Father Erikson lived in a ranch-style brick house on the east side of town. He answered the door in a thick cotton bathrobe draped over his regular clothes; it was dark blue, with a Disney logo in the corner.
“Hello?” he said.
“Hi. Can we talk?”
“And you are?…” He studied me for a second. “Wait, I know you. You’re the kid who was asking about demons.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Can we talk?”
“How did you find my home address?”
“It’s called the Internet,” I said. “Now listen, I need to talk, and I need to talk right now. Can I come in?”
“Um, sure, come on in. Do your parents know you’re here?”
“Of course,” I lied, “I never go anywhere without telling Dad all about it.”
“Well that’s … good.” I wasn’t sure he believed me. He closed the door behind me and pointed to the couch. The TV was showing some kind of soap opera, but I couldn’t understand the words. “I’m trying to learn Spanish,” he said, grabbing a remote and turning it off. I sat on the couch, and he eased himself into a well-worn recliner. “After the last time we talked, I asked the newspaper about their high school intern,” he said. “Apparently your name is Kristen.”
“I’m not really an intern at the paper.”
“So I gathered. What’s your name?”
I paused. “John.”
“Do you want to tell me what you’re doing?”
“Mr. Coleman was killed,” I said. “He was a teacher at school.”
“And a member of my congregation,” said the pastor. “It was a terrible tragedy.”
“Why does everyone think it’s such a horrible thing for this guy to be dead?” I asked. “He was a pedophile. He was a horrible person. After he got fired, all anyone could talk about was how terrible he was, and how lucky we were to get him out of the school. Now someone’s taken him out of our lives altogether and that’s a bad thing?”
“I wasn’t talking about his death,” said the priest, “though that was a tragedy too. I was talking about his life.”
“I think you’re overusing the word ‘tragedy’.”
“Maybe,” he said, shrugging. “But I think you’re overestimating David Coleman’s evil. Yes, he sinned, and yes, that deserves punishment, but he also did a lot of good things that deserve praise. He was a very good teacher, and he was a very good friend. No one is all or nothing.”
“Fine,” I said, “he was a great man. Whatever. That’s not why I’m here. I’m trying to find out who killed him.”
“And, as before, you think a demon did it.”
I nodded. The priest was taking this all remarkably calmly. He must have dealt with a lot of weirdos at church.
“Why are you bringing all this to me?” he asked.
“Because I’m trying to find this demon and stop her, and I need help, and you’re the only person I know who admits to a belief in paranormal creatures. And also because you’re a priest, so if I ask you to, you have to keep this conversation confidential.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”
“Again, it’s called the Internet. Seriously. As Catholic clergy, you are bound by your church to treat a private conversation as confidentially as possible. It’s not as legally binding as a psychologist, but a good clergyman, as I assume you are, will honor the request anyway, in good faith.”
He sat quietly, watching me, as if sizing me up in his head. “You’re a stranger off the street, underage, obsessed with a killer, and convinced of the reality of mythological monsters. If I’m as good a clergyman as you say, I should probably take you to a counselor.”
“So you be my counselor.”
“I’m not equipped to act as a—”
“Listen,” I said, standing up, “swear to secrecy right now or I walk out. You want to help me? This is how you do it.”
He looked at me, thinking, and finally nodded. “To the extent that I do not see you as an immediate threat to anyone’s life, and provided that you let me introduce you to a therapist I know, I won’t tell anyone about this conversation.”
I stared at him. He stood and offered his hand. “You have my solemn promise.”
I looked at his face: mouth set in a thin line, eyes open, jaw slightly clenched. He was telling the truth. I shook his hand. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” he said.
We sat down. “Alright,” I said. “This demon has thus far followed very strict criteria when choosing her victims—if you look at the first two in Clayton and the seven or eight before that in Georgia, the pattern is remarkably consistent. They’re all men, they’re all older, they’re all married, and they’re all respected members of the community. Pastor Olsen; Mayor Robinson; Steve Diamond, who was a policeman in Athens; Jack Humphrey, who was some kind of religious leader in Macon; and on and on. Everyone fits this pattern but Coleman: he was younger, he was single, he was hated by the community, and he wasn’t even employed at the time. All the other victims had strong, stable jobs.”
“He may have been targeted before he lost his job,” said Erikson. “It’s only been a few days.”
“That’s possible,” I said, nodding, “because she definitely puts a lot of thought into these attacks, and she might not have had time to find a new victim. But there are even more differences. It turns out that this time the demon did something to his eyes—she’s never messed with anybody’s eyes before. There’s no precedent for it, by which I mean there probably is a precedent and we just don’t know enough to see it.”
The priest leaned forward, frowning. “Why do you say the killer—the demon—is a woman?”
“Force of habit,” I said. “I honestly have no idea what gender this thing is anymore. It’s very possible that this demon can change shape and look like anyone, so honestly, the person we’re looking for could be male or female, and it could even be someone we know.”
“Demonic possession.”
“In a sense, yeah.”
The priest scooted forward in his chair, looking me in the eye. “This is the part where I start to get nervous, because you’re not just talking about hunting a demon anymore—you’re talking about hunting a member of this community.”
