The exorcists house resu.., p.1
The Exorcist's House Resurrection, page 1
For Aunt Becky
“I was born bad, and I have lived bad, and I shall die bad in all probability.”
—Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d’Urbervilles
December 1999, Southwestern West Virginia
ST. FRANCEIS CATHOLIC Church stood firm against the winter winds that blew through Sunny Branch Way. Few spots remained vacant in the modest parking lot for the Christmas Eve Midnight Mass service. Compared to the old farmhouse that used to occupy the grounds and the evil that lay beneath it, a packed church was a welcomed sight for Father Marcus.
The older priest pulled into the church’s driveway and turned right into the lot. There were three rows of reflective yellow paint outlining the spots with vehicles branching off each side. He forced his Cadillac into a tight squeeze between two large trucks in the back corner. Sometimes he wondered how his parishioners viewed a priest in a Cadillac, but he’d gotten a good deal on it from a friend and had always dreamed of owning one.
He smiled. They can cast their stones all they want.
The clock on his dashboard read 10:33 PM. As badly as he wanted to stay inside the warmth of the car, he arrived thirty minutes later than he’d planned thanks to icy conditions on the interstate, plus he knew the importance of the night’s visit. He didn’t drive hours from his parish to attend this Midnight Mass because of how great the service was. No, he had a purpose. Even though these annual visits weren’t directives handed down to him from his superiors—the ones who approved the demolition of Merle Blatty’s farmhouse and the construction of the new church in its place over two years ago—he felt compelled to check in on the place.
Father Balkan, the young pastor they’d moved into the position when they opened the doors, knew Father Marcus would be in attendance. And even though Father Balkan assured him nothing out of the ordinary had happened since he’d been appointed his post, the elder priest insisted on personally stopping by for the Christmas Eve service.
Father Marcus liked the charming priest well enough and found him quite capable. The young man had certainly built up quite the congregation in the short time since the first service. But he didn’t experience the evil firsthand like Father Marcus had. He wasn’t in the basement of the old farmhouse with the Hill family on that October night in 1997. Sure, he’d been briefed on what happened, but Father Marcus knew being briefed on an exorcism versus experiencing one in the flesh were two entirely different tests of faith.
So, if you don’t doubt the priest, then why are you here? Do you doubt yourself?
“Stop it,” Father Marcus said to his empty car that was still running, still keeping him protected from the outside elements.
Like clockwork, the intrusive thoughts crept in as soon as he’d pulled into the parking lot. It happened last year, too. He thought they did, at least.
I ended it. I sealed the well. We burned down the house and made the soured ground hallowed.
But did you, though? Can one fight fire with fire?
The priest immediately bowed his head and prayed.
“Dear Lord, have mercy on me, your humble servant. I pray you continue to bring blessings upon this land that was once so ravaged by wickedness. Thank you for shining your love and your light to cast out the darkness. I ask you keep watch over your flock as we come together in celebration of you on this, our holiest of nights. I surrender myself to you, Lord, and pray you use me as a vessel to do your will. Thy will, not mine, be done. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I pray. Amen.”
Father Marcus opened his eyes with a renewed sense of peace. He turned off the car and noticed a young boy’s face against his window.
“Sweet Mother Mary and Joseph!” he said with a startle and crossed himself.
The boy jumped back like he’d been caught doing something wrong. Father Marcus immediately felt bad for scaring the poor child and got out the car, shutting the door behind him.
“Say, young man, you caught me off guard,” he said with a warm smile. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“It’s okay. I, uh, didn’t mean to scare you, mister.”
The boy looked to be at least ten years old and wore jeans and a Charlotte Hornets jacket atop his flannel button-up shirt.
“What are you doing out here in the cold, son?”
The boy held up the can of Coke that featured a smiling Santa Claus.
“I forgot this in Dad’s truck.”
“Why were you peeping in my car?” Father Marcus asked, raising one eyebrow.
The boy peered around the priest and said, “I’ve never seen one like that.”
“Oh, well now. You’ve got an eye for automobiles. Do you know what kind she is?”
“She?”
“I call her Bessie. Don’t know why, so don’t ask.”
“It—she’s—cool,” the kid said and took a drink.
The priest smiled and put his hands in his jacket pockets as a cool breeze blew between them.
“Little late for soda pop, isn’t it?”
“Dad let me have it because we’re stayin’ up late tonight, and he didn’t want me fallin’ asleep during the sermon like last year.”
Father Marcus nodded and chuckled.
“I was here last year, too. I might’ve dozed off for a second myself. Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”
He patted the kid’s shoulder.
“I won’t,” the kid said, taking another sip.
“A Coke doesn’t sound too bad right now. I probably should’ve gotten me one of those on the way down here. What’s your name, son?”
“Bryan Stockton.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Bryan. My name is Father Marcus, and I’m going to head inside now because I’m freezing my you-know-what off. You comin’?”
Bryan smiled and nodded.
“Lot looks pretty full. Is it a packed house already?”
“Uh huh,” the boy said from behind him.
They strode up the steps of the modest chapel. Father Marcus grabbed the brass handle and pulled the door open. A man wearing a flannel button-up that matched what the kid wore was on his way out. He peered down at the boy who Father Marcus assumed must be his son and then up at the priest.
“Evenin’,” the bearded man said with a nod.
“Hello,” Father Marcus said as he unzipped his coat. “Does this one belong to you?”
The man eyeballed the smock. “Yes, he does. Are you here to help with the service?”
Father Marcus glanced over the man’s shoulder at the propped open doors leading to a crowded sanctuary. He was pleased to see the backs of so many heads filling the pews.
“No, no. I’m sure Father Balkan has everything under control. I’m just here for moral support, you could say.”
The man held out his hand.
“Darryl Stockton,” he said.
The priest shook it and said, “Father Marcus. It’s nice to meet you.”
Bryan slurped his Coke, and his dad glared at him like he’d just farted in the middle of prayer.
“Act like ya got some manners, son,” Darryl said. “Here, let me hold that. You take off your jacket.”
The boy did as he was told.
“I’m going to slink in the back. You two have a merry Christmas,” Father Marcus said as he stepped around them.
“Merry Christmas,” the two of them said in unison.
As soon as the priest entered the sanctuary, he was at ease. Parishioners were quietly chatting with their neighbors as organ music softly echoed off the vaulted ceiling. Father Marcus dabbed his fingers in the brass basin of holy water on the wooden stool beside the door. He made the sign of the cross as he looked up at the large crucifix mounted to the wall behind the pulpit.
A few members had turned around and regarded him. He smiled politely and didn’t linger with any single acknowledgement as he gazed around the room for signs of Father Balkan, not that he expected to see the priest out this early; he just wanted to check before heading back to the sacristy, where he knew he would find him preparing for the service.
Just as he spotted the door across the sanctuary where he needed to go, the grinning face of a young girl with dark hair and pale skin flashed through his mind. His heart fluttered, and he squinted, trying to figure out where that memory had come from. Before he could place it, another image of the same girl with a wider grin and flames billowing out of her eye sockets paralyzed him. It was the youngest Hill daughter—the one he’d personally baptized at this very location back when it was a simple farmhouse.
Simple, ha!
Father Marcus’s eyes widened, and he couldn’t breathe. The temperature of the room had risen to well over one hundred degrees. Sweat beaded down his face as he struggled to see through the mirage of heat waves. A sulfuric odor made him gag and cover his mouth. Mustard colored smoke seeped up through the carpeted floor, but none of the parishioners seemed to notice or care. They continued on with their conversations.
What in God’s name is going on?
That’s when the massive centerpiece cross began to shake. The priest couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The cross burst into flames and broke free, swinging down like a pendulum before coming to an abrupt halt. Father Marcus’s heart tightened at the sight of the inverted cross burning against the wall.
He somehow managed to break free of the spell and reached for the holy water. He crossed himself again with the liquid and recoiled when he saw the blood covering his
Lord, help me.
A chorus of unholy laughter echoed in the acoustics behind him. He slowly faced the people who were all staring at him in a shared mockery. Before he even had time to plea to God for help, their heads all ignited like freshly struck matches.
The smell of burning flesh and rotten eggs quickly filled the room. The yellow smoke made it difficult to see from one side of the room to the other, but what he did see made his stomach turn. Father Balkan’s dutiful parishioners scattered across the room on all fours like cockroaches fleeing from the light. They crawled up the walls and hung from the ceiling, drooling steaming saliva down like slimy strands of acid rain.
One drop hit Father Marcus’s face and burned his skin. He winced as he listened to his own flesh searing like a steak on a frying pan. Two more drops landed, and he felt part of his cheek slide off. He tried to move but was too disoriented.
The pews caught fire like they’d just been doused with gasoline, and the priest dropped to his knees in prayer. The skittering on the vaulted ceiling condensed and moved as one singular entity until it sounded like it was right above him. Against his better judgement, he opened his eyes and peered up. All the hissing demons opened their mouths at once and spewed acid down on the helpless holy man. He screamed as he anticipated the death blow that never came.
“Excuse us, Father,” Darryl said from behind him.
Father Marcus snapped out of the delusion. The sanctuary was normal. Organ music still played while the congregation chit-chatted, waiting for Mass to begin. The crucifix hung strong against the wall. There was no smell, no smoke, nor fire.
The priest, realizing he was still in shock but having enough sense to not make a spectacle of himself, stepped out of the doorway. He quickly wiped his brow and regained his composure before turning around. Not only were Darryl and Bryan standing there waiting to enter, but two other families were blocked by the priest, unaware he’d been standing in front of the entrance for God knows how long.
“Oh, so sorry,” he said and shuffled out of the way.
He couldn’t help but glance into the basin of holy water to confirm it had indeed returned to just that, no more boiling blood.
“Are you okay, Father?” Darryl asked.
“Yes, thank you. This place, it holds sentimental value to me. I aided in its construction. It’s a spiritual experience every time I step foot in it.”
“Amen,” one of the parishioners still standing in the entryway said.
“Right,” Father Marcus said and then hurried along the right-side wall to the door to the sacristy.
After that horrific vision, he needed to speak with Father Balkan now more than ever. And depending on how that goes, he might have to pay the widow Nora Hill a visit to check in on her only remaining daughter. Wasting no more time, he moved with haste but not panic and opened the door to the sacristy unannounced.
Father Balkan stood in front of a white-clothed table. A metal cross, a basin of holy water, the priest’s personal Bible, and the larger one he brought to the podium for service, all lay neatly before him. A notepad with a few bulleted points scrawled across the lined, yellow paper sat in front of the cross. The modest room, containing nothing more than the table and an open wardrobe to hang his priestly attire, was reflective of the younger man himself: quaint, small-town minded, and humble. His chair had been pushed to the left of the table, and a few metal folding chairs rested against the wall to Father Marcus’s right.
Father Marcus thought of his Caddy parked outside next to less expensive cars, older pick-up trucks, and minivans, and a pang of guilt buzzed through his mind like a pestering fly. But he’d spent a lifetime of servitude and sacrifice for others, he reminded himself, and plus, he really did get a good deal on it.
“How’d I know I’d see you tonight, Father Marcus?” the younger priest said without turning around.
Father Marcus stepped inside and quietly shut the door. He couldn’t help but smile, despite his episode only moments before.
“I wouldn’t miss a Midnight Mass at this church for all the gold in Fort Knox.”
Father Balkan chuckled.
“And what would you even do with that? Upgrade to a Mercedes?”
“For starters. I’d need to get a bigger garage first.”
Father Balkan finally turned around and regarded the older priest. He smiled and extended his arms. Despite the welcoming gesture and playful demeanor, he didn’t look his best. Father Marcus noticed the man’s face seemed to have aged more than a year since the last time he saw him. He had dark circles under his eyes and a five o’clock shadow that was unbecoming of a priest.
Relax, it’s almost midnight. He’s probably been preparing all evening, and no doubt skipped the afternoon nap you’ve grown quite accustomed to.
“It’s good to see you,” Father Balkan said as the two men embraced, giving each other a quick pat on the back before pulling apart. “Even under your inquisitive motivations for being here, it’s still good to see you.”
Father Marcus grinned and grabbed one of the metal chairs. “Mind if I sit for a minute? I won’t keep you long.”
“Not at all. I’ve just finished with my final preparations. We have some time before I’m due out there.”
Father Balkan scooted his wooden chair closer to the center of the room, and the two men sat. “What’s on your mind this Christmas Eve, Father Marcus?”
“I don’t need to remind you why I make my annual trek down here—”
“And yet, here you are doing just that.”
Father Marcus squinted at the younger priest, having a difficult time deciphering the subtleties of his tone.
“As you well know, this place left a mark on me, to say the least—”
“Ahh, yes. The basement and the well. I do wish I had at least one opportunity to see the site before it was transformed into…this.”
Again, the tone set off alarm bells in the older priest’s mind. And the way he’d gestured at their surroundings when he’d said, “this,” came with hints of disgust. Something was definitely off about the man. He’d never been offended or intimidated or inconvenienced by Father Marcus’s Midnight Mass presence, so why was this night different?
“Honestly, I wish every member of the Church would encounter what I have. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t wish that evil on anyone. It’s just that, it’s one thing to read about the devil, demons, and Hell, but it’s quite another to experience it firsthand. It is both a test of faith and a spiritual resurgence all at once. Like I said, it changed me.”
Father Balkan leaned forward. He had a subtle grin and a gleam in his blue eyes, despite the dimness of the sacristy. He bit his lip and squinted like he was pondering something.
“But that would defeat the purpose, no?”
“Defeat what purpose?”
“Faith, Father. Faith.”
Father Marcus knew where he was going with this, and he didn’t entirely disagree, in theory, at least.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right, my friend. Not everyone is meant to encounter evil incarnate. If they were, we’d be out of a job.” He chuckled nervously, but the young priest didn’t return the sentiment.
In fact, Father Balkan looked like he’d turned a shade paler since he’d sat, and his skin glistened as if covered in a sheen of sweat. He coughed so hard and fast that it was more like a large dog’s bark.
Father Marcus couldn’t help but jump back. Not only did the loud sound startle him, but if the priest was sick, the last thing he wanted was to get the bug going into the new year. He caught his selfish thoughts by the tail and flung them from his growing list of concerns.
“Are you okay, Father? Do you need a glass of water?” Father Marcus asked, standing and looking for a cup or a bottle.
“No, no. I’m fine.” He growled, clearing his throat. “It’s getting close to eleven.”
Father Marcus glanced at the clock on the wall.
“We have ten minutes,” he said in a way that would remind the young priest of who held the superior rank in the room.
“Okay. Go ahead,” Father Balkan said, standing and pushing his chair back to its spot.
