Hell’s Heresies, page 21
He entered the house and was immediately met by a miasma of stench. It smelled like death defrosted, a combination of rot, feces, and his middle school locker room. He retched a little and realized in horror trash practically tiled the floors—everything from old magazines, yellow-crusted shirts and towels, potato chip bags and half-full pizza boxes.
“What the hell?!”
He stumbled into the living room and rushed towards the window. He wrenched it open and took deep gulps of the fresh autumn air. What on earth had happened?! He’d known for years that Emerie was messy, but this was ridiculous…this couldn’t all be Emerie. Did she have a party? For the Garbage Pail kids?
“Emerie?” Dylan shouted. “Are you home?”
No one answered and he scowled in frustration. He went for his phone in his pocket and fumbled a few seconds before he realized he left it in his car.
He started to wade back towards the front door and promptly tripped. He landed on all fours and squawked in pain—he’d cut his hand on something that felt like a knife. It turned out to be an old soup can with the jagged edge of the lid glinting in the sunlight. Dylan looked frantically for something to wrap his bloody hand in, but the questionable nature of the crusty, soiled clothes littering the ground made him hesitate. He also realized in surprise none of the clothes belonged to him or Emerie…in fact some of the trash seemed to be from things Emerie would never touch, like Bud Light cans (she hated light beers) and plastic gallons of two-percent milk (most dairy upset her stomach.)
His hand throbbed. He might require stitches—he needed to get to Urgent Care or an ER as soon as possible. He forced himself to stand and hobbled towards the front door. As he reached for the knob with his non-injured hand, he heard the unmistakable sound of the front door lock click.
Dylan stared in confusion. But before he could even try the door to verify he somehow had become locked in, despite the fact he held a key, a loud horrifying BUZZ ripped through the air. He turned around wildly and a thick cloud of black flies swallowed him completely.
“That’s Dylan’s car.”
The group stopped short. Emerie looked at the priest and witch nervously. Samael ignored her comment and flung his sword again in a graceful arc, but as soon as it winked off in the distance, it reappeared in his hand. He sighed wearily.
Emerie wordlessly pulled out her phone and tried to call Dylan. There was no answer, but Emerie heard the faint sound of the Bee Gee’s—Dylan’s ringtone—from somewhere. She approached the car and saw his phone buzz against the driver’s seat.
“He…must be inside…” Emerie swallowed. “What do we do?”
Father Zebulun quietly withdrew a crucifix. Zephyr flexed her fingers. Samael looked bored.
“I say, we pour a drink out for him and move on,” Samael leaned against Dylan’s car. “He was an annoying little prat.”
“He might not be dead!” Emerie’s voice cracked. “He might be—possessed! Or he might have run away!”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Zephyr swiveled on her heels toward the house. “Let’s go.”
Dread pooled at the bottom of Emerie’s gut. She would never forgive herself if something horrible happened to him…she marched like a determined knight. She barely hesitated as she turned the doorknob—it was unlocked—and hurried inside.
To everyone’s shock, the hoard had disappeared. The inside of the Hell House no longer looked like the underbelly of a dump. It appeared—normal—or as normal as it ever was. There was no rotting stench either, in fact, there was now a distinct lack of scent. No fresh paint, no sawdust, just…nothingness.
“Was it all an illusion?”
Zephyr asked the question they all were thinking as they cautiously stepped forward into the foyer. Emerie thought she would feel relief at the fact it was only an illusory trick of Beelzebub to wreck her house, but instead, she felt fear. What did this all mean?
“Do you smell that?”
Father Zebulun’s voice broke through the quiet. Emerie inhaled through her nose and realized what she was smelling. The faintest, stalest scent of cigarette smoke was in the air and it came from upstairs.
“Sam?” Emerie whispered. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s…” Samael closed his eyes. “He’s no longer feeding off the house. That’s why it was a pestilent wreck, he was absorbing its energy. Now he’s…absorbed something else.”
Something else…something like Dylan.
With little warning, Emerie raised her bokuto and screamed like a vengeful samurai. She pounded up the steps, heedless of her friends’ cries of warning. When she reached upstairs, she swung her bokuto wildly, furious at the fact she had no idea what to expect next. The smell of nicotine increased and she noticed the door to her office was ajar. She kicked it open and burst inside.
It was dark. The sun had started to set outside, but the lacy blue curtains Emerie had carefully chosen were drawn. The lace cast strange eye-like shadows on the wall. It was also freezing in the room, just as it had been in Zephyr’s mother’s room. Emerie nearly dropped her bokuto, she shivered so hard. And that was when she saw her boyfriend.
He was sitting in her chair, the lovely violet chair from the thrift store Dylan said belonged in a bordello, not in a professional office space. He was also smoking.
Emerie lowered her bokuto. He used to smoke in college, until Emerie told him she wouldn’t kiss him again and he quit.
“Dylan?” she asked tentatively. “You okay there?”
“Emerie!”
The group had finally joined her. In that freezing cold room, it seemed like she’d been upstairs for hours, though it was only a few seconds. And at that moment, Samael shifted. His expression became less human-like and more otherworldly, his eyes became sunken black pits. His mouth widened across his face, revealing a row of needle-sharp fangs. His horns became rimmed with flames and he hissed at the silent, smoking figure of Dylan. A forked tongue emerged from Samael’s lips, tasting the air. Emerie gasped—his wings expanded and reached across the room. She noticed strange symbols tattooed across their breadth. He seemed to grow more arms—or limbs, perhaps.
Dylan lifted his head. She couldn’t see his eyes. “Is that supposed to intimidate me?”
“Get out of him.” Samael’s eyes glowed. Father Zebulun looked between the two of them, as though unsure of which demon he needed to exorcise first.
“Brother, I’m doing you a favor.” Dylan’s voice was raspy. “Let me take the pawn. You’re free to own her now.”
“I don’t need your help on that. GET OUT OF HIM!”
Samael attacked. It was a vulgar, brutal, animalistic display that briefly shocked the humans as he dove for Dylan’s throat. It felt like slow motion. But Dylan—or rather Beelzebub—laughed throatily and took another drag of his cigarette. By the time Samael reached him, he exhaled—not smoke, but a thousand black flies which enveloped all of them.
Emerie choked. She couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything, just the tickle of black flies crawling up her skin and the sharp stings of their bites. They were in her mouth, in her ears, and she wheezed and dry-heaved flies. She swung her bokuto wildly and ended up hitting Father Zebulun in the knees. He barely noticed, too intent on his own swam of black flies pulsating across his form.
But something had fallen from Father Zebulun’s jacket. A flask of something—vodka? Water. Holy water. Holy water that Father Zebulun believed in. Inspiration struck and Emerie groped towards the bottle and unscrewed the cap. She doused her bokuto with water and to her triumph, the black flies halted their cloud. In that single pause, she saw Dylan stare at her in confusion and she flung her bokuto at him.
The holy water-drenched wooden sword hit Dylan solidly and he—or the demon inside him—shrieked. What looked like third-degree burns and steaming welts appeared on his skin and he screamed in agony. He fell to his knees and the black flies rained to the ground—they’d lived out their short life expectancy.
Emerie spat flies. “Samael!” She coughed and shuddered. “Sam, your sword!”
The demon groaned, but did not miss a beat. He lifted the golden sword and held it to Dylan’s neck. A thin red line appeared on her boyfriend’s throat and he glared at Samael hatefully.
“You’ll kill the human?” Beelzebub’s voice was dry as ash.
“What do I care for a human’s life?” Samael growled. “Get out of him.”
“You care more than you admit. Heretic.”
Samael pressed the sword harder into Dylan’s neck. Blood trickled down his skin and Emerie felt paralyzed.
But just at the moment she thought her demon would surely decapitate her boyfriend, Dylan’s mouth opened like some sort of twisted frog. Emerie couldn’t help but scream as a tornado of black flies thundered out of her boyfriend’s maw and soared past them, outside of the room. Zephyr ran after them, perhaps intending to banish them for good, but they easily eluded her—down the stairwell they flew, while the front door banged open, until they disappeared into the fading twilight.
