Chapter Thirty-Six

Hastings Mills, NY, July 21st, one year ago

The ER was bedlam when Randi and Del entered with a moaning Curt between them. Men and women with bloody bandages on faces and arms. Children crying. Several people wrapped in blankets or sheets who appeared to be nude underneath, their expressions ranging from confusion to embarrassment.

As they went to check Curt in, two EMTs came out a side door, talking in hushed tones.

“—Eddie heard on the scanner a bunch of people on Eighth Street were fucking right in the road.”

“Town’s going to shit. Probably some new kind of drug, like Molly or—”

“Can I help you?”

A middle-aged man with harried eyes behind old-fashioned black-framed glasses looked up at them from the admissions desk. He took Curt’s name and insurance information, and told them it would be at least an hour. They found seats and Curt closed his eyes, his lips pressed tight.

Del leaned toward Randi. “What the hell is going on?”

“Remember what Father Bonaventura said? Violence and lust are the demon’s tools.” She thought back to Stone’s actions in the jail cell and said a quick prayer that Father Bonaventura’s protections over them would hold. She didn’t want to end up rutting in the street like some animal.

Or worse.

Del sat back, frowning. He didn’t speak again until the desk nurse called for Curt.

Stone was at the kitchen table watching Bonaventura bless containers of water when his phone buzzed with an incoming text message.

Just emailed you that info you wanted. What the hell is going on there?

“It’s Joe in California,” he said, in response to Ken’s raised eyebrow. “I think they found out who Alberto is.”

“What did they say?” Bonaventura asked.

“Give me a sec.” Stone opened his email and scrolled down to the message from the office. “Here.”

He held out the phone so the others could see.

Father Alberto Gianpolo founded St. Alphonse University in 1867. Served as the first president and father superior. In 1885, a series of disappearances happened in Hastings Mills and the nearby area, beginning with two girls from a passing Romani clan. Five other children went missing that summer. In October, Gianpolo hung himself in one of the buildings. He left a note in his chambers that read, ‘My sins have grown too great. My heart has been tainted by the Devil’s touch and the beast calls to me from the water. God no longer speaks to me. May he have mercy on my everlasting soul.’ No charges were ever made and no evidence found. But most scholars believe Gianpolo killed those children, because the disappearances stopped after that. Hope this is the same Alberto you asked about.

“Good Lord.” Father Bonaventura took the phone and read the message again before handing it back. “I should have recognized that name. Damn this brain of mine.”

He rubbed his eyes. “There’s a plaque commemorating Father Gianpolo right at the entrance to the university’s administration building. But nothing I ever read about him mentioned any of this. Only that he founded the school and died here.”

“I guess even back then, the Church covered things up. I wonder if he killed himself in the same dorm where Lockhart and his friends had their séance?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it at all.” Father Bonaventura leaned back in his chair. “This town, this land, has been tainted for much longer than I imagined. No wonder Asmodeus gained a strong foothold so easily. He sensed it the moment I was stupid enough to bring a physical manifestation of his power here, all those years ago. And he’s been manipulating me ever since.”

“All of us,” Claudia said.

“Yes. Exploiting our weaknesses until it could gather us all together.”

“You make it sound like some kind of cosmic chess player.”

“You could think of it that way,” Father Bonaventura replied to Stone. “Time means nothing to an eternal creature. It can wait for decades, biding its time, waiting for the barriers to weaken a little more….”

The aged priest’s voice trailed off and his brow furrowed.

“What is it?” Stone asked. Behind him, dawn fought against the darkness outside the window. Somewhere in the distance, a siren howled and others answered.

“I’ve been a fool. The answer has been right in front of us, of me, all along. Abigail houses the demon but the school is the gateway. It’s been tainted by evil for more than a century. Gianpolo unlocked the door and each successive act of evil or perversity has opened it a little more. Driving the demon from the girl won’t be enough. We have to close the door and ensure it never opens again.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means our task just got a lot harder.”

Officer Corday Rose entered the police station and found it empty.

“What the hell?” He paused as the door clicked shut behind him, the automatic lock engaging to separate the lobby from the rest of the building. Even the sergeant’s desk, which protocol required to be manned at all times, was empty. A quick look into the dispatch area showed neither Martha nor Jeannie on duty.

He checked the break room and Mordecai’s office, which no one had used since his death. He was about to head downstairs to the holding area when he heard a noise from the women’s bathroom.

“Hello?” He knocked on the door, and then rapped it harder when no one answered. Muffled sounds came from the other side, and a thump like a stall door closing. He repeated his call twice more. Thinking about all the strange shit that had been happening in town, he got a sudden picture of someone tied and gagged in a stall while vandals looted the evidence room or weapons lockers.

Praying he wasn’t barging in on one of the ladies suffering from a bad dinner, he drew his gun and opened the door.

Martha Plotkin knelt on the tile floor in front of Lieutenant Parker, who leaned back against a stall door while Martha sucked his dick. A set of dentures sat next to her. The wrinkled, liver-spotted skin of her neck flapped loosely as her head bobbed up and down. Parker opened his eyes and gave two thumbs up.

“Yo, there’s room for two,” he said, a wicked grin turning his lips up under his thick mustache.

Unable to even find words, Corday backed out of the room.

“Pussy!” Parker’s shout followed him. “See you in Hell. You and the priest!”

Father Bonaventura. He needs to know what’s happening. Corday headed back out to his truck, detouring only to grab a shotgun and some ammunition from the weapons room.

Something told him the worst was yet to come.

Del and Randi crossed the parking lot as the morning sun peeked over the treetops and ignited the first eye-piercing glare on windows and chrome. As they neared it, Del pulled out the keys and then let out a curse.

All four tires were flat and two of the windows broken.

He glanced around. None of the other vehicles parked by them had been damaged.

“This was fucking deliberate,” Randi said. She pulled out her phone to call for a ride and Del told her not to bother. Sure enough, no signal.

“Same as what happened to me and Ken. We’ll have to walk.”

“This is bullshit.” Randi shoved her phone into her purse and paused when a Hastings Mills PD SUV pulled up next to them. Aware that anyone could be under the demon’s influence, she felt around for her pepper spray as the cop’s window went down.

Revealing Officer Corday Rose.

“Looks like you need a ride.” He wore a serious but normal expression.

Randi took a chance and left the spray alone. “We sure do.”

“You’re lucky I saw you. I just came from the station. Every single cop is MIA except for one who’s currently getting a goddamned BJ from our seventy-year-old dispatcher. Sorry,” he added, giving Randi a sheepish grin.

For the first time, she noticed just how attractive he really was. About the same age as her, with soft green eyes and the first hints of gray beginning to peek through his dark brown hair. His haven’t-shaved-in-a-day stubble only added to his rugged handsomeness.

Trickles of moisture ran down her ribs and made her aware that she was sweating like a horse. And probably smelled like one, too, she thought, remembering that she hadn’t showered since…. Oh, god. It’s been two days! She clamped her arms against her sides, hoping he wouldn’t get a whiff. Corday’s own pit stains, darkening his blue uniform, didn’t bother her.

It’s manly.

Wait. What the hell is wrong with me?

“You okay?” he asked, frowning. She realized she was staring at him like a high school girl with a crush on her teacher.

“Fine,” she said, ignoring the heat in her cheeks. “Can we get that ride?”

“Hop in.” He unlocked the doors. “It’s like the whole town’s going nuts.”

“No shit. Father Bonaventura thinks he knows why. I’ll tell you on the way.”

“Good.” He motioned at the passenger door. She almost said no and got in the back with Del, but she feared that would look rude. Instead, she settled for sitting as far from him as she could and praying the air-conditioning didn’t reveal her stinking armpits. Luckily, the interior already carried a distinctive smell from all the unwashed bodies that had occupied it before them.

It’s Asmodeus. His influence again. That’s why I feel like this. Even so, she couldn’t help admiring the muscle definition in his arms as he put the car in drive and spun the wheel.

Demon or not, I’d fuck him.

Afraid she’d blurt out something inappropriate, she let Del do the talking while they drove.

“Confession is the sacrament of penance, where a person is absolved of their sins by God.”

Father Leo Bonaventura stood in front of the entire group in the living room. He’d informed them that in order to cleanse the campus and house of any evil spirits while also protecting themselves from demonic influence, they would first need to purify their souls.

“Father, what about a Jew like me?” Randi asked.

“This isn’t about religion. It’s about having confidence in the power of God. Just like the blessing of protection I did yesterday.”

Officer Rose patted Randi’s hand and she took it in her own. Stone wondered what had happened during their car ride.

“Normally, confession is performed in private,” Father Bonaventura continued. “For our purposes, you will all silently admit your sins to God. For those of you who’ve never been to confession, concentrate on failings that have affected other people. Lies, greed, lust, adultery. You probably know what you’ve done wrong.”

A picture flew off the wall and struck Father Bonaventura in the shoulder. Another followed it but he twisted out of the way. It hit the floor and the glass shattered.

Upstairs, Abby howled with laughter.

Father Bonaventura adjusted his glasses and lifted his hands, palms out.

“May the Lord be in your heart and help you to confess your sins with true sorrow.”

Lockhart bowed his head. “Lord Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

As they’d been instructed, the others repeated his words. Father Bonaventura closed his eyes, which Stone took as the signal for them to recount their sins. He tried to think of where to begin. The priest’s mention of lies and greed in particular struck a nerve. Living in LA, trying to build a media empire, you couldn’t help lying in order to succeed. And that paired nicely with greed; hell, as much as he hated to admit it, Randi was right about him being selfish when it came to getting his own show. The opportunity of a lifetime, but it had cost him so much. Randi. Friendships. Shari.

Where does ambition end and greed begin?

He still couldn’t answer that, even after all these years. But he did regret many of his actions. Hopefully that’d be enough for God.

Look at me. The one who never believed in religion, waiting for God’s forgiveness. How fast things change when you’re confronted with undeniable truths.

Father Bonaventura let the silence drag on. Stone saw Lockhart fingering a rosary and reciting something under his breath. He still wanted to wring the degenerate’s throat for what he’d done to Shari and Claudia, and all the other girls he’d abused, but if the man had also been under the influence of the demon all those years, how could anyone fault him for his actions? If he blamed Lockhart, then he had to blame himself as well. That line of thinking only agitated him, and he was glad when Father Bonaventura cleared his throat.

“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Thanks be to God,” said Lockhart.

“Thanks be to God,” the group echoed.

“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”

“Amen.” This time they all said it in unison with Lockhart. Father Bonaventura sprinkled holy water on each of them while he recited a final blessing.

“May the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ, the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary and of all the saints, protect you in whatever is to come. May they watch over you and help you grow in holiness, and reward you with eternal life.”

Father Bonaventura then had them recite the Lord’s Prayer three times and the Hail Mary four times. When they were done, he closed his Bible and let out a deep sigh.

“I must meditate on my own now. We will begin in one hour.”

Alan Duhaime stared at his phone. The text message was short but its meaning unmistakable.

The board needs to speak with you regarding an urgent matter. The meeting will be at 10 a.m. tomorrow in your office.

He’d received the text the previous night. An urgent matter. Their way of saying they’d made their decision. He knew what their answer would be. By this time tomorrow, his name would be all over the news, his career dragged through the mud and plastered across TVs, computer screens, and newspapers so everyone could see his shameful deeds. He’d be lucky to get off with only a few years in some white-collar prison.

He only had one option left. Call his lawyer and see about negotiating a deal.

It doesn’t have to be like that.

Right, he told the voice in his head. What else is there?

Take control. Don’t let them win. There is a way….

Duhaime looked at the bottle of whiskey on his desk. He’d finished most of it during a long, sleepless night. Was it the booze talking, or had his subconscious discovered a way out of the mess?

“What is it?” His whisper seemed too loud in the emptiness of his office.

The voice grew deeper, stronger. It oozed a confidence he didn’t have.

Show them they don’t own you. Make a statement. Something they’ll always remember.

A picture appeared in his head. His own face, but younger. Virile. And smiling. The kind of smile that told people he didn’t give a fuck what they thought, he wouldn’t bow down to them or their fake news.

The smile of a winner.

“Yes.”

Good man. Now, there’s one last thing you need.

The picture changed to an empty room with a podium. On it lay a speech. He couldn’t read the words, but he knew he had to say them in order to clear his name.

To win.

A ten-minute walk brought him to Dallas Hall, the tallest structure on campus except for the bell tower behind the library. The perfect place for him to deliver his momentous speech. He used his master key to enter and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor, his footsteps echoing off the tiles. An empty space greeted him. The entire level had been gutted down to the studs, plywood sheets the only flooring.

A noose hung from one of the beams, dangling above a single chair. Duhaime’s conviction faltered at the sight of it.

This will be your greatest achievement.

The image appeared again, this time with him standing in front of a crowd of people. Once more, he wore his victory on his face. As he climbed the podium, the crowd stood and clapped. Someone handed him a necktie, maroon and black stripes representing the school colors. He held it for a moment, unsure of what to do with it.

Do it. Do it. DO IT!

Duhaime stripped off the tie he’d been wearing and slid the new one under his collar. Over, under, through. Tighten the knot.

He cleared his throat and stepped up to the mic.

Yes!

The ground fell away and the crowd disappeared into an endless pit of fire. A beast with five heads arose, mouths open and fangs gleaming.

He had time for a single scream before the rope tightened around his throat.