“Someone who looks like a member of this community—”
“No,” said the priest, “you can’t think that way. You came to me because you think I’m some kind of demon expert, so listen to me: if a person is possessed by a demon then the original person is still inside. That’s how they work. Demons are supposed to be cast out, not killed, and that’s a very long, very careful process designed to protect the human host.”
“You want to do an exorcism?”
“No I don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not trained, and I’m not convinced it’s even necessary. But the point I’m trying to make is that in all likelihood, the thing you think is a demon is just another guy, just like you and me, and that there is nothing paranormal going on at all.”
I laughed dryly, remembering Forman melting away into ash. “You’ve got to trust me on this one.”
“But I can’t trust you,” he said. “I’ve known you for maybe half an hour total. You haven’t given me a last name, and for all I know the first name you gave me is a fake. You come in here, you talk about hunting demons, and I have no way of knowing if you’re serious, or joking, or completely deranged.”
“I need your help.…”
“I agree,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure we’re talking about different kinds of help.”
We stared at each other, silent and intent, my mind seething with rage. Why wouldn’t he just answer my questions? His hands were pressed tightly around the armrests of his chair; his knuckles were white and his arms were trembling—just barely—and I knew that he was scared. He really thought I was dangerous. But he’d confronted me anyway, alone in his home, with no way of defending himself. If I were really as dangerous as he thought I was, I could kill him right here.
Maybe I should. Maybe he’s the demon.
Even as I thought it, I knew it was stupid. There was no way he was the demon, just like there was no way Marci was the demon. I was desperate for anything, desperate to stop hunting and just kill something, and I was seeing demons in every shadow, behind every face, looking out from every pair of eyes.
Eyes. The eyes had to mean something—when a killer changed her methods, it always meant something. But Father Erikson wasn’t going to help me figure it out. No one wanted to help me stop the demons, they just wanted to save me from myself. I am not the biggest threat here!
But … the priest thought I was. And he didn’t know my name.
I could use that.
The same thing had happened with my old therapist, Dr. Neblin—we started talking about the bad guy, and we just ended up talking about me. People like Max and Marci were legitimately interested in this kind of stuff, but adults always assumed I was talking about myself—that the scenarios I posed were some kind of convoluted metaphors about my inner feelings. Neblin, the priest, my mom … it was the only kind of help they ever wanted to give. So why not let him help me?
“Let’s say I’m as dangerous as you think I am,” I said, leaning forward. Stay imposing—even if he’s only talking to stall, at least he’s talking. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I am the Handyman.”
“I don’t think you’re the Handyman.”
“Pretend,” I said. “Now: what do you want to say to me?”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“I’ve just killed three people. Why?”
“I … don’t know why.”
“I just cut out a man’s eyes, which I have never done before. Why did I do it?”
“Why are you asking me these questions?”
“You said you wanted to help me, so help me. Psychoanalyze me. Offer me sage counsel from the Bible.” I clenched my fist, trying to stay calm. “A serial killer is asking you for help, dammit, help him!”
“I…” He paused. “You’ll have to tell me more.”
“About what?”
“If you’re a killer, why are you here?”
“In your house?”
“In Clayton.”
I nodded. That’s a good question; this might actually work. “I’m looking for someone.”
He swallowed. “Someone specific?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I don’t know who it is. Someone in this town has done something to make me very angry, and I’m here to find him.”
“What did this … mystery person do to make you angry?”
Who does he think I’m talking about? “That doesn’t concern you,” I said carefully. “I know he exists, but nothing else.”
“So why are you killing?” he asked.
“You tell me.”
“You’re…” He paused again. “You’re sending a message. The people you kill, and the way you kill them, are messages to the man you’re looking for, somehow representative of whatever made you mad enough to come look for him in the first place.”
“That’s good,” I said, nodding. “But remember that I killed eight people in Georgia before coming here, and they were all the same method.”
“So if the deaths are messages,” said the priest, “then the killer—you—is sending the same message here that you sent before.”
Interesting, I thought. And if the current messages are directed to a demon hunter—me—does that mean the older messages were directed at another demon hunter in Georgia? The demons have been around for ages. I can’t possibly be the first human to learn about them.
“Are you saying the missing hands and tongues are threats?” I asked, continuing my line of thought.
“Are they?”
“It makes sense,” I said. “Kind of a ‘this is what I’ll do to you when I find you,’ kind of thing.”
“Are we still talking about you?”
“Are you more comfortable that way?”
“I’m not really comfortable either way.”
“Then it doesn’t matter,” I said. “Just keep talking. If the mutilated bodies are threats, why change a pattern ten bodies along and start mutilating eyes?”
“What exactly happened to his eyes?” the priest asked. “That wasn’t on the news.” He stopped suddenly, his voice soft. “How do you know about the eyes?”
“I’m the Handyman.”
“You’re not the Handyman, but you’re … something. What are you not telling me?”
“Do you think I’m dangerous?”
“You’re definitely dangerous.”
“To you?”
