The Demon by Dimitris P. Boskainos

St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral
Manhattan
New York City
Monday, February 4, 2013, 4:45 pm

Father Jerome wiped his lips with a clean white napkin after having a makeshift snack. He was the youngest priest ever to hold mass in St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral in 50 years. He was just 31 and had come to the big city from a small Pennsylvania parish about two months ago. He had just started to get used to the City’s mentality, the traffic, the ruckus, the food, and the more clement weather, but he never forgot who he was and where he had started from, so he never neglected to pray for the people of his little village who he had spent his early years as a priest with.

But today was different.

No, this was not the same. He had been part of two exorcisms as Father Nicholas’ apprentice, but he had never been alone.

Furthermore, the symptoms that those two “hosts” presented with were so mild that even if he had not yet formed a consolidated view of the manifestations of Good and Evil, he had started to lean towards some Freudian transference of their meaning and had convinced himself that the exorcized were just weak characters that required psychiatric assistance before they started to immerse themselves again in the calm haven of Faith.

He laid both his hands in the gold-embroidered altar cloth and bent forward taking in slow breaths as his father had taught him as a child so that he could channel all his stress, especially when he was a mess and had to be with people that very time.

He had a bad premonition.

Maybe he was somewhat ill, he said to himself, while the last bite of his lunch threatened to charge upward again, into his esophagus.

In about a quarter of an hour, he was expecting one Margaret Malone, 22, a law student, and some members of her family.

Her father, Vincent Malone, had approached him last Sunday after mass and had related those unthinkable for any human mind events that involved his one and only daughter, events that since last month had changed the life of all his family.

Those events were so hair-raising that Father Jerome raised his eyes ever so often to meet Vincent’s eyes as if he could not believe that all those hideous, horrific images were the product of speech of an everyday middle-aged man, a rail driver in the Long Island line.

Unfortunately, the Polaroid pictures that Vincent showed him with tears and desperation in his eyes as their short conversation ended dispersed both his incredulity and his restful night’s sleep for the week that followed.

You needn’t be an orthopedics specialist to see that the joints of the arms and legs of this unfortunate young woman were bent backward from normal while she exhibited her swollen tongue in a torn and bruised face with her head looking upwards in a body curved like a human table.

He walked to the small washbasin outside and to the left of the chancel, turned the tap, and made to drink some water. He looked at his clean collar and his pale gaunt face in the little mirror above the washbasin. He wiped the drops of sweat from his brow and coughed a couple of times to clear his voice.
He stared at the statue of Christ Crucified which reached up to his waist, at the right side of the altar. Made of plaster and painted with light pastel colors, it looked worn with age as the sparkling luster of its surface had started to fade with the passage of time.

With a slow and determined step he walked towards the statue, kneeled, and casting a fleeting glance into the soulless artificial eyes he bent his head humbly and began to pray…

-Lord, help Thy humble servant…

-Give me the strength, O Lord, to despatch Evil to the flames of Hell…

-Help me deliver this young Christian from the mephitic Spirit of Evil…

-In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen…

A creaking noise, augmented by the acoustics of the ample space of the church was heard and then what sounded like conversation. But what frightened Father Jerome was otherworldly laughter, ironic shrieks, and smiles that were extinguished abruptly as he turned to look…

He got up and walked towards the family. What he had heard seconds before had indelibly registered into his subconscious but the sudden silence that ensued made him think he might just have imagined it.
Vincent was holding tightly the left arm of his daughter while his wife held on to the right arm, both so close to her that they supported her and looked alternately at her and Father Jerome who was walking toward them.

The girl wore a questioning expression on her face and sized up Father Jerome with disbelief. She was sweating profusely with her hair glued on her face, while she breathed slowly with a whistling sound. Her head was slightly inclined to the side, while her eyes were wide open and wet.

Father Jerome took a small aged leather-bound book from his pocket and opened it somewhere in the middle. He turned towards the parents and said: “Come closer, don’t let her go, bring her here at the center under the dome.”

Vincent tightened his grip on his daughter. “Come, dear, be brave and all will go well.”

The young girl pulled away her eyes from Father Jerome and spoke to her father with a heavy male voice and an indistinct accent:

“Pot….glurgh….all will go to pot.”

Her malevolent laughter ceased immediately and her look transfixed the priest again until his stomach was taut. “Did you soil your pants, yella boy? You ain’t seen nothing yet, horny guy. Wahahaha glurgh (she started to spit mucus on the ground) do ya wanna see everything, fag? Well, here it is.”

(Her body curved backward by itself like a huge parenthesis mark, and, with an abrupt move, her clothes were torn from top to bottom as if a razor had ripped them apart). “You are nothing to me, you don’t scare me, come and fuck me now, fuck me!” And she started to moan loudly and contract her pelvis up and down in a lewd and primitive fashion.

Her mother uttered a whimper of desolation which hit the ears of the others like a club.

Father Jerome drew in a deep breath, tensed his body, and started reciting slowly and steadily “ Crux sancta sit mihi lux / Non draco sit mihi dux, Vade retro Satana” (transl. May the Holy Cross be my Light / Let not the dragon be my guide, go back Satan).

The possessed girl tensed every muscle in her face in a grimace full of furrows and hate and cried out to the priest “Are you a sissy? Don’t you hear me when I’m talking to you?

Suddenly her voice became a more booming bass as if the element that haunted spoke at last: “TELL HIM TO SHUT UP TELL HIM TO SHOVE IT NOOO NOT THAT PRAYER F…ED BENEDICT…YOU HAD SENT ME AWAY BY THAT THEN AHIIIIII PUT A LID ON IT PRIMATE OF THE CHURCH”.

Father Jerome continued steadfastly and with greater certainty, seeing that his words began to have an effect.

“Nunquam suade mihi vana. Sunt mala quae libas / Ipse venena bibas* (Transl.* “Never lead me unto temptation with vain things. What you are offering is evil / Drink the poison yourself.”)

After the reading of the last word and while all present crossed themselves with eyes shut, the girl closed her eyes and collapsed. Her parents with Father Jerome’s assistance laid her down in the pews of the first row. There the priest continued the reading for quite some time more, but the only reaction from the girl was some movement of her eyeballs under her eyes closed tight and, from time to time, some mild unintelligible murmurs.

With none of the three of them being any the wiser, a thin black plume of smoke was beginning to emit from the girl’s nostrils and began whirling and growing. They were quite close to her, but no one of them saw the ectoplasm, which, once its exit was complete, quickly soared toward the chancel.

The girl’s mother wiped her forehead with a handkerchief and after making sure her daughter was breathing more regularly this time looked at Father Jerome with her eyes full of anticipation and agony. She asked him if he was finished and smiled a smile of deliverance for the first time in quite a while when she saw his affirmative nod.

The couple covered the girl with a blanket which Father Jerome provided and with a drink of water succeeded in making her stand on her feet again.

Her look had changed. Her face, even though showing the exhaustion of the ordeal she had been through was now serene and her eyes were full of gratitude, even though she had not yet realized why.
that Father Jerome accompanied them to the exit and advised them to get the girl to a hospital for her to rest and be examined for a supposed collapse due to overexertion.

He reached the washbasin dragging his feet. He was a physical wreck but the heaviest blow had been to his soul. It was too much for him.

His reflection in the mirror gave him a start. He had to calm down. To relax and try and get some sleep.
He opened a small trunk where his vestments and some personal belongings were. He fumbled a little with his hands under the garments.

He took out a small metal flask of brandy. He opened it and pressed it on his lips, shaking. He needed strength and warmth. He took in one gulp and then another… and another. He drank looking at his image in the mirror without thinking, until the flask was empty.

He took in a few deep breaths and felt the numbness of alcohol rise from his stomach to the rest of his body. He went into the chancel again. He would pray and would go home to bed. He wished for a deep, dreamless sleep he was so in need of.

He kneeled a bit in a daze before the statue of the crucified Lord and started praying. He wanted to thank Jesus for giving him the power to relieve that girl from the demon that possessed her. There was no doubt that something metaphysical had taken place. Something great even for him with his quite pure soul.

He cleared his throat and started mumbling. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy…”. He began to notice a burning feeling, from the outside this time, hammering him on his head, coming from above his position. He lifted his head by reflex while he continued to pray perfunctorily.

In the low light of the altar, he saw the statue of the crucifixion shining intensely and… it couldn’t be…it was probably the brandy and the fact he doused it down all at once…it couldn’t…the statue LET DOWN TEARS…

He got a grip of his eyes and his heart and went on…”Thank you, Lord, for…” The heat was rising all at once and was almost burning him… he looked at the statue again. The aged varnish together with paint was flowing now from the statue’s face canceling the details that its artist had effected… As if his eyes no longer communicated with his brain, Jerome completed his phrase in a louder voice “Thank you Lord for helping me exorcise this Demon…”

(the eyelids of Jesus opened suddenly revealing horrid ebony eyes – the statue’s head turned towards the priest making the sound of chalk being rubbed on a blackboard and a white fissure appeared in the statue’s neck revealing the underlying gypsum. The answer was direct and forceful, forceful enough to shake the altar as lightning on a clear day.)

