Demonologist (4 page)

~ * ~

Five minutes later, the Limo dropped Bev off at the end of the walkway leading to his home. A newspaper truck ripped by, promising the most up-to-date details of the nation’s events. He paced the long walkway, then up the lumbering stone steps to the front door; below, a slate embankment fell fifteen feet to an adornment of azalea bushes. Behind the house, a half-mile of undeveloped woodland extended all the way to the freeway. At his door, he waved to the limo driver who returned the mundane gesture and drove off into the night.

In the distance, thunder rumbled. Soon thereafter, sheet lightning flashed. He looked to the sky. Dark purple clouds roiled in the distance.

For the first time in nine months, Bev
Mathers
entered his home.

Just as he’d left it. Clean. Neat. Kristin had promised a cleaning service once a month to take care of the dust and webs. Her pledge had been kept. The bay windows overlooking the woods glimmered; the raised brick fireplace and pine walls absorbed the color of the throws; in his bedroom, the crisp whiteness of the bed’s comforter invited him. He went into the bathroom, showered quickly, then investigated his “office,” a makeshift studio with foam-padded walls packed tightly with amps, stereos, guitars, and 16-track recording equipment: a reunion with old friends.

Back in the bedroom, he tossed his clothes on the floor, crawled beneath the covers, and stared at the ceiling. In the peculiar unfamiliarity of his home, his ears rang, nearly drowning out the rain now pelting the roof. His mind raced over his near-perfect performance tonight, of all the people he’d talked to at the party, and of Kristin. He’d never gotten a chance to say goodnight to her. Where had she gone? More than likely idling the hours away with Rebecca, the
Rock Hard Magazine
gal.

And then he thought of the dark stranger, milling about the party; eyeing him; showing up at the diner. The eerie reality of the situation set in, Bev realizing now that he’d been purposefully
followed
. He remembered the envelope—the stranger’s obvious intent had been to deliver it to him. And that objective had been successful. It was now wedged in the back pocket of the jeans he’d worn, strewn on the floor alongside the bed. He considered getting out of bed to retrieve it, but his weary body stifled his curiosity.
It’ll be there in the morning
, he told himself.

He closed his eyes and in seconds, was asleep.

Bev dreamed of heat, of boiling lava flowing around his buried knees. He waded through the molten asphalt; it spit at him, glowing red beneath a shifting layer of black crust. Around him, hundreds of poor souls were being taken down by the brutal tide. He approached a small barren beach where he saw Kristin and Jake. The two stood naked on the rocky shore, holding hands, shouting “Come here! To the shore!” He traipsed forward, the tide of lava against him, holding him back. Skeletal arms wrapped in liquid flesh reached out from the depths of the flow, grasping his waist, his chest, his arms. His head swelled, and from deep within he heard the scratching, persistent fingers burrowing beyond the surface of his skull into the tender matter of his brain where they uniformly settled amidst the firing synapses and organic secretions. The melting hands rooted into his skin, blood pooling out from his chest, ripping his beating heart free from its cavity. He stopped, only feet from the safe haven of the rock shore where Kristin and Jake waited in glistening nudity, outstretched arms falling to their sides in defeat. They turned and padded away into the darkness, leaving Bev alone to die, to die, to die
...

~ * ~

He awoke, eyes darting open, leaping heart striking his ribcage.
Jesus, what a nightmare!
For a time he lay still, breathing heavily, nerve endings squirting and keeping him from drifting back into a sleeping state. He shifted his legs and felt a moist sheen on his body; not a cold sweat, rather one dipped in heat, as if he’d just emerged from a sauna. He kicked the covers off with one leg. Opened his eyes. Raindrops met his tired gaze, clinging to the bay window like ornaments, gray light filtering through them in dull slivers.

His cell phone rang.

Startled, he crawled from the bed, stomach heavy and knotted. He followed the toll. Somewhere on the floor. His jeans. Still clipped to his belt, the soft green light from the display signaled him. He reached down and grabbed the phone, pulling the jeans up with it. A few coins jingled to the floor.

From the back pocket, the envelope slipped free and landed next to the coins. He pressed the
send
button on the phone, eyes pinned to his name scrawled on the folded beige square. “This is Bev.”

“Wake you up?” Jake.

“Uh, yeah. I guess.”

“You guess? C’mon,
douchebag
, either I did or I didn’t.”

“I’m awake now. What time is it?”

“Almost noon. How you feeling?”

“Well, considering that I just woke up, spent. You?”

“I didn’t puke, so I guess I’m ahead of the game.”

He laughed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We’ve got dinner at six. My place. Gonna discuss your future. Then, party at eight.”

“Jake...”

“Don’t ‘Jake’ me. Epic is very serious about keeping you on board for the next few years.”

“It’s my first day back in nine months. Make them wait a week.”

“
Douchebag
! Listen to me, don’t let them sit on it. They might change their minds, I’m telling you—”

“If they want me, then they can wait a week. I’m officially on vacation.”

“Bev, this is serious shit, and I—”

“I’m serious too, Jake. I need to spend some time with my daughter. No distractions. No ongoing negotiations. Got it? I’m freakin’ tired and I need a break. Make an appointment for next week sometime.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking mad,” he rasped. “Success has
mushed
your brain.”

