The Exorcist's Apprentice Read online

  Table of Contents

  PAR† ONE CHAP†ER ONE

  CHAP†ER †WO

  CHAP†ER †HREE

  CHAP†ER FOUR

  CHAP†ER FIVE

  CHAP†ER SIX

  CHAP†ER SEVEN

  CHAP†ER EIGH†

  CHAP†ER NINE

  CHAP†ER †EN

  CHAP†ER ELEVEN

  CHAP†ER †WELVE

  CHAP†ER †HIR†EEN

  CHAP†ER FOUR†EEN

  CHAP†ER FIF†EEN

  CHAP†ER SIX†EEN

  CHAP†ER SEVEN†EEN

  PAR† †WO CHAP†ER EIGH†EEN

  CHAP†ER NINE†EEN

  CHAP†ER †WEN†Y

  CHAP†ER †WEN†Y-ONE

  CHAP†ER †WEN†Y-†WO

  CHAP†ER †WEN†Y-†HREE

  CHAP†ER †WEN†Y-FOUR

  CHAP†ER †WEN†Y-FIVE

  PAR† †HREE CHAP†ER †WEN†Y-SIX

  CHAP†ER †WEN†Y-SEVEN

  CHAP†ER †WEN†Y-EIGH†

  CHAP†ER †WEN†Y-NINE

  CHAP†ER †HIR†Y

  CHAP†ER †HIR†Y-ONE

  CHAP†ER †HIR†Y-†WO

  CHAP†ER †HIR†Y-†HREE

  CHAP†ER †HIR†Y-FOUR

  CHAP†ER †HIR†Y-FIVE

  PAR† FOUR CHAP†ER †HIR†Y-SIX

  CHAP†ER †HIR†Y-SEVEN

  CHAP†ER †HIR†Y-EIGH†

  CHAP†ER †HIR†Y-NINE

  CHAP†ER FOR†Y

  CHAP†ER FOR†Y-ONE

  CHAP†ER FOR†Y-†WO AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  †HE

  EXORCIS†’S APPREN†ICE

  A novel by

  MARK LUKENS

  The Exorcist’s Apprentice—Copyright © 2011 by Mark Lukens

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this work may be reproduced without written permission by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead (or in any other form), is entirely coincidental.

  Please check out these other books by the Author:

  ANCIENT ENEMY – www.amazon.com/dp/B00FD4SP8M

  THE SUMMONING – www.amazon.com/dp/B00HNEOHKU

  DESCENDANTS OF MAGIC – www.amazon.com/dp/B00FWYYYYC

  GHOST TOWN: A NOVELLA – www.amazon.com/dp/B00LEZRF7G

  NIGHT TERRORS – www.amazon.com/dp/B00M66IU3U

  A DARK COLLECTION: 12 SCARY STORIES – www.amazon.com/dp/B00JENAGLC

  SIGHTINGS – www.amazon.com/dp/B00VAI31KW

  DEVIL’S ISLAND – Coming Soon

  THE SUPERHUMAN GENE – Coming Soon

  For centuries the Roman Catholic Church has employed a select few to investigate extreme cases of demonic possession, miracles, and paranormal activity. Some of these Investigators possess Gifts of the Spirit and other strange talents. Often, the calling of an Investigator is passed down from father to son.

  PAR† ONE

  CHAP†ER ONE

  Western Massachusetts

  Lightning split the night sky as Paul drove his 1978 Ford Bronco through the rutted back roads. The truck’s motor roared with power as the large knobby tires spun in the mud and pulled the beast of a truck up a small hill through the dense trees.

  Rain splashed the windshield as Paul clenched the steering wheel, trying to hold it steady is it bucked under his hands. The headlights and the string of fog lights on the truck’s roof pierced the darkness of the woods only so far and left everything else in shadows.

  Paul knew he was driving way too fast down the dirt road. He knew he should slow down. But he had to hurry.

  They were waiting for him.

