Today’s word count 3428 Total word count 32,116
There are several churches near my apartment. I’m not religious,
so I had no ideas about which would be most help to me. I just had a vague
notion that priests carried out ceremonies to cast out devils, and I thought it
would be worth giving it a shot. I didn’t know what would be involved. I hoped
it wouldn’t be too painful or take too long, sort of like how I feel about
dental appointments. My first challenge would be to find a church, find someone
in charge there and then convince them that I needed them to cast out a devil
for me. Who was I kidding? The real challenge would be to tell somebody that
Dee existed. They’d think me crazy and probably have me hauled off to a padded
cell before I reached the end of the first sentence. But I had to try. Besides,
weren’t priests sworn to secrecy about things and not supposed to tell anyone
else what you tell them? They could think I was nuts, but they couldn’t
actually do anything about it, could they?
Unsure which church to approach, I went with practical
considerations to make my choice. Firstly, I didn’t want to use the nearest to
my home, in case somebody recognised me, and I had to live with the embarrassment
of seeing them regularly after I’d told them my tale. Without any kind of
justification I didn’t want to go to one with a modern building either. Somehow
I believed that an old fashioned, dark and gloomy church would be a better
place to stage my fight. I couldn’t imagine a 1960s concrete and glass place
having the right atmosphere at all. And then I had to work out what kind of
vicar would help.
Truth to tell, the very old style ones in long black
cassocks scare me a little. Maybe being slightly scary wouldn’t be a bad thing.
Anyone trying to drive out demons should be a bit of a bad ass surely? But I
didn’t think I could face telling my tale to anyone stern or too formally
dressed. I had no way of knowing who I’d find until I tried, of course, and I contemplated
going to services for a few weeks to see who stood in the pulpit and whether or
not I liked the look of them. It would take ages to go through them all, though
I could think of at least six churches I passed just on my way to work, let
alone any more that might be in the other direction. Eventually I settled on
one about five miles away that I knew had unrestricted parking in the streets
round about it. Far enough away for me to escape anyone who might know me, and
no problems finding somewhere to leave the car when I went there.
The building was suitably gothic. I don’t think it dated
back as far as the original Romanesque period of the great cathedrals like
Rheims, or Ely or Durham. I suspect it owed more to the Victorian gothic
revival because it had a great deal of the town hall or railway station about
it. However, it seemed fitted to my imagined background for whatever esoteric
ceremony would need performing on me. Stepping inside, it was higher than I
imagined. Clusters of tall, narrow pillars soared upwards to form delicate,
narrow arches, the tops of which were filled with bright coloured glass depicting
surprisingly modern versions of people I took to be Biblical folk. There were
lots of flowers and greenery around their heads, and they looked for all the
world like pantomime characters, like the woodman from Snow White, or perhaps Prince
Charming’s sidekick Dandini out of Cinderella.
Walls and pillars were painted in bright colours: stripes,
swirls and geometric shapes so that, from a distance, they looked like
tapestries or rich draperies. This wasn’t at all what I’d expected, but I felt
strangely at home in the place, and it had a calming atmosphere without being
overpowering. For the first time in ages I couldn’t feel the treat of Dee in
the back of my head. I had no idea why I felt so much at ease, but perhaps it
was because this church had the same ambiance as an antique shop, except much
more concentrated. A few people wandered
around taking photographs and looking up to admire the paintings and the
windows and I thought I would not look out of place if I sat on one of the long
benches and stared around me for a while, until I could figure out my next
move. I had nowhere else to go and the
place was restful. There were no obvious churchy types or staff among the small
number of tourists, so I didn’t know how I would find what I was looking for
anyway.
I lost track of time and I’m not certain that I didn’t doze
off for at least a short while, which wouldn’t surprise me, given my permanent
weariness. Either way, I didn’t notice the man at my side until he spoke. “They’re
magnificent, aren’t they?” I jumped and he immediately tried to calm me. “I’m
sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I
only thought you’d been sat here a while and I think I’m really here to check
that you’re alright.”
The voice had a gentle Irish lilt to it and he spoke very
calmly, but at the same time in an authoritative way. Some way past middle age,
with greying temples, but still not an old man, he was dressed in ordinary dark
jeans and a black, high necked jumper. Dark cuffs showed at the end of his
sleeves and I saw a flash of white at his throat. “Are you the vicar?” I asked
him.
“I am the Priest of St Gregory’s. Father Brendan O’Connor.
Pleased to meet you.” And he held out his hand. I took hold of it and his grip
was gentle, but firm as we completed the greeting. I didn’t speak, so after a
while he continued, “Do you mind if I ask, you’re not a Catholic are you?” I
shook my head.
“I’m not anything really,” I admitted.
“And yet you’ve come to church.” It wasn’t a question, but I
nodded anyway. “Do you need assistance of some kind?”
“What makes you say that,” I asked, surprised that he had
identified me as a deserving case, rather than a visitor.
“Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, you have been sitting
here for a very long time. I know lots of people come to see our wonderful pre-Raphaelite
windows, but I’ve never seen anyone stare at them quite so intently. Besides,
you’ve had your eyes shut for a long while. You’re not here for the view.” He
looked directly at me and I decided to trust him. After all, I had to trust
somebody, sometime.
“I do need help,” I said slowly, “but I don’t know if I’m in
the right place. I’m not sure anyone can help me.”
His attitude remained calm and gentle, but somehow a veneer
of efficiency overlaid it as he told me, “This church is dedicated to St
Gregory, also known as Gregory Thaumaturgus, or the Wonderworker. He’s one of
the saints of lost causes. I’d say you’re in the right place, at least. Even if
I can’t help, you’d be amazed at what he can do.”
My first reaction was that saints and religion were
nonsense, just folk tales like Snow White, or Hansel and Gretel, but I quickly realised
I had every reason to know that folk tales sometimes came true. Maybe this one could actually help with my
horror story come to life. I launched straight into my request. “Do you do
exorcisms?”
His composure staggered only slightly as he took in the
words I’d spoken and his reply was measured when he answered. “Exorcisms. That’s
not something I’ve been asked before. Why are you asking?”
“Because I have a demon, at least I think he’s a demon, that
I can’t seem to shift, and I know the church casts out devils sometimes and I
didn’t know where else to go.” He looked carefully at me and nodded gently to
encourage me to continue my story. So I told him everything, from buying the
pendant, to the threats to poor Minty, and Mr Elliott’s death, and my neighbour’s
operation, and the driver in Scotland, and all the other horrid things Dee had
done to me since I first encountered him. I even told him about Paul, though I
felt really ashamed about that part. It took ages to pour my heart out to this sympathetic
man by my side. I didn’t even care if anyone else could overhear, it felt so
good to be able to talk to someone.
“And so the woman said I was possessed and she said I’d need
help to get rid of him and she mentioned blessings and I figured the only place
I’d get all that was in church, so I came here. And it felt so good when I
walked in and it’s beautiful and peaceful and you’ve been so kind and I’ve been
so scared and tired all the time and....” I petered out as my breathing gave
way to sobbing as I reached the end of my tale.
Father Brendan put his arm around me, being very careful not
to do it in a way that might be misconstrued by me or anyone watching. Catholic
priests have to be seen to be above reproach, I guess. As I began to calm down
he offered me a cleanly laundered white handkerchief he must have had hidden
around him somewhere. I blew my nose noisily into it and wiped my eyes, then
realised I had made a mess of it. “Erm, sorry. I’ll wash it and bring it back
for you.”
“Don’t worry I have plenty more. People buy them for me as
presents. I suppose it’s hard to think of what to get for priests. Are you
feeling better now?” I nodded and
sniffed. “So let me get this straight, it wasn’t the clairvoyant who said you
were possessed?”
“No. She talked a lot of silly stuff about boyfriends and
finding the right man. It was her assistant.”
“But it was still at the clairvoyant’s place?” I nodded
again. “Are you sure you gave them no hint about what troubled you? Often these
people work in pairs like that. It might have been clear you didn’t believe the
medium so they set you up with her assistant to make it more realistic.”
I shook my head. “I really think she saw him. She said he
was a demon. I’m convinced she knew what she was saying.”
“You see, demons don’t actually exist. Not like that. You
obviously have trouble, but I don’t think you’re possessed. I think you should
see a doctor.” He spoke so kindly, but I saw he didn’t understand a word of
what I’d told him.
“But what about poor Mr Elliott?”
“That was just an unfortunate coincidence.”
“And the red sports car driver?”
“Another coincidence. You can’t know for sure it was the
same car. You just saw a TV report and associated it with what happened to you.
But the chances of it being the same driver are astronomical.”
“So you aren’t going to exorcise me?”
“No my dear. But I do think you should seek professional
help. We have parishioners here who could get you to the right people. Would
you like me to call someone? “
“No. Thank you.” I got up to leave and began walking away.
“Do come back and talk to me again if you need to,” he called
after me, but I knew I wouldn’t.
As I walked outside I felt a sudden pain in my head and knew
I had another migraine on the way, just as if Dee knew where I’d been and
wanted to punish me for the restful time I’d had in the church.
Back at home Dee sat waiting for me on the sofa. He wore a long, brown robe of some kind, tied
at the waist with a white rope that had a dead leaf fixed into the knot. It
took a while for me to grasp the style until he turned his head and I saw a round
gap in the hair at the back. He had a shaved tonsure and this was his idea of a
monk or some other churchman. He knew where I’d been and probably what I’d been
doing but I feigned ignorance. “What’s with the monk’s outfit?” I asked him and
he grinned in reply, showing off his repulsively long teeth.
“I feel churchy today. It seemed appropriate.”
“And why are you feeling churchy?” I asked him
“My mood will always reflect yours, surely you know that by
now. Your wish is my command and all that. You felt churchy so I feel churchy.”
I ignored the obvious attempt at
deflection. If my wish was truly his command he’d have gone away long ago. “Did you like the stained glass? I understand
they’re some of the finest in the world from that period. People travel hundreds
of miles to see them.”
“So I understand. They are very good, aren’t they?”
“I’ve never bothered to go,” he said, dismissively. “Not
really my thing.”
“I can imagine that saints and churches aren’t your taste.
But it’s dedicated to a saint of lost causes. I thought that might appeal to
you.,” I sneered.
“Ooooo your little chat with the vicar has made you
snippy. You know that never ends well.”
He was goading me, but I did my best not to bite, and kept my voice calm.
”Tell me you weren’t listening in to that, like you do with
everything else in my life.”
“I wasn’t listening.”
“Now say it again as if you mean it.”
“I wasn’t listening. I hate those places and I wouldn’t go
inside one, even if you said you’d give in to my every request and be mine
forever. You can look very sexy when I dress you right.”
Another taunt that I chose to ignore. “You mean you can’t go
into them.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, you avoided saying that, but it’s true, isn’t it? You can’t
set foot inside a church. It’s enough to make me join the choir!” A sudden
stabbing pain in my head stopped any further taunting.
“So aren’t you angry with him?”
“Angry with who?”
“Whom. But we’ll ignore that.” I knew he was playing tricks to
annoy me but it was difficult to keep my temper. I took a few deep breaths and calmed myself
so I wouldn’t fall for it. “The Churchy Guy, of course! He said no, didn’t he?”
“How do you know what he said?”
“It’s in your head, silly. I can read your mind, remember.
Aren’t you mad at him? Don’t you want to get your own back on him?” I saw the
trap and knew I needed support to avoid it, so I reached into my pocket where
the blue pebble nestled in among a rather soggy hankie. Feeling its warmth I
took it into the palm of my hand before I spoke.
“No.” I spoke firmly. “ I mean no harm to someone who tried
to help me but was unable through no fault of his own. I don’t blame him at
all.” I gripped the pebble more tightly. “Do. Not. Hurt. Him. Do you
understand?”
He nodded, but looked worriedly at me.