What a pain in the ass
, Bev thought, then remembered his dream and changed the subject. “You see Kristin leave last night?”

“Kristin? Kristin? Oh...you mean that hot little piece of ass at the party?”

“Watch it Jake...you know, I
could
fire your fat ass.”

“Eat shit and die.”

“We’re even now.”

“Fine,” he murmured. “No, I didn’t see her leave. Frankly, I don’t remember much of anything from last night, other than Epic’s proposal, and that I didn’t puke.”

“You’re such a charmer.”

“Why thank you,
mon
douchebag
.”

“Listen, I
gotta
go.”

“Well...what about Epic?”

“Next week.”

“Jesus, you’re mad.”

“I’m a rock star. I have to be.”

Jake laughed, defeated. “Fuck. You make my job so damn hard.”

“Gotta work hard to earn the big bucks, my man.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Forget about dinner, then. Just try to make the party. Okay?
Douchebag
?”

“I’ll try.” Bev disconnected the line. He ran a hand through his hair, rose from bed and staggered into the bathroom. He partook in the three
SH’s
: shit, shower, and shave. In that order. An hour later he was a new man, no fatigue, no odd finger-probing sensation in his head. His stomach rolled with hunger. Nine months out of the apartment left him with nothing to eat; he hoped Kristin would be available to meet for lunch.

Back in the bedroom, he got a cigarette out from the pack on the nightstand, lit it, then went to the sliding closet. Folded atop the white wicker hamper were three pairs of jeans; his suitcase was still in transit along with the guitars he’d taken on tour. He pulled the
bootcut
denims from the top of the pile, grabbed them by the waistband, and shook the stiffness out of them.

A beetle the size of a prune fell from the jeans and dropped to the wood floor with a tiny audible
clack
. It quickly righted itself and skittered away toward the bathroom.

“Jesus!” Bev dropped the jeans in a heap. In a hesitant panic, he reached into the closet for the closest shoe and launched after the fleeing insect. With a quick instinctual swing, he brought the shoe’s heel down on the vacating bug. It made a wet crunching sound. He ground it back and forth, doing his best to finish the job. Once satisfied, he raised the shoe. Yellow custard oozed from the beetle’s shell. Two of its six or eight legs were left behind like storm-blown twigs. Still, amazingly, it wasn’t dead. It continued on in a slow, staggering amble—a last ditch attempt for survival.
This is the reason why cockroaches and beetles have been around since the dinosaurs
. With a flick of the wrist, he whacked at it again, then took the cigarette from his mouth and put it out on the beetle’s crushed back. This pretty much took care of it. It wasn’t going anywhere now.

He hurried into the bathroom and grabbed a handful of tissues. He used them to clean away the soft carcass from the floor and the shoe. After flushing the tissues, he went back and picked up his strewn jeans. Another beetle fell out and raced across the floor, its sanctuary disturbed. “Son of a bitch!” Bev shouted, throwing the jeans down again. He watched with dismay as the bug quickly sequestered itself into the dense safety of the closet.

Bev’s heart pounded, his breathing quickened. “What’s with the fucking bugs?” He slid the doors to the closet fully open, exposing his entire wardrobe. He leaned down and peered into the dusty darkness beneath his hanging clothes.

Six or seven large beetles like the ones he saw were walking on the back wall of the closet. Antennae flickering. Legs racing. Shells fluttering like wings. Some disappeared behind his clothes; others came back down to replace them.

He shouted out. Staggered back. His skin crawled. At once he felt as though they were on him, and he slapped his hands all over his exposed skin.
What the fuck?

The apartment was infested. And he’d
slept
here last night. Suddenly his skull itched from within, the invisible fingers digging along the space where brain met skull, as though they were creating space there to settle. He quickly grabbed the jeans from the bed, the ones he wore last night, and shook them briskly. No beetles. He jumped into them, then checked his shirt which reeked of smoke and sweat, and put that on too. He peered at his shirts tucked in the closet, considered grabbing one from a hangar, then decided against it.

Compulsively, he got down on his hands and knees again and peered into the closet to reinvestigate. Beetles raced everywhere, on the back wall, on the floor, in his shoes. They seemed to really like it in there: cool, dark, dusty. Safe.

Jesus
...

Suddenly, the room grew hot. Oppressive. A sweat coated his forehead and back. His armpits dripped. He stood, slightly dizzied, those phantom fingers still digging. He walked to the wall and put a hand against the central air vent. Cool.
What the fuck? I must be getting sick. And my apartment’s infested. Is this a vacation?

He grabbed his cell phone from the bed. His keys and wallet were still in his pockets. The air suddenly kicked off. The apartment fell into a strange silence. He shivered—suddenly cold despite the sweat on his body.

Then, he eyed the envelope on the floor. His handwritten name hypnotized him:
Bev
Mathers
. It’d been meant for him. But from whom? He bent down, picked it up, then fled the odd infestation that had become of his home.

The door closed behind him. He stood on the cement landing in the gray drizzle of Saturday afternoon, taking in long deep breaths. By the time he reached his car parked in the detached garage a hundred feet away, the scratching in his head had vanished.