Chapter Twenty-Six

Hastings Mills, NY, July 19th, one year ago

What have I done? Rob sat in the front seat of his car, keys in the ignition. The image of the demon kept replaying in his head. The fiendish countenances forming in the hell smoke. The creature splitting apart.

Asmodeus suscitat! Rob’s Latin was rusty but still good enough for him to translate Abby’s words. Asmodeus wakes. Asmodeus, a name he recognized from ancient texts. One of the seven princes of Hell. Had one of its minions possessed Abigail? If so, no wonder it had been too strong for him.

I didn’t drive out the demon, I freed it. I was so wrong. Wrong to think I could perform the rite. Wrong about the demon’s power. Wrong to think I succeeded.

If he’d been wrong about those things, what about the Brock sisters? Maybe they weren’t evil. Perhaps their power even served God in some way.

Had he even heard God’s voice at all?

‘For even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.’ The quote from Corinthians came to him, riding on a tsunami of remorse as he understood the truth of what he’d done. He’d killed someone, murdered an innocent because the demon tricked him.

‘You are of your father, the Devil, and you want to carry out your father’s desires. For he is a liar and the father of lies.’

John 8:44. Talking about Satan and those who followed him.

And what happened to murderers? Revelation laid it out pretty damn clear. He found himself repeating the quote aloud.

“But for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.”

Murderers. The sexually immoral. Rob groaned. Detestable. As perfect a description of him as could be written.

The sound of distant sirens reached him. Someone had called the police. It was almost time to face the consequences of his actions.

Almost.

It was too late for his soul now. Killing Shari Brock had sealed his fate. But Abigail…they still had a chance to save her. A slim one, but it existed.

Cradling his injured hand in his lap, he started the car with his left and raced out of the driveway, heading away from the oncoming police. He’d catch the highway one exit east, in Hinsdale. If all went well, he’d be back in a day, two at the most.

Hopefully there’d be a town left when he returned.

“I can’t believe this shit.”

Officer Cindy Dicus stood in her underwear staring at her phone, her deep scowl informing her husband, Brad, something work-related had just come through, and it wasn’t good news. They’d been married for ten years, and he’d quickly learned how to decipher her various frowns. Like her mother and sister, Cindy had a portfolio of them, ranging from minor eyebrow dips when she watched the news or tried to decide on a pair of shoes to the exaggerated furrowed brow and tight lips that served as a warning to anyone nearby that the shit was about to hit the fan.

And then there were the work frowns. They happened a couple of times a month, usually when she got stuck doing traffic detail in bad weather or fixing paperwork one of her fellow officers screwed up.

Considering she’d worked late the night before and then done a day shift today, Brad had a feeling this particular frown involved more overtime.

“Bad news?”

“Goddamned ghost hunters again. Someone got shot. I’m freakin’ exhausted. And now I’ve gotta go back there and deal with their crazy bullshit.”

Brad stayed silent. Like everyone in town, he’d heard about the reality show crew and the mysterious falling rocks and raining frogs. It wasn’t surprising that Cindy would get called back in if there’d really been a shooting. In a small town like Hastings Mills, with only a few officers per shift, everyone worked double time in emergency situations.

“That sounds serious.” The moment he said it, he regretted opening his mouth. Cindy shot him a glare the likes of which he hadn’t seen since the time his brother drank a bottle of tequila and passed out during Thanksgiving dinner. He tensed, preparing himself for the verbal tsunami about to strike.

Then her frown melted away, replaced by a sultry smile and a raised eyebrow. At first he couldn’t place her expression; it had been that long since he’d seen it. Even then, he still didn’t believe his eyes.

“You know what?” She crooked a finger at him and ran her other hand between her breasts. “The hell with them all. I’m gonna be late. Whattaya say?”

“Umm….” Brad motioned at the door. “The girls are still getting ready for bed.”

“Read my lips. I’m horny. Are you joining me or am I taking care of things by myself?” She slipped off her panties and dropped them on the floor. That made up Brad’s mind. He wasn’t missing out on the opportunity, not when her crazy hours and raising two young children had reduced their sex life to once a month if they were lucky. He tried to close the bedroom door but Cindy pushed him onto the bed, climbing on top of him and pressing a hand over his mouth before he could object. With her other hand, she unzipped his fly, releasing his erection. She lowered herself onto him and he gave in to the moment, thrusting up as forcefully as she slammed down. It didn’t take long for her to begin shaking, a sure sign her orgasm was only moments away. She arched her back and let out an animal growl as she squeezed his waist with her thighs. Despite his worry the girls would walk in on them, he felt his own release nearing.

Sharp nails dug into his ribs and the hand over his mouth pushed harder. Cindy continued to writhe atop him, bringing him closer to the edge. Her hand slid up from his mouth to cover his nose as well. He tried to turn his head but she leaned down, pinning him against the pillow. The tiny daggers in his side blossomed into full-grown knives and when she lifted her other hand to her lips, blood dripped from her nails. Colored spots formed in his vision and his lungs screamed for air.

She let out a long, howling cry. He moaned against her palm and she smiled, her image growing fuzzy as his eyesight dimmed. For a brief second, he saw multiple faces in a red fog, distorted images of ferocious beasts overlaying hers. Just when he thought he would pass out, she lifted her hand from his mouth and his vision cleared. He took a huge, gasping breath and went rigid as his own orgasm erupted. Cindy pressed herself against him until he finished, then rolled over and sat with her back against the headboard.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

“What the fuck, Cindy?” he asked, his voice hoarse and weak.

“Best orgasm you’ll ever have. I guarantee you’ll never have another like it.”

“I don’t care. I’m not into that sado-masocistic—”

She slammed the edge of her hand into his throat. Brad’s body convulsed and a strangled gasp whistled through his crushed windpipe. While he clawed at his neck and fought to breathe, she took her spare pistol, a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson revolver, from the nightstand drawer and fired point-blank into his head. Blood and flesh splattered across the pillows and her breasts. She rolled off the bed as two pajama-clad girls entered the room with frightened eyes.

“Mommy! We heard a ’splosion!” Maya, six, held the hand of her sister, Lisa, who was ten months younger.

“Yes, you did, honey.” Cindy pulled the trigger. Maya flew backward, a dark hole where her nose had been a moment before. Before Lisa could scream, Cindy put two bullets into her chest. She landed on her sister, red foam spilling from her mouth.

Cindy smiled at the bodies, then got her cell phone and hit 911.

“Police Department. What’s your emergency?”

Cindy grimaced. Martha Plotkin, who worked part-time as a dispatcher and the rest of the time as Chief Mordecai’s secretary. The bitch had been around longer than Mordecai himself, and everyone kissed her ass to stay on the chief’s good side.

“Hey, Martha. This is Cindy Dicus. I just killed my family, you old cow. Tell the chief he can go fuck himself, I quit. Asmodeus suscitat.” She put the phone down and placed the barrel of the gun in her mouth.

The last thing she heard was Martha’s voice.

“Cindy? Cindy, you all right?”

In the St. Alphonse Holy Gardens retirement complex, Father Bertrand Merkle stood up and threw his tray across the table, sending creamed corn, meatloaf, and chocolate pudding onto the shirts of his fellow diners.

“The end is near!” he shouted. The few strands of white hair remaining on his head stood straight up and his eyes bulged from his head.

The three other retired priests at the table slid back. One of them reached for Merkle’s arm but the octogenarian Franciscan, who still insisted on wearing his traditional brown robe and sandals, pulled away with surprising force.

“Evil is coming and there’s nothing anyone can do! The time of Satan is upon us!”

Merkle climbed onto the table, kicking food and flatware to the floor. A cafeteria worker rushed over and tried to grab his legs. Merkle slammed his foot down on the man’s hand. The aide yelped and backed away, cradling his injured fingers. Another aide shouted for help while Merkle continued to stomp the table in an awkward, jittering dance and scream, “The Devil’s coming! The Devil’s coming!”

Several of the priests dining at the time took a few indecisive steps toward the commotion and then stopped as two orderlies rushed over. One of them jumped up and attempted to wrap his arms around Merkle. With a cry, the orderly stumbled off the edge and landed on his back, a fork protruding from his chest. His partner darted in and stabbed a syringe into Merkle’s leg. Instead of collapsing, the old priest laughed and kicked the orderly in the face. Three of Merkle’s toes broke with a sound like someone chewing ice. The orderly’s nose exploded in a shower of blood and he joined his partner on the floor, groaning in pain.

Merkle picked up a butter knife and brandished it at the crowd.

“You’ve all forgotten the power of evil. Now you’ll remember.”

As the priests watched, Merkle rose into the air, his feet inches and then a foot above the table. He levitated another two feet and then remained there, spinning in a slow circle with his arms spread. Red lines appeared on his exposed flesh and formed arcane symbols. Bloody tears seeped from his eyes. When they touched the cryptic marks on his face, they sizzled into steam. He waved the knife and laughed.

Then he plunged the dull blade into his left eye and fell onto the table with a heavy thud.

When the police arrived, he still lay there, yellow and red fluids leaking from his ruined socket.

None of the priests had even approached him to administer last rites.

Bedlam reigned at the Cattaraugus County Department of Social Services Child Welfare Center commons room when Shelly Martin arrived from her office.

“What the actual hell is going on?” she said, panting more than a little after her sprint down two corridors. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the shouting coming from the small, glass-enclosed eating area.

“I have no idea.” Leon Dawkins, her night-shift assistant, shook his head. “They were supposed to be getting ready for bed. I heard the commotion and found them like this.”

The eight children currently housed at the center sat at a picnic-style metal table, staring at the ceiling and chanting at the tops of their lungs.

“Asmodeus suscitat! Asmodeus suscitat!”

The children repeated the nonsensical words over and over, their faces red and necks taut with effort.

“Where is everyone?” Shelly asked. There were supposed to be two case workers on duty every shift.

“Kasia took Selwin to the break room. One of the kids stabbed him with a pencil.”

“What?” Shelly was about to say none of their children would do that, but watching them now made her second-guess that thought.

“Yeah, right in the damn chest.”

“Call Dr. Rinaldi and have him get his ass over here right away. I don’t know if this is some kind of mass hysteria or what, but I think they’ll need to be sedated.”

Shelly entered the room, wishing the county provided enough funding for them to keep a nurse or doctor on staff for emergencies. But who would’ve figured on something like this happening?

“Children, please, be quiet!” She could barely hear her own words over their combined voices. She approached the table and noticed one of them looking at her instead of staring at the ceiling like the others. The new kid, Pete Telles. Always wore a beat-up Yankees hat. He’d just arrived a couple of days before, orphaned after his parents died in a house fire. Tragic case. His grandparents were flying home from Europe, where they’d been on vacation, but wouldn’t be back for two days.

“Pete, can you hear me? Are you all right?” She took his arm and gave it a gentle shake. When nothing happened, she shook him harder.

All the children stopped shouting.

In the sudden quiet, Shelly’s ears rang like she’d spent the night at a rock concert.

“Pete?” He still stared at her.

He smiled, and something about it gave her the jeebers, as her nana used to say.

“You get the jeebers when there’s haunts around.”

Pete’s arm grew hot in her hand and she let go. Was he feverish? Had they all come down with some kind of illness?

“Asmodeus suscitat,” he whispered, his smile widening.

The raucous bang of metal hitting metal pulled her attention away from him. On the other side of the room, every art supply storage locker door stood open and all the scissors, rulers, and pencils floated in the air. Then they disappeared. A strange humming sound reached her and her body exploded in agony.

Once more, screaming filled the room.