“Tell me properly that you won’t hurt him.”
“Anything you say.”
“No! Tell me. Promise me. In the exact words.” Dee reeled as if I’d struck him. “Say it.”
“I won’t hurt the church man.” All of the confidence went
away as he spoke, the monastic robes replaced by a rather scruffy pair of jeans
with holes in, and a baggy green jumper. He seemed shorter and his hairiness noticeably
increased too. I knew he regressed towards
his monkey man appearance whenever I scored any small victories against him,
but still didn’t understand how or why.
However, I took this change as a positive sign. “You just aren’t any fun
these days,” he said, and I watched him get smaller as he spoke. He continued to
shrink until he’d gone completely.
As soon as I was sure he’d gone I got out the amulets book
and began leafing through its pages. I hoped to find something that said ‘shrinking’
or ‘hairiness’ but nothing leapt from the text. On the other hand eventually I
noticed the word Glamour, with a capital G. Dee had once described his appearance
in such a way and so I read on. The arcane language proved tricky, but I
persevered.
“In order to overcome ye Glamour it may tayke many yeares of
association with ye Fae and a stronge wille for itte is en stronge and
powerfulle spelle learn-ed by ye Hidden Ones from ye earlie dayes. Ye Fae use
ye Glamoure to confuse and hide ye troth from ye Mortalles and rarelie appear
before Man in their true guise for their shapes are ungoddly and reflective of
beings from ye regions of Hades.
"Some amulettes such as a holy stone or a crixa can
give a degree of supporte in helping Man to see beyond ye deception yet ye
onlie true barrier is ye fairie ointment that canne be smeared upon ye eyen for
protection. It cannot be made for the receipt is not knowne in ye Mortalle
worlde and canne onlie be received as a gifte from one of ye Hiddene Folk.
"Glamoure is
allso used in order too robbe and confuse Mortalle Folks by makinge cheape and
worthlesse things appeare of value. Beware of accepting that which seems to be
golden for it is notte and may be trash and carrie grate risks."
So all Dee’s different costumes were variations in this
Glamour spell, and for some reason when I forced him to do something he didn’t
want, or I refused to do something he wanted, it wavered a little and I started
to see past it, so he became more like a ‘being from ye regions of Hades’ and
less like a human being. The last
sentence from the book brought a lot into focus. Beware of accepting something
gold, huh? A bit late for me now, of course, because my pendant had well and
truly carried a ‘grate risk’.
I hadn’t a clue what a crixa was, and besides it only
offered a degree of support, but I wondered about holy stones. Perhaps my blue
pebble counted as one and that was why I had more strength against Dee when I
held it. I went into my bedroom to find my jewellery box where I knew I’d
stashed the pendant. I wanted to carry out a small experiment and I lifted the
chain out and laid it on the bed. Then I took the blue pebble from my pocket
and laid it next to the pendant, hoping that I’d see a difference, but nothing
happened. The pendant looked exactly as it had on the day I bought it. I tried
to concentrate on the blue stone, its shape, its colour, its size, but nothing
changed. The pendant glowed dully in the light from my bedside lamp, that’s
all. I put it back in the box and wandered through to the lounge.
Disconsolately I turned on the TV to see a local reporter
with a foam covered microphone standing in front of the smouldering remains of
St Gregory’s Church. A fire had started earlier that afternoon, possibly from a
votive candle burning in the eastern end of the building. There had been a large
crowd in the church because it was internationally known for its architecture. The
priest had courageously guided people to safety at great risk to himself, and fortunately
everyone had escaped unhurt, including Father Brendan. The church, however, was
in ruins, its priceless pre-Raphaelite windows beyond hope of restoration. I couldn’t believe it. I had made Dee promise
he wouldn’t hurt Father Brendan and felt pretty pleased with myself for winning
that argument. I hadn’t thought for a second that there were other ways to
cause him pain, but Dee did, and once again he’d demonstrated who was in charge
in our relationship. I put Father Brendan’s handkerchief to good use again as I
sat and cried.
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