Evil Eternal (3 page)

Father Michael nodded and quickly scanned the pages, absorbing every minute detail of the mission before him. To the untrained eye, the tale coming out of Vermont would appear as either the ramblings of a priest who had suffered an obvious break with reality, or an exaggeration of something far simpler and benign than it seemed. The cardinal was a wise man who took nothing lightly. This was no false alarm.

The pope took that moment of silence to stare wide-eyed at the Holy Lance. Devout as he was, the sight was almost beyond belief. He was a modern man as well as a man of the cloth, believing that most miracles had some scientific explanation, rooted in more mundane details as yet undiscovered. The lance, followed by his initial meeting with Father Michael, had forever changed or, better yet, solidified his Christian belief system. Science had since become so much minutiae in the greater and wondrous workings of God the Father.

“This will get worse before it ends.” Father Michael’s voice, a guttural growl that commanded attention, shattered the pope’s reverie.

“Yes, I’m…I’m sure it will,” the pope replied.

“There’s no telling what demonic force is behind this or how far its limbs reach. The minds of men are more pliable than ever before. It will be difficult.”

“And that is why we have you.”

Father Michael nodded in reply.

The pope looked briefly into Father Michael’s ivory eyes, hoping to see something of the man beyond the frightening exterior. He could only imagine the tortured soul that lived behind those dead man’s eyes.

“Go with God.”

Father Michael left the Hall of Penance with the speed of a fleeing wraith, the flap of his coat echoing down the long tunnel.

Pope Pius XIII felt his knees buckle. He slumped to the floor and clasped his hands together in silent contemplation of events to come. Father Michael was the church’s only physical weapon against the evil that had resurfaced. All that was left now was prayer.

It was literally the calm before the storm as the helicopter touched down in an empty field a hundred yards beyond the Vermont church. The pilot had unsuccessfully tried to make conversation with the blind priest the entire ride over. At least he had assumed he was blind, judging by his eyes. The man moved with incredible dexterity but the pilot figured he was one of those sightless people whose other senses had increased tenfold to make up for the loss of the one.

“Do you need help getting to the church?” he shouted above the sharp
whoosh
of the blades. He touched down in a hard-packed field with a harsh jolt.

The priest merely grabbed his bag, opened the cockpit door and trudged across the field.

“That’s one strange dude,” he said.

With a shrug of his shoulders, the pilot waited until the odd holy man made his way to the church doors in the distance before taking off, thankful to be rid of his bizarre cargo and anxious to get back before the storm hit.

Father Michael trudged through the eight inches of old snow that blanketed the field, crunching through the thick layer of ice that crusted the hardpack. He paused at the massive red double doors to the church. There was a stillness in the frigid air that devoured all sound. Ominous gray clouds filled the sky, ready to burst at the seams. Beyond the coming storm was a feeling, like a faint static electrical charge, that confirmed he was not too late.

Behind the doors he could hear the quiet murmur of dozens of hushed voices. No doubt they had heard the helicopter and were buzzing about his arrival. He opened one of the doors and was immediately inundated with gasps from the expectant congregation.

Here stood a man, larger and more imposing than everyone’s worst childhood nightmare of the boogeyman, who was supposed to deliver them from evil. Silence enveloped the church as he strode down the aisle to Father Rooney, who stood aghast before the pulpit.

Father Michael noted the fear in the people’s faces. Not just fear of him, but a disease of anxiety that had nestled within their bones and turned them into a pack of the living dead. Their priest was in no better shape, his red-rimmed eyes marking him as a man who had slept very little in the past week, if at all.

“Fath—Father Michael, I presume,” he said, his eyes growing wider at the approach of the massive priest.

“Come with me,” Father Michael ordered, walking briskly beyond the altar to the rear of the church. Dozens of heads swiveled, following him as he walked down the aisle. He heard Father Rooney assure his congregation that he would be right back and to remain calm. He felt a small twinge in his gut at the sound of their frantic replies.

A minute later, the priest joined him. “Before I go to the Carron farm, I need to know one thing. Had anyone been staying with them recently? Someone who was a stranger to the community?” The air vibrated as he spoke the words.

To his credit, Father Rooney did his best not to fixate on the intense timbre of the priest’s voice. He thought for a moment, and said, “Actually, they had taken someone in. A transient was passing through town looking for work a couple of weeks or so ago. Now, there’s nothing odd about that in a farming town. Many of the farm owners here employ migrant workers. What made this stand out, I guess, is the season. We rarely if ever have people pass through looking for work just before winter. Joe Carron took him on anyway, I believe to make repairs to the barn and fencing around his land. Why do you ask?”

“Did you see this man when you went to the farm three days ago?”

“No, but what does this man have to do with the possessed child?”

“Everything. How do you know the child is possessed? You’re not a trained exorcist.”

The small-town priest quickly grew angry. “Because she changed from a beautiful little girl into some sort of demonic beast before my very eyes, that’s how I fucking know she’s possessed! I watched her jump through a pane of glass and tear the back off a cow with teeth that were longer than her arms! And I ran. I ran for my life and I haven’t the courage to go back there and it makes me sick to my stomach thinking about what that family is going through, alone!”

In a perfect world, Father Michael would have had the time to talk the priest down, allay his fears, his sense of personal failure. This world, however, was far from Eden and about to get much, much worse.

“You said in your communication that the sheriff went there two days ago.”

Father Rooney cast his eyes to the ground. “He hasn’t returned.”

Father Michael placed a hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Go, tend to your congregation. Keep them in the church until my return. No one is to leave the church before then. No one.”

