My Best Friend's Exorcism(89)

“. . . we got the beat . . . we got the beat . . . we got the beat . . .”

She took a step toward the bed and a wind blew, slashing her to ribbons, pain exploding inside her broken shoulder. Abby bent her head down and walked toward the bed, one foot in front of the other. The hands twisted and tore at her flesh, and an invisible spike hammered between her eyes, but still she walked on.

“Tommy Cox,” Abby said. “Tommy Cox, defend me in battle. Be my protection against the wickedness and snares of this world. May Tommy Cox and his holy can of Coca-Cola rebuke you, Satan, and all your works, I pray in his name.”

She reached the foot of the bed and now the wind was howling, forcing her backward so violently that she grabbed the sheets holding Gretchen’s feet and clung to them. She looked down at Gretchen’s broken, ragged, bloody body, and she saw the invisible hands scratching and befouling her friend. She spoke in a loud clear voice.

“By the power of Phil Collins, I rebuke you!” she said. “By the power of Phil Collins, who knows that you coming back to me is against all odds, in his name I command you to leave this servant of Genesis alone.”

The wind was screaming and the house shook as the wicker chest flew into the far wall. She held on to Gretchen’s feet with one hand and kept reciting.

“By the power of The Thorn Birds,” she cried, “by the sacred strength of My Sweet Audrina and Forever . . . I deny and rebuke you, Andras. By the power of lost retainers and Jamaica and bad cornrows and fireflies and Madonna, by all these things I rebuke you.”

The wicker headboard was snatched by the wind and flew at Abby, glancing off the side of her head before hitting the wall. Blood poured from her torn ear. The wind was screaming now.

“By the mysteries and the power of Good Dog Max, and E.T. the Extra-terrible, and Geraldine Ferraro the first lady vice president ever, by the Eye of the Tiger, the Love Cry of the Koala Bear, by the passion and redemption of Bad Mama Jama, who will always have supper in the oven. In the name of Glee and Margaret and Lanie Ott, I command you to depart. By the power of the Dust Bunny and in the name of the Go-Go’s I compel you, begone!”

The wind was shaking the room and the walls were rattling, the floor was heaving, the bed was vibrating. Gretchen lay limp, shaking bonelessly.

“I love you,” Abby shouted into the storm. “I love you, Gretchen Lang. You are my reflection and my shadow and I will not let you go. We are bound together forever and ever! Until Halley’s Comet comes around again. I love you dearly and I love you queerly and no demon is bigger than this! I throw my pebble and its name is Gretchen Lang and in the name of our love, BEGONE!!!”

Everything stopped. The wind, the storm, the voices, the hands. And then Gretchen bolted upright, sitting straight up in bed, eyes snapping open, and she screamed a scream she’d been saving since birth, a scream made out of everything that had ever hurt her, a scream so shrill and so loud that the walls split, and the ceiling cracked, and paint chips rained down as Abby held on to the bed. Vile fluid poured out of Gretchen’s mouth and black tears drained from her eyes.

All over Charleston, phones started ringing and Gretchen’s scream became unbearable. Abby felt a storm of evil ideas rush through her: hollow-eyed men standing behind wire, human lampshades, the pain in Good Dog Max’s eyes because he didn’t understand what was happening to him, Gretchen stumbling naked out of the blockhouse, Mrs. Lang beating her daughter, the smell of Margaret’s bedroom, the silence at dinner tables, Glee screaming and thrashing as she was carried out of the bell tower, men laughing and cutting out a woman’s tongue, carving out her heart, burying her alive in an unmarked grave—and there was so much of it and it all hurt so badly and Abby felt it all . . . And then it was gone.

The room was a wreck. Abby’s shoulder throbbed. Gretchen lay on the mattress, covered in paint dust from the ceiling, head to one side, immobile. Then her chest rose and she inhaled, and her chest fell and she let out a gentle snore. Abby realized she was asleep.

And she was smiling.

Abby pulled her hand off the bottom of the bed and stumbled out of the room on legs made of wood; she winced. Full sunlight flooded the house and the ocean sparkled through the windows. They had been there all night. Abby heard muffled voices from far away, and she turned toward the front of the house. She heard a car door slam. She limped to the window.

Three police cars had pulled up in the yard, along with Mr. Lang’s Mercedes, and everyone was pouring out of the cars. And then Mrs. Lang looked up and saw Abby and pointed, and the police were running for the house.

Abby hobbled back to the guest bedroom.

“Gretchen!” she whispered. “Gretchen! They’re coming!”

She was kneeling by the bed, cutting the sheets off Gretchen’s wrists, and Gretchen was waking up. She saw Abby and smiled, and it was Gretchen again.

“Abby?” she said.

Heavy feet were pounding up the wooden stairs outside the house and everything was shaking.

“Gretchen,” Abby said. She cut the last knot and tore off the sheets.

“I could hear you,” Gretchen said. “You were the only thing I could hear and I was drowning, and you reached down and you pulled me out.”

Someone kicked in the front door, and then they were in the house, shoes thundering across the floor, shaking the walls, heading for the bedroom, voices shouting.