  He wore a long black coat over a dark sweater and a dark pair of pants. A crucifix of pure silver dangled from a chain around his neck. He had rings on the middle and third finger of each hand, and each ring was forged from pure iron. His dark and deep-set eyes were fixed on the trail through the woods as he drove, his mouth set in a grim line, his jaw muscles clenched. His angular and knotted muscles bulged underneath the sleeves of his sweater and coat as he fought to control the steering wheel.

  Three sets of rosary beads hung from the rearview mirror. They clicked and rattled as the truck bounced down the ruts in the road.

  Paul stomped the brake pedal down as he took a turn a little too quickly. He felt the back end of the Bronco sliding, and he heard the screech of pine needles and branches scraping at the side of the truck.

  He pulled the wheel sharply to the right, overcorrecting the turn just a bit. He couldn’t crash—he had to get there before it was too late.

  Father James was already at the house; he had told Father McFadden that he had things under control there. But it didn’t matter. Paul was coming out on Father McFadden’s orders. Whether Father James realized it or not, whether he wanted to believe it or not, this exorcism he was performing was beginning to spiral out of control.

  Paul stomped on the gas pedal after his truck quit sliding in the mud. The back tires spun in the mud for a moment and then he felt the tires grab traction.

  He glanced at the passenger seat where his dark, floppy hat sat on top of his black canvas duffel bag, and then he looked back at the dirt road in front of him.

  Almost there. Maybe a few more minutes.

  A streak of lightning lit up the night sky above the trees for a split second, illuminating the narrow road that cut through the dense woods. Everything was washed in a blue light for just a moment. Five seconds later thunder rumbled through the darkness like a growling beast from Hell.

  Paul saw in that brief flash of lightning that the rutted and bumpy dirt road in front of him was a straight shot for as far as he could see. Even though the trail had been reduced to a mud-slicked ribbon from the torrential downpour, he risked pressing down on the accelerator a little more, pushing his Bronco a little faster.

  As he drove, a sudden vision flashed in his mind like one of the bolts of lightning from the night sky. His body went rigid as he gripped the steering wheel, but he no longer saw the road. He was underwater for a moment, suspended and floating in the cold darkness, trapped inside a vehicle. He saw light from somewhere in the darkness, illumination from a dashboard that was flickering. He saw pale hands reaching for him …

  Paul blinked his eyes just in time to hit the brakes and yank the steering wheel to the right. The truck slid around a sharp bend through the trees, the tail end almost colliding with the trunk of a tree.

  His heart thudded in his chest. He didn’t remember driving down the road this far. How long had he seen that vision in his mind? He glanced at the battery-powered clock on the dashboard and saw that at least a full minute had passed while he’d seen the vision.

  What did the vision mean? He’d never had one that strong before, and never one that had incapacitated him as a driver, even if only for a minute. He had been underwater in the vision, maybe trapped inside a vehicle. He didn’t know what it meant, but he couldn’t push away the feeling of fear and dread that had suddenly washed over him—a sense of … helplessness … of loss.

  But he had to force the memory of the vision and the overwhelming feeling of it away for now. He needed to concentrate on getting to the Whittier house before it was too late.

  CHAP†ER †WO

  The Whittier House

  Paul’s Ford Bronco emerged from the dark woods into the large clearing where the Whittier house stood. He slammed on the brakes and his truck slid to a stop only a few feet away from the three other vehicles parked in front of t
he dark home. One of the vehicles was a 2012 Ford F150 with a metal toolbox in back and large tires that were more suited to this rural area. The other two vehicles were definitely city cars, not ideal for the conditions that the storm had turned the woods into. Paul figured the truck belonged to the homeowner and the two cars belonged to Father James and his assistant.

  Paul slammed the shifter into park and shut the engine off, and then the lights. The darkness smothered him immediately, but every few seconds there was a flash of lightning snaking across the sky that illuminated the world for a moment.

  He grabbed his hat and canvas bag from the passenger seat and got out of his truck into the rain. He ran from his truck to the small front porch of the house, avoiding the puddles along the way. Rainwater drained off the brim of his hat like a waterfall as he climbed the wood steps. His breaths were puffs of clouds in front of him in the chilly night air.