Relief swept across Father Rooney’s face. His greatest fear would be having the Vatican official ask him to accompany him to the Carron farm. He turned and walked back into the church on unsteady legs, bolstered by the thought that only something as frightening as this Father Michael would stand a chance against the evil at the Carron house.

The skies erupted as Father Michael took the two-mile walk to the farm. Snowflakes as large as the palm of a child’s hand fell in copious amounts, already covering the unpaved path. The wind began to howl, whipping through the dead limbs of the trees, injecting cold into his veins.

Less than a thousand feet from the Carron property, he stopped at the sound of crackling twigs to his right. Through the whistling of the wind, he strained to hear any movement in the wooded area that surrounded him.

A pile of dried leaves crunched to his left.

A shuffling of feet to his right.

With one swift motion, he pulled a long staff from his gunnysack while dropping the bag from his shoulder. The staff had a solid-gold cross at the end, encrusted with dazzling jewels: rubies, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds and jade. He twisted the base of the staff and with an audible
shikt
, six-inch blades slid out of the top and opposing arms of the cross. In an instant, it had become a deadly trident. He held it out before him, his eyes and ears scanning for the approaching attackers.

Twin howls exploded around him. With lightning speed, he was hit from behind while a foot connected with his midsection.

He was quickly knocked to the ground.

And without his trident.

Chapter Four

Father Michael lay face down in the snow, temporarily winded. His attackers had fled into the woods as quickly as they had come.

The sound of childlike laughter drifted on the swirling winds.

He gingerly touched his right side where he had received the kick. Several ribs had been broken. They were the least of his concern. They would heal.

His trident was missing. No doubt they were planning to use it against him. It was an unwise decision on their part.

Rising to one knee, he squinted into the onslaught of snow that was rapidly escalating into a major blizzard. He feigned grievous injury, clutching his side and grunting in pain as he rose to his feet. It was the basic law of the hunt in the animal kingdom. Kill the weakest of the herd. They would be upon him and careless in their confidence.

The howling rose again, this time directly in front of him. They were planning a full-out frontal assault, which meant his plan was working. They were reckless and drunk with the scent of a certain kill.

Reaching into his coat pockets, he plucked out a pair of palm-sized crucifixes with razor-sharp blades protruding atop each end. Engraved on the body of each were the words of demonic exorcism as old as the church itself. The arcane passage, which was in no way related to the larger rites of exorcism for vanquishing demonic spirits safely from human hosts, had been passed down to each succeeding pope throughout the ages. When needed, the pope would inscribe the words onto a weapon but cover it so the chosen champion of the faith could not read it, for they were human and not meant to know.

Until Father Michael came to be.

A burst of adrenaline coursed through Father Michael as his attackers came into view.

Two boys, Aaron and Billy Carron, ages fourteen and twelve, were now more beast than boys. Completely naked, they had covered themselves in blood and excrement. They halted their advance just several feet from him. One of them held the trident, jabbing it in the air with quick, jerky movements, anxious to plunge it into his heart.

They too had become demons, which meant there was no hope of finding human survivors at the farmhouse. Their very bone structure had been altered by their possession. Bony ridges had broken out haphazardly across their faces, shoulders and legs. Their arms had become elongated, with fingertips that now ended around their lower calves. Thick clots of red-and-black blood cascaded from their fuchsia eyes. They snarled at him like cornered hyenas. Their stench was overpowering.

Father Michael straightened up to his full height, his hands gripping the deadly crucifixes.

One of them, the one with the trident who Father Michael believed to be Aaron, the oldest, spoke in a tongue that had been shredded by the extra rows of teeth that had grown in his mouth.

“You die, Father fucker! Die like a cow like a sow like a pig like a bitch like a leech like a baby like a mother like…” He paused for a moment and smiled. “Like your wife.”

It was meant to shatter his composure but it was a feeble attempt. He had seen and heard too much in his service of God to become unhinged from those words.

He merely replied, “God bless you and may He pity your soul.”

They attacked as one, all claws and teeth, the trident a lance of certain death.

Father Michael jumped above their heads as they passed through the now-vacant space. He landed with a loud thud, facing the naked backs of the charging demon-children. With a quick snap of his wrist, a crucifix-dagger sliced through the air and directly into the spine of the demon holding his trident.

It dropped face-first into the snow, dead before it hit the ground. A golden light spilled from the wound in its back, arching into the sky and disappearing into the snow squall. The demon’s skin turned a grayish color before shriveling up, bones popping from the pressure, until its carcass resembled a five-foot log of spoiled beef jerky. The casual passerby wouldn’t even give it a second glance, assuming it was a rotted hunk of tree limb.

The remaining demon wailed in anger at his fallen brother.

Father Michael quickly retrieved his trident while keeping his eyes on the demon. It rocked back and forth, its heavy breath cascading like smoke from its open mouth.

Without warning, it rushed Father Michael again, arms outstretched, deadly talons ending from its fingertips. Father Michael sidestepped its charge like a veteran bullfighter, taking the opportunity to smash the butt of the trident into the demon’s face, crushing its left cheekbone. The demon swiped at thin air and whirled from the pain in its head.

Father Michael was acting on pure instinct, his mind impervious to any thoughts that the demon he was about to kill had just recently been a small boy. In his time, he had killed thousands of demons, some of them even babies, transformed by the great evil into pure monstrosities. Even God’s will had its savage solutions. To be His servant meant to be good as well as unmerciful.

“Come,” Father Michael shouted at the beast. “Let us be done with this and let me deliver you to your true Father.”