Demon Knight Page 3

  The next day, a bit hung over, Blake set to work on a truck. It needed the spark plugs and wires changed. Simple job, until the hood fell, and crushed his hand.

  John ran out of his office when he heard Blake yell a string of obscenities.

  “Blake! You all right? Let me see.” He inspected the hand that Blake couldn’t bring himself to look at. “That might have some broken bones, buddy. You should go to the emergency room. I’ll call them and get your paperwork.” He hurried back to the office before returning and handing Blake the papers.

  “I don’t know if I can drive, John.” Blake held up his smashed and swelling left hand. His stomach had found its way into his throat and his head throbbed in time with his pulse. His left hand burned as if he were holding it in a flame, but at least it wasn’t bleeding.

  “Right, right! Sorry. Let me get Carter out here to drive you. It’s not far. He can take you home then and return your car after work.”

  Blake nodded, not in the mood for chit-chat, and afraid he might puke if he tried. He sat on an overturned bucket until Carter appeared.

  Miraculously, only his pinky was fractured. The doctor bandaged the hand, gave Blake a list of dos and don’ts for the next week, and sent him on his way with a few pills to ease the pain and a prescription for the swelling.

  In the car, Carter asked, “Want me to take you to the pharmacy so you can get those filled?”

  Thinking about his near-zero account balance, Blake shook his head. “No. They’re only for the swelling. I think I’ll be fine without them. If not, I’ll fill them later. Thanks.” He closed his eyes and rested his throbbing head on the back of the seat until Carter announced that he was home.

  On Thursday, Blake was assigned light cleaning duties. On Friday, disgusted with them, Blake assured John he was ready to begin working again even though his hand was still swollen, and he was in a great deal of pain. Light duty was not only boring, it gave him too much time to think about the demon.

  “If I need help, I’ll give a yell.”

  Blake wanted his head to stop hurting, and he wanted to work. Keeping busy seemed to keep away the bad thoughts and memories. His nights had not improved, but his days were somewhat better. If nothing else, all the bumps and bruises kept his mind busy.

  “All I have is another truck, Blake. It has to go on the lift, so I’ll have Carter help you for a bit. If you’re comfortable, he can do something else and leave you to it. Okay?”

  “Sounds fine. Thank you, John.”

  Blake resigned himself to having a babysitter for a while. He chewed some aspirin and pulled a glove painfully over the wounded hand. The pressure from the glove eased some of the pain but made maneuvering the hand a bit difficult.

  For the first few hours, it hurt like nothing he’d ever experienced before, but he pushed on, determined to overcome the pain. On his lunch break, he chewed more aspirin and swallowed one of the prescription painkillers from the doctor right behind them, hoping it didn’t make him sick to mix them. The bologna and white bread lunch was enough to fill his belly, but left him wanting more. In his mind, that was a good thing. Someone once told him to stay hungry in this life, that it would push him on to great accomplishments.

  Doesn’t matter if it’s physical or spiritual, as long as it pushes me toward achieving my goals.

  The end of the day saw the truck’s transmission still unfixed. Exhausted, Blake stepped from under the front of the truck, looking for Carter. He didn’t think he could work the lift controls without both hands, and the painkiller had slowed his reflexes.

  Carter and John stepped out of the office. Blake whistled and raised a hand to get their attention. Just as they turned, a squeal of metal behind him caused Blake to spin around. The truck crashed to the floor, barely missing Blake’s right side. He jumped back and landed hard on the concrete.

  John and Carter ran to his side and helped him up.

  Carter went to the controls. He came back to the men, looking confused. “That’s never happened before. That lift is practically brand new.”

  John asked, “Did something short out or break?”

  Carter shook his head. “It’s fine. It has safety overrides that are still in place, too.”

  Blake didn’t contribute to their conversation. He had seen someone at the control just before the truck blocked the view. Rather, he had seen something at the controls. He was almost certain it had been the demon from his nightmares. The old man with the long beard, holding what appeared to be a small, thin spear. He could have sworn the shadowy old man flashed a grin at him just before hitting the control panel.