Emerie ran towards Dylan and helped him stand. He hacked and wheezed, while Emerie helpfully pounded on his back until every demonic insect was out of his body. She noted wryly she would need to mop the dickens out of this room—little piles of dead flies littered the hardwood floors.
Father Zebulun joined her and pulled a Band-Aid out of his pocket. Dylan watched him dazedly as the priest carefully applied it to the cut on his neck. Emerie was pleased to see they were Star Wars Band-Aids.
“Mm.” Father Zebulun examined Dylan’s hand. “Don’t worry, young man, I’ve seen worse. Emerie, would you bring me your sewing kit, please?”
“Do you really think I have a sewing kit?” Emerie snorted.
“Here.” Zephyr sighed, pulling a small travel case out of her purse. “And rubbing alcohol to disinfect.”
Dylan’s sanity returned right as the priest started stitching his wounds. “What—the hell—happened?!”
Emerie flinched at how raspy his voice was. Demon possession must be hell on the throat.
She opened her mouth to come up with some sort of colorful explanation—drug trip? The fumes from her fumigating the house? But unfortunately, Father Zebulun had no intention of covering for her.
“You were possessed by a demon, young man. You are lucky to be alive.”
The full setting of the room slowly dawned on Dylan. His bloodshot eyes drank in Father Zebulun, the dead flies on the floor, Emerie hovering next to him, Samael leaning against the far wall, wings half-cocked, and Zephyr stepping back into the room and sprinkling what appeared to be salt on the doorframe. His head swiveled towards Emerie.
“Why is there a priest, a demon, and a suit in my house?”
Emerie glanced at the company around her, who carefully avoided her gaze. She cleared her throat.
“Remember that pest problem I told you about? They’re uh…helping me with it.”
“Pest problem.” Dylan’s voice was faint. “The thing that possessed me…”
“Right,” Emerie nodded. “But unfortunately, that’s not the only one. There are more. Lots more. So we have to—”
“Get the hell out of Dodge!”
Dylan scrambled to his feet. Wild manic adrenaline coursed through his features and he grabbed Emerie’s arm and tugged her towards the door.
“Boston—phone’s in my car—we can have our stuff shipped there!” He yanked on her arm, but Emerie remained solidly planted. “We can sell this house online! Everything can be taken care of online! Let’s—go!”
Emerie shook her head. “Dylan, I can’t just leave. It’s my fault the demons are here. I have to help get rid of them.”
Dylan stared at her like she was insane. She supposed her tone was a little too offhand about the whole situation.
“EMERIE CASSIDY FOX WILL YOU LISTEN TO YOURSELF?!” Dylan bellowed. “THERE IS A DEMON IN OUR HOUSE. IT IS TIME TO GET THE HELL OUT OF MILTON AND NEVER COME BACK!”
There was a pregnant pause. For a moment, something like realization crossed Emerie’s features, as though she just registered how strange her life had truly become. She glanced over at Father Zebulun, Zephyr, and Samael, who looked concerned, bored, and resentful, respectively. Orobas was nowhere to be seen; presumably he was downstairs snacking on coffee filters. She sighed and turned towards her boyfriend.
“I’m sorry, Dylan.” Emerie’s voice was small yet firm. “I have to stay.”
Dylan spluttered something unintelligible that had the connotation of a curse. “Emerie—I am leaving this house and I will not be coming back. Do you understand that?”
She sighed again. “I understand. Text me your new address, I’ll have your things shipped to you.”
He looked at her in disbelief. Something like regret passed over his features, as though he considered changing his mind for a brief moment. But when he glanced over at Father Zebulun, Zephyr, and Samael, his expression hardened and he stood. He walked out the door, slamming it behind him.
Emerie exhaled. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath. She stared at the door thoughtfully, trying to sort out her emotions. It was unfair of her to expect Dylan to remain in all this craziness. It was unfair to expect anyone to acclimate themselves, really.
Truth be told, they were probably on the verge of a breakup anyway. Between the responsibilities of home ownership and exorcising demons, their commitment had an expiration date.
“Are you all right, Emerie?” Father Zebulun rumbled. “Why don’t I go after him? I’m sure I could calm him down.”
“Nah, it’s okay.” Emerie stretched a little. “It’s better this way. Keeps Dylan out of danger, at any rate. Anyone hungry? I’ll order a pizza.”
TWENTY-TWO
Father Zebulun retired into the room that would eventually become Emerie’s office, and Zephyr invaded her bedroom. Emerie planned on taking the loveseat, but she wondered what arrangements she should make for Samael and Orobas. Did demons sleep? Did demons dream? She wasn’t sure. However, there was a comfortable recliner and she dragged a few throw pillows into the center of the living room to create a sort of pillow nest for Orobas.
After she changed into her pajamas and lit some candles (Orobas had a particularly pungent aroma, something between a horse and a dirty fish tank), she noticed Samael seated on the couch. He stared broodingly at the sword. He had put it on the coffee table and it looked particularly splendid, sparkling in the candlelight.
Emerie walked over and sat down next to him. “You okay?”
Samael glanced at her in surprise. “I should be asking you that.”
She shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll be upset about the breakup later on—especially when I get the first round of bills for this house. But we’ve got bigger things to worry about, haven’t we?”
He gave her that familiar incredulous look and returned to glowering at the sword.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Emerie ventured.
Samael sighed. “It’s a long story, Emerie.”
“What did you mean about the sword?” Emerie scooted closer. “That it was taken away from you?”
“I…” A shadow crossed over his face. “Do…do you really want to know?”
Emerie nodded.
“If you want to know, I can show you.”
She blinked. “Show me?”
“Do you remember the night I possessed you for five minutes?”
Emerie glanced around, verifying that Father Zebulun wasn’t in the vicinity. She had a feeling the priest would exorcise Samael right then and there if he heard that. She nodded in answer.
“Most humans don’t know this.” Samael leaned back on the couch. “But possession can work two ways. Demons can possess humans—and humans can possess demons.”
Emerie could not disguise her immediate revulsion at the idea. Samael caught the look and nodded.
“It can have pretty horrifying results,” he admitted, “just as a demon possessing a human can. But if you’d like to know about the sword, how I got it, how I lost it…I can show you. Through my memories.”
Emerie considered this for a long, quiet moment. She didn’t quite understand what he meant—it sounded as though she could access his memories through possession. But why did Samael want to show her this way? Why not just tell her? She then turned towards Orobas, who was finishing off Zephyr’s discarded pizza crusts and the cardboard pizza box intermittently.
“Orobas,” Emerie tossed the little demon a bread stick. “Is Father Zebulun asleep?”
Orobas looked up, his horsey-nose red with pizza sauce. The breadstick plonked against his lower lip and he slurped the breadstick up. His eyes glazed a bit but then he shook his head. “No. He is deeply engrossed in his readings, though.”
“Is Zephyr asleep?”
“She is in deep meditation.”
Emerie crossed her legs in order to get more comfortable on the couch. “All right. Orobas, do you think Samael intends to take over my body and use it for wretched purposes?”
“He should,” Orobas remarked as he took another bite out of the pizza box. “But he won’t. He’s grown attached to you and is well on the way of becoming a true Heretic. A part of him longs for you to understand why he is the way he is, which is why he offers you this opportunity. A human possessing a demon is far more dangerous to the demon than to the human.”
Emerie expected Samael to flinch or become embarrassed by this proclamation. But instead, he simply stared at her intently. His eyes glinted a little in the candlelight and Emerie found herself feeling a little flushed.
It was dangerous. But then again, everything Emerie had done up to this point had been dangerous. She had a fairly good track record for reckless shit. Aside from ripping a hole between dimensions and unleashing the forces of Hell from her home, she had made a lot of good friends. That made the whole nightmare worth it, in her opinion. She was already planning on getting Father Zebulun and Zephyr temiyage gifts—a Japanese thank you-gift for all their help. Probably castella cake, which was impossible to screw up…she’d like to prove she could do something correctly without ripping open a hole to Hell.
