Demon Knight Read online

  It only took a few hours to pack all of his belongings.

  That night, sitting among the boxes, Blake wondered if life would ever get better. He wondered if he would ever see the brightness, the joy in life again, or if was he destined to remain stuck in the darkness of depression.

  Not an audible voice, but an internal one that sounded much like the demon that visited his dreams, said, “There’s no joy left in life. You failed, ruined the only good thing you ever had.”

  With that internalized voice came the realization that there would be no sleep that night. Blake searched out his gun, an old revolver that might or might not work, and loaded a single bullet into the cylinder. Closing it, he spun it and laid it on the table as he finished a glass of spiced rum and debated pulling the trigger, ending it all. Could it make my afterlife any worse than it’s already doomed to be?

  In the end, he put the gun in his jacket pocket and loaded the boxes into his car. Seeing no reason to stay until the next day, Blake put his apartment keys in the tenant communication box attached to Ms. Creedy’s door and left to wander the streets in his car until morning.

  Chapter 2

  Apartment hunting proved harder than expected.

  Driving around, Blake looked for buildings he thought might contain affordable units. On the seedier side of town, there were several he marked down to check out. The buildings were in rough shape and he could imagine the sort of people who lived in them. None of the tenements would be an ideal place to put down roots, but any of them would be better than the happy little faux American Dream apartments he’d been in.

  He checked on the first apartment building but never made it inside. As he approached the steps leading up to the entrance, a man and a woman came tumbling through the doorway, fighting and cursing. The woman gained her feet at the bottom of the steps and plunged a knife into the man’s midsection. More people flooded out of the building, some to help the man, others running from a group of officers.

  The next two buildings weren’t much better.

  On the verge of giving up, Blake parked the car in a public lot. He craved his whiskey. Abstaining for several hours had come to pose a real problem for him. Fishing the loaded gun from his pocket, he spun the cylinder again and placed it on the passenger seat. He eyed it wearily, but ended up putting it away again and climbed out of the car.

  Walking used to clear his head when he was in seminary and after becoming a priest. Something about being able to commune with nature had always soothed him, made him feel closer to God. Blake had not taken a proper walk since Timmy, but it was worth a try to see if it still worked.

  Making sure the car doors were locked, he took off down the deserted street, his eyes cast to the ground, his hands plunged deep in his pockets. The structures around him looked like old, abandoned, or seldom-used warehouses and office buildings. It depressed him even more.

  About two-thirds of the way down the road, he saw a building that was inhabited. There were curtains blowing out of one window on the second floor and a woman with a baby crossed the room. A man dressed in a faded blue polo shirt and work pants with patches sewn on at the knees came out the front door and headed off down a side street on foot. He was clean-shaven, his hair freshly cut. His shoes looked clean but years out of date. The slump of his shoulders and his downcast gaze as he trudged by tugged at Blake’s heart.

  Though run-down and in serious need of some maintenance on the outside, it appealed to Blake. The quietness of the place was probably what helped him feel at ease as he walked into the building and found the office. Inside, deep shadows swooped into the corners and hid some of the yellowing of the ceiling tiles, the watermarks on the walls, and the heavily damaged metal doors that led to the stairwell.

  The manager was a short, gruff man in his late fifties, who apparently thought little of introductions or small talk. He stepped out of his office, looked Blake up and down, shoved his hands into his pockets, and lifted his eyebrows.

  “Looking for a place, are ya?” His accent was definitely not New York.

  “Yes. I’m Blake—”

  “Rent’s due first day of the month. Every month. Trash and water are included, electric’s your own worry, but you can’t stay here without it. How many bedrooms you need?”

  “One. It’s just me.”

  “Terrific. No kids and no pets, less hassle for me. Rent is cash or money order only. I give receipts for both.” He motioned Blake into the office. “Paperwork’s in here. When ya need to move in?” He shuffled around a stack of boxes to his seat behind the desk.

  “Soon as possible. But you never told me how much.” Blake was more amused than annoyed.

  “Two-fifty for the one-bedroom units. Supply your own A/C, I don’t do that anymore.” He put together three sheets of papers and shoved them across the desk to Blake. “Fill these out, and I’ll go get the keys to your unit.”

  “I never said I’d take it. I’d like to look at the unit first.” Blake grinned. The man didn’t. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Do you need a place or not, mister? It’s by the month; no lease; no first month and deposit and last month crap. Where ya gonna find a better deal?”

  “Show me the unit, and I’ll tell you yes or no right there on the spot. Rent’s not that cheap anywhere that I know of, unless the place is falling through.” Blake hadn’t meant to be so forceful, but he was beginning to tire of the man’s pushy attitude.

  “Fine. Off your ass and on your feet; I ain’t got all day to dilly-dally with you.” He stormed out of the office and into what could have only been his apartment.

  Before Blake could enter, the man was back with two keys on a ring. The oversized tag had the numbers 427 written in block letters. The man shoved through the metal doors to the stairwell.

  “Doors need work, and I’ll get to it eventually. Until then, shove them open when you come in. Fourth floor; come on.”

  The man made short work out of the stairs, climbing them in a way that would have made a mountain goat proud. Blake could only hope to be that mobile and dexterous when he reached the man’s age.

  The hallway was long. Doors on either side stood slightly ajar.

  “Why are all these doors open up here?”

  “Some are being remodeled and some just cleaned. Whole fourth floor is empty, except for the crazy lady at the end of the other hall there.” He pointed to where the corridor took a sharp turn.

  Nodding, Blake followed him to apartment 427. He’d seen no elevator and so asked about it.

  “No elevator here. Used to have one; not anymore. Why? You afraid of the exercise?” He grinned with a partial compliment of crooked, yellowing teeth.

  The smirk unnerved Blake. “No. Just wondering.”

  The door swung in easily. “Well, how about you wander on in there and give me an answer, huh?”

  The apartment was definitely old. The kitchen had appliances better suited to a 196os home. The same could be said of the furniture. Nothing was in very bad disrepair and nothing was falling down around his ears, but the place was the opposite of Ms. Creedy’s apartments.

  “What about all the furniture?” Blake had planned on visiting the Salvation Army’s thrift store for that.

  “All stays. Comes with the unit. You don’t like it? Not good enough for you?” He wrinkled his nose at Blake, obviously offended.

  “It’s fine. I just thought the previous tenant might have left it.” Blake looked in each little room. The place was tiny. Living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. Basic. It was all he needed. It was all he could afford.

  “Well? Yes or no? Or are ya gonna window shop all day?”

  Blake laughed at the man. His gruff attitude was a cliché from some old black and white television show. “I’ll take it. I like it.”

  Snorting, the man said, “Give it a month or two and you’ll change your tune. Everybody likes it at first, but then they realize that low rent ain’t exactly putting them in the best neighborhood
or that fancy apartment where they can live out their happy little lives.” He was already back at the stairs. The man seemed to be ill-at-ease unless he was moving; even his eyes moved restlessly, rarely settling on anything for more than a second or two.

  Blake filled out the papers.

  With his money in hand, he paused. “I didn’t catch your name, by the way.”

  The man rolled his eyes. “‘Cause I didn’t give ya my name. Sal Mandy. And you are?”

  “Blake Rossi; just like it says on the papers.” And like I tried to tell you earlier, he wanted to add but didn’t. He handed Sal a check and took the keys. “Thank you, Mr. Mandy.”

  “Call me Sal. Sounds better.” He eyed the check quickly. “And, thank you, Mr. Rossi.”

  “Call me Blake. I like it better.”

  Without another word from the man, Blake returned to his car. He carried in his kitchen things first and then went for his blankets and clothes. Not wanting to make a bunch of trips up and down those steps, he took only what he needed most, crammed it into one box, and left the rest for later.

  Closing and locking his new front door, he looked around, huffing after the strain of carrying the heavy box up the stairs. “No wonder the place comes furnished. It’d be hell to carry furniture up here.”

  He laughed and grabbed a bottle of Jack as he headed for the bedroom. A pang of guilt hit him as he opened the bottle. Not the best way to be dealing with the stress, he chided himself but took a drink anyway.

  ***

  At the end of his first week in the new place, Blake crossed two more interviews off his list. The last one remaining was a mechanic’s shop he’d happened upon while walking from his prior interview. He had been handy with engines when he was a teenager and thought maybe that job would pan out for him. The interview was for the following Monday.

  Sitting in the little living room, drinking and trying to read from his bible, Blake was startled when a sharp knock sounded at his door. He had called no one and had given only potential employers his new address. Tucking the still-loaded gun into his pants pocket, he used the peep-hole to see who was there.

  Blake opened the door.

  “Gregor! What are you doing here?” They hugged briefly, and Gregor walked inside.

  Gregor had changed little over the years; he had more wrinkles and less hair, but he was still muscular, and his blue eyes were still sharp and bright.

  “You’re a hard man to find, Blake Rossi. It’s been months since we talked!”

  Gregor took a quick look at the apartment, clucked his tongue, and turned his attention back to Blake. “I was worried about you. We’ve never been out of the loop with each other for so long. What do you mean having all this bad business with the exorcism and the Church’s scathing decision and not even calling me? I had no idea what happened to you. And nobody had a forwarding address.” He smiled, but his eyes told Blake he was hurt and angry. “Good thing I still have friends on the police force, namely Detective Ballard, who still owed me a few favors.”

  “I’m sorry.” Blake’s guilt returned. He wished he had called Gregor after Timmy, at least to let him know something was going on.

  Gregor tossed his jacket over an armchair and sat on the end of the couch closest to the window. “If we’re still friends, you really should sit and fill me in on all this. And, what’s up with this place? Why are you here? I was sure I was going to get mugged just walking into the building. I think I should probably go get a tetanus shot when I leave; did you see all the rust and jagged metal on those doors?” He helped himself to the Jack.

  Blake and Gregor Balfor had been inseparable in their late teens. By the time they both turned twenty, they had shared the responsibility for the Church’s homeless outreach program in their hometown. This mostly entailed overseeing the Manna from Heaven soup kitchen, which they loved dearly.

  After seminary, Blake worked hard and got a sponsor, so he could become a diocesan priest. Something happened with Gregor and he never interviewed with a sponsor. He gave up his dream of becoming a priest. He told Blake only that he wished to become an occult writer. He wanted to inform the laymen of the world about demons and the realm that exists just beyond normal perception.

  Then Timmy’s exorcism happened with all its subsequent tragedy.

  Blake hadn’t call Gregor to discuss it. He had called no one; it was his shame to bear alone. It was a horrible story that seemed to be ongoing, with Blake at its center, as far as the demon was concerned. If he was right, the demon might harm people close to him—like Gregor. Blake would never forgive himself if that happened.

  He was tired all the way to his soul.

  It was good to have Gregor near again. He brought a sense of normalcy with him that Blake had been missing. “So, we’ve got some catching up to do, buddy.”

  The bottle of Jack didn’t last long with both of them drinking from it. After Blake related his story, he stepped to the kitchen to retrieve another bottle.

  “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. And, little Timmy; that’s heartbreaking.” Gregor paused, rubbing his forehead as if fighting off a headache. “You know, that was a crappy thing for them to do to you. I think you should still be an exorcist, though. You know you’re the best around. The Bishop even said he thought you were born with a natural talent for expelling demons.” He snagged a cigarette from Blake’s pack.

  “I can’t,” Blake said. “You know that. My rights to that official work have been revoked along with ninety-nine percent of all the other rights I had in the Church.” Blake poured more Jack into his glass and handed the bottle to Gregor.

  “They can’t stop you if you’re doing it on your own; on a freelance basis, man,” Gregor argued. “You wouldn’t be affiliated with the Church or doing anything with their blessings attached. People need someone like you who will help. The Church helps maybe one out of every thousand cases, and even then, they’re usually too late.” Gregor’s cheeks and forehead burned a deep, ugly red.

  “Hey. I’m okay with all this,” Blake shrugged. “Really. No need to get all bent out of shape over what happened to me.” Blake studied his friend for a moment. Maybe he is angry over something besides what happened to me, Blake thought. “Gregor? Is everything all right with you?”

  Gregor shook his head and then nodded. “I’m fine; just angry over the state of the world in general, I guess. Is that a smart TV, by any chance?”

  Blake nodded. “I believe so.”

  “Do you have internet here?” Gregor shifted toward the edge of his seat.

  Again, Blake nodded.

  “Care if I switch it on for a few? Look something up right quick?”

  “No. Go ahead,” Blake said, waving a hand. “Mi casa and all that stuff. I have internet but no cable. The internet was actually left from the last tenant, I think. I didn’t pay for it, and Sal didn’t say anything about it being included with the rent.”

  The newer flat-screen television had been one of the only modern appliances in the place besides the microwave.

  Gregor searched with intent and then said, “Here. You need to watch this. I saw it earlier and you came to mind. Now I find out what happened with you and the Church. It’s no coincidence, Blake. Just watch.”

  Blake readjusted on the sofa and nodded. The news report was about a woman who shot and nearly killed her husband. When questioned, she said she had to put a hole through him so the demon could escape, and that she never intended to kill him, otherwise she would’ve shot him in the head.

  “I’ve seen a few similar reports over the years, Gregor,” Blake mumbled, sipping from his drink. “What’s that got to do with any of this? The woman was probably on drugs or she had a misdiagnosed mental condition.”

  “The point is, the Church won’t help people unless they’re Catholic. This is happening to lots of people, and most of them aren’t even religious. The people need a hero, Blake.” He pointed at Blake and took a long draught of his own Jack.

 
“I’ve already said no, Gregor. I could get into much worse trouble if I do something like that and the Church finds out.”

  “What else can they do to you? Burn you at the stake? They’ve already excommunicated you and stripped you of all you loved in life since you were a snotty teenager, trying to boost money from the church coffers.”

  Gregor laughed. It was dry and devoid of any humor.

  Blake wanted to agree with his friend, wanted to keep doing the work he’d devoted his life to, and most of all, wanted to help rid the world of demons. He’d seen firsthand the destruction they could bring on families. Though his heart cried out for him to step up, the Church had forbidden it.

  And no matter how heartsick it made him, Blake knew that he might never be able to face another exorcism after the last one had cost a little boy his life. For the first time, he had fear in his heart.

  And he was smart enough to know that nobody should face a demon with fear in their heart if they hoped to cast it out.

  Chapter 3

  The mechanic job panned out and Blake started work on the following Tuesday morning.

  The pay was decent. John proved to be an easy guy to work for; he was laid back and went at everything in the same leisurely way with which he talked. Blake highly suspected the man might have had some chemical help to keep him so easy-going.

  On his first day of work, John put Blake to work on an old Chevy that needed a list of minor repairs and maintenance work: tires rotated, brakes changed, oil changed, a windshield wiper replaced, among other tasks. Thinking it would be a quick and easy day, Blake set to work.

  That was when the accidents began.

  First, the lift crimped a brake line. While fixing the brake line, he gashed his palm on a piece of the broken metal tubing. Then, while walking past the worktable, the impact wrench dropped and whacked his ankle, drawing blood. As he left work, signing off on the old Chevy, and glad the day was done, a bird tore through the open bay door and barely missed his head. It hit the big office window, leaving a bloody smear when it fell to the floor, lifeless.