled on the bed for a minute, maybe more, seeking out—and not wanting to find—the presence of the malevolent spirit within. Then, slowly, he rose. Looked at himself in the mirror. Trembling; dark circles around the eyes; skin sallow; hair matted. In a panic, he careened to the kitchen window, looked out front again.