  A priest waited on the front porch for Paul, holding the door open. The doorway was dark behind the priest and Paul wondered if the electricity was already out. He approached the priest, stomping across the floorboards of the porch, leaving behind muddy footprints.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the priest in the doorway. He was a few inches shorter than Paul and very thin. His eyes were dinner plates of fear on his pale face above the bright white square of his priest’s collar that seemed to float in the darkness against his black clothes.

  Paul had seen Father James a few times before, and this man wasn’t him.

  “I’m Father O’Leary,” the man said in a high and shaky voice. He offered a trembling white hand to Paul.

  Paul grabbed the young priest’s hand in greeting and his golden-tanned skin was a contrast with the young priest’s pale flesh. Paul squeezed a little too hard and he felt the man’s hand nearly crumple in his grip. He also felt the clammy perspiration oozing from the man’s palm.

  “I’m Paul Lambert,” he said as he let the man’s hand go. He set his canvas bag down on the floor of the porch and the items inside the bag clinked together lightly. He took off his coat and hat and shook the rainwater off of them and then folded the coat over one arm.

  Father O’Leary stood still for a moment in the doorway like shock was still rooting his shoes to the threshold, like he was paralyzed with dread.

  “You’re … you’re not a …” the priest stammered.

  “No, I’m not a priest,” Paul finished his sentence for him. He saw even more fear in the man’s large blue eyes—if that was even possible. “But I can help,” Paul added.

  “I don’t know …” Father O’Leary said. “I’ve never seen … never seen anything like what’s in there …”

  “Is this your first exorcism?” Paul asked.

  “No. My third. But this one is … is …”

  “I know. Your faith must be strong, Father O’Leary, stronger than it’s ever been before. It must not waver tonight.”

  The young priest didn’t answer, but he nodded quickly. Then he moved out of the way to allow Paul entrance to the dark house.

  Paul picked up his canvas bag from the porch floor and stepped inside. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness inside the home as Father O’Leary closed the door. A light over the stove in the kitchen provided a soft yellowish light; it was enough to see by.

  The living room was filled with bedroom furniture and possessions: boxes, stacks of books and papers, piles of clothes, a desk pushed up against one of the couches and piled with more papers and books, a dresser with a heap of clothes still on hangers draped over it. Two lamps were on the floor next to the bedroom furniture. An empty bookcase had been set near a recliner. Pictures and framed photographs were stacked up against the bookcase. The furniture and possessions looked like they had been hastily piled together.

  “We took everything out of the bedroom that could be thrown at us,” Father O’Leary explained.

  Paul nodded. At least Father James had followed his instructions so far. But maybe only because they’d come from Father McFadden.

  A door opened and closed in the hallway and Paul heard the sound of footsteps approaching the living room. Father James entered the living room and stared at Paul who still stood near the front door with his canvas bag in one hand and his soggy coat over his other arm.

  “Thank you for coming here, Paul,” Father James said, but it sounded insincere to Paul.

  Paul nodded as he laid his coat over the arm of a couch and placed his hat on top of it. He kept his dark canvas bag gripped in his other hand the whole time.

  “How old is she?” Paul asked.

  Father James stood six foot four, only two inches taller than Paul. But where Paul was lean and muscled, Father James was narrow-shouldered and big-boned with wide hips and a slight pot-belly that pushed his black shirt out. His face was long and jowly, like a basset hound’s. He had deep wrinkles in his face, and his cobalt-blue eyes were surrounded by smaller wrinkles. He had a full head of silver hair that was combed back. He wore a black long-sleeved shirt with a white collar in front. A purple stole was draped over his shoulders. He flicked his sharp eyes to Father O’Leary.

  “Go back there with her,” Father James told the younger priest.

  Father O’Leary seemed to hesitate for just a moment, but then he nodded and hurried through the living room, making his way around the bedroom furniture and then down the dark hall. He walked to a closed door on the left side of the hallway that had a line of flickering light coming from underneath it. Again he hesitated a moment before opening the door. His lips moved in a quick, silent prayer, and then he entered the bedroom.

  Paul stared down the hallