----Email Message-----The Eye
Pascal slowly turned to face the old man, a malicious grin spreading across his face like wildfire. Bastien held his gaze, standing his ground as gusts of putrid wind rushed past the boy, untouched, and pelted him with stinging drops of rain. Corrine let out a bloodcurdling scream as the droplets changed to fire. Bastien waved the women off to the side, Corrine dragging and shielding Lady Niette from her horrifying son. His skin singed as the fire pelted against his slight frame.
Steeling his strength against the onslaught, Bastien blocked the spirits Pascal had sent careening after his mother. He called upon the appropriate god to spare the woman her fate. It was too bad about the boy. If only Pascal’d been shown how to use his powers appropriately... but ‘twas too late now. The work of every devil was within him, captivating his very soul and the souls of all he touched. Pascal must be stopped.
“Come now, old man! You know I cannot be stopped, just as this storm cannot be controlled,” sneered the small child. And the storm waged on its war against every object, living, dead, or otherwise. Bastien glanced up at the swirling vortex that just this afternoon had been a calm, clear sky. The lad was cocky, though hopefully wrong. Sighing, the old man launched a full assault on the boy.
~~~
“Not Pascal, please, dear Lord!” Lacy pleaded with her God, her chest heaving as she weeped with terror and sorrow. She and Corrine huddled behind a small wooden shack on the edge of the LaFleur property. Harsh winds whipped across their quaking bodies, tearing at them and chilling them to the center of their souls. Lacy could not watch the battle ensuing, for the display of such evil power would have killed her. Corrine whimpered as the spirits soared closer, wailing and screeching as they went. The two women clung to each other, utterly terrified.
Corrine glanced up at Lacy. With a shriek, she started back from her and cried, “My Lady, your – your hair!” Lacy’s magnificent locks had turned a stark white where dark tendrils had extended toward her head…
~~~
Jeffrey woke up with a start. His older son lay, curled in a tattered quilt, at his feet. For all the covers over him, the boy was shivering, his whole body quaking with fear of his brother. Jeffrey quietly arose, heading straight for the window. The storm was more powerful than any he had seen. The trees flailed this way and that, and the entire house shuddered, creaking back and forth. Branches snapped off, sounding so like gunshots. A flash of lightning etched an ugly scar across the sky.
In the black sky, Jeffrey could see an opening toward the center of the storm. It was not the calm for which he had hoped; the tear was dark and ominous. From it poured forth shadows of creatures too terrible to imagine. He could hear their wailing over the noise of the storm. Abruptly, he realized it was because they were closer than he’d thought. He backed away from the window slowly, stumbling over the fitfully sleeping Emile. Dark, swooping figures were heading straight for the house…
~~~
Pascal sent another wave of demons at Bastien, blasting him also with torrents from the ever-growing storm. Bastien could feel his power wavering as another bout attacked. He wavered in his stance. The winds pulled at his skin, stripping away at his life. This child was strong – stronger than he should have been made, but those were, again, the devils inside him. His eyes glowed red as he called more spirits against his frail mother. Her life was draining from her terrified eyes, opened wide to the horrors these demons held.
Bastien was failing, and he knew it. He denied the impulse to break free of this mess and end it easily. He must try to save Lady Niette. She alone had had some small amount of control over this boy. Without her, there was no hope for any of them. He looked over at the affected mother. She was losing her soul at an alarming rate. The boy was harsh with her. Swiftly, he called again upon the appropriate gods for her sake.
Yet as Bastien glanced again at Lacy, Pascal attacked full force. The old man was broadsided by the worst of the demon spirits; his life swept away by the malicious forces of the storm. As the spirits shrieked, his slight, worn body crumpled to the ground.
Lady Niette screamed as she tried to scramble away. The full array of spirits was now turning their attention toward her. Corrine held her strongly in place. Desperately, Lacy looked at her companion’s face. She paled, her eyes locked in a gaze shared by blood-red pupils. These eyes shared with her the complete extent of her sins, and all the horrors of all the hells.
“Good-bye, Ma mère,” Pascal’s voice sounded from close by, a cruel smile twisted across his lips. Lacy’s eyes wrenched away from Corrine’s demonic stare, and she looked upon her son for one last time. Her body went limp, her soul consumed by the demons swelling about them.
“Come, my servant,” he beckoned to the remaining woman, and they disappeared into the darkness of the storm.
~~~
Jeffrey relaxed his grip on young Emile as the spirits drew back, their wailing subsiding. The storm must be near an end, calming. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Papa? Is it over?” He heard the trembling voice ask hesitantly.
