Vol. I

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Michael Durant

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Oct 15, 2012, 5:24:03 AM10/15/12

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Welcome to the first issue of Mike Durant's Newsletter. This monthly newsletter will keep you updated on where you can read Mike's writings.

October is the perfect time for H.P. Lovecraft... and a spooky story.

Mike is writing five articles about H.P. Lovecraft for Fantastic Pulp, a webzine. The first two have already been published. The third, a look at the Cthulhu Mythos, should be published around November 8th.

In January 2013, Mike will begin applying for freelance writing jobs. It's his hope to make this his full-time job someday, but for now he's plunging into the frigid waters of writing reviews, essays, articles, and news/opinion pieces for money. By the end of 2012, he hopes to have a varied portfolio to show prospective clients.

Michael Durant's Blog

“Good afternoon, Father,” she said.

“Good afternoon, Greta. I didn't see you at Mass last weekend.”

Greta's husband Eric cleared his throat. The man may have been handsome once, but now he was an overweight round-faced ape. “My sister was coming over. We needed to clean.”

The priest nodded. “Come in, let's talk.”

They sat down in the priest's comfortable office. His desk was cluttered with paperwork from his RCIA class. He grimaced in apology. The sun was shining through the window, bathing the room in a soft white light. “You know what I'm going to say, Greta.”

Greta nodded, and stared at her shoes.

“I'm going to tell you that the demon is a sickness of the soul. That you need to take your medicine weekly. And that going to Mass and receiving Communion is medicine for the soul.”

“I--”

“You're going to say that Church makes you tired. That you can't sit still for an hour. That is your demon. He tires your brain, makes you restless during Mass.

“This is our fourth session, Greta. The demon isn't going to just present himself for me to exorcise, like in that damned movie. It doesn't work like that. Please, come to Mass tomorrow.”

The rest of the session passed at a pleasant pace. The priest talked with his parishioners. He put Greta at ease. They prayed together, the priest and Greta, at least. Greta belched and yawned through the Lord's Prayer, but the demon did not come forth.

The session lasted two hours. The priest performed the Rite of Exorcism over Greta. She belched and yawned. They made an appointment for next Saturday again.

“And I'll see you in Church tomorrow, Greta?”

“Of course, Father Byrne.”

She said the same thing every week. Father Byrne wondered what excuse her sour husband would have next Saturday. He could only help his flock so far. Eric smiled at the priest when he said goodbye, and for a moment ten years fell from his face. It was the precious, eager face of a boy. The smile was short-lived.

But the boy had been there for a moment before the man resumed control. The innocent boy who still believed. The boy before his spirit had been saddled with the horrors and cynicism of the world. So Father Byrne liked to think.

~//~

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.”

“Sit down, Owen.” The older priest wore a red monsignor sash over his stocky frame.

“I have held lust in my heart.”

The monsignor looked Father Byrne over. “Did you act on this lust?”

“I prayed for deliverance, Father. I meditated on why I still have these feelings.”

“They are a part of you, Owen. Only you can choose whether to act or not to act. Let us say the Act of Contrition together, Father Byrne. Then I want you to say three Hail Marys, and one Our Father. Meditate on how the Lord delivers you to Him. On how you did not fall into temptation again.”

“Thank you father.”

They knelt.

~//~

Her son was home, locked in his room and tied to the bed. Maybe he was possessed. Maybe he was acting out. Joanne didn't care. She didn't want to even look at the boy when he was like this. In a few hours, Roger would calm down again. Maybe tonight he would eat.

She finished wiping down the tub and stood. She didn't have many personal days left. Roger needed to get well. No trace of blood remained in the tub. She rubbed at her raw scratches. They still stung where the water clung to them. It was a small victory. Roger wouldn't draw blood again. She put the nail clippers in the medicine cabinet.

Her cell phone was vibrating on the marble counter in the kitchen. Roger screamed from the bedroom. So much for peace and quiet. It was her husband, Ben.

“What's new, pussycat?”

“Nothing.”

“Your war wounds okay?”

“They're better,” she lied.

“Hon, you okay?”

“That's a stupid question.” A coarse laugh slipped her lips.

He laughed. “I guess it is.”

“I called up a priest.”

“Merrin...” he croaked.

“Stop it! Don't give Roger any ideas.”

“Oh no we wouldn't want that!” came Roger's voice from the bedroom. It was a hoarse cry that reminded Joanne of a leafless tree in winter.

“Sorry. Who's the priest?”

“Father Byrne.”

Silence.

“Ben? You still there?”

“I'm here. Father Owen Byrne?”

“I think... yeah, that's right. Why?”

“Can you get anyone else? I don't want Father Byrne in this house.”

“What? Why not?”

“Let's just say I've heard rumors.”

Joanne smiled. “Ben, it's OK. He was appointed exorcist by the archdiocese. Took the class and everything. I didn't find some old man on the street to talk to our boy.”

“You're sure there's no one else?”

“I can ask, but... I think it'll be OK.”

“Keep an eye on him all the same. I'll be home early tonight.”

“OK.” Joanne hung up the phone and put it back on the counter. Now Ben was acting odd, too. She ran her hands through her hair, pulling the ends into a fist. She let go, let the hair fall around her face.

His voice grew chilly, became a dead thing when he said he'd be home early. Joanne had heard him use that tone once before, at his father's wake.

~//~

The priest reminded Joanne of her father. He had a full head of gray hair, meticulously combed over a tall forehead. He smiled from his Irish eyes to his mouth. The smile crumpled up the crow's feet on his face, adding ten years to his age.

“So, what exactly has been happening with the house?”

Joanne opened her mouth, but Roger answered from his bedroom. “There's nothing wrong with the house!” shouted the raspy boy trapped in his bedroom. “You're here for me, me, ME!”

Father Byrne looked up at the voice, but his face was unreadable. “How long?”

“Excuse me?” Joanne was struggling to remember why the priest was even here.

“How long has your boy... Mrs. Getty. You lied to my secretary.”

She nodded, her cheeks on fire.

“May I meet the boy?”

“His... his name is Roger.”

Byrne sat down. “Tell me about him.”

She told him. Roger Getty played soccer. He liked basketball, but wasn't competitive. Honor roll student. Ate his vegetables. Roger always went to bed on time and only ever stayed up late to read. He read two full levels above his grade, Joanne said. Byrne wondered if the boy was just sick of being a good boy.

“Will you exorcise him?”

“I'll have to be sure, first.”

“But... it's just... a placebo, right? You exorcise him, he feels better about himself. You... you don't really believe in demons, do you?”

“I'm not a therapist. I don't perform exorcisms when there's nothing there to exorcize. May I see the boy, or would you like to consult a therapist instead?”

“Yes... of course. He's restrained... he'd hurt himself, otherwise.” Joanne bit her lip, defying the priest to judge her. She also wondered at Ben. Surely, Father Byrne couldn't do a thing to Roger. Not with her outside the door.

Joanne led Father Byrne up the stairs, to Roger's bedroom. It felt cold. Byrne was reminded of that silly movie, where icicles formed. That was not his experience with demons. He opened the door, and found the boy strapped to his bed. No lights were on in the room. The shade was drawn.

Father Byrne stepped inside the room, heard Joanne close the door behind him.

“Are you here to seduce me, Father Robinson?”

Father Byrne pulled out a vial of tap water, and splashed it on the boy. He writhed and screamed in his restraints.

“Thanks, I was parched.” The boy laughed. “I prefer Dasani, though.”

“What is your name?”

“Legion, for we are many.”

Father Byrne nodded. Demons did not give out their names so easily. And quoting the Bible?

He turned to leave. He'd seen enough. He reached for the door.

“Don't tell me. It's not me, it's you.”

Father Byrne kept his hand on the knob. “I hope you get well, Roger.”

“Roger isn't home right now, Owen! No witnesses if you wanted to satisfy your urges! I can promise you that little Roger won't be able to point where on the doll you touched him.”

Father Byrne let go of the knob. The boy knew his Christian name. Had guessed right about Byrne's past. He turned around.

“I was hoping you'd come, Owen. I've been waiting for you.”

Father Byrne bit off his question. This was no hoax. He remembered his training. Do not engage the demon.

Father Byrne began to mumble the Lord's Prayer in preparation, and pulled out his copy of the Rite. It was a small, slim volume of black leather. With it he drew out a bottle of real holy water.

The demon laughed with delight, and Father Byrne launched himself towards the bed, letting his prayer reach a trembling crescendo.

“Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil!” he declared. He made the sign of the cross over Roger Getty, and launched into the litany of the saints. He splashed holy water on the demon. It laughed at him, and he supposed he must look silly. He faltered over the names of St. Jerome and St. Augustine, but pressed on. He found his rhythm, and the demon fell silent. Or his cursing fell on deaf ears. Father Byrne could not hear him.

Byrne said the whole Rite aloud, and began again by sprinkling holy water on the demon.

“Come now, Father. Roger's a beautiful boy. I'm sure Joanne told you. He is an innocent.”

Father Byrne spat out “Not while you dwell within him!”

The demon laughed. “So maybe later? You are mine, Father. I've watched you for a long time. I've seen you try to exorcize yourself. But there is nothing of me in you.”

“You led me to sin.”

“Like a horse to water? Is that what you think?” Roger tried to sit up under the leather belts. He was a little boy, a wasted thing. Father Byrne realized too late that he was off his rhythm. “No, Father Byrne. Why would we bother? You already had all the ingredients. An ill-defined sexuality, a repressive social order, a wish to return to pre-sexual maturity. I didn't even have to shake them up.”

Father Byrne said nothing. He stood at the demon's feet. Roger's feet.

“So, come on. Pull of Roger's pants. Heheh. Sooner or later it comes down to fate. I might as well be--”

“Holy Mother, pray for us.

“Holy Virgin of virgins, pray for us.

“St. Michael, pray for us.

“St. Gabriel--”

“NO ONE WILL PRAY FOR YOU YOU OLD FART! HEY! STOP TOUCHING ME DOWN THERE! I SAID STOP! STOP! Stop!”

Roger faded back in as Father Byrne stumbled towards the door. Joanne was there, and so was Benjamin Getty. The years had been hard on him. His boyish naivety was gone. But Father Byrne recognized the blue eyes, once bright like the sunny sky.

Now they were cold chips of ice.

“You stay away from this family.” Getty grabbed Byrne and dragged him to his feet. Byrne was thrown down the stairs. He was crying. Roger, unaware of what exactly was going on, was crying. Joanne, blaming herself for what could have happened, was crying.

Byrne pulled himself to his feet as Getty launched a balled fist at his temple.

“Ben, stop! Roger's OK!”

Owen's mouth contorted in a rictus of pain. “I'm sorr--”

Getty punched him again.

“Get out of my house. See, Joanne? I fucking told you not to leave him alone! I fucking TOLD YOU!” Ben pulled his fist back again. Byrne fled.

~//~

Father Byrne was still shaking as he parked his car in the church's garage. Two chips of ice had bored their way into his brain. He would remember Ben's adult eyes possessed with inhuman rage until the day he died.

He slipped past his secretary, and locked himself in his room. God had forgiven him his sins. He knew Ben never would.

~//~

Father Byrne celebrated the early mass every Sunday. As he began to talk about the readings, someone from a back pew shouted “Child molester!” at him. The blue-haired woman in the front gasped. The one with the yellowed white mane just stared and pursed her lips.

After Mass, Father Byrne was called in to see the pastor. He said, “I suspect this is not the first time you've had this discussion, Owen.”

Father Byrne shook his head. “They decide where to send me next?”

“Not yet. You will stay here until then, but I'm going to take you out of the rotation, so to speak.”

Byrne smiled. “Say it ain't so, Coach.”

“I'm afraid it is. Ben Getty is being very vocal.”

“It's his son. He's possessed.”

The monsignor nodded. “I'll see if I can find another exorcist.”

Byrne shook his head. “I'd rather do it.”

“No, Father. Absolutely not. That would open the door to all sorts of trouble. And besides, with your previous history, there's no way you'll be able to stay close to the child.”

“All the same.”

“You're staying here by my leave. Don't make me regret it.”

~//~

Father Byrne noticed Roger Getty return to Sunday School. Soon, while watching the CYO soccer team, he saw the boy return there as well. The demon was sleeping.

Joanna picked her son up from practice, and noticed Byrne watching them. She sent her son to the car, and stormed across the field towards the elderly priest.

Her face was strained and pale. “They let you watch the kids play?” she asked.

“Mrs. Getty, I'll be leaving the parish soon.”

“Push you around across the country, wait until you find a parish with a boy you didn't diddle?”

He flinched from her.

“Ben told me about you. The night after... after you and I met. You... you ruined him. His father didn't believe a priest was capable of that, he trusted you and called his own son a liar. He never told me why he hated his father so much. Ben got beaten. Every time he tried to tell his father about Father Byrne, he got punched. Kicked. His father said stop telling tales.”

Father Byrne wanted very much to say he was sorry. But he stayed silent.

“We went out for the old bastard's funeral last year. Ben disappeared from the reception. His mother and I found him screaming at his father's headstone. No words. Just rage.”

“Why tell me this?”

“Because I want you to know. I want you to take that to your grave, you miserable old fart. You ruined lives.”

Father Byrne nodded. “I'd like to leave you with advice. About the demon.”

“It's gone.”

“It's sleeping.”

She waited.

“The Sacraments. The boy should go to church. Take Communion. It's the best way to keep the demon at bay.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You'd love it if Roger were an altar boy, wouldn't you?”

Father Byrne shook his head. He was tired of fighting. “It's advice freely given. I... I cared for him. Ben, I mean.”

She slapped him and walked away.

Father Byrne wiped at his eyes.

~//~

Drink was one vice the priest could indulge in. For the night, at least. Not during the day, not around children. But at night, when the only people watching were him and God, he could drink. There were eight children out there, grown men now. He wondered if he was responsible for Roger Getty. Had he tainted Ben's soul, and through Ben, tainted Roger? What about the other seven men?

What he had done... the demon inside him... he laughed. The demon Paedophilia. Willing away his agency, his complicity. It wasn't his fucked-up brain, it was a demon inside him. Something to conquer.

And it wouldn't. GO. AWAY!

Tonight he would drown it. In the beginning, he had tried to drown it. Now, at four in the morning, he decided that he hadn't poured enough liquid down his throat. He drank from his second bottle of Jack, humming some damned variation of the Alleluia. Maybe he'd kill the part of his brain that got aroused by the pure innocence of childhood, the part of his brain that lusted after the smiling Irish eyes of mischievous boys.

Maybe he's drown his soul, die, and find himself in Hell.

~//~

The next afternoon, Father Byrne discovered that sulfur and brimstone would have to wait. The bomb that exploded in his head made him think he might have preferred Hell. He went for a walk in the chilly autumn day. A boy was kicking a soccer ball around a field. Alone. Father Byrne began to walk towards the child. It was Roger Getty.

He stopped. It was a trap. He would talk to the boy. His parents would come. Father Byrne would be beaten again. That didn't bother him. Roger bothered him.

“Hello, Father,” said the demon. He spread Roger's lips into a toothy smile. “Want to play altar boy?”

Father Byrne shook his head.

“You're leaving me soon.”

“Yes.”

“Going far away, somewhere where you never touched anyone before. But it'll happen again, won't it? If you don't give in, find a special someone... a furious ex-lover will find you. Maybe I'll find them first.” Roger licked his lips.

The hangover returned, threatened to pound him into the ground, a merciless force. He stood his ground.

“ROGER!” shouted a man. Byrne turned to see Ben Getty holding a gun. “Roger, get away from him!”

The demon laughed, and Ben pulled up short. Byrne held his hands out, where Getty could see them. He backed away from the demon.

“We were just getting acquainted,” the demon promised Getty.

Ben stood there, the gun wavering. The demon cackled again. Getty was closer to Roger than Byrne was now. Byrne turned around and walked away fast.

“What did you say, Roger? Is it happening again?”

“Is what happening again? Can I go home?”

#

The publicity was a dark shadow blanketing St. Margaret's. Byrne's presence was threatening Mother Church. He had been forgiven his sins, forgiven his loss of control. Yet every day he stayed in the rectory, he hurt the one woman he ever loved.

The demon boy's face haunted his dreams. Sometimes Byrne beat the demon boy, like a father beats a son. Byrne could not go on. He hurt Ben in ways he'd never understand. God had forgiven him five years ago. But now, today, Father Byrne would have to serve his penance. He had faith in God's plan. What was the Devil but an agent of God?

The human condition could never overcome its inner demons. It could suppress them, conquer them, but never erase them. The consequences would rise up when you least expect it. Then you would fall into the abyss, or you would stay tottering over the chasm. Byrne finally understood the graveness of his sins. He remembered his confessions over the last five years, and understood: he had been sorry for what he'd done, for the things he'd made the boys do. Sorry for his actions. But now he was sorry for the lives he had ruined.

The Devil had shown him how far he had fallen, the betrayal, the corruption. He had ruined lives. Destroyed the boys he'd loved. Now he could be sorry for the right thing. That was what God was showing him. Now that he could confess the full extent of his sins, he could be forgiven.

Father Byrne walked outside. He hoped that would be all. An angry parishioner with a gun, and the end of his life. It wasn't so simple. He was a leper, unclean. Nobody laid a hand on him. Nobody even noticed him.

He walked to the soccer field. Roger stood there with the ball.

“My daddy says you're a bad man.”

Father Byrne nodded. The boy looked sad, on the verge of losing his innocence. Love throbbed in the priest's veins. His blood pounded in his ears. He recognized it. It was a hunger.

“He doesn't love my mommy. He can't love my mommy because of what you did to him. My friend told me that.”

“Your friend is a liar.”

“I don't think so. He told me you'd be here today.”

The boy approached Father Byrne. He stood too close and looked up at Byrne's face. Byrne was ravenous.

“A peace offering, Father.” The demon placed the boy's hands on Byrne's waist. Byrne shuddered. “Do you understand why I'm here?”

The demon fumbled with the priest's belt.

“Leave here.”

“We can leave together, you and I. A Nabokovian road trip. Forbidden love. A willing partner.”

“I don't want this I don't want this!” Byrne stepped back. The belt slid off his waist, staying in the boy's hands.

“It's been fun, then.” The boy drew out his father's gun. He looked at it, and at the belt in his hands. “This... this is what you made Daddy do. Isn't it?”

“It is. I'm sorry for what I did to your father. I had a dem-- I'm wrong in the head. I don't know how I could have thought it was okay. I'm sorry for what I did, and I'm sorry for everything that has happened because I was weak.”

“He trusted you.” The demon's voice. The child's lips hadn't moved. Where... where was the demon? “They all trusted you and you let them down. You betrayed their trust. And then you had the gall to blame me.”

Father Byrne looked down the dark barrel of Getty's gun. The demon was gone from Roger Getty, but the boy's eyes were cold and bright, like his father's eyes. Father Byrne's sin would live on, even after his death here today. Social services would come for Roger, the killer. The demon told him that.

The gun trembled in the boy's hands. Father Byrne said a silent prayer.

*****

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