My Best Friend's Exorcism(88)

“In the name and authority of the Lord Jesus Christ,” Abby shouted into the wind, “I renounce all the power of darkness which exists in Gretchen Lang. I bind all evil spirits assigned to Gretchen Lang and forbid you to operate in any way, Andras. The power of Christ compels you!”

Gretchen screamed louder. And then her body retracted, limbs snapping back into place in a flurry of popping joints and grinding cartilage. The cold wind continued to blow. Abby used two hands to hold the paper flat so she could read it.

“I command you, unclean spirit,” she read. “along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, that you cease your attack on this child of God and begone.”

The walls of the room fell away, the wind was stronger, and Abby and Gretchen were no longer in the beach house; they were somewhere ancient and dead. Far off in the distance, Abby saw a man standing with his head on fire, his skull completely engulfed in flames that burned but did not consume. Behind a half-open door, a shape was watching her, hungry for her body.

Then Gretchen began to gabble, began to scream.

“The power of Christ compels you!” Abby attempted.

“Stop!” Gretchen cried over the wind. “Abby, he won’t stop until you stop. Please!”

“The power of Christ compels you, Andras!” Abby shouted. “Leave this girl alone!”

Gretchen’s screams were cut off as fingertips emerged from her mouth, crowned with dirty nails. The hand pushed out of Gretchen’s mouth, slick with spit, her lips working helplessly against its knuckles.

“I command you, unclean spirit,” Abby shrieked into the wind. “The power of Christ compels you!”

Gretchen’s face was stretched tight. A hairy wrist followed the hand, then a thick forearm. Gretchen’s shoulders heaved as, inch by inch, the hairy arm forced its way out, stretching her lips wider and wider. Gretchen’s jaws locked at their maximum width, and still it pushed on.

“Leave this girl!” Abby screamed. “The power of Christ compels you!”

The arm kept coming, and now the skin around Gretchen’s mouth was splitting. Gretchen sobbed and gagged. The arm was almost exposed to its elbow, and now it bent and placed its palm flat against Gretchen’s chest and it began to push itself out, tearing Gretchen’s face in half.

“I can’t!” Abby shouted, and she felt all the strength drain from her legs. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Gretchen, I can’t . . . I quit, I quit, I promise, I quit.”

She collapsed onto her butt, and the second she hit the floor the wind stopped, the light quit flickering and the arm retreated inside Gretchen. And Gretchen finally, mercifully, lay still. It was quiet. The room was a room again, with bare walls again, a wooden floor again, a wicker headboard and wicker dresser again, and Abby dragged her broken body against the wall and slumped there.

Defeated.

They lay like that for a long time. Gretchen’s breath rasping, Abby’s shoulders shaking as she cried. She had failed. She had failed, and soon they would come for her and there were no more chances. It was over.

After a while she was aware of breathing in her left ear, very close, wet and thick, and with it came a guttural whispering that only she could hear. It was the greedy sound of triumph and victory, and the words polluted her brain and covered her skin in filth, and they pushed out her own thoughts until her mind was swimming in pus.

Invisible hands touched her, running possessively over her body—strong, bony hands, plucking at her hair, picking at the scabs on her face. Humiliated, she lifted her head and saw Gretchen’s limp body on the bed; the invisible hands were fondling her, too. Gretchen’s clothing moved as the hands ran over her breasts and between her legs, pulled at her shorts, and the breathing in Abby’s ear grew hungry.

Abby wanted to fight, she wanted to resist, but the spark inside her was dead. They both belonged to Andras now. Abby gave up and let the hands do what they wanted. The whispering in her ear got greedier. She had failed. There was no more Abby, only a body that was pinched, and squeezed, and mashed, and violated.

That’s when the drums started, deep down inside Abby’s head. Deep, deep down—so deep that at first she couldn’t hear them over the obscene whispers. But then they were there, faintly, and something in Abby’s heart kicked over. Inside her skull, a piano and a guitar were banging, and her heart began to beat with the sound of hundreds of roller skates.

“. . . freedom people . . .” she whispered through her cracked lips.

The hissing voices grew louder, angry and vile in her ear. Something slithered across her lips. The hands squeezed her breasts so hard they left bruises.

“. . . marching on their feet . . .” Abby mumbled. “. . . Stallone time . . . just walking down the street . . .”

The voices paused, just for a second, and the drums got louder.

“. . . we got the beat . . .” Abby whispered, then louder. “. . . we got the beat . . . we got the beat . . .”

The voices stopped. The touching stopped, but then it resumed with a vengeance, more painful than before, twisting and punishing her flesh.

Abby slapped one hand up on the wall, higher than her head, and she pushed off the floor with all her strength. The entire planet was holding her down, something heavier than the universe forced her back, and she felt a bone snap in her left shoulder. But still she rose until she was standing, swaying, on her feet. And in her head, the whispering voices were drowned out by the same four words again and again, the same nonsense chorus: