The Story of Her Holding an Orange (8 page)

“But Father, this is the most sacred place of all,” responded my dad.

“Son, I can’t tell you much more. But I will say, you must baptize him. Don’t dare not to.”

They spoke for a few more minutes, and when my dad realized that he wasn’t getting either answers or a baptism for me, he took my hand and we left.

“What the hell did you do?” Dad asked me in the car, looking angry. I suppose the first logical assumption was that I somehow messed things up. Maybe he thought I pissed behind the church and got caught or something.

“I was with you the whole time,” I answered truthfully, which silenced him.

When we got home, my dad’s phone rang. It was Father Srdjan. He wanted us to come back without any further explanation. Now, the ride to Ostrog was a good 35 minutes long, but apparently, my dad really wanted me soaked in the holy water, so we got back into his old Volkswagen and got on the road. When we arrived at the church grounds, the priest was waiting for us.

“I decided to baptize your son despite…” said Srdjan while stroking his beard and looking away into the distance. 

“Despite what?” asked my dad.

“Never mind. Let’s hurry.”

So I walked in circles while the priest spoke prayers I didn’t understand and sprayed me with holy water I didn’t want. When it was all done, he shook my dad’s hand and said, “Go now, and don’t come back unless something strange happens.”

I could tell that my dad wanted answers, but he was already irritated by the priest’s strange behavior, so he just made a donation to thank him for the services, and we left. That was twenty years ago.

I needed to know what Rose meant by “my priest,” so I begged my dad to go back to the church and see if the man who baptized me still worked there. After some talking into, my father finally caved in and went to Ostrog. Father Srdjan was still there, although retired. He now only lived on the premises. My dad said that the man was really unresponsive, but some convincing and a hefty donation made him open up.

I was baptized on February 13, 1992. One night, before the ceremony, “my” priest was handling his sheep at the field near the church. Back in the day, priests handled their own animals for food, not like today where they rock Cadillacs and iPhones. While working with the sheep, Father Srdjan noticed a dark figure in the distance. This was strange because the church premises had closed a few hours earlier and the rest of the clerical staff were already in their designated housing.

“Hello? Who is that?” he asked.

“Come, Father,” answered a calm, womanly voice from the dark.

Srdjan thought maybe a sick person or a beggar had wandered on the premises looking for help. This wasn’t all that uncommon. But as soon as he stepped towards the figure, he felt something “unholy”, as he said. He claimed that the sheep started acting scared, and he wasn’t doing much better.

“What is it that you want?” asked the priest in an aggressive, confident voice. He had a strong feeling that he wasn’t dealing with a well-meaning individual, and he wanted to show that he wasn’t afraid.

“Tomorrow,” answered the voice, “tomorrow, a boy will come to your church. His name is Milos. You will not baptize him.”

Srdjan told my father that, despite all of the unholy things he encountered in his life, including many exorcisms, he felt scared. 

“You and your kind aren’t welcome on God’s ground,” the priest said.

“My kind, Father?” asked the woman, stepping forward. Father said she looked white as a ghost, with eyes that gave away her lack of a soul. “And what would my kind be?”

“You demons.”

She laughed.

“Demons? Father, I know you’re a man of the cloth, but believing in demons? That demands a lot of faith.”

“Leave, now!” yelled the priest, raising his golden crucifix towards her. 

“Listen to me, you pitiful man, you don’t know what you have here. You had better do as I say, or you will never sleep peacefully again.”

Then, she turned around and left. Srdjan stood there for quite some time, shaking in fear for the first time in his life.

You know the rest of the story. He denied me the baptism at first, only to change his mind and do it. When my dad came to visit him twenty years later, he claimed that he couldn’t deny one of God’s children a way to Jesus. 

The priest said that for two weeks after the ceremony, the woman would show up in his window every night. She wouldn’t say a word; she would just stare at him with her head tilted to the left. Then, his sheep started dying. There were no signs of fighting or foul play, they’d just be found dead in the morning. Finally, the priest claimed that the number of exorcisms skyrocketed at the church.