“YOU EXORCISED BALLS AHAHAHAHAHA”

The demon in his utmost irony had haunted the statue of Christ Crucified knowing who he was facing and that he would break him, once and for all.

He unhinged his hands and feet from the Cross and with a back flip started to move, spider-like, climbing on all fours the wall over the altar. And… he laughed… with a sarcastic laughter that tore apart Jerome’s heart.

The priest found his legs with some difficulty and stepping back he gripped a chair inside the chancel. He grabbed on the fly a small glass vessel with holy water in it and took the bunch of basil that was dipped inside. He started sprinkling towards the demon’s direction crying out. “Not Him, not Him blasphemer… abominable creature of Darkness, child of Satan… feel His Fire… the One and True”

The demon was on the ceiling of the chancel by now and whimpered like a wounded feline at each drop of holy water that touched him. Just as Jerome thought he had beaten him he began to laugh again and to spew out in a horrid sarcastic voice “AHAHAHAHA YOU REALLY BELIEVED THAT YOUR DROPS OF WATER BURN ME?… DO YOU WANT TO SEE FIRE ASSHOLE?… REAL FIRE?”

Still hanging upside down and on all fours, he looked around, snarled, and started SPITTING… sputa of fire that enflamed whatever they touched. HE SPAT, BURNED, and LAUGHED.

Jerome backtracked outside the chancel but the Beast followed him from the ceiling, never ceasing to spew fire to the left and right but never up front. He did not want to kill the priest but worse… He wanted to scare him to death…

The chancel was engulfed in flames and now the contents of the alcoves in front of it burned. Now the candelabra had caught fire too and the bending candles bowed to the force of the fire that all the while raised the temperature inside the church.

Very quickly the flames had engulfed all the nave and transept and the stained glass in the windows was exploding outwards.

Father Jerome thought he was in Hell. All the faces of Saints in the iconography of the church were blackened now and suggested soldiers from the Order of Evil.

He was stepping back continuously without thinking, having surrendered to the rage of the demon and the insufferable heat of the fire. He was now a human-like puppet as if his movements were controlled by a joker’s strings.

Suddenly… noises were heard from the front main gate of the church. Someone was trying to break it from the outside.

A Fire Department siren began breaking in through the raucous progress of the flames that were swallowing everything in their path.

The demon, knowing what was to follow, gave a leap in no time and landed on the floor.
He bypassed Jerome and climbed on a wall. He crucified himself anew between two forms of saints and laughing and winking at the priest he closed his eyelids, turned his head on the side, and became a soulless statue once more.

The door of the church opened with a loud noise and two police officers followed by three firemen entered the vestibule with their faces covered. They found Jerome in a miserable state and asked him what had happened. The neighbor who had called 911 had stated with certainty that all the while he was on his balcony during the last hour, the priest was alone in the church.

Father Jerome was not listening to the police officers’ questions. He was pointing at the figure of the statue of the Crucifixion crying all the time… It… Him… He is there. His breath was reeking a mixture of fear and alcohol and the officer beside him was quick to make the connection.

The priest became drunk and set fire to the church.

They handcuffed him and led him to the patrol car. He had a lot to answer for. Outside the church which by now was burning almost to the ground were parked in a haste a police cruiser and a fire brigade vehicle.

The police put Jerome in the back seat of the cruiser and set off for the station. Inside the church, the firefighters had begun their work but the struggle looked uneven. There was now little hope for even the least thing to be saved.

Father Jerome uttered not a word from the moment he was handcuffed and did not resist arrest. Yet at the moment the cruiser was starting he turned his head with unease and in tears behind him and looked for no obvious reason at the front gate of the church… And…

He saw…

He was certain that HE SAW…

… The black ectoplasm that had come out of the girl’s nostrils (and which no one had seen) after the exorcism was now coming out of the church and Jerome could now see it, in the light of the fire under the church gate… he saw it disappear again into the grille of the fire truck’s door.

He thought he also saw a spark in the fire truck’s cabin and the driver jerking like a string puppet for a moment.

As soon as the cruiser was turning to disappear on a route to the station, Jerome saw the firetruck dashing in the wrong lane with tires screeching.