Demonologist (8 page)

Bev eyed Kristin; his quiet apprehension was obvious, seemed to say,
Told you so
. Expressionlessly, she acknowledged him.

Bandana tossed the Frisbee to the left of Bev, over the heads of two male sunbathers and into the sand alongside the edge of the dunes. The dog took off like a greyhound, racing along the beach, spraying sand and shells in its wake. Bev pretended to watch the sprinting dog, glancing up toward the pier instead.
 

Indeed, a man was there, standing in the dunes beneath the pier about fifty yards away. He wore sunglasses, khaki slacks, and a black tee. In his hands was a pair of binoculars. He shifted his sights toward the surf, most likely mindful to the possibility of having been detected.

“Son of a bitch. It’s the same guy from last night.”

The dog raced back with the Frisbee, dropped it at Bev’s feet then ogled him happily, panting, eager for another sprint. Bev reached forward and grabbed it. Then, stood and faced the ocean. He nodded. “Thanks for the heads-up, guys.”

“Welcome,” they replied, almost in unison, eyes ping-ponging all over Kristin as she stood and brushed the sand from her hips.

Bev held the Frisbee out in front of him. “May I?”

“Go for it,” Bandana said.

He tossed the Frisbee toward the water. The dog and its masters took off after it as it sailed away, caught in the wind.

Kristin, eyes once again targeting the man, said, “Are you sure it’s him and not a reporter?”

“Like I said before, I ain’t that famous.”

“So, who is he? A fan?”

Bev glanced up. The
pantwearer
began walking along the dunes, eyes toward the surf. “Nope.” He looked at his feet, nervously shifted some sand. “I don’t like the smell of this. Why don’t we walk down by the water...just pretend that you don’t know he’s watching us.”

Lazily, they strolled toward the surf. They passed the Frisbee throwers, then headed back south along the beach.

Discreetly, Bev peered up toward the pier.

The man was gone.

“He’s not there anymore,” he said.

Kristin looked around the beach, which grew more crowded as they headed farther south. “Where’d he go? I don’t see him.” The waves broke against the surf and churned the sand inches from their feet. The crisp contact of ocean on sand, the gentle squawk of the gulls, the ambience of the crowd, usually set Bev at ease. Now, it distracted him, seemingly incapable of rescuing his turbulent mind.

Scratch…scratch…scratch.

Crumble
.

The fingers. They reappeared. But unlike their approach at the restaurant, when they quickly vanished, they now persisted, chipping away at the inside of his skull like tiny picks against soft limestone. His nostrils stung with the stench of something burning. Charcoal. Smoldering wood.
 

He stopped walking. Grabbed his head at the temples and attempted to counter the internal grope. With his palms, he massaged the pressure points. His skull felt numb beneath his grasp, as though anesthetized.

“Dad...you okay?” To Bev, Kristin’s voice sounded muted, as if she’d spoken to him from behind a thin wall. He tried to answer, but like a weight, his voice sank into his lungs. An oppressive hot flash washed over him, not from of the sun, but from within his own body, as if he’d suddenly acquired a fever of one hundred and four degrees. His veins pumped, his heart pounded, a surge of adrenaline racing through them.

Then unexplainably, like earlier, an overwhelming anger rose in him. His mind instantly rejected everything that he knew and felt, the love for his daughter, his friends and acquaintances, his musical talents. In turn, feelings of animosity flourished; of resentment; of budding hatred; of...
strength
.

“Dad? What’s wrong?”

A distant echo of her voice. His sensible mind fought hard to counter the horrible feelings blooming within him, but what remained of his inner strength sank deeper into the bowels of his body and treaded in the acids. Mired, he experienced a bizarre sensation—of reaching up toward his mind in a vain attempt to retain a grasp of it.

He could hear his mouth intractably utter, “
Get away!
”

“Dad!” Kristin hollered, her voice a distant echo—a call from a mountaintop. “What’s wrong with you?”

Bev fell to his knees. Squeezed his head. The inner drowning kept him out of control of much else. His feet burned. His legs trembled. The ghostly-fingers in his head continued their tenacious digging. And now, more than ever, the sensation of
crumbling
rose in him, as though sediment from his skull had fallen away—the frantic determination of his independent brain a few steps closer to escaping its restraint.

Kristin placed a faltering hand on his shoulder. From deep below, treading the detritus of his churning stomach, he could feel his head slowly turning toward her, his face contorted into a
rageful
scowl: eyes pinning her with foul hatred; lips stretched wide and hot with saliva. He felt his mouth part, barely, and heard his voice speaking forthrightly in a voice that wasn’t his:
“Don’t touch me!”

It has an accent...my voice...

“Dad!”
she screamed, her breaking voice tearing through the mental barrier that had concealed his perception. The fingers at once ceased their mental excavation, and he could feel himself quickly rising up from the burn of his stomach back into the intimate territory of his brain. When he got there, tears sprouted uncontrollably. The pressure of the indefinable moment had distressed his body: muscles wearied; shoulders joggling; mind fraught with shame and disgust.