“Oh, no, mon frère, it’s just the eye, the eye of the storm,” a corrupted voice intoned. Father and son looked up to see the small boy standing in the doorway. The storm raged about him, and the demons issued a bloodcurdling shriek as they rushed forth to devour the souls of Pascal’s remaining family. That-which-was-Corrine joined the force to consume, and Pascal’s maniacal laugh resounded throughout the bayou…
The Old Neighbourhood
Hanging up the phone, Cahill furrowed his brow as the team swept through every inch of the old McFarland house. Something did not seem quite right about the place – something besides the distinct lack of Johnny’s mother’s decorum. I wonder what ancient childhood trinkets of Johnny’s and mine they’ll find, he wondered. The building had probably never been so thoroughly inspected as it was now. And yet, the main floor, which by the dusty stairs to second seemed to be the most often used area, was completely devoid of prints, blood, anything. Almost cleaner than a clean room.
Sighing, Cahill watched the team carry away the assemblage of appendages found in fridge and freezer alike. A complete set for a body, but there was no way he would let old Mrs. McCuddahey identify George in person; the shock might send her over the edge, and one death was all he could stand around here right now. Carefully, he’d had the team put the body together in rough form, and they’d thrown a sheet over most of the corpse out of respect. Digital print-out in hand, he made his way to the familiar brownstone next door, where an anxious Mrs. McCuddahey was waiting in his mother’s sitting room. She’d have a lot to go through these next few days, poor soul.
Cahill trudged up the familiar, care-worn steps, rang the bell once, and waked in. His mother was making tea to soothe her neighbour’s weak nerves, as well as to supply herself with a cuppa. Fortunately, the ever-practical Mrs. Romano was a Godsend; she handed him a brewed cup of coffee just as he walked in the door. She noted at once his appearance, especially the grim countenance displayed upon his face. Wordlessly, he passed the kitchen by, and entered the sitting room. Such a frail, tiny woman! He hoped, once again, that her heart was stronger than she looked. He sat down in his late father’s favourite chair. He cleared his throat, dreading this moment as always he did, and started in. “Mrs. McCuddahey, I’m afraid I’ve brought some bad news...”
“Is George in trouble? Is it that girl!? I hope he hasn’t been being” – her voice dropped to a whisper – “worldly.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s much worse. I regret to inform you that George, your son, has been… murdered. You have my deepest sympathies,” he consoled as he passed her the print-out. Cahill watched her suck in a long, deep breath. Her eyes had widened, and her hand shook more than usual – or so he thought – when she reached for the print-out. Her breath caught as she gazed down at it through her half-moon spectacles.
“Yes. Yes, that’s my George. My son… my only son!” And she sobbed silently, crumpling herself into his mother’s capable arms. The print-out fell to the floor, showing all in the room the disrespect that had occurred. Mrs. Romano picked it up gingerly, and jerked her head toward the kitchen. Cahill nodded. He followed her there to let one old soul help another in her grief. He could hear his mother softly soothing, “Martha, honey, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” and her voice trailed off as he walked out of earshot and into the kitchen. Mrs. Romano, of course, was all business, leaning against the counter, arms folded. “How long ago, William?”
That name again. He tried not to let it either irk or amuse him. “Two days ago, we think. Won’t know for sure until the pathologist gets a look at him. I hope to God it didn’t last days.” Cahill handed her his cup, looking for a refill. She complied, but with a confused look upon her face.
“How could a blow to his head have lasted for days?” She hands the brimming coffee back to him as he remembered, gratefully, what his team had done. Of course Mrs. Romano doesn’t know about the dismemberment, he reminded himself. “Never you mind, Mrs. Romano. Could you go back in there and see if Mrs. McCuddahey is up for a few questions right now? I know it’s late, but …”
“Sure, William, I’ll check on Martha right now,” and with that, she marched from the room, leaving Cahill to collect his thoughts. What ‘girl’ had she been referring to? Did she know anything about Lenny Markowitz? Would this all lead back to Dr. Schoedel? He had his suspicions about Dr. Schoedel, beginning with George’s personal notes on his sessions with the “Shiksa Psychiatrist” and leading into the number of messages / scheduled meetings George had relating to her. She had seemed unhelpful and uncomfortable on the phone just now… would she actually try to “find” George? Or did she know… Cahill brushed his thoughts aside, and headed back into the sitting room.
A more composed Martha McCuddahey sat waiting for him, her hands folding primly on her lap. Without further ado, he asked question upon question. Each was answered directly by Mrs. McCuddahey, with supplementary information from Mrs. Romano; if anyone would know around here, she would know. Cahill actually found this line of questioning useful, but only because he was so used to multiple women talking at once – especially if one of them was Mrs. Romano.
He started with general questions:
“Do you know of anyone who would want to harm George?”
“No, he was a perfect angel.”
“He was always very quiet, kept mostly to himself, and was polite whenever and wherever.”
And soon progressed to more personal questions, which conveniently addressed his curiosity about George’s decorations:
“What religious beliefs did George profess?”
“Well, naturally, Roman Catholic. We’re devout. He almost became a priest.”
“I heard tell he dabbled in all sorts of devilry, but I never wanted to upset Martha with it…”
Cahill made a mental note to ask Mrs. Romano more about that later.
Finally, he reached the question he’d been wanting to ask.
“When I first entered, you mentioned ‘that girl’. Who is ‘that girl’? ”
