Exorcist Road (12 page)

After

The next day the city was rocked by news of the seventh murder, the Sweet Sixteen Killer returning with a furious vengeance and his most sadistic atrocity yet. The victim was a black girl named Makayla Howell. She was, of course, sixteen.

Makayla had been a model student up until her sophomore year in high school, during which it seems she began spending time with the wrong sort of people. She’d taken to defying her parents and dating boys several years older than she was. It was one of these boys who’d gotten her drunk, attempted to take advantage of her, and when Makayla denied him, he kicked her out and forced her to walk home from his squalid apartment.

Someone—authorities have no idea who—offered her a ride. For reasons inexplicable to the police and to her heartbroken parents, Makayla accepted. The murderer had then driven her to a secluded park, somehow gotten her out of the car and then…done things to her.

The newspapers did not divu
lge all of the details, but the following facts appear to be true:

Makayla was tortured.

Makayla was raped.

Makayla was still alive when the killer began cutting on her.

Makayla was eviscerated in a way that recalled the worst of Jack the Ripper’s crimes.

And after Makayla finally expired from her wounds, the Sweet Sixteen Killer raped her again.

Officer Hartman is planning on framing me for this most recent killing. Perhaps for all the killings. I’m already a chief suspect in the deaths of Bittner and Sutherland, despite what Liz and her kids have said on my behalf. Maybe Danny means to link Father Sutherland to the earlier crimes and me to Makayla Howell’s death. Maybe he has something in store for me even more horrific than the seven murders he has already committed.

But there is something Danny Hartman doesn’t know. A secret that changes everything.

You see, there is something inside me. Something more intelligent, more bloodthirsty and infinitely more powerful than a thousand Danny Hartmans.

The most important question was one that neither Danny nor Liz nor her soon-to-be ex-husband Ron bothered to ask. A question more important than fallen priests and cheating husbands and homicidal cops.

It is the question of where the demon went after it was driven from Casey’s body.

And now I must conclude my narrative. I have much work to do. It is grueling, at times, maintaining control of my actions. It is even harder to master my thoughts. Last night I awoke at the bathroom mirror with a razor blade pinched between my thumb and forefinger. I had been about to slash my own throat.

I shall take pains to remove all lethal objects from my cottage at the rectory. Or at least place them where I cannot access them when my defenses are weak. My mind is teeming with impure thoughts, ideas that make me shudder. Images that make me grow pale.

Yet I am still in control.

And that is why the thing inside me wants me dead. It needs another host, one without such tremendous willpower, without my discipline.

But it will not usurp me. I am not a fourteen-year-old boy. I am a man on the brink of a new life, a man of faith. I plan on using my unique knowledge of evil and the supernatural to wage war on the powers of darkness.

According to one source, there are over a thousand exorcisms performed each year in the United States. A great many of these are conducted in error, cases in which medicine or a trained psychiatrist would be more effective.

Yet even if a fraction of these cases—say a tenth—are authentic, who better to do battle with these malevolent spirits than a priest who has thwarted one already? A man who has so overmastered the offending demon that he can bend it to do his will?

But there is still the matter of the Sweet Sixteen Killer.

I aim to end his reign of terror.

Danny Hartman will be coming to my cottage tonight. I’ve invited him.

He was pleasant enough on the phone, but I know what’s in his mind.

But Danny has no idea what’s in store for him. He has no idea what I’m capable of when I unleash the presence inside me.

And after Chicago learns of how a shy, boyish-looking priest brought to justice the most vicious serial killer in the city’s history, they will revere me and accord me the respect I deserve. And during the warming light of day, I will gladly play the figurehead. I will lead my church. I will be a pillar of the community.

But at night, I shall sate the presence that dwells within my flesh. I shall use its unspeakable powers for good. I will only permit it to prey upon those who deserve its wrath.

The hour is growing late, and I must prepare. The presence within me is restless. Ravenous. And though it is difficult, I must maintain control of these urges. I must bide my time until Danny arrives. I will await his coming.

