“Exorcisms are completely safe for everyone involved, most of the time.”
M. Silver smoothed her already-flat eyebrow. “You are, of course, sanctioned by the church of Soul?”
“No,” he said. He washed his hands with blessed water from his holy canteen, plain cylindrical metal stamped with the god’s sign. He set it down beside his large black travel case. “I am a friend of the church. They bless me and send me tasks. But I am not an officially sanctioned exorcist or priest of Soul.”
M. Silver pursed her lips, frowned, and spun her wedding ring on her finger, but in the end, she nodded. Somehow, admitting he was an unsanctioned exorcist convinced the desperate he was trustworthy.
“Please, take me to him,” the exorcist said.
She led him to the attic, where M. Silver had tied her husband while he slept. The exorcist struggled to haul his case up steep, narrow stairs.
“Every night for the past week, after he goes to sleep,” she explained again, “He takes himself to the worst bar in town. He drinks, he flirts with pretty men, he gets aggressive. At some point he stops and goes white like he saw a ghost and he starts a fight. He comes back to himself in jail, terrified, injured, drunk and exhausted, confused.” Her fingers trembled. “It’s a demon doing this. I’m certain.”
The exorcist nodded sympathy, not agreement. Most “possessions” were mental illness seen through the lens of either ignorance or desperation for a simple solution. The exorcist could count the true demons he’d faced on three fingers.
M. Silver told her story over the radio when she’d called, but having visited the dive bar and done his research, the exorcist had only one question.
“Does he win?”
She paused and turned, searching for words, finding “What?”
“The bar fights. Does he win?”
“…yes. Every time. It takes six police and a dozen stun spells to stop him. I’m worried the police will get sick of stunning…”
The husband, in striped sleepwear, was tied to a rickety old paint-peeling bed frame by wrists and ankles. The knots and rope were more secure than the bed posts. The man slumbered peacefully, soothing scents of spice and beeswax half-choked by faint dust. There was nought else in the cramped room save for one clean, well-used wooden stool.
The exorcist held out one hand shone the light of his faith over the slumbering man, a warm glow like soft candlelight. The man in the bed stirred, sighed, settled.
He gestured to the stool. “Please, sit, but keep your distance.” M. Silver nodded and did as he said. Her head touched the sloped, slatted ceiling.
The exorcist dabbed water from his canteen – the same one he drank from – onto a towel and laid it across the husband’s forehead. “This is pure water of the god of Soul. If an incorrect or additional soul is in the body, the water causes great discomfort.”
He watched close. The husband did not stir. M. Silver breathed relief, holding her belly.
“We wait,” said the exorcist.
The wife was patient. She scarce moved, not until the husband did.
He stirred, groaned. He reached for his forehead, but the rope snapped tight. He began to writhe and moan.
The exorcist held out his palm, the warm light of faith shimmering to cold translucent blue. The husband moaned and growled and tugged at his restraints until the bed frame creaked and cracked.
“M. Silver, please wait downstairs,” said the exorcist.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It is a ghost,” he said simply. “The majority of ghosts are only confused and scared, but fear and confusion can be dangerous. For all our safety, please wait below.”
M. Silver descended and the exorcist closed the hatch. The exorcist returned to the husband, awakening, disoriented.
He would not need the contents of his travel case.
“Why am I tied up?” The voice was higher than the exorcist anticipated. “Let me loose.”
“Allow me to explain. I am -“
The husband growled and flexed his arms, snapped both bed posts in half. The exorcist held out his hand and shone the holy light. The husband flinched but still threw a punch, a focused sharp jab to the gut.
The exorcist’s breath burst from his throat. It was a good punch, aimed just below the ribs and upward. Disciplined. Trained. The exorcist understood how the man was winning bar brawls. He pressed one hand to his stomach and focused away his body’s reflexive panic, recovered by the time the husband shed the remaining restraints.
The man took a boxer’s stance, a high guard covering his face, elbows tight, feet light. “Why’d you tie me up?” he asked.
The exorcist discarded the beginnings of several sentences – no time. “You’re a ghost possessing a man’s body,” he said quickly. He kept his hand held out, the light making the other flinch and wince, but resisting the full effect.
“Liar,” grunted the husband. “You recovered easy. You’re a fighter.”
The exorcist planted his feet and lunged for the husband’s waist, under guard. He kicked the leg and drove the man to the ground, but while adjusting his position for a pin, he took a powerful blow to the head.
He is a fighter. He’s in the arena. He’s the only non-mage to ever win a match in the dueling league. It’s the third time he killed a man in the ring. He realizes too late there could only be so many accidents before they call him a murderer.
They’re right.
He was the exorcist locking his legs around the possessed husband’s and pulling his arm behind his back. The man smashed his head into the exorcist’s face.
He heard a woman’s voice. Not his mother’s. Angry, aggressive.
He is at the Aulonian military recruitment office for the second time. On his first attempt, after he’d run away, they told him he was too young. On his second visit, they deny him based on his league record. He will never forget the recruiter’s moustache, curly, the only blond hair on his body.
He couldn’t lock the pin. The husband punched him in the kidney once, twice, thrice. The exorcist gasped and rolled off, fumbling for his belt pouch.
The husband sat atop the exorcist and raised his fists in savage triumph, with a feminine growl.
The exorcist thought to let this go on, to fight, to win. He cradled the thought for a few moments, and with some regret, held out his pocket mirror.
At the sight of the mirror the husband stumbled and fell back against the bed. He stared at his hands, touched his face, his chest, his hips, his hair, eyes wide.
Dizzy and nauseous, the exorcist climbed to his knees and reached out to bathe the husband in the cold divine light of the Soul. A woman’s scream ripped from the husband’s mouth and with it the wisp of a lost soul.
The husband collapsed unconscious against the bed. The outline of a woman hovered above, lean and hard, fine hair drifting. The light of Soul warmed to the flicker of an old oil lamp, and the ghost calmed.
“Will you allow me to explain?” asked the exorcist. He maintained the light, clutched at his bruised side.
“Please,” said the ghost. If he could see her clearly, he expected she might be crying.
The exorcist tucked a pillow behind the husband’s head and sat, cross-legged, rigid. “I’m afraid you are dead,” he said, soft and gentle. “You are a ghost and have been possessing this man nightly, driving him to drink and fight at a dive bar and wake under arrest.”
“The Whale’s Ass?”
“You remember it?”
“It’s where I go… went… the night before a fight.”
“You don’t remember how you died?”
“No.”
“What is the last thing you remember?”
“Before my fight with Ocean Bailey. I was at the Whale’s Ass…”
The exorcist reached for his bag and withdrew a newspaper. He opened it to the third page. “After you got the bar fight going, someone stabbed you. Between the drink and the adrenaline, no one noticed until you’d lost too much blood.”
The boxer’s outline hovered over the paper. She said nothing, but he could feel despair. He intensified the Soul light and felt her calm somewhat.
“What’s the light?” asked the ghost. Her voice was dreamy.
“A manifestation of my faith. I follow the god of Soul.”
“Why?”
The easiest question to ask and the hardest to answer. The gods had not manifested or spoken in ages. Many believed them dead or to have never existed at all.
The exorcist shook his head. “I choose to.” He looked at the ghost, tried to focus on her. “You have a choice, now that you understand. You can stay and fade or you can follow the light.”
“If I choose the light, what will I find?”
“As far as the church or I know… nothing.”
With less hesitation than the exorcist expected, the ghost reached for the light. He took her hand, cold, and poured all his focus into the warmth of the glow. When he looked up, she was gone.
The exorcist closed his eyes and sat with the memories the ghost’s blows had shaken loose. Carefully he examined them, put them away, and released the tautness from his muscles.
He checked on the husband, unconscious but breathing free. He let down the stairs and called to M. Silver. “Your husband is safe. It’s over.”
Before he finished she was holding her husband.
“Thank you, Mystery Man,” said M. Silver.
He smiled. “You’re welcome. I must ask you not to speak of the light, so it remains unknown for future exorcisms. And actually, it is Mister Iman.”
“She doesn’t recognize family. She’s vindictive and angry and… and mean,” said Trisha. “Can you help, Mystery Man of Soul?”
Iman nodded. “Of course. Exorcisms are completely safe for everyone involved, most of the time.”
The family home was lovely. He sat on his bulky travel case in the hall, across from Trisha perched on stained wooden stairs. Four generations under one roof and still the country ranch home felt airy, roomy, welcoming. The entry was a transition instead of a threshold thanks to climbing blooms of native plants, berry bushes, and fruit trees crowding every door and window.
Gran Christa sat in her rocking chair in the living room, a rough-knit blanket on her lap. A fire snapped in the hearth despite summer heat. Iman noted an empty space on the wall where a framed mirror had been taken down and turned around beneath. There was a vintage rifle mounted above the hearth, a flintlock, well maintained.
“Why leave the rifle if Christa is vindictive and angry and mean?”
Trisha’s eyes slid to the gun, then down. “It’s hers. Her grandfather took her hunting when she was young. She gets unbearable if anyone touches it.”
Iman nodded. “Would you give me some time alone to evaluate her? You can listen from the other room.”
“Praise Soul.” Trisha nodded and stepped toward the kitchen, wincing at every squeak of the floor.
Iman cleared his throat gently and stood at the edge of the living room’s well-worn but clean carpet. “Hello, M. Christa. I am Mister Iman, an adherent of Soul. May I come in?”
“Of course,” smiled the elderly woman with most of her teeth. She scooted the rocking chair around.
“Thank you.” He stepped into the room, around the hand-built coffee table, and pointed at the sofa. “May I sit?”
“Please.” Gran Christa smiled again.
Iman guessed from past experience that asking permission would give her a sense of control she’d lacked. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to ask a few questions. Some may seem silly or obvious, but I would be grateful if you would answer honestly, even if you cannot remember. Would that be alright?”
She hesitated. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“Not at all. I would simply like to get to know you. You are a lovely and interesting person.”
Iman knew Gran Christa likely did not see herself as her actual age, so he was surprised when she blushed and giggled. “You can ask me anything you want.”
He smiled and left aside the implication of her tone. “Thank you. M. Christa, do you know where you are?”
“Of course, I -” her eyes flashed, a spark of confusion. “Someone’s rearranged my living room.”
“You’re right. I can help you with that, if you’d like. Do you know what day it is?”
She blinked rapidly. “I…”
“That’s all right, just a silly question. Can you tell me the year?”
Gran Christa shook her head, slowly at first, then faster and faster.
Iman placed a hand on hers. Christa’s fingers were cold. “It’s all right, it’s not important, I just forgot.” He held out his other hand, closed in a loose fist. “May I show you something? I have the light of Soul here.”
“I think I’d like that,” said Gran Christa.
Iman opened his hand and the light shone forth, warm like the hearth, gentle and golden.
Christa smiled and reached for it, held her hand just above the light. “It’s lovely,” she said.
He would not need the contents of his travel case.
“Would you hold this for me?” he asked. She nodded; he placed the light in her hand. Not a physical thing, but a gentle softness. She held it to her heart, closed her eyes, and breathed deep.
He touched the chill fingers of her free hand. “I’d like to bring someone else in. Is that okay?”
In the comfort of the light, Christa nodded.
Iman stood and retrieved Trisha from the kitchen. Her brow was knight high above trepidatious eyes, but she let him guide her to the living room. “M. Christa,” he called to her, “This is Trisha.”
Gran Christa, still holding the light, smiled. “What a lovely name. I have a daughter named Trisha. She’s gone away to school. I miss her.”
“Gran, I’m -“
Iman held her back, gently by her hand. “Please forgive me, M. Christa, I need a moment with Trisha.”
“Of course.”
He pulled Trisha back into the hall. She could scarce tear her sorrowful eyes from her mother. “Trisha,” Iman said slowly, “Did you see the light she held?”
“Yes.”
“That is the light of Soul. Please do not speak of the light with anyone, for my safety. If Christa were possessed, the light would turn cold and ghostly and unbearable. The light is warm, indicating she is not possessed.”
“But she gets so mean and angry, it’s not like her to -“
“Is Christa mean and angry all the time?”
“Well, no…”
“When she gets mean, what happens just before?”
Trisha frowned. “She… I guess it’s when she’s reminded or corrected about things she should know. Like that I’m her daughter, but I’m not nineteen, I’m sixty. Because the demon doesn’t -“
“It’s not a demon. Her mind is sick from age.”
