Unclean Spirit (10 page)

CHAPTER
THIRTY
-
THREE

              Lukas detested the stretch of road between Van Horn and El Paso; there was absolutely nothing to see but desert scrub and open sky. Lillie had tried and tried to get Lukas to appreciate what she referred to as the "stark beauty of the wide-open spaces." Try as she might, though, Lillie simply could not get her husband excited about the purple sage in full bloom, the tall yucca covered in bouquets of ivory bells, or the shifting hues of the desert floor. But Lillie wasn't with Lukas today, she had stayed home with the boys. She had tried to talk Lukas out of making the journey because rain was expected and she didn't want him caught alone in a gully-washer. West Texas weather could be really strange, especially in July and August. As a rule, rainstorms didn't last very long in the desert but when they hit, they did so with a vengeance.

              Lukas was about forty miles east of the El Paso city limits when the sky's pigmentation mutated from a silvery gray to a threatening ebony. A thunderclap detonated suddenly and ferociously and was followed shortly thereafter by a multi-phalanged limb of lightening that tore through the moisture-laden clouds. The radio began to race wildly from station to station before settling into a cacophony of harsh static that prompted Lukas to turn the receiver off. Past experience had taught Lukas that thunder and lightening didn't always mean rain, but he had a sneaky suspicion that this wasn't one of those times. Lukas found himself regretting the fact that he hadn't listened to Lillie and replaced the dried-out windshield wipers. Well, he thought, I'll just pull over if I have to.

              When the rain finally hit, it sluiced over the truck in sheets. Even with the lights on and the wipers going full-speed, Lukas was having trouble seeing the road. He was able to discern the headlights of a vehicle as it drove past him and toward Van Horn. Lukas prayed that the car's driver would have the good sense to sit out the storm, just as he was fixing to do. Lukas cut his eyes to the rearview mirror in order to ascertain if it was safe to pull over. He saw the taillights of the car that had just passed him. He also saw bright yellow cat-eyes staring back at him from the mirror.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

              "Narancsíz!" Magyar could out curse just about anybody, but not in his native tongue. His parents, loving but stern, had never allowed Magyar to use profanity in their home. Of course, kids will be kids, even in Hungary. Mag's mother, Réka, liked to recount the story of her son's first, and only, attempt to vocalize Hungarian obscenities. The six year-old Mag hated marmalade and everyone knew it; that, however, didn't stop his Auntie Janka from trying to change his mind about the preserve. Janka was proud of her homemade marmalade and was convinced that Mag would love it if he only gave it a chance. One day, she snuck it into Mag's sandwich. The boy bit into the sandwich, made a face that would do Jim Carrey proud, threw the sandwich to the floor, and shouted the Hungarian equivalent of "Goddamn fucking marmalade!" Réka slapped her son's face, made him apologize to his Auntie, and informed him that since he detested marmalade so much he could use that word and only that word as an expletive. Mag learned his lesson well and from that day forward "narancsíz" became his Hungarian replacement for every foul word known to man.              What had Mag so upset now was the storm that surrounded him. The rental car was sturdy and handled the road well, but Mag loathed driving in the rain. When he glanced at the rearview mirror, he saw a truck pulling over to the road's shoulder. Maybe that's what I should do, he thought. But Mag's stubborn nature prevailed and he continued driving toward Van Horn.

              "Fucking Van Horn! Why you live in godforsaken one-horse town, Saul?" Mag often spoke out loud when he was alone, it helped him to think and to ventilate his feelings. He understood, but didn't agree with, Saul's decision to live and work in the small Texas community. You couldn't have paid Mag enough to isolate himself in the desert. Just visiting Hicksville pissed Mag off. He thrived on the excitement and challenge of big-city life, not to mention the unending availability of new and interesting benefactors. Mag was extremely well paid for his consultation services. Individual clients, as well as police departments and other governmental agencies, sought Mag out when they required cabalistic expertise. Although he reveled in the showmanship of his work and usually exaggerated the trappings unique to mysticism, Mag was not a fake. True, he allowed others to believe that he spoke with the dead while in a deep and enigmatic trance, but Mag's so-called trances were nothing more than bogus stupors. Mag didn't hear voices from beyond; he received, from where he did not know, telepathic impressions of people, places, and events. He was especially sensitive to diabolical occurrences. It was this awareness of evil that had prompted Mag's trip to Van Horn.

