The Devil's Touch

The stinking winds became a fierce howling out of the smoky depths of hell. Tentacles of thick ropelike smoke wound around the ankles of those in the small bedroom, the touch scaly and hot.

"Ignore it," Father Le Moyne told the witnesses.

Jeanne moaned and thrashed on the bed, the ropes binding her, cutting into her wrists and ankles. Drops of blood stained the damp sheet.

Le Moyne signed the Cross. "Depart therefore in the Name of the Father—" he signed the Cross "—and of the Son—" the signing "—and of the Holy—" the signing "—Ghost: give place to the Holy Ghost, this sign of the Holy—" the signing "—Cross of Jesus Christ our Lord: Who with the Father, and the same Holy Ghost, liveth and reigneth ever one God, world without end. Amen."

The wind changed into a low moaning, intermixed with the voices of those condemned to the fiery pits, the flames licking at them, searing forever and ever the flesh of the damned. The ropelike smoke snaked around the room, ankle level, seeking some softening in the faith of those witnessing the exorcism.

All kicked the thick smoke away.

The wind built in fury, all but covering the praying of the priest. Father Le Moyne made three signings on the girl's breast. He touched the girl on the forehead with the sign of the cross.

"I adjure thee, thou old serpent, by the judge of the quick and the dead, by thy Maker, and the Maker of the world: by Him, Who hath the power to put thee into hell, that thou depart in haste from this servant of God, who returns to the bosom of the Church, with thy fear and with the torment of thy terror. I adjure Thee again—" he signed the cross on his forehead "—not in my infirmity, but by the power of the Holy Ghost, that thou go out of this servant of God, whom the Almighty God hath made in His Own Image. Yield, therefore, not to me, but to the minister of Christ. For His—"

The howling and the moaning of those confined forever to the smoking heat of the pits became overpowering in volume, covering the priest's words. Still he exorcised the demon from the girl. Those gathered as witnesses could not hear Le Moyne's words but could see only his lips moving. Many times the priest signed the cross, on the chest, the forehead, her arm. Le Moyne raised his voice; he was shouting. Still the howling winds covered his words. But Jeanne was hearing every word in her heart.

The girl's face was a mask of terror and confusion, as she was torn between two worlds, ripped and tossed back and forth between light and darkness, comfort and pain, good and evil. Once she cried, "Oh, God— help me!"

She was slammed backward on the bed as if struck by an invisible fist. Her mouth became bloody and she soiled herself with urine and excrement. The room stank of human waste and of the odor of burning sulphur.

Again and again, the priest signed the cross, on the girl, on those gathered in the room, and himself. Le Moyne prayed, as the girl alternated between cursing and asking God for help in her battle.

"I therefore adjure thee, thou most foul spirit, every appearance, every inroad of Satan, in the name of Jesus Christ—" the signing "—of Nazareth, Who after His baptism in Jordan, was led into the wilderness, and overcame thee in thine own strong hold: that thou cease to assault her whom He formed from the dust of the earth for His own honour and glory: and that thou in miserable man tremble not at human weakness, but at the image of Almighty God. Yield, therefore—"

The room began to pitch as if it possessed a body and brain of its own among the wood and glass and stone. The witnesses were hurled back and forth, all of them grabbing onto dressers, bedposts, closet doors; anything to give them some support.

Jeanne began screaming in fear as her body jerked in uncontrollable spasms of agony on the sweat-soaked bed. No one but God, the girl, and Satan could hear the words from Father Le Moyne's mouth and heart and faith.

The priest was shutting out Satan, and the Dark One was highly irritated.

The bed began to move, jerking back and forth, rocking on its legs, slinging the bound girl from side to side. Stinking vomit erupted from Jeanne's mouth, spraying the priest. Still he calmly invoked the power of God to free the possessed young woman from the black grips of Satan.

The hot winds became of hurricane force, slamming against the house. The window in the bedroom was smashed, glass shattering and spraying those witnessing the departure of the howling fury that possessed Jeanne.

Father Le Moyne was exhausted, as Satan was pounding him with invisible forces as strong as those flailing the young girl. But the priest would not back away from this battle; would not even allow the thought of failure to enter his mind, despite all that Satan was throwing at him. Father Daniel Le Moyne would win this fight.

With God's help.

"There is no time for delay," the priest prayed the final verses of the rite of exorcism. "For behold the Lord the Ruler approaches closely upon thee, and his fire shall glow before him and shall go before him; and shall burn up His enemies on every side. If thou hast deceived man, at God thou canst not scoff: One expels thee, from Whose Sight nothing is hidden. He casts thee OUT, to Whose power all things are subject. He shuts thee out, Who hast prepared for thee and for thine angels everlasting hell; out of Whose mouth the sharp sword shall go out, when He shall come to judge the quick and the dead, and the world by fire.

"Amen."