  Blake would never tell Carter or John about that. They’d think he was nuts, and he’d likely lose his job. While they still talked, Blake walked to the papers and signed off on the work he’d completed, then quietly clocked out and left.

  The next day was Saturday. Blake was glad he wasn’t scheduled to work Saturdays. It had been an overwhelming first week. Just when he thought he was getting on the right track and moving forward, the demon showed up in broad daylight and nearly killed him. Usually, demons kept their business under the cover of darkness. If one was out in daylight, it was on a mission.

  Blake knew that couldn’t bode well for him.

  Someone knocked on his door as soon as he hit the couch with a glass of Jack. Huffing, he stood and crossed the living room. Looking through the peephole, he saw his old friend.

  “Hello again, Gregor.” Blake opened the door and ushered the man inside.

  Gregor carried a leather messenger bag; he nodded and rushed past Blake, opening the bag as he went. “Here. You have to look through these, Blake. I’ve brought only a few of the ones I’ve saved—they wouldn’t all fit in this bag.”

  He pulled a large portfolio out and opened it on the coffee table. It took up the whole of the table, forcing Blake to grab the bottle of liquor and set it in the floor before Gregor toppled it over.

  “Well, hello, Blake. It’s nice to see you again. I’ve been doing fine. How was your first week at work, by the way?” Blake mimicked the greeting that he didn’t receive from Gregor and grinned at his friend’s confused expression.

  Though obviously flustered, Gregor recovered quickly. “Sorry. This is important though. You need to see these.” He stabbed his finger at the articles in the book. “This proves what I was telling you the other day.” He emphasized each word with a sharp jab of his finger on the page.

  “All right.” Being careful with his wounded hand, Blake sat beside Gregor and began reading the first article.

  After five minutes and three full pages, he stopped reading and looked at his friend. “These are all murder cases, Gregor.”

  “Look again. They are all murder cases that are demon-related. In each case, the one convicted of murder confesses. They all say that a demon made them do it, or they had to do it to keep the demon inside the victim from killing them or their loved ones.”

  Blake shook his head. “Gregor, that’s a cop-out. These murderers are using demons as scapegoats because they think they can get the charges dropped. People will think they are mentally ill and reduce the sentence, at the very least.” His heart told him differently, but he had to be logical, or he would be seduced into a life he was trying to leave behind.

  “Blake, these cases are from all over the world. None of the perpetrators knew each other and very few had religious backgrounds. How could they all come up with such similar details when even the movies leave them out? Think about it.” He pulled a stack of papers from his bag and shook them at Blake. “These are cases in which people have been helped during demon attacks. They were helped by people like you, Blake. Some go by the titles of shaman, witchdoctor, or witch—the title isn’t important, but what they accomplished is. Here’s a list of video footage you need to watch, too.” He handed Blake a single sheet of paper with Internet addresses neatly handwritten on both sides.

  Laying the paper aside, Blake poured another glass of whiskey and lit a cigarette. “Gregor, this has consumed you, my friend. I know you’ve always been into the occult, but this is borderline mania. I worry about you.”

  Still moving in jerky, quick motions, his eyes darting, Gregor was in a state of hyper-vigilance. “Don’t worry about me; worry about people like these out in the world just flapping around, floundering in the darkness with no one to help them. That’s who you should be worried about.” Gregor stood, pulled a thin laptop from the bag, and set it on the portfolio. He shouldered the bag as he walked to the door.

  Blake stood. He had seen his friend act oddly before, but this was weird, even for Gregor. “You’ve only just arrived and now you’re leaving?”

  Blake’s mind raced to connect some thread that had started back in seminary school. Gregor had taken to studying demons back then and had never stopped. He studied demons from every religion around the world. There were two things that existed in every religion, according to Gregor—demons and angels. Blake still wasn’t sure if his friend had discovered something that had changed his mind about becoming a priest, or if something had happened that had changed it for him. His friend had always skirted the subject when it came up, and after a while, it was pushed aside and forgotten.

  Until now.

  As if only just seeing him, Gregor blinked several times and his gaze fell to Blake’s wrapped hand. “What happened to your hand?”

  Shaking his head, Blake said, “Accident at work. It’s fine. Sit a while. You only just got here. Don’t just dump this info overload on me and leave.”

  “No, I gotta go. I have work to do. I’ll be back tomorrow. Do you work tomorrow?” His hand was on the doorknob.

  “No, I don’t. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Be safe.” He’d barely said goodbye when the door
was shut, and he heard Gregor’s footsteps retreat down the long hallway.

  Not bothering to flip the lock on the door, Blake sat and looked through the portfolio his friend had left. There was nothing else for him to do—nothing that piqued his interest as much as the clippings, anyway. After reading through the portfolio, he stood and walked to the kitchen to make coffee, his mind troubled.

  It was the instant coffee that Gregor hated, but Blake never minded it. He didn’t have a coffee maker, and the instant coffee provided the caffeine infusion he was looking for. He never understood Gregor’s aversion to it, but it was fun to sneak it in place of his friend’s perfectly brewed cups of coffee back in seminary and later when they worked together in the outreach.

  As he heated water in the microwave, another thing occurred to Blake that Gregor didn’t like—microwaves. Gregor got upset every time someone heated food for the homeless in the soup kitchen’s single, small microwave. He had less of a sense of humor over the microwave usage than over the coffee. He used to say that Manna from Heaven had no business being nuked before serving.

  Gregor had been twitchier and more distracted than usual. Blake hoped nothing was seriously wrong.

  The microwave beeped, and Blake opened the door. The atmosphere in the apartment grew denser and oppressive. A cold chill crawled over his body.

  The feeling preceded visitations from Timmy and the demon. It had been happening ever since the exorcism. Instead of giving in to the fear gnawing at his gut, he carefully removed the hot water from the microwave. Stirring the grounds into the water, he cast glances around the room to determine exactly what was happening. He was tired of the daily battles, especially since he no longer had the support and backing of the Church.

  Holding the steaming coffee away from his body, Blake made his way to each window, turning the blinds. It was just past dusk outside. In the living room again, he sat and poured a large draught of Jack straight into the coffee. It crossed his mind again that drinking while trying to deal with a true demonic oppression was probably not in his best interest.

  He tried to recite the rosary in his mind, but couldn’t get past the first prayer before his thoughts wandered back to what was happening. Timmy or the demon would appear soon.

  From the kitchen, he heard the demon’s distinct low, mocking laughter. His grip on the coffee cup tightened until his knuckles turned white, and he unconsciously clenched his teeth. He almost wished for Timmy’s appearance. The demon was mentally and spiritually exhausting. Refusing to give in to the temptation to go to the kitchen, Blake convinced his body to relax enough to take a swig of the alcohol-filled coffee. He flinched at the taste of the hot Jack Daniels.

  The demon laughed again, closer. He was near the doorway that led into the living room near Blake’s back. The fine hairs on his neck stood erect and the static charge in the air became more noticeable as the demon got closer. The stench followed, and Blake couldn’t resist turning to face his tormentor. He knew that giving the thing attention would only make it worse, but he couldn’t ignore it when it was at his back.

  “Oh, Blake, you’re so uptight.” The air vibrated with the tone of the voice.

  Blake’s stomach turned. “Leave me alone.” He made the sign of the cross.

  “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. We’ve been over this, haven’t we?” The demon walked across the living room, his light, unhindered gait unfit for his old man appearance.

  Blake chose to ignore him and focused instead on prayer.