Await him in darkness.

About the Author

Jonathan Janz grew up between a dark forest and a graveyard, and in a way, that explains everything. Brian Keene named his debut novel,
The Sorrows
“the best horror novel of 2012.”
Library Journal
deemed his follow-up,
House of Skin
, “reminiscent of Shirley Jackson’s
The Haunting of Hill House
and Peter Straub’s
Ghost Story
.”

In 2013 Samhain Horror published his novel of vampirism and human sacrifice,
The Darkest Lullaby
, as well as his serialized horror novel
Savage Species
. Of
Savage Species
Publishers Weekly
said, “Fans of old-school splatterpunk horror—Janz cites Richard Laymon as an influence, and it shows—will find much to relish.” His vampire western,
Dust Devils,
was released to critical acclaim this February, and his sequel to
The Sorrows
(
Castle of Sorrows
) followed in July. In addition to
Exorcist Road
, he has also written three more novellas and several short stories.

His primary interests are his wonderful wife and his three amazing children, and though he realizes that every author’s wife and children are wonderful and amazing, in this case the cliché happens to be true. You can learn more about Jonathan at
www.jonathanjanz.com
. You can also find him on Facebook, via @jonathanjanz on Twitter, or on his Goodreads and Amazon author pages.

Look for these titles by Jonathan Janz

Now Available:

The Sorrows

House of Skin

The Darkest Lullaby

Savage Species

Dust Devils

Castle of Sorrows

Savage Species

Night Terrors

The Children

Dark Zone

The Arena

The Old One

Coming Soon:

The Nightmare Girl

Wolf Land

You can’t escape the creature in the catacombs!

Castle of Sorrows

© 2014 Jonathan Janz

A year ago composer Ben Shadeland traveled to the Sorrows, a reportedly haunted island off the California coast, to find inspiration for a horror movie music score. Instead, he found madness, murder, and an ancient evil. His family barely survived the nightmare, and Ben swore he’d never return to the island or its accursed castle.

Now Ben’s infant daughter has been kidnapped and Ben is convinced that the malevolent creature that lives in the catacombs beneath Castle Blackwood is responsible. Ben joins three federal agents, a sultry medium, and others in an attempt to save his daughter. But what awaits them is far worse than they ever imagined. The creature—an ancient god named Gabriel—has grown more powerful than ever. It has summoned unspeakable monsters to the island—both human and supernatural. And Gabriel won’t rest until he has his revenge.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Castle of Sorrows:

It all began with the music. Quinton Early sensed an alteration in his partner during their fourth day on the island. Nothing obvious, just a strange shadow about Agent Moss’s face that had appeared when Early, stuck for a diversion from their investigation of this godforsaken place, had suggested they use the old-fashioned record player to spin some tunes.

The first album Early had selected had been a collection of Robert Blackwood’s most famous music. The first song was “Forest of the Faun.”

Caleb Moss’s sunny expression—the guy was always cheerful, which was one of the reasons Quinton was glad Moss had been assigned with him to this investigation—had quickly been replaced by a gloomy, almost saturnine expression. As if an old memory were being dredged up in Moss’s psyche.

“What’s wrong, buddy?” Quinton asked.

“Turn that thing off,” Moss growled.

Quinton blinked at his partner. Moss had never spoken to him like that.
No one
ever spoke to Quinton like that. Quinton was six-five, for one thing, and for another he went two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, and not a bit of that weight was fat. Add to that Quinton’s jet-black skin and the cold-blooded glare he’d perfected, and it wasn’t any wonder folks treated him with respect.

But Moss had just spoken to him as though Quinton was his servant or something. Quinton felt a dangerous heat begin to build at the base of his neck.

“If you have a problem with the music,” Quinton said, “you can move to another room.”

Quinton remained facing the record player, showing he was into the music. And he was. “Forest of the Faun” was a peculiar, atonal piece, but it had a way of reaching into you and grabbing hold. Besides, Quinton reasoned, Caleb Moss wasn’t a bad dude. Was in fact Quinton’s favorite of all the guys he’d worked with over his ten years with the agency. He shot Moss a furtive glance to see if the man had taken him up on his offer to leave, but there Moss still stood, bending over, his hands squeezing the back of one of the couches positioned near the sixth floor studio’s center. Moss’s face was pinched in what Quinton first mistook for concentration, but soon realized was physical pain. Was his partner suffering from a headache? A migraine maybe? If he was—and Moss certainly did look like he was in a hell of a lot of pain—that would explain the disrespectful way he’d spoken to Quinton moments ago.

The ball of rage between Quinton’s shoulders began to loosen. He reached out, twisted down the volume on the record player. “Hey, Caleb. You don’t feel good, why don’t you go downstairs, rest for a while? There’s nothing we can do anyway with all this rain.”

It was true too. They’d spent the first three days busting their asses trying to piece together just what the hell might’ve happened here two months ago, taking what the forensics team had given them, crosschecking that information with what little testimony they were able to squeeze out of Ben Shadeland and Claire Harden, two of the three survivors of the bloodbath that had taken place here. The third survivor, the little boy, had been completely ruled out for questioning by the higher-ups; Ben Shadeland, the boy’s father, didn’t want his son Joshua interviewed, and so far the FBI had respected those wishes. If it had been Quinton’s call, he would’ve talked to the kid anyway. As a father of two little girls, Quinton Early understood a father’s protective urge as well as anybody, but this was a special situation. This had been the deaths of
ten different people
, and these weren’t just any run-of-the-mill lowlifes either. Among the victims were Stephen Blackwood, a perennial member of the
Forbes
500; his son and heir Chris Blackwood, who’d supposedly incurred the ire of some very nasty gangsters; Lee Stanley, who just happened to be one of the hottest directors in the world, and who on a more personal note, had made three of Quinton’s favorite horror films; Eva Rosales, Stanley’s gorgeous assistant; Ben Shadeland’s ex-wife, Jenny, which to Quinton was damned suspicious; and Ryan Brady, a respected commercial pilot and the man who’d stolen Ben’s wife away from him, and to Quinton that part was
really
damned suspicious.

Thinking of this massive toll, Quinton wrinkled his nose, glared down at the revolving turntable. The Shadelands’ story was unquestionably bull, and a good deal too convenient: Ben Shadeland, rising movie composer, is up the creek without a paddle. He’s late on his deadline for the new Lee Stanley picture—a movie called
House of Skin
that Quinton couldn’t wait to see—and he’s losing his wife and son to a good-looking young stud who happens to fly airplanes. Everybody involved goes to the same island, where no one can witness anything should something unpleasant take place. Then Ben, his son, and the woman he just happens to now be engaged to, are the only survivors of whatever happens on that island.

Quinton’s nostrils flared thinking about it. It was bull. All of it. Ben Shadeland’s amnesia story was pure fantasy. And Claire’s fantastic tale about Ryan Brady going postal and killing everyone?

The biggest, smelliest mound of bull he’d ever inhaled.

Caleb Moss was gesturing vaguely in Quinton’s direction, his words too low to be intelligible. Quinton turned the record player down to near inaudibility and said, “What’s the matter, pal?”

“
Coming…he’s coming…he’s…
”

Now what the hell was this?

Not bothering with the turntable any longer, Quinton hurried over to where Moss was now slumped over the couch back, his body shuddering as if in the grips of some sort of seizure.

For the first time, Quinton began to worry.

For one thing, there was no medical help on the island. Hell, there was
no
help on the island. There was only Quinton Early and Caleb Moss, and the nearest doctor was back on the mainland, eighty miles away in Petaluma. They might as well be on another planet. And forget calling anybody. Their cell phones might as well be paperweights here on the Sorrows. Their helicopter ride back to California wouldn’t arrive for another three days. If something happened to one of them between now and then, they were on their own.