              Mag didn't know what was going on in Van Horn, but he knew that it wasn't good. Mag was no demonologist, but he had conferred with a few of them over the years and had learned that foul odors, apparitions, and menacing voices were nothing to scoff at. Moreover, on the morning that he had returned Saul's call, Mag had been physically sickened by the stench of malevolence. It was then that he knew his friend was in serious trouble.

              Between the dark sky and the slashing rain Mag was experiencing difficulty seeing the road just ahead of him. Nonetheless, when he scanned the rearview mirror and spied the vehicle he had recently passed, he thought he saw a creature with profane yellow eyes glaring at him from the truck's bed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

             
While Lukas and Mag were contending with nature’s fury, Paul was dealing with a storm of his own.   Neither quite awake nor quite asleep, Paul found himself in a sea of thick black suet whose turbulent swells threatened to engulf and suffocate him.   As he struggled to keep his head above the unrelenting waves of grease that assaulted him, Paul was panicked by the realization that something had hold of his legs and was attempting to pull him under the sea’s surface and into its unfathomable depths.   With as much strength as he could muster, Paul kicked wildly at that which sought to submerge him.   An acute jolt of pain shot up Paul’s left leg as he wrenched himself away from the grasp of whatever was beneath him.   Paul was far from insensitive to the pain in his leg, but his priority just then was to escape his unseen assailant. 

              Although a strong swimmer, Paul made little progress in his endeavor to navigate the slippery waters.   The sea of suet did not lend Paul the buoyancy he required to maneuver himself through the unctuous waves that sought to drown him.   Exhausted, in pain, and tired of fighting a losing battle, Paul found himself giving into the powerlessness he felt.   Let the waters take me, he thought.   Why am I grappling with the inevitable?   It was at that moment that Paul spied a form rising up from the sea.   Featureless and black as pitch, the figure that captured Paul’s attention grew larger and larger until it obliterated everything, save Paul and his small portion of suet. 

              Paul could see the shape moving toward him.   He could smell its foulness.   He could sense its intention to overtake him, body and soul.   Beyond fear and without hope, Paul began to surrender himself to the entity’s will. 

              “PAUL, NO!” 

              Had he really heard a voice or was he hallucinating? 

              “I warned you about serpents, Paul.  Remember?” 

              “Matthew?”

              “Yes, Paul, it’s Matthew.”

              “But you’re dead!   How…”

              “Listen to me, Paul!  If you give into it now, you will be lost forever.   You can fight it, you must fight it!” 

              As Matthew spoke, the dark form slowed its advance toward Paul.   Although it was no less ominous nor overwhelming than previously, its progression seemed to have been impeded by Matthew’s “presence.”

              “Matthew, I don’t know what to do, tell me what to do!”

              “Have faith, Paul.   That’s all that’s needed.”

              “Jesus, Matthew, don’t start with that! I lost my faith when you lost your life.” 

              “Faith in yourself, Paul.   Faith in your ability to withstand the onslaught of evil.   That is the faith that will save you!  I never believed in myself, I realize that now.   I always thought that my belief in God would keep my life on track, but God expects us to be responsible for ourselves by using our minds and hearts and souls to survive the travails that confront us.   I failed in that endeavor my dear brother, but you don’t have to.   Don’t succumb to the darkness.  You won’t like where it takes you.” 

              Paul knew that he should be questioning his own sanity at this point but, for some reason, he simply accepted the present events as quite genuine.   He also understood that he was in great danger and that Matthew had come to help him. 

              Almost imperceptible, the menacing shape of solid black recommenced its advance toward Paul.   Matthew’s words, “faith in yourself,” resounded in Paul’s head as his thoughts veered toward his wife and daughter.   How could he leave Tamara and Starr?   How could he fail them by going down without a fight?   It was simple:  He couldn’t.   Moreover, he could not relinquish his essence to anyone or anything, much less something that Matthew had labeled as “evil.”

              “No, you son-of-a-bitch!  You can’t have me!”   Paul shouted out to the dark form.

              “Paul!  Paul, what is it?   What’s wrong?”

              Paul opened his eyes.   He was in his hospital bed and Tamara was clutching his hand and the sheet that covered his legs was saturated in blood.  

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

             
The nurse who had responded to Tamara’s call for help was astounded by the appearance of Paul’s left leg.   Now that the bleeding had stopped and she had cleansed the extremity thoroughly with sterile saline, the nurse was able to assess the damage.   It looked to her as though someone had taken a mini-garden rake to her patient’s leg.   The gouges were deep and ragged and the nurse was hard-put to believe Paul Forsythe’s assertion that he had simply awakened with a traumatic injury.   Of course, she had heard the stories circulating about this particular patient—the infamous disappearing blisters; the assault on an ICU nurse; the self-correcting myocardial infarction—so maybe Mr. Forsythe was being truthful about his leg.   Either that or it was a case of self-mutilation or spousal abuse.  

              Once the nurse had left the room to call Dr. Gomez, Tamara lost the composure she had managed to maintain while the nurse was tending to Paul’s leg.  

              “My, God, Paul!  What is happening?”  

              “I don’t know, Tam, I just don’t know.   But, as hard as I’ve tried to deny it, I’m beginning to believe that there’s a metaphysical explanation.” 

              “Such as?”

              Paul sounded as frustrated as he felt.  

              “Maybe I’m possessed.” 

              “Jesus, Paul, don’t be ridiculous!   What?   You believe Satan’s got you by the balls and won’t let go?   Give me a break!”  

              It hardly seemed the time for levity, but Tamar’s words struck Paul as very funny.   Paul laughed, and so did Tamara and the tension in the room lifted.  When Paul next spoke, he was deadly serious.  

              “Matthew spoke to me.” 

              Tamara listened raptly as Paul described his “dream” to her. 

              “I can’t treat you if you’re not honest with me” Javier announced as he completed his examination of Paul’s leg.   “Wounds like these don’t just pop up out of the blue.   I can’t imagine that either of you purposely injured this leg, but, quite frankly, I can’t think of any other explanation.”  

              The doctor’s words stung, but Paul and Tamara certainly understood where he was coming from.   They knew that neihter of them had clawed the leg, but damned if they could explain who, or what, had.  They had agreed, however, to be as candid as possible with Dr. Gomez, so Paul proceeded to recount his story about the sea of suet.  

              Javier did his best to listen with an open mind, but he just could not accept Paul Forsythe’s contention that other-worldy forces were responsible for his temporal condition.  

              “Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe, as difficult as it may be for you to accept, I believe it’s time we called in a psychiatrist.”  

              Paul started to interrupt, but Javier would not allow it.  

              “Mr. Forsythe, just hear me out and then I will listen to whatever you have to say.”  

It’s true that something very unusual is happening with you, but I don’t for a minute buy that your physical condition is the result of some supernatural force.   I’m not a stranger to the so-called metaphysical realm and I admit that there are things science has not yet been able to explain; I don’t believe that to be the case here, at least not in a transcendental sense.  

              “Our minds possess incredible capabilities, both positive and negative.”   For some reason, Mr. Forsythe, your mind seems to be conjuring up physical maladies.  That’s not to say that you willfully threw yourself down the stairs or knowingly slashed your leg.   Whatever is going on with you is emanating, I believe, from your subconscious and that’s a region of the human psyche that I’m ill-prepared to treat.

              “Both of you, and your daughter as well, seem to be predisposed to a belief in the supernatural; perhaps it’s that predisposition that is coloring your interpretation of the events of the past several days.   I don’t know, but I think it’s time we called in someone who can figure it all out.”

              It was Paul’s turn to speak, and Tamara held tightly to his hand as he did so. 

              “Dr. Gomez, I won’t pretend that I’m not offended by your opinion that I have somehow caused my present physical condition.   Having said that, however, I can certainly appreciate how you could have reached that conclusion.   Don’t think that I haven’t questioned my own sanity lately and don’t presume that I lack an awareness of the mind’s powers.   If I thought for even a moment that a shrink was the solution to all of this, I would have you call Freud back from the dead.   But, and I won’t even attempt to explain how, I know that something much more sinister than my mind is at work here.  

              “I would like for you to continue treating me, but I’ll understand if your ethics preclude you from doing so.   All I want right now is to heal from the surgery, receive treatment for my leg, complete whatever tests remain, and go home.   Perhaps there my family and I can come to grip with whatever is facing us.” 

              Tamara kissed Paul on the cheek, a signal to him, and Javier, that she was in his corner.  

              Javier thought before he spoke.   “Although I can’t agree with your decision, I will continue to treat you.   I don’t believe in dumping patients just because they have their own views relative to their healthcare.   I must put you on notice though, depending upon what happens we may need to revisit the issue of a psychiatric referral.   Are you at least open to that?”

              Paul looked at Tamara as he spoke. 

              “Fair enough, Doc, but let me put you on notice as well.   This is one patient who just might change your idea of reality!”