“Dad?” Kristin. Quieter. Tentative.

“Jesus, what just happened to me?” Bev could
feel
again: the mist from the ocean against his face, the wind and the sand in its grasp. His true sense of touch had seceded—he hadn’t realized it was gone until now. Terrifying.

“Dad...are you okay?”

“I...I am so sorry. I can’t...I can’t explain what just happened to me.”

Voice still shaking, Kristin asked, “Why did you say those things to me?”

“I don’t know...baby, it wasn’t me...it...was something in me. I can’t explain it.” Finally, he looked up at her. In spite of her tan and the rosy glisten of her cheeks, she appeared to be suffering an unhealthy moment. Scared to death; eyes sallow, the whites, bloodshot; mouth trembling. Bev felt a huge welling of emotions, of fear, shame, remorse. He thought
I am not responsible for my actions. I didn’t do it...I had no control. I was buried deep below...in my lava.

My lava...?

“I told you, earlier, that I wasn’t feeling well...remember?”

She nodded, taking notice of the people walking by. Many, from their safe distance, inspected Bev’s troubled posture. No one appeared to recognize him. No one offered any assistance.

Slowly, he stood up. Then, held her hands. Squeezed. Despite his trepidation, he now felt physically fine. “I’m not sure what’s going on with me. This is the fourth time it’s happened, I think.”

“Jesus, dad, I’m worried about you.”

“I am too, Kristin. I am too.”

Slowly and carefully, Bev and Kristin retraced their path across the beach, weaving in and out of those spread out on folding chairs and towels. They kept their glances attentive, to the best of their ability given the situation. The Sunday afternoon crowd had multiplied, the sun out full-force now and causing people to amass on the sand like ants on sugar. Spotting the man that had watched them wouldn’t be easy. He could be anywhere.
 

They climbed the steps to the busy pier. Bought two more bottles of water from a beverage cart on the pier. As they drank, they took notice of the throngs of people around them, basking in the buttery sunlight, roller skating, jogging, just plain having fun. After a minute, they tossed the empty plastic bottles into a steel mesh trash container, then walked across the
Danfords
parking lot to Kristin’s car. Bev did his best to convey a sense of ignorance to whomever may be watching him—in his gut he
knew
that he was still being watched, but didn’t intend to alert the one monitoring his actions that he was aware of him.
 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you home?” she asked.

Bev looked at his watch. 3:15. “No, you go. I’ll be fine.” He did have some concerns about another “episode” occurring while driving; he’d planned on going straight home from here, a short ten-minute drive. If history repeated itself, it wouldn’t happen again so soon.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Go along.”

She kissed his cheek, then got into her car, an ‘03 Ford Mustang he’d bought for her when she turned nineteen. He walked around to the front of the car, staring at his reflection in the car’s glossy red exterior.

His distorted face stared back at him.

And then, for a split second, it changed: a malevolent mask, scowling at him. He shuddered, and then instantly, his normal reflection returned.

But it was there. A change. Eyes, wide like saucers, yellow irises set in glimmering black. Skin, bone white, mottled with patches of gray. Lips, red like fire, spread wide to show brown stumps for teeth
.

“See you tonight at the party?” she asked.

“Sure,” he replied with feigned enthusiasm, the demonic image lingering in his distressed mind.

“Don’t push yourself. Come only if you feel up to it.”

He didn’t want to disappoint his daughter. Yet, he told himself that if he had one more episode, he’d have to promise himself a good night’s rest, Jake’s birthday or not.
It’s anxiety, that’s all. Panic attacks. They come in many different forms, and I’ve got myself a real bad sort
.

Explain what you just saw. Explain the voice. Is that anxiety? Or maybe it’s delusional schizophrenia?

“It’s Jake’s birthday,” he answered. “He’ll be passed out by ten. It won’t be a long night.”

“Call me later.”

“I will.”

She smiled. Waved as she closed her window. Drove away.

Bev stood there for a minute, leaning against a white Pathfinder. He rubbed his eyes. Wondered if he should’ve accepted Kristin’s offer for a ride.

The sudden need to relieve himself forced him to move—two beers and two bottled waters will do that. He paced back into
Danfords
—looking around and not seeing anyone suspiciously eyeing him—where the hostess recognized him as an earlier patron. He smiled. She smiled back. He told her he needed to use the restroom—quickly—and she responded with a soft assenting smile.

He entered the restroom. It stunk of grape disinfectant. He used a urinal, staring at the wall, counting the lines of grout between the tiles. When he finished, he washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face.

He looked into the sink.

A beetle, like the one in his apartment, wriggled out of the drain.

Jesus!

He backpedaled against the mirrored wall, breathing in gasps, head shaking with apprehension. Slowly, he leaned forward and peeked back into the sink.

White porcelain. No beetle.
Must’ve slipped back down the drain.

Was it ever there?

He turned, confused. Stared at himself in the mirror. Lines of worry, carved into his face; coarse; chiseled. Still wet. Impulsively, he raised a hand and touched his reflection. An index finger against itself.