Father Le Moyne smiled an exhausted smile of victory as the winds abruptly ceased their howlings. The ropelike smoke was gone from the room. The odor of burning sulphur left the room. The demons had ceased their screaming. Jeanne LaMeade lay passively on the stained sheet.

The priest prayed softly for a moment. The room and the bed ceased their movements. The winds had died down to nothing.

Jeanne opened her eyes. They were free of wildness. She looked very confused and very frightened. "Mille!" she called. "What's been happening to me. Where have I been? What—where am I?"

Father Le Moyne put a hand on the girl's face. "You've been in hell, child. But you're home now."

The girl pressed her lips to the palm of the priest's hand and wept.

NINE

Mille bathed her sister and washed and fixed her hair. She found her a T-shirt of Sam's and Jeanne used that for a nightgown. While Mille was tending to Jeanne, Sam and Nydia boarded up the window that had been smashed and cleaned up the room. Then closed the door and locked it. Jeanne stretched out on the sofa in the den and was asleep in a minute.

The adults gathered in the kitchen for coffee. Sam used his handy-talkie and called in to Monty, asking about Little Sam.

"He's been asleep for hours, Sam," Viv told him. "He's such a sweet child. Don't worry about him. He is perfectly safe here."

"We left several changes for him. You've probably found them by now. I don't know whether to risk traveling back to your place tonight. Not this late. I'll see what the others want to do. If we don't call back in, we're staying over here for the night."

"Sam?" Monty took the walkie-talkie. "Don't risk traveling tonight. The students at Nelson College— some of them at least—have gone wild. Roaring up and down the streets, screaming and yelling all sorts of filth. And there are—hell, things roaming the darkness. I don't know what in the hell they are. Some of those creatures like the one you shot in the orchard, I guess. But they are accompanied by humans. I've heard the sounds of screaming from time to time. Terrified, agonized screaming. Can you tell me what is going on?"

"Maybe it's the coven members rounding up those who will not swear allegiance to Satan. I don't know, Monty. It could be almost anything. I think it's going to be grim around town in the morning."

Monty exhaled a long sigh. "All right, Sam. We'll see you all in a few hours."

Sam clicked off and looked at his watch. He was startled to see it was past midnight. The exorcism had taken several hours. He turned and faced the group in the kitchen.

"From this moment on," he warned them, "no one travels alone or without being armed. With the exception of you, Father Le Moyne. Armed, that is. Unless you feel it's time for you to start carrying a gun."

The priest smiled and held up his cross. "I am armed, Sam."

Sam did not return the smile. He said, "It's past midnight, people. And this marks the week of the Black Sabbat." He looked to Nydia for support. She nodded her head. "All restraints have been removed. Be prepared for anything from coven members. And the undead will be walking the night."

Father Le Moyne thought of his brother and sister-in-law.

Joe shuddered.

In the firmament, the Giver of Life and Light sat with a brooding warrior by His side. "So now it begins," the warrior grumbled.

"The priest speaks with much conviction, does he not?"

"Stop trying to change the subject. You are allowed to intervene; why am I not permitted?"

"Patience, Michael, patience. Does the father know of his son's dilemma?"

"Of course. And the mother. The father assisted the boy in some way not too many hours ago. But he did not leave as before," he quickly added, not feeling up to a lecture on the comings and goings of the Elder Sam Balon. "But both mother and father are strangely at peace. If they know fear, they are disguising it well."

"Umm," His voice rumbled. He knew only too well Sam Balon's ability to slip out of the firmament, even though the minister knew full well it was against the rules. "Well, I want you to keep an eye on the father—no! That would be like assigning the fox to guard the henhouse. I'll assign that to someone else."

The warrior chuckled. "The odds are strong against the little band of believers succeeding."

"I am aware of that."

"Still You vacillate in Your decision."

Michael was fixed with a look that on other occasions had caused volcanoes to erupt, floods to occur, sandstorms to whip across the deserts, and hordes of barbarians to fall to their knees, trembling in fear.

Michael ignored it.

The Giver of All Life muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "One of My better efforts, too."

The warrior merely smiled.

"We will give them a few days," His mighty voice rumbled. "Then I will decide. And I forbid you to leave the firmament." Then He thought: Not that My forbidding means one twit to you.

"Bah!" the warrior snorted. He picked up his heavy sword and walked off muttering.

"Really, Michael! There is absolutely no need for armament here."

The ageless warrior glanced over his shoulder at the Ruler of all that is Right and Just. "It don't hurt," he called.

Pete LaMeade walked the dark grounds of the cemetery. He carried a shovel in his hand. It was time. He grinned in the night, his footsteps firm on the grass, his destination fixed in his mind.

He reached the gravesite of his wife—dead for more than a year—and began digging at the damp earth. He hummed as he worked.

Marie Fowler encountered Max Oberlin in an alley behind the drug store on main street. They looked at each other for a moment and then grinned. Marie held out her hand and Max took it.

"Thirsty," Max said.

"Yes," Marie replied. "Come. For there are many who are not yet one with us."

The undead walked into the night in search of something to drink.

Dan and Jerry sucked one form of life from the young boy and left him to feel another darker form of unlife renew his body. Soon he would open his eyes and view the world quite differently.

Deputy Vernon Parish ignored the sobbings from his wife and continued raping his daughter. His wife, Susie, tried to struggle out of her bonds. She could not free herself. Vernon, after stripping her naked, had handcuffed her to a bedpost. She could only scream at her husband and the ugliness taking place before her.

Her son entered the bedroom and pushed the father off his sister. The son took the father's place, grunting his way into the young girl.

The mother put her face against the floor and wept. She did not understand what was happening; what had so changed this town.

She just didn't understand.

She looked up as Dan Evans entered the bedroom and dropped his trousers to the floor. She could not believe her ears when her husband said, "Go ahead and fuck my old lady. Maybe that'll shut her goddamn mouth."

Jon Le Moyne looked at the orgy taking place on the den floor of his house. Patsy was attempting to sexually satisfy five boys at once. Somehow, she was succeeding quite well. But Jon could not see where he had any opening. He padded naked across the floor, his semi-hardness swinging heavy between his legs. A teenage boy looked at Jon, open envy and lust in his eyes. Jon nodded to him. The boys went into a bedroom and closed the door behind them.

Nellie Bennett shouted out her joy as Hoss Patrick filled her. She had not felt this good in several years. She grunted as he slammed his bulk into her. Nellie did not regret making the pact with the Dark One.

Not yet.

Charles and Frances Le Moyne walked the darkened alleyways and back streets of Logandale, mangled and torn from the accident. They looked for Father Le Moyne. They wanted to give him something. They wanted the priest to be as them.

They would find him. If not tonight, then another night. It had been promised them.

Will Gibson sat in his car, Judy beside him. "Are you thirsty?" she asked.

"Yes," Will said, running his swollen tongue over his teeth. "Very."

"Why are we waiting?"

Will started the car and drove into the night, searching.

Janet Sakall knelt between the bare legs of her father and took him orally, while Mayor Kowolski serviced the teenager from behind.

Professors Frank Gilbert and Edie Cash sat in the darkened room at Giddon House with Norman Giddon and Xaviere Flaubert.

"Princess," Edie asked. "Now that Balon knows Desiree is not of our kind, how many days of pleasure are you allowing the members of our coven?"

"Three," the young witch replied. "Until midnight of the twenty-sixth. Thursday night we will cleanse ourselves and meet with our Master. On Friday, the town and all its people will be ours."

"Or dead," Norman said with a profane giggle.

"That is true. Now hear me well: I must mate with Sam Balon on Friday night, between six P.M. and midnight. I don't care how it is accomplished; but it must be. I am counting on you to see to that little matter."

"It will be as you order, Princess," Edie said.

"It better be," the young woman replied ominously.

Father John Morton stood guard in his home, a pump shotgun close at hand. His children had gone, leaving the home after cursing both parents, calling them the vilest of names. Tomorrow, or today, he corrected, at first light, he and his wife would go to the Draper home, to join the small group of Christians. The priest wondered what in the world had happened to Byron Price and Richard Hasseling.

Richard Hasseling bumped into something and recoiled in fear. He put out his hand to touch the—thing. He could neither touch it or see it, but somehow, it was there.

"Byron?" he whispered.

"I'm here," Byron returned the whisper. "For the love of God, Richard—let's get out of this awful place."

"I'm trying!" the man replied, his voice ragged from fear. "But we're—we—we're locked in!"

"Locked in? What in the hell do you mean, locked in?"

Hasseling took a deep breath and calmed himself. "There appears to be some sort of invisible field around the area. We can't get out!"

Methodist shoved Baptist out of the way. He lunged toward the invisible barrier and smacked his head hard. He stumbled backward and sat down heavily on the ground. "Son-of-a-bitch!" he muttered. He looked heavenward. "Forgive me, Lord."

"I think," Hasseling said slowly and softly, "that at first light, we had best rejoin the group at Chief Draper's house."

"I concur. But for now, we'd better stay here and stay quiet."

Hasseling sat down on the ground beside his friend. "Byron? I've a confession to make. I'm scared half out of my wits."

Byron peered through the murk at the man. Byron had come very close to becoming a street punk in Buffalo before joining the church and straightening up his act. For a moment, he reverted back to the streets. "Well, Richard," he said. "Join the fucking club!"

And Pete LaMeade's shovel struck the top of his wife's coffin. Pete broke the seal and lifted the lid. He looked at the rotting grinning face. Lisa LaMeade opened her eyes and gazed up at her husband. Pete lifted her head and pressed his mouth to her decaying lips.

"Come, Ma jolie," he whispered against the stink of her face. "You are free."