Hell’s Heresies, page 11
“Uh…” Emerie looked upstairs. “Wait, how did you get here so fast?”
“My mom and I have an empathy link,” the woman replied, as if that explained sudden teleportation powers. “I’m assuming you’re the idiot that summoned whatever’s infecting her house?”
“Well…”
“The one that called me?” Zephyr’s nose wrinkled. “I smell goat shit.”
Emerie tried to think of something to say, but was saved this mercy by an inhuman bellow above them.
The woman made a noise of disgust. She stomped up the stairwell and Emerie followed, keeping close behind. Zephyr stalked towards her mother’s bedroom and flung open the door.
The bedroom was still as frightening as ever, but this time Sunflower was crouched on her bed like some sort of goblin. She eyed Zephyr warily, but did not move or attempt to psychically shove her against the wall, as she had with Emerie. Zephyr paid her no heed, instead seemed to collect and critique her surroundings.
“Ugh, Mom,” she complained as she gingerly stepped over the broken shards of mirror. “Look at the state of this place. What have you been up to?”
“It wasn’t her fault,” Emerie volunteered.
“Oh, trust me, I will get to you.” Zephyr flung open the curtains. The storm had ended, the night now blazed moonlight. Sunflower howled as the silvery light bathed the room. She twisted unnaturally in her bedsheets.
“Okay, you.” Zephyr moved to the foot of the bed. “Get the hell out of my mom.”
Sunflower hissed at her like a snake. “Little upstart. How dare you presume to command me! Do you know who I am?!”
“I don’t have time to name whatever little angry spirit my mom comes down with. This is your last warning—”
“LITTLE ANGRY SPIRIT?!”
This seemed to truly infuriate it. Emerie watched in horror (while Zephyr watched nonplussed) as Sunflower levitated from her bed, her arms spread out, mimicking the crucifixion. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head, her swollen tongue protruded from her mouth, and thick, tar-like darkness swarmed the room.
“IT WAS I WHO COMMANDED THE ARMIES OF HELL TO CONQUER THE EARTH. IT WAS I WHO REMINDED MANKIND TO FEAR THE WILD HORNED GODS. AND IT WAS I WHO BEDDED A MORTAL WOMAN AND FROM MY LINE SPRANG YOUR KIND—I AM THE FATHER OF ALL WITCHES, IT WAS I WHO TAUGHT THEM MAGIC. FOR I AM AZAZEL!”
Emerie glanced nervously at Zephyr. Zephyr’s expression remained neutral. She actually crossed her arms in front of her chest, a silent and judgmental gesture that seemed to indicate she hoped the demon would wrap it up already.
“Taught the first woman magic, huh?” Zephyr snorted. “That was your dumbass mistake.”
Before Emerie could marvel at her for calling the demon Azazel a dumbass, Zephyr shouted something unintelligible. She flung something hard and white on the ground, which splintered into a spray of white. Sunflower roared and her floating body charged Zephyr, who clapped her hands sharply. Her mother froze in midair, just as Emerie had, and Zephyr moved towards her. She dragged a chair over and hopped up. She popped her mother’s mouth open and looked inside, as if she were checking for strep throat.
“Mm,” Zephyr murmured critically. She dug something out of her pocket and popped it into Sunflower’s mouth. Emerie wondered if it was a breath mint.
Within moments, Sunflower’s body fell onto her bed. She doubled over, breathing hard, and to Emerie’s horror, she realized that Sunflower was now puking all over herself.
“Jesus!” Emerie cried out and tried to go to her. Sunflower threw up harder at this and Zephyr blocked the way.
“Better out than in.” She nodded in approval. “That’s it, mom. Get all that nasty out of you.”
“It’s a demon, not the stomach flu!”
Zephyr snorted. “Like you’re an expert on either? Look, you’re obviously an idiot for ripping a hole between the spirit world, and you are in huge trouble for that, by the way—but unfortunately, this is not the first time my mom has come down with a case of possession. Azazel knew that and that’s why he targeted her.”