“But -“
“Please listen. The majority of exorcisms are like this. Your Christa lashes out because forgetting herself is confusing and scary. It’s painful for you, but worse for her. The best way to help is to tell her it’s okay to forget, show her she is safe, and agree with her. Be patient, listen, tell her what she wants to hear.”
“Lie to her?”
“Yes.”
“The church teaches that lies are bad for the soul.”
“This is true in most cases, but I am an adherent of Soul and bear the light, and I tell you that a lie with faithful and true intent can sometimes be a balm.”
“I… Can’t you fix her?”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could. I wish there were a demon to kill and make the problems go away. This is how she is, and she cannot be changed,” Iman said, and he was remembering his father, the day Iman finally accepts that father is not possessed, the man is simply like that, enjoys wrestling his son and wife into submission, and Iman cannot tolerate knowing father rejects change, and his mother tolerates it but that is worse, and Iman runs away to join the military but he is too young and they do not want him either.
Iman squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten. “Please accompany me back in and watch, without speaking. Can you do that?”
“I…” Trisha wiped her eyes and nose on a sleeve that had seen many such uses. “Yes.”
“Thank you for holding my light for me, M. Christa,” said Iman as he stepped around the coffee table once again.
“Oh,” she said, “Is this yours?”
Trisha stared wide-eyed at Iman, but he waved her down. “It is, but you can keep it until it runs out. May we sit?”
“Please.”
Iman pointed at the rifle above the fire. “Is that a MacReady Lucky Seven?”
“It is!” Christa beamed. “Gram gave it to me. I’m a better shot than him.”
“If I’m not mistaken,” Iman said, “It’s the first mass production run with the trigger slightly offset from the center line?”
“Yes, they fixed that in the next model. You know your weapons, M…. um…” Gran Christa’s face flickered through confusion, concern, and into anger. “What are you doing in my -“
Iman held out another handful of light and Christa’s anger smoothed to calm. He turned to Trisha. “I’m sorry I can’t teach you to do this, but if you remember what I said, it will help.”
“And who is this?” asked Christa asked, turning to Trisha, some hostility still darkening her eyes.
Trisha looked at Iman. He nodded. “My name is Trisha,” she said.
Gran Christa smiled. “That’s a lovely name. The same as my daughter.”
Trisha looked at Iman again, took a deep breath, and asked “Could you tell me about her?”
“It’s a terrible powerful demon, Mystery Man. It took all my strength to subdue the boy and confine him to his room.” M. Fiddler wrung his hands. “Will the exorcism be safe?”
“Of course,” smiled Mister Iman. “Most exorcisms are completely safe for everyone.”
He did not explain the unlikelihood of a true demonic possession. This would not be the first time Iman dealt with a willful child whose guardians blamed a demon. He would not judge, especially not in such a tragic case as this. Often these child cases ended in spite and poor reviews, but Iman was trusted by the church of Soul.
“Please take me to the boy.”
M. Fiddler, the uncle, had taken the boy in after the deaths of his parents, mauled by some savage monster roaming the countryside in this time of disarray. M. Fiddler was lined with wrinkles and a fresh hollowness to his eyes.
The boy’s room appeared retrofitted for a child, not built for one. The bed and wardrobe were too tall for a boy of seven. Secondhand toys littered the floor. A shattered mirror had been swept hastily into a box. Still, the uncle had tried his best: a rough approximation of the boy’s parents was painted on the wall, a family photograph on the nightstand, the lampshade stained like a cartoon knight.
Sigils of the four gods – hammer, heart, eye, sun – were carved rough and recent into bedposts, curled chips of wood beneath. The boy sat cross-legged on the mattress. His smug grin read as forced.
“Hello,” said Iman.
“Eat shit,” cackled the boy.
He turned back to M. Fiddler. “You say he cannot pass through the sigils?”
The man nodded. “Yes. He was hunting rats, squirrels, raccoons, foxes. At first I thought it was coping behaviour, but he became obsessive. It was all he would talk about, all he would do. I tried to keep him inside at night. When he started catching animals bare-handed and… and eating them alive… I placed the sigils and threw him into the bed. He’d… he -“
“Would have eaten that deer if you hadn’t pulled me off it,” growled the boy.