Caleb’s convulsions worsened, the jerks and spasms first growing more pronounced, and soon becoming violent.

Quinton feverishly scanned his memory for what little first aid he knew…

Check the patient’s airway
. He grabbed hold of Moss’s shoulders, made to flip the man over onto his back, but it was like trying to wrangle a bucking horse. Man, Quinton thought, this was even harder than corralling his own two-year-old daughter when she didn’t want a diaper change.

Moss’s body twisted, writhed.

“Dammit, come
on
,” Quinton breathed.

He finally got a good grasp on Moss’s shoulders, and careful not to let his partner’s head crack against the floor, he eased Moss down as well as he could. Moss’s feet drummed, his hands flopping about like he was doing some trendy new dance. One knee shot up, nailed Quinton in the ribs. A flailing wrist gave him a smart whap in the nose. Quinton’s eyes began to water.

Quinton wrestled Moss’s arms down, but his partner’s body was like an enormous pressurized fire hose made intractable by the flow of water pulsing through it.

“Calm down, damn you!” Quinton yelled. From across the room, it seemed like the record player had been cranked up again, and now the music was anything but beautiful. Far from it, the song had become grating and unpleasant. Dissonant and perhaps even mocking. And how the hell was Quinton supposed to check Moss’s airway for obstructions when he couldn’t even get close enough to the man’s face to
see
his airway?

“I said,” Quinton muttered, “calm…the hell…
down
.”

Moss’s hips lifted off the floor, bucking Quinton into the air like some inexperienced cowboy, the motion taking him so by surprise that he damn near smashed down on Moss before he could catch himself. His arms free, Moss resumed his weird chaotic dance moves and promptly whipped Quinton across the mouth, busting Quinton’s bottom lip wide open.

Jerking his head to the side and spitting out a stream of bright red blood, Quinton crawled grimly forward until he sat astraddle Moss’s midsection. Then, hating himself for it but not knowing any other way to help his partner, he gripped the jagging arms and lifted them above Moss’s head until they were pinned against the floor.

And what the hell was up with that record player? Quinton hadn’t touched it since racing over here to help Moss, but now the thing was blaring as though Quinton had cranked it up full blast. And not only was the volume twice as loud as it had been earlier, now it was repeating the same song—“Forest of the Faun.” Quinton was no vinyl aficionado—he’d been born during the era of the cassette tape and had graduated to compact discs by his eighth birthday—but he’d never heard of a record player with a repeat track mode. And even if such a player existed, this machine looked old enough to have been made when his grandma was a little girl.

Bloody lips pressed together, Quinton wrapped one huge hand around both of Moss’s wrists to bind them together. Then, pinning the man down with his superior weight, he reached toward Moss’s mouth with his free hand.

Moss’s teeth clicked and snapped, almost as if he were eager to eat some of Quinton’s fingers. Moss’s body writhed beneath him, the power surging beneath Quinton’s big frame terrible in its vitality. What in God’s name was wrong with Moss? The man had no irregular medical history, at least not that Quinton knew of. Was it something Moss had never told him about? Or a condition of which Moss had been previously unaware?

Whichever the case, this was bad. Really, really bad. Maybe even
dying
bad if Quinton didn’t locate the source of the problem fast.

Terrified he’d lose his fingers but knowing Moss could choke on his own tongue if he didn’t act, Quinton reached toward Moss’s snapping jaws. He’d just about gotten hold of his partner’s cleft chin when Moss’s big brown eyes snapped wide, his body arching in a long, trembling convulsion. Despite Quinton’s girth, he felt himself lifted two feet off the ground as Moss’s hips rose.

Then both men landed with a bone-jarring thump.

It hurt Quinton’s testicles something fierce, but despite the sickly ache issuing from his groin, he was transfixed by the sight of Moss’s face.

Moss’s eyes were wide open. They were glazed with a look of utmost terror.