  The demon sat on the couch close to Blake. The smell was overpowering. Had it been Hollywood’s make-believe sulfur stink, Blake could’ve endured it. However, it reeked of rotting meat, dead things lying out in the sun, decomposition crawling with disease and maggots. He gagged and took another swig of coffee as he moved away from the foul odor.

  “Amazing what you can get used to, like having accidents, and killing kids.” The demon laughed, but there was no humor on his face or in his black eyes.

  “I didn’t kill anyone. That was you.” Blake hoped his counter sounded more confident to the demon than it did to his own ears.

  The demon’s face turned to smoke and his whole silhouette changed to that of a large toad. He croaked at Blake and then laughed as he hopped to the coffee table. He plodded across the closed portfolio and as he perched right in front of Blake, he changed back to the old man, sitting with his legs crossed.

  “We both know the truth. Your God knows the truth, too, otherwise, he wouldn’t have abandoned you. Neither would the Church. Child murderer.” He winked out like the flame of a candle, taking with him the dense atmosphere and the electric-charged air.

  Blake breathed in deeply and gagged.

  The stench was always the last thing to disappear.

  Chapter 4

  There was no sleep for Blake on Friday night.

  He stayed up, reading over the clippings and using the small laptop Gregor had left to watch video after video of exorcisms and testimonials by the people who were helped. There were laymen out there doing house blessings, painting sigils and seals on every flat surface they could find in troubled homes, burning sage, saying whatever prayers they knew, giving the afflicted talismans to ward off evil, and every form of mumbo-jumbo he could imagine.

  And it seemed to be working.

  At least part of the time. Not always. And in the cases that it did help, it didn’t always fix the problem permanently—he called these repeat offenders, low-level tormenting demons that didn’t have much of an agenda other than to harass people.

  What he couldn’t wrap his head around was the fact that laymen with absolutely no religious training or backing were out there tossing demons out of people and places, and even animals. How was that possible? To his understanding, and in his experience, for an exorcism to take place at all, one had to be properly trained and have another priest present, along with the Book of Rituals.

  These people had no such things. Some of them weren’t even religious at all.

  He was on his sixth cup of coffee when Gregor knocked on his door. Shocked that so much time had passed without his awareness, Blake trotted to the door. He was full of energy and blamed the over-indulgence in the coffee. He had stopped spiking it with Jack after the demon had shown up.

  Gregor looked as if he hadn’t slept all night, either. His normally smooth cheeks were stubbly and his eyes bloodshot. In one hand, he held a small cardboard carrier of coffees. Four of them. His bag was on his shoulder again and seemed to be stuffed with oddly-shaped items.

  “Hey! Come on in. I see you’re prepared.” Blake laughed and reached for the coffees.

  “I knew I needed some, and I knew you would, too.” Gregor closed the door and flipped the lock. “I don’t know how you stay here. This place gives me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. Did you know this floor is empty?” He put his bag on the chair and began pulling out cans of energy drinks.

  Blake thought this was funny. Gregor was a large, muscular man. The way he was built, he should not have been afraid of something as mundane as a mugger.

  “Sal said a lady lives in an apartment on the other end of the hall, where it turns down there.” Blake pointed at the six cans Gregor had set on the coffee table. “Those things’ll kill you.”

  “Nope, that’s what keeps me going. Thanks to these, I am the epitome of boundless energy. You should try them some time; they’re better than that instant coffee you drink—that stuff will kill you.” He put the bag on the floor near the table and sat in the chair, his blue eyes bright.

  “Thanks for the coffee.” Blake took one; it was better than his own, but he wouldn’t admit that to Gregor. It was a long-standing argument that had turned into a thing for them.

  “So, did you go over the stuff I left? Or are you still sticking your head in the sand?”

  “Is this stuff for real? Not the clippings, I mean. The videos. Are any of them real? I know it’s easy to fake stuff on the Internet, and honestly, these people have no training, no background, some have no help—they go at it alone. That’s not possible.” Though he was beginning to doubt what he’d been taught his whole life about such things.