Iman nodded. Early onset traumatic psychopathy was not unheard of in children who witnessed such events as the violent deaths of parents at the teeth of a monster. According to hypothesis, this was an extreme and antisocial attempt to feel in control by embracing the role of the monster.
The boy’s glowing, smoking coal eyes were animated by a simple spell, and not a particulary impressive rendition.
“Thank you, M. Fiddler. Please allow me to speak with the boy alone to evaluate. I will not need the travel case I left downstairs.”
“Go choke on your mother’s cock you cunt-faced whore,” spat the boy.
Iman shook his head. Try something I haven’t heard before from little boys who have learned their first naughty words, Iman thought but would not say. He raised a hand, preparing the light.
“Very well.” The boy sniffed, his nostrils flared wide, and his voice deepened to a monstrous low growl. “How is your father, Mister Iman? Does he still wrestle? Have you cleansed him in the light of Soul, or is he just like that?”
Iman’s shoulder spasmed and he turned slowly. “M. Fiddler. I will be needing my travel case. What would you consider an acceptable level of collateral damage to your house and property?”
“W… what?”
“Never mind, you must have home insurance.” Iman pushed M. Fiddler out of the room. “Run. Run until you cannot see the house and run that far again.”
M. Fiddler stared at the boy.
“RUN!” bellowed Iman, and he did.
Slowly Iman turned to face the boy. The demon inside smiled wider than was possible for the boy’s face, teeth sharpening to brutal points.
“I take it the sigils do not confine you?” Iman asked.
The boy stood and bounced off the bed to land on his hands and knees.
“You were the monster that killed the boy’s parents?”
A malicious smile.
“In this body, with his hands and teeth?”
The smile widened.
“So the act, this was… what? To lure in an exorcist as more dangerous, more entertaining prey?”
The smile grew grotesque, tearing the boy’s lips to expose all his teeth. “Not an exorcist. This exorcist. The killer.”
Iman gave his best-acted friendly smile. “If you seek a challenge, would you allow me a few minutes to prepare?”
“Of course,” said the thing, the smile reaching the boy’s ears. Iman hoped it was an illusion, that the horrid ripping smile would not harm the boy, but there was nought he could do until he was ready.
Careful not to turn his back, Iman shuffled out of the room. First he confirmed that M. Fiddler left the house, and second he retrieved his case. He carried the case upstairs, set it down, opened it so the demon could not see inside.
The thing was back on the bed, sitting like an ordinary boy, kicking his dangling legs. The face was normal, almost innocent. “Do you know me, exorcist?”
Iman shook his head. “No. Only an educated guess.” He worked on assembling the gear inside the case.
“Mmmhmmhmmm,” chuckled the beast in the boy. “But I know you, Mister Mystery Iman.”
He would not let the demon shake him. He would not. “What do you know, demon?” Iman asked, eyes on his equipment.
“I know of your little light that will make me uncomfortable,” it said in a mocking singsong.
“How?”
“Everyone can be made to talk,” the demon rumbled. “I know you are a failed fighter, a murderer, an exile who failed to join the military. I know you have killed three demons, more than anyone else alive in this soft age.”
Iman put the final piece in place with a metallic clack. “Do you know what is inside this case?”
The expression on the boy’s face soured. “No. Only the demons you killed have seen what’s inside that case.” It smiled again. “No matter. They were ragged shadows. I am a hunter from before the accursed Silence: true demon, ceaseless stalker, relentless predator. I am the excesses of pursuit, tracking, obsession.” The boy reared up. His skin split and body morphed into a monstrous wolf-thing, a horrific amalgam of the most vicious dog breeds superimposed on a suffering boy. “I am the Wolfhound!”
“So you don’t know everything.” Mister Iman put on his sunglasses and said “Ignorance is this, motherfucker.” He raised his double-barreled shotgun and blew the Wolfhound’s face off with twin Soul-light slugs.
The Wolfhound keened and keeled over, pawing at the craters where its eyes were. “Impossible! I tracked you, I -“
Iman finished reloading, shoved the muzzle of the shotgun into the Wolfhound’s mouth, fired again. Coal-black flesh and oil-thick blood splattered out the back of the demon’s head. The thing did not move, but Iman stood over it, the shotgun trained on its chest, a third pair of slugs held between his teeth.
Before he could reload again, the body heaved and burst into dark flame. Iman barely dodged a swipe of its enormous shadowy claws; one scratched his sunglasses. The Wolfhound growl-laughed, its head erupting into black-white flame, restoring the shape of the cackling dog.
“A surprise, I admit!” reveled the Wolfhound. “Worthier prey than I had imagined. I will savour your blood!”
“Try this instead,” Iman said as he spat out the shotgun slugs. From his belt he retrieved a metal cylinder, tape-labeled Holy Water of Soul.
With blinding speed, the Wolfhound snatched the cylinder. “I don’t think so!”
Iman held up the metal pin he’d pulled from the fake flask, a disguised high explosive grenade. He tossed the pin at the demon and jumped out the window.
The upper floor of the house erupted in a shower of sparks and splinters and nails. Iman tucked and rolled to land in the garden, suffering a few scrapes. He watched the debris for movement, eyes safe behind his sunglasses.
A chunk of flesh smushed onto the grass beside Iman. Too large a chunk. The Wolfhound unfurled, charred, smoking, bleeding from a hundred half-cauterized wounds. It quivered and roared, darkflame muzzle leaking rage… and something else.
“You’ll kill the boy,” cried the beast.
“The light will protect the true soul,” replied Iman.
He donned blessed brass knuckles and charged them with light. He ducked under the Wolfhound’s still-smoking claws and tackled it to the ground, wrapped his legs around the thing’s waist, fired punch after punch into the demon’s sides to brand its ribs with the heart-sigil of Soul.
The claws tore at Iman’s arms and scalp until he locked in and twisted the demon’s arm. The thing refused to yield. Iman broke the arm. He took the other, and still the demon would not yield. Iman broke that arm too.
Iman put the demon in a chokehold, the light of Soul protecting his arms from the beast’s blackflame head. Still the monster would not yield, so Iman broke its neck.
He tried, but in the blackflame there was nothing to break. The monster bit down on Iman’s forearm and his flesh cooked.
He is in the duel where the mage roasts his arm with a fireball, he is enraged, he fights through the fire and he wraps his arms around the duelist’s neck and he squeezes until the mage surrenders, but he does not, he weakens and flails but does not surrender, and Iman holds his grip awaiting the surrender or the referee’s call, neither comes, the man is dead, all Iman can think is that it serves him right for burning his arm, and the next week the rage comes upon him and the officials again say it’s an accident, but it wasn’t, he likes how it feels, and the third time they do not say it’s an accident and Iman realizes he has become his father, prison is what he deserves, but they do not send him there.
He was not that man anymore. He found his soul and his work ensured others kept theirs.
Iman punched the demon until its jaws loosened. He shoved his arm down the demon’s throat, squelched blind through organs and cracking bone, until he found the grip he needed and channeled Soul light directly into the demon’s heart.
The monster screamed and melted into bubbling tar-flesh and rancid fur. Iman pulled the crying boy out of the demon’s throat.
The Wolfhound dissolved into the yard, leaving a beast-shaped burn in the grass. Iman cradled the boy in his burned and bleeding arms.
M. Fiddler came running and crying from behind an ancient tree. Iman shot Fiddler a reproachful glare – he was supposed to be twice as far from the house as he could see.
Iman surrendered the child, and under M. Fiddler’s fercely loving embrace, the boy’s eyes fluttered open. “Uncle…?” asked the boy, too weak to finish, but alive and safe.
M. Fiddler brushed the boy’s hair with his fingers and looked to the exorcist. “Thank you, Mystery Man,” he whispered.
“Actually,” he replied with a fading smile, “it’s Mister Iman.”
Iman hoped, as he drifted toward the unconscious, that what he did would make up for what he’d done.
He feared it wouldn’t.
He enjoyed the fight. The kill.
Iman winced and eased himself into his recliner. The ashen brick hearth was empty; he was not interested in fire. He leaned over the arm of the chair and pulled the home radio closer to tune in to the oldies channel.
Instead the radio crackled with incoming. “Calling Mister Iman.”
“Actually, it’s -” he paused, frowned, and adjusted the handset. “You’ve reached Mister Iman. Who is this?”
“Count Duncan MacReady. I heard about your exorcism of the Fiddler boy. I’d like to talk to you about a job.”
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