Sunflower retched loudly. Her fists curled into the vomit-soaked sheets and she attempted to aim off her bed onto the floor. Zephyr’s expression softened and she went to her mother, patting her back in comfort.
“It’s all right, Mommy. I’m sorry I missed your call. I’m here now.”
Sunflower’s eyes streamed. There was no more liquid in her stomach, so she simply dry heaved. Zephyr made soothing noises and kissed her mother’s damp forehead. Emerie gasped—an inky colored puddle started to edge itself off the bed and slide out of the room.
“Let it go,” Zephyr told her, although Emerie had absolutely no intention of trying to go after it.
“There’s a goat…” Emerie didn’t know what else to do, so she started trying to sweep up glass shards with her shoe. “There’s a goat haunting the joint too.”
Zephyr shook her head. “It’s just a shadow. Azazel was possessing my mom. The goat’s just something to lure idiots upstairs and to terrorize them.”
“So he’s…gone now, right? You got rid of him?”
“I got him out of my mom.” Zephyr’s steely gaze found Emerie. “He needs to be exorcised back into the spirit world. Along with whatever else you’ve unleashed into this town.”
“It was an accident!” Emerie bent down and picked up a stray T-shirt, which she used to try and gather the glass shards. “I was trying to get a demon to stop haunting my house. I didn’t mean to release the minions of Hell along with him.”
“And let me guess.” Zephyr swiftly stripped the bed of sheets and blankets. Sunflower watched the proceedings dazedly.
“My mom just had to help you, right? Provided your ingredients, your tools? She never had much sense.”
Zephyr helped Sunflower back onto the bare mattress. She gathered up the soiled sheets and tromped out of the room. Emerie kept pace with her, down the steps, across the family room with an impressive collection of Tibetan singing bowls, until they reached the laundry room. The laundry room was next to the kitchen, an unassuming little area that smelled like cat urine and incense.
As they walked, Emerie expected to see the oily puddle oozing about, but it had vanished. She wondered where Azazel was off to next…was he really so powerful? It hadn’t taken much for Zephyr to banish him.
She also wondered what he meant by having “history with Samael.”
“I need help,” Emerie admitted.
Zephyr ignored her as she shoved sheets into the washing machine. “Not my problem, girlie.”
“Oh, c’mon! You’re a witch! You could probably get rid of these demons like that!” Emerie snapped her fingers in emphasis.
Zephyr flinched at the word “witch.” But she resolutely continued to load the washing machine.
“I don’t deal with…what you call ‘demons’.” She hunted around the room for detergent and groaned when she saw a little plastic tub. “Damn it, Mom, do you have to make all of your soaps?”
She grimaced as she poured something white and sticky into the wash. “Mom’s as good at making soap as she is at casting spells.”
“You don’t call them demons?” In an attempt to be helpful, Emerie opened the dryer and pulled out several muumuus, each in a different shade of blue. Muumuus were ridiculous garments to fold, but she did her best.
“Negative energy, trickster spirits, entities of hatred, whatever.” Zephyr shut the lid with a slam. “I don’t deal with them. Ghosts, maybe. At least that’s something human. Something you can reason with. But those things? Forget about it.”
At least this felt more familiar to Emerie, who’s only reference for demons were yokai and ghosts.
Zephyr faced Emerie bodily and snatched the muumuus. “This is not my problem.”
“It’s going to be everyone’s problem soon!” Emerie raked her fingers through her hair. “I get that I screwed up—really, I do. But I can’t do this on my own!”
Zephyr watched her for a long while. She tapped her fingers along the edge of the washing machine before she leaned towards it and switched it on. The rumble of the wash seemed to make up her mind.
“I have to take care of my mom. What else is new, I always have to—never mind. You should leave. This is work for a shaman, not a witch.”
And with that, Zephyr stepped around her and exited the laundry room.
Emerie stood there for a few minutes as she tried to figure out what to do. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. She didn’t know any shamans…but she did know a priest.
