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?”
David knows this is no bluff, and nods briskly. “Yes, of course. We’ll make sure. Thank you, Brother Johnson.”
Johnson, looking mollified in the dim light, begins to turn, then stops. “It’s nothing to worry about. It’s nothing . . .” he says, in a tone less aggressive than the boys are used to.
Is he speaking to us or himself? David thinks. The thought redoubles his anxiety about what might be happening in Poole’s bedroom.
Neither David nor Peter move or speak, but stand frozen, waiting. With a huff, Johnson goes on, as if questioned. “An injured man was brought to us for medical care, that’s all. Father Poole is trying to help him.” He turns his face up to them, his expression no longer placid. “There. You have your answers. Now go before I come up there and drag you back by your necks.”
Without a word, Peter and David turn on their heels and walk briskly back to the dorm. Once inside, they shut both doors and whisper to those who are awake and waiting.
“It’s nothing . . .”
“A sick man, that’s all . . .”
“Back to bed now . . .”
When the others are settled, David lays in his cot, eyes and ears open and attentive. He knows Peter is doing the same.
Johnson’s lying.
He turns onto his side, eyes glued to the dim outline of the double-doors, the heavy metal cross hanging above. There’s a tightness in his belly, one that has little to do with the constant bite of hunger. He knows whoever is down there is more than simply injured.
Injured men don’t laugh, he thinks.
Despite his worry, his disquiet at the night’s events, the dark settles heavy on his head. His thoughts slow, the sharp edges of his fears dulled by exhaustion.
Finally, unable to keep vigil, he gives in to the night, and closes his eyes.
*
The reaction to the holy water is immediate, and savage.
Paul’s body buckles and bucks, slamming up and down, over and over, against the mattress. His eyes roll up into his head, showing full whites. Dark red foam pours from the corner of his mouth.
“Sheriff!” Poole yells, taking a half-step back so the men can move in.
Baker and the two deputies lunge at Paul, grab his arms and legs. The sheriff grunts with the effort of restraining his brother. His hat falls clumsily to the floor, his long unwashed hair hangs in his face, catches in his beard. Pleading eyes look at Poole. “Father, please help him! Help my brother!”
Poole hisses at Andrew. “Keep going!”
Andrew does, raising his voice. “Shake with fear, not at the human fragility of a miserable man, but at the image of the all-powerful God . . .”
Poole pulls a silver cross, bound to a leather strap around his neck, from beneath his robe, lifts it over his head and holds it close to Paul’s face.
“What is your name, demon? Tell us your name!”
There’s a loud snap.
Andrew stops his reading. There’s a momentary stillness to the room, as if time has been sucked away, a split-second of purgatory.
Paul’s arm is free, and his freed hand now holds the splintered top of a broken bedpost.
Impossible, Andrew thinks.
Poole shouts a warning. “Sheriff!”
Time resumes—seemingly at double-speed—as the mad play proceeds with terrible, unstoppable rapidity, as if time were a great spool of thread, knocked rolling downhill.
Snarling, Paul thrusts the splintered post like a sword into the neck of the deputy nearest the bed. The tip sinks deep into flesh as the man’s scream is cut with his throat. Snarling like a rabid dog, Paul jerks the makeshift weapon free. Blood sprays from the wound in a wild arc as the man spins away, knees buckling, and collapses to the floor.
Paul kicks wildly with one bared, blackened foot. Another post cracks free. He swings the bloodied post in his hand at the sheriff, who falls backward to avoid the blow. Andrew sees another deputy pull the gun from its holster. Paul kicks again, now at the post binding his opposite leg, his body all jerking spasms and rapid movements—inhuman motion, impossible strength. The post stays whole but the rope snaps, freeing his legs. In a blink, he flips onto his knees, grips the final post with both hands, and breaks it off the bedframe, effortlessly, as if he were snapping a dried twig in two. The wood slides through the looped knot and clatters to the floor. His eyes roving everywhere, Paul slowly rises up.
As one of the deputies lies motionless in a growing pool of his own blood on the floor, Paul stands atop the bed. He is a horrible sight. His bared torso, flesh torn and bloodied, covered in inked symbols; the gray, wrinkled face; the deep-set, rheumy eyes. He is tall and thin—the top of his head nearly brushes the low ceiling—but strong. Taut muscles flex beneath his skin like snakes.
For a few heavy heartbeats, they all watch as he surveys the room.
His eyes momentarily meet Andrew’s, and he shudders at the contact. Terrified, he steps backward, flattens himself against a wall. The book of prayers drops from his hand and lands splayed, useless, to the floor.
Paul’s eyes shift to Poole, who still holds his small silver cross aloft. Mumbled prayers pour from his lips. From his lofty height, Paul looks down at him and grins, exposing those blackened teeth.
“You cannot count my names, Father,” Paul says, his voice deep and resonant. A chorus. He steps down off the bed and toward Poole, who quickly steps backward. Paul looms over him, easily a head taller than the weathered priest. His shredded torso bleeds more freely with the movement, running in rivulets down his chest, dripping onto the tops of his bare feet, spotting the floor. Ropes dangle from his wrists, snake away from his ankles. He still holds the bloodied wooden spike. Foam and drool soak his unshaven chin, saliva hangs like a string from his bottom lip. His eyes are blisters, his face that of an aged corpse. He bows slightly, meeting Poole’s eyes, and whispers.