Boys in the Valley(18)
Sheriff Baker enters the fray, pushes down on his brother’s narrow hips as Poole cuts.
Andrew leans over Poole’s shoulder to study the man’s exposed flesh, and recoils. “Oh God,” he says in disgust, then clamps a hand over his mouth in an effort to keep further words from spilling out.
The flesh of the man’s chest is partially torn away, exposing red meat and white rib beneath blood-slicked skin. His entire torso, from neck to waist—on what skin remains—is covered in symbols. Occult and blasphemous. Some designs appear to be roughly tattooed into the skin, others seemingly burned into the flesh, as if drawn with heated steel.
“What happened to him?” Poole asks the sheriff, shocked at the severity of the wound.
The sheriff releases his brother, stares down into his twisting gray face with a pain so profound it breaks Andrew’s heart. “He came running at me, screaming and covered in blood . . . I brought up the shotgun, told him to stop. He flashed a knife, kept coming. I shot him.” The sheriff wipes tears and sweat from his face, takes a breath. “At first I thought I’d missed. He didn’t even slow down. Then I saw the blood, and my men were shooting at the others, putting them down. I didn’t want to see my brother die, so I tackled him, held him to the ground. I had no idea he was so badly injured until we tied him up. My God, Father . . . how is he alive?”
“We’ll need to get the metal out of him . . .” Poole mumbles uncertainly, ignoring the sheriff’s question.
A voice comes from the bed, interrupting Poole. It’s a new voice, a different one than what they’ve heard since the sheriff’s arrival. Andrew assumes it’s as close as they’ve heard to Paul Baker’s true voice, and the sound of it—the innocence of it—is chilling.
“I’m scared, Father,” Paul says weakly. “Don’t let me die. I’m so sorry . . .”
He shifts his head to his brother, who takes a step backward, his face ashen and slick with sweat. “I’m sorry about what I did to that little girl, Teddy. I don’t know what’s happening to me . . .” Paul begins to cry, but he continues speaking through his choked tears. “I’m sorry I drank her blood,” he says, black tongue running over his top lip, as if reliving the memory of it. He begins weeping, shaking his head side to side, his sobs deep and wet.
Andrew, feeling empathy for the poor, foul man, steps forward with thoughts of offering what comfort he’s able.
But then the sobbing grows louder . . . twists into something different; contorts into sounds of hacking, ghastly laughter. When he speaks, the voice is deep, grating. Inhuman.
“But it tasted so fucking good.”
“Jesus Christ,” a deputy whispers, and crosses himself, momentarily releasing his hold on the man’s arm.
Andrews jerks backward as Paul Baker begins to bellow, howling out a chilling chorus of deep, hollow laughter. The sound fills the room like poison. All the men take a step backward, away from the bed. Following his deputy’s lead, the sheriff also crosses himself. Andrew follows suit, whispering a Hail Mary for good measure.
Poole turns to Andrew, eyes unfocused. The old priest appears lost. Confused. He starts to ask Andrew something, then stops, shakes his head. He looks back at the man on the bed, who is now breathing heavily, his lungs filling and emptying in rapid, hiccupping swallows. His black-dotted eyes are wide and vacant, and the fine, crisscrossing veins have burst, filling the whites—previously the color of curdled-milk—with dark, splotchy blood.
He’s a monster, Andrew thinks. He’s ashamed of himself for the thought, for letting fear overtake his duties, but can think of no other description. A monster.
“Andrew, I need . . .” Poole starts, and then the words run off. Instead, he closes his eyes, mumbles a silent prayer. After a moment, his eyes open once more, the prayer complete. When he looks toward Andrew again, he seems resolute. Ready to do what needs to be done. “Holy water. Yes, give me the holy water, please,” he says crisply. “And open the Ritual. Begin reading the ritual of exorcism. You know the section?”
Andrew nods numbly, reeling inside.
Poole offers him a small, encouraging smile. “It will be okay, Father. Just read it, please.”
Andrew nods, opens the book to a passage near the back.
He reads.
“I, therefore, enjoin every unclean spirit, each devil, each part of Satan . . .”
As Andrew reads, monotone and timed, Poole begins praying over his words. Quietly at first, but with building strength.
He removes the stopper on the vial of holy water, and tips it over onto Paul’s flesh.
11
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TWO DOING?”
Both boys turn toward the voice.
Johnson glares up at them from the base of the stairs, his eyes dark hollows in the shadowy silver light of the moonlit foyer. His face is a pale sliver above the collar of his black cassock, his long, unkempt hair slashed across his ghostly visage like a scythe.
He takes two aggressive steps up the stairs, and both boys stand, rigid. Snared.
Knowing how much Johnson hates Peter, David steps forward, hoping to soften the inevitable blow to come. “We’re sorry, Brother Johnson. We just . . . well, we heard the yelling. We were concerned someone might need help.”
Johnson huffs a breath. “Curious, more like it. Gossipy hens, the lot of you. Now, listen. Get back to the dormitory. Close the doors. I want every boy in his bed. The next boy I see out of that room goes straight to the hole to keep young Bartholomew warm. Understood?”