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Authors: William Jablonsky
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even faster than me; I guess he’s still edgy from the morning’s struggle.
“That’s a sign if ever I’ve seen one,” he says, wiping his brow. “Superhuman strength, wrath, eyes bugging out of his head—it’s the devil all right. We better stop him before Joe gets hurt.”
Before Joe can pull his arms free we’re all on top of him, holding his arms down and tightening the ties around his wrists. I’m not thrilled about getting that close, but it’s better than having that demon loose. Even tied down Joe is stronger than any one of us, but after thrashing around with him a few minutes, we finally get him settled. He rests his head on the pillow, closes his eyes tight, and whimpers.
“All right, that’s enough,” Brother Stewart says. He takes me by the arm and herds us out. “I told you he wasn’t pretty. Take that gag off him for even a minute and he starts trying to get into your head.”
We step outside and huddle in the living room to plot our next move; we’re in dangerous territory, and somebody might get hurt, or worse, the demon might enter one of us next. Nobody is ready for that. So we agree that anybody who wants to can go home and the rest won’t think any less of him. We all bow our heads and think about it; getting out while we can isn’t a bad idea. But we’re already in it; Joe is our friend, and if he’s suffering we owe it to him to set things right.
Once we’re all agreed we pledge our aid to Brother Stewart, and ask what we can do. At first he seems a little surprised and agitated—he must think it’s too dangerous for laymen like us—but then a smile crosses his face. He takes a notebook from the coffee table and draws up a long list of tools he could use: a rosary (a white plastic one from the dollar store would do fine); votive candles in glass holders with etchings of Jesus, John the Baptist, and the Virgin Mary, in melon or vanilla scent (the smell will drive the devil crazy); crosses, or sticks we could make into crosses; a bottle of burgundy, to help ease Minnie’s nerves; and about a pound of deli ham and sliced pumpernickel. The ham and bread seemed a strange thing to ask for, but when Brother Stewart says it’s to help restore our strength for the battle, it makes sense. But the most important thing, he says, is holy water. If we could find him just a little, a few drops on Joe’s face would make that demon desperate to get out. List in hand, we run out to the truck, leaving Brother Stewart behind to comfort poor Minnie and prepare for the showdown to come.
Since the situation is so urgent we split up to save time. Byron and Charlie head into town in Byron’s Mustang to get the candles and rosaries, while Sam and I get a jelly jar from Minnie’s pantry and head off to find holy water, a tall order at best. There hasn’t been a Catholic church in town for about thirty years, not since some town boys got drunk and burned St. Anthony’s down. Sam thinks we can just fill the jar from the hose and have Brother Stewart bless it to make it holy, but I say no, if Joe is counting on us we have do it right. I remember somebody mentioning a Catholic church near Petersville , about twenty miles up the river in Illinois, so we set off to find it.
Luck is with us, and we find it along the highway a couple of minutes outside Petersville . It’s smaller than I expected, no spires or steeples, just a small black triangle-shaped building in the middle of a gravel lot. When we pull in, Sam hides the jar in his jacket; we might be doing the Lord’s work, he says, but we’d best do it quietly.
Inside is a narrow lobby with dark orange carpeting, kids’ crayon drawings of Jesus taped to the windows. I look around for the holy water; for some reason, I always thought Catholic churches had big barrels out front for anybody to dip a cup into. But there aren’t any barrels, just a little white basin in the wall between the two chapel doors. Two
“That’s a sign if ever I’ve seen one,” he says, wiping his brow. “Superhuman strength, wrath, eyes bugging out of his head—it’s the devil all right. We better stop him before Joe gets hurt.”
Before Joe can pull his arms free we’re all on top of him, holding his arms down and tightening the ties around his wrists. I’m not thrilled about getting that close, but it’s better than having that demon loose. Even tied down Joe is stronger than any one of us, but after thrashing around with him a few minutes, we finally get him settled. He rests his head on the pillow, closes his eyes tight, and whimpers.
“All right, that’s enough,” Brother Stewart says. He takes me by the arm and herds us out. “I told you he wasn’t pretty. Take that gag off him for even a minute and he starts trying to get into your head.”
We step outside and huddle in the living room to plot our next move; we’re in dangerous territory, and somebody might get hurt, or worse, the demon might enter one of us next. Nobody is ready for that. So we agree that anybody who wants to can go home and the rest won’t think any less of him. We all bow our heads and think about it; getting out while we can isn’t a bad idea. But we’re already in it; Joe is our friend, and if he’s suffering we owe it to him to set things right.
Once we’re all agreed we pledge our aid to Brother Stewart, and ask what we can do. At first he seems a little surprised and agitated—he must think it’s too dangerous for laymen like us—but then a smile crosses his face. He takes a notebook from the coffee table and draws up a long list of tools he could use: a rosary (a white plastic one from the dollar store would do fine); votive candles in glass holders with etchings of Jesus, John the Baptist, and the Virgin Mary, in melon or vanilla scent (the smell will drive the devil crazy); crosses, or sticks we could make into crosses; a bottle of burgundy, to help ease Minnie’s nerves; and about a pound of deli ham and sliced pumpernickel. The ham and bread seemed a strange thing to ask for, but when Brother Stewart says it’s to help restore our strength for the battle, it makes sense. But the most important thing, he says, is holy water. If we could find him just a little, a few drops on Joe’s face would make that demon desperate to get out. List in hand, we run out to the truck, leaving Brother Stewart behind to comfort poor Minnie and prepare for the showdown to come.
Since the situation is so urgent we split up to save time. Byron and Charlie head into town in Byron’s Mustang to get the candles and rosaries, while Sam and I get a jelly jar from Minnie’s pantry and head off to find holy water, a tall order at best. There hasn’t been a Catholic church in town for about thirty years, not since some town boys got drunk and burned St. Anthony’s down. Sam thinks we can just fill the jar from the hose and have Brother Stewart bless it to make it holy, but I say no, if Joe is counting on us we have do it right. I remember somebody mentioning a Catholic church near Petersville , about twenty miles up the river in Illinois, so we set off to find it.
Luck is with us, and we find it along the highway a couple of minutes outside Petersville . It’s smaller than I expected, no spires or steeples, just a small black triangle-shaped building in the middle of a gravel lot. When we pull in, Sam hides the jar in his jacket; we might be doing the Lord’s work, he says, but we’d best do it quietly.
Inside is a narrow lobby with dark orange carpeting, kids’ crayon drawings of Jesus taped to the windows. I look around for the holy water; for some reason, I always thought Catholic churches had big barrels out front for anybody to dip a cup into. But there aren’t any barrels, just a little white basin in the wall between the two chapel doors. Two
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