Now, I believed everything Father Srdjan said to my dad up to that point. I think it’s safe to assume that the woman who visited him was Rose. Sure, she may have come to his window to harass him for disobeying. And all right, she may have killed his sheep even. But exorcisms? As soon as my dad mentioned that, I told him that the man was being overly dramatic. My dad said that he thought that as well, until the priest showed him a VHS of one of the exorcisms. Apparently, the church had cameras installed to record every such ritual. My dad says that there was this 13-year-old girl in the chapel, and the priest was saying all the prayers. But when he sprayed holy water on her, she started talking nonsense and walking in circles. Srdjan called for two guys from the staff to hold her down, but they couldn’t. Dad said that it was surreal watching a little girl dragging two large guys across the chapel.

My father was overwhelmed with all the information, and he wasn’t sure what to believe. He wanted to leave, but he needed to find out who the woman was. Srdjan claimed that he initially thought that the woman was a demon, but her lack of fear when he prayed and her freedom on the holy ground suggested differently. He then went on with theories of her being a part of a cult, or maybe even Morana, the goddess of death. He claimed that he still occasionally sees her, most often on February 13, the day he baptized me. This whole experience apparently made Father Srdjan lose faith in God, who he claims should’ve protected him, and he retired not too long after the woman started coming to him.

I personally took most of this story with a grain of salt, as did Dad. We couldn’t really be sure how much of it was true and how much was a fabrication of an old, probably senile mind. One thing I was sure about though: my patience was running out.

Imagine the amount of information running through my brain at the moment. I had to be on a constant lookout for Rose and her company. I had to try and figure out what she wanted from me. I had to dig into my and my family’s history for answers, which only lead to more questions. I had to worry about Trish and her well-being. It was rough, man.

As my tolerance for stress ran dangerously low, I made a decision: The next time I saw Rose, I was going to take the fucking orange.

TEN

I Took It

Trish had returned from visiting her friend, and I could tell she looked much better. She had regained some color, her mood had gotten better, and she didn’t appear as scared. I chose not to tell her about my baptism story or the bike trail incident since I didn’t want her to worry over things she couldn’t influence. I told her that my days went by uneventfully and that the whole horror was most likely over. I don’t know if she could tell I was lying or not, but she accepted my words with a warm smile, and we had a joyful day together for the first time in two months, since the Rose events restarted. 

You would expect my next sentence to start with “but,” wouldn’t you? Well, there wasn’t a “but.” As a matter of fact, the next day was even better than the previous one. I got a call from a company I applied to work for, and they told me that I had gotten the job. My first real world, grown-up job. The only thing better than getting a good job was getting a good job far away from Provincetown. The company was offering me a position in Atlanta, Georgia, more than 1,000 miles away from all this horror. 

I probably broke some sort of record for accepting a job offer. I didn’t even let the recruiter finish her presentation. I took the job, and I told them I was coming in two days.

For the first time in weeks, Trish and I were happy. Not only was I about to start a professional career (until this damn book gets made into a Hollywood blockbuster), but Trish and I were also getting the hell out of Massachusetts, where Rose and the man seemed to dwell. 

While we were packing our bags, we discussed all the great things about our upcoming stress-free life. Nowhere in our plans did we mention a demonic, orange-carrying woman in a white dress. We rented a car, filled it with all of our belongings, and went down to the sweet south where we would only find oranges in grocery stores.

The actual trip, while long, was a hell of a lot of fun. We’d eat at different restaurants, sleep in cool hotels, you know, the good-old road trip kind of thing. When we finally arrived in Atlanta, we were exhausted but excited at the prospect of our new life. Trish’s brother and his family live in that city, so we stayed with them until we were able to find a fitting apartment. We managed to find an amazing one bedroom flat that had everything we needed. Watching Trish sign the lease made me giggle like a little kid; she seemed so happy that, if a stranger would’ve looked at her, they would have never guessed she went through hell so recently. 

Then came the time to move in. We only had about six suitcases worth of stuff, so we decided that I would carry them upstairs while Trish went shopping for basic supplies and groceries. The suitcases were in the building’s lobby, and our apartment was on the first floor. I brought in the first two bags and left the door open so I didn’t have to unlock it again. During the second trip up the stairs, one of the bags opened and a few of my things fell out. Tired and frustrated, I cursed and gathered all of my stuff and dragged the suitcases into the apartment. One more trip and I would be done. I brought the last two bags into the living room, took off my shoes, and grabbed a can of Coke. After the first sip, I dropped it.

In the middle of our naked, unfurnished floor sat an orange. Time froze around me, and the only two things that made it into my brain were the foaming noise of spilled soda and a fucking orange in the center of my living room. You know how, when you’re in a plane that’s taking off, your ears get clogged and you have to move your jaw to fix them? That’s what happened. It seemed like everything around me blurred out and my whole focus was on that goddamn piece of fruit. Then the spilled Coke made it to my feet and threw me back into the reality. 

Rose.

I turned around and right there, at the entrance of the apartment, stood Rose and the man in the black suit. If I were better at artistic descriptions, I would be able to portray that whole scene better.

I was standing in my socks that were now soaked with soda. Behind me, on the floor, was an orange and in front of me, the two people who stalked Trish, my grandmother, and me for our whole lives. They looked happy and confident.

 Rose wore the same white dress and her skin was as pale as ever. Her head was tilted to the left and her arms were just dangling at her sides. There was one thing different about her, though; she didn’t have any lipstick on, although her grin was still there. I suppose that, if you saw her on the street and you had no prior knowledge of her, you’d think nothing of her. Behind Rose stood a man in the black suit, the same man from the bike trail. He looked old and strict. His pupils were contracted to near-pinpoints, but his eyes still gave the impression of depth. On his head was an old-school top hat, and in his right hand, he held a long cane. 

The wave of feelings that came to me was overwhelming. The first emotion was, of course, fear. My initial thought was to run. But where? They were standing at the only entrance. The follow up thought was to fight. But why? What would that accomplish? And could I even win? Then came the peace. The unexpected peace. I realized what I should’ve realized a long time ago. There was no escape. No matter how many times I changed towns, cities, countries, or even continents, they’d always find me. No matter how long I’d reject it, the orange would always be there for me to take it. I had a choice of being followed for the rest of my life, or accepting the damn orange and seeing what happened. 

With no energy left to resist, I muttered, “If I take it… Will you tell me why?”

Rose smiled even wider than before. She looked over her shoulder to the man, who nodded slightly in approval. She looked back at me, then at the orange behind me.

“Alright,” I said, defeated.

I walked over to that fucking thing lying on the floor. I got down on one knee and took a second to study the piece of fruit. It looked just like a regular orange, except that it was a bit rotten. This was it. I inhaled deeply, closed my eyes, and took the orange. I don’t know what I expected, really. I guess I (and probably you) expected some sort of immediate reaction from the universe. I thought about this moment many times before it actually happened, and taking the orange was never so… uneventful in my head. It was unusually quiet. When I finally opened my eyes, I realized that I was just holding a piece of rotten fruit, nothing more and nothing less. I turned around and looked at Rose and the man.

Her head wasn’t tilted anymore, and the man had taken his hat off.

They looked normal.

“Come in,” I said, lowering myself into a seated position on the floor.

ELEVEN

The Story of Her Holding an Orange

Rose looked over to the man once again, and after another approving nod from him, she slowly walked into the room and sat in the only chair in the apartment. 

“What would you like to know?” she asked, smiling. She didn’t speak in the unnaturally childish voice she had used before, but in her natural tone. I almost felt relieved.