TWELVE
There were many physical pleasures a demon enjoyed, once in corporeal form. Some were obvious—alcohol was popular, sex was a given, and of course devouring your enemies and hearing their screams for mercy. However…there were other surprising pleasures that many demons shared, but did not talk about.
Reading was one of them.
One could never be too careful about what was approved demonic behavior, so most demons kept these milder sort of indulgences to themselves. And as it turned out, Samael badly missed reading.
Emerie’s house contained an impressive collection of books in every room. In the living room, the upstairs den, the master bedroom, even both of the bathrooms—there was always something to read. Samael finished the fantasy novel by the time the storm died (he and Emerie both read uncommonly fast—he noticed this the first day, when Emerie chose to power through The Parable of the Sower series in two days while utterly ignoring unpacking) and was onto his second, another fantasy book by an English writer who had a simultaneously laughable yet unnerving grasp of the politics of Hell.
Samael heard the intruder approach immediately but did not look up from his book. “What do you want, Azazel?”
A long shadow stretched against the far wall melted and warped—his old partner was having some trouble gaining corporeal form.
Samael pursed his lips in disapproval. “It’s your own fault for trying to possess someone right off the bat. It’ll take you at least forty-eight hours to get your energy back up to take physical form.”
The shadow shifted into that of a large goat, its horns extending across the room. A voice spoke and the entire room vibrated.
“It won’t take that long, Samael. Don’t you feel it?”
Samael frowned and stuck a claw inside his book to mark his place. He looked at the shadow in annoyance. “Feel what?”
“The town. Someone’s prepared it for us.”
“Prepared?”
“The gateway in this house is only the beginning. This whole town is going to be ripped to shreds…and we’ll take our place once more.”
Samael rolled his eyes. “You and your idealistic fantasies. You’ve been saying that we’re going to take over the earth since we got kicked out of the Garden.”
“Don’t be a fool, Samael. You feel it in your bones, just as I do. You best prepare for the reckoning.”
“Reckoning, right. I reckon that hole is going to be plugged up in no time and our sorry hides will end up right back in Hell.”
“You haven’t been in Hell. You’ve been here. With that girl.”
“With an assortment of girls, I’ll have you know!” Samael stood up from his easy chair, he was so offended. How dare Azazel accuse him of monogamy!
“I was stuck, Azazel. That idiot Lemp woman bungled summoning me and you lot left me stranded!”
“He knew you would be stuck. But he knew another idiot girl would release you. And the rest of us.”
“None of that,” Samael said wearily. “I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to have anything to do with his wild schemes.”
“He is already here. I can sense him.”
“Well, he can leave me the hell alone. And so can you, if you’re in it with him. Now clear off. This house is mine for the time being, and so is the girl!”
His wings exploded outward, meeting the shadows in length and width. Azazel’s shadow dissolved away from him and Samael heard his brother curse, jeer, and threaten to uproot the foundations of the world for his insolence. Typical younger brother annoyances. But sure enough, he exited the house.
Samael sat back in his easy chair with a sigh. There would be other demons who would claw their way out of the attic. Demons who would be hellbent on wreaking havoc and mayhem on Milton. He was too old for such nonsense. The mere idea of them scrabbling and screeching about gave him a headache.
He heard a key scrape at the front door and Emerie walked in. It occurred to him she had been gone a while.
She glared at him in irritation. “You look comfortable.”
“I’ve been trapped between dimensions for the past two hundred years,” Samael retorted. “I deserve a little downtime.”
“Well, you were absolutely no help” Emerie grimaced as she pulled off her sweatshirt and hung it on the coatrack. “I guess we have to go the religious route next. If a witch won’t help, we’ll have to try a priest.”
“We?”
THIRTEEN
“I don’t understand why you’re so worried. The house seemed perfectly normal.”
Father Zebulun resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the younger priest’s naivete. Instead, he counted to ten and kept his voice pleasant and reassuring. Father Simon blinked at his clear agitation.
“I may have nothing to worry about,” Father Zebulun reiterated as he slipped off his vestments. “But what you said about the house—particularly that house—is of concern.”
“I just don’t understand how.” Father Simon slipped on his raiment and glanced at the clock. Forty minutes till Mass. “It seemed a perfectly ordinary house—give or take her odd decorating style.”
“What did you say you saw on the coffee table?” Father Zebulun prompted.
Father Simon sighed. “A Ouija board. But—goodness, it’s near Halloween! Sometimes a game is just a game.”
“Ouija boards are never games,” Father Zebulun said sternly. “And after her conversation with me, and her taking holy water home—I want to be sure she’s not doing anything foolish.”
Father Simon shook his head mildly and Father Zebulun exhaled slowly. His friend didn’t believe in the same things Father Zebulun did—and who could blame him? Father Simon was born and raised in Milton; he was used to the supernatural being a tourist trap. He was a local priest who had never left Massachusetts, nor felt any desire to.
But Father Zebulun had a different calling.
He waved goodbye to his colleague, thanking him again for covering the Mass. He frowned as he stepped into the sunlight and headed towards the center square. He didn’t like the weather today. It was far too sunny. Milton’s best weather was overcast or rain. It performed autumn beautifully, but there was something eerily wrong about bright, overly warm days in Milton. It felt like a false promise. Or a bad omen.
He had tried to arrive at his office early in order to get some overdue paperwork done before the Mass, but he realized he had forgotten his favorite coffee mug, the nice big red one that read in white letters, “Y’all Need Jesus”. He would have to make do with the alternate mug he kept in his desk drawer, the one that declared, “This Might Be Wine”—funny, but it would have been funnier if it had been on a water bottle rather than a coffee mug. Father Zebulun felt sure that if he had flunked out of divinity school, he would’ve been an excellent Catholic slogan creator.
The storm last night had given him a bad feeling. An autumn storm, so close to All Hallow’s Eve…that never meant good things. Particularly if Miss Emerie Fox was up to something.
He hoped, after a strong conversation with her, she would throw her Ouija board away. It was his own fault for not taking her conversation seriously. Most parishioners who complained about demons or ghosts in their homes had other things going on—whether it be leaky pipes or mental illness. That was why he had sent Father Simon to assist her.
That, and of course, strictly speaking, he wasn’t supposed to deal with anything demonic or supernatural.
But after his colleague’s report…after the intense feeling of dread during his contemplative prayer…and after that storm…
Father Zebulun knew when to trust his gut.
The Witch’s Brew coffee shop was not far from the sanctuary, so as soon as the early Mass ended, he walked on over. The warm breeze should have dissipated his unease, but it only seemed to increase it. He noticed a small gathering of people in the center square, by the fountain. They were mainly young white men, a few he recognized from his congregation. He nodded at them politely and they looked blankly towards him. They wore polo shirts and khakis; most of them had crew cuts. Father Zebulun’s pace slowed—he caught the stench of something rank as he passed. Like rotting eggs or decaying meat. It made his stomach churn.
His pace a little more determined, he crossed the street, entered the coffee shop, and purchased a simple Americano. He took a seat on the outdoor patio, so when Emerie arrived, she would see him first thing. As he took a fortifying sip of coffee, he noticed the group of young men had moved from the town square fountain. They now gathered in front of an indie bookstore called Irving Books. They held signs and what appeared to be tiki torches.
A protest? Father Zebulun adjusted his glasses. He couldn’t see what the signs read. Maybe a controversial author had arrived for a book signing. He took another sip of coffee as he carefully observed the proceedings. The group stood outside the bookshop. One man waved his sign and shouted something.
The priest wondered if he ought to go over. He knew the proprietors of the bookstore—the Golds. A wonderful old couple who moved to Milton after they sold their successful publishing company. They opened Irving Books as a leisurely retirement activity, as they loved collecting books. Marvin Gold knew Father Zebulun collected rare editions of G.K. Chesterton books and always called him first when he found something obscure.