He paused, watching me through narrowed eyes. After a moment he shook his head. “Only if you think I’m the person you’re looking for.”
“It’s the demon who’s looking for someone, not me.”
“And you’re looking for the demon, or whatever it is, and when you find the person you think it’s in, heaven help them. You’re focused, I’ll give you that—you’re like a loaded gun, cocked and aimed, and as soon as your target walks into your sights you’ll destroy it.” He leaned forward. “I beg you: be careful of your aim. If you choose the wrong target, you’ll destroy yourself as well.”
I thought of Marci lying defenseless on her bed, of Brooke chained to Forman’s table. I thought of my own mother, cowering under the tip of my knife, of a hundred mothers throwing their phones at the wall, screaming for me to stop calling, huddling terrified with their children in the dark.
“Then help me,” I whispered. “I can’t do this alone.”
“Then stop.”
“I can’t stop.” I closed my eyes, growling through clenched teeth. “If I stop, she keeps going. She dies or we all die. Why won’t anyone see that?”
“If thy eye offend thee…,” he whispered.
Thy eye. I looked up quickly. “What?”
“It’s a scripture,” he said. “‘And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee.’ Matthew, chapter five, verse twenty-nine.”
I felt a tingle of anticipation. This is important. “Keep going.”
“It’s a metaphor,” he said. “‘For it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.’”
I paused to deconstruct it. “It’s saying that one part can spoil the whole, so it’s better to get rid of that part than to let the whole thing get corrupted.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Taken out of context, that scripture could be seen as a justification for murder.”
“Is there any more?” I asked. “To the scripture, I mean—does it say anything else?”
“It does,” said the priest, looking up with wide, startled eyes. “It does. The very next verse says the same thing about hands.”
“Hot damn.”
He stood up, eyes unfocused. “It’s real.”
“So we were right about the message,” I said, “but we got the nature of the message all wrong—we thought it was an announcement, ‘here I am, I’m coming for you,’ but it was a lesson. Coleman died because Coleman was a sinner; he looked at something he shouldn’t have looked at, so he lost his eyes. He was destroyed for the greater good.”
“But the others weren’t sinners at all,” said the priest. “Why kill them?”
“You said it yourself: no one’s all or nothing. They were killed because of … of things they said, I guess, because their tongues were cut out. And the hands were cut off because of things they’d touched, or things they’d done.”
Father Erikson stared at me, eyes wary. “You really believe this, don’t you? That these people need to die so the rest of us can be saved.”
“I…” I shook my head. “No, not me, it’s the Handyman.”
“But you said the same thing.”
“That was an exercise to get you thinking,” I said. “Of course I’m not saying we should kill people.”
“But you said we should kill the Handyman,” he said, stepping slowly toward me. “And you said the same thing before that, when you first got here: that we shouldn’t feel bad about David Coleman’s death. You said we were better off without him, and we should be glad he was killed.”
“I…” I stopped, bewildered. “I’m the good guy here. I’m trying to stop a killer.”
“By killing,” he said. “Whether you succeed or fail, our community will still have a killer.”
No! “I am not a killer!” I shouted. “I am not a threat to anyone in this community—I am trying to help people!”
“You think the Handyman doesn’t tell himself the same thing?”
I lunged toward him with a roar. “Stop saying that!” He held his ground, and I stopped just inches from his face. I forced myself to breath evenly; I fought back the feral growl I could feel growing in my throat. I held his stare a moment longer, then turned and stalked to the door.
He called out grimly, “What are you going to do?”
I stopped, my hand on the doorknob. “What are you going to do?”
“We made a promise,” he said. “You keep your end and I’ll keep mine.”
I turned back toward him, trying to read his face. He can’t possibly be ready to let me go. I watched his eyes. He knows I’m a danger to everyone around me. Is he really going to just let me go?
He didn’t move. Neither did I.
“You said your name was John?”
I nodded.
“I want to help you, John. I want you to talk to my friend.”
“The therapist.”
“Yes.”
I glanced at the door, then back at him. “If I walk out right now, all you have is my word.”
“Is your word good?”
I paused. “No.”
“Then tell me your name.”
“So you can turn me in?”
“So I can contact you and introduce you.”
The thought of it made me nervous. I have to stay anonymous. My stomach soured, and I balanced lightly on the balls of my feet, ready to run. The priest didn’t move.
Can I trust him?
I stared into his eyes. “What if I threaten you?”
“I’m not the demon,” he said, “and you know it. You won’t hurt me.”
“And if I run?”
“Then I do my civic duty and tell the police about the young man who told me he wanted to kill a woman in town.”
I breathed deeply. Just kill him. Just take him now, while he’s not expecting it—knock him back against the wall, crack his neck against the chair. Hide him in the basement. No one will ever know a thing.
“Give me a week,” I whispered. “Just one week.”
“You said I can’t trust you.”
I met his eyes. “You can trust me for a week.”
He paused a moment, eyes flicking as he thought. Finally he nodded. “One week, and you come back here. But if you hurt anyone, I swear to God your torment will not end in this life.”
I took a breath. “One week.” I opened the door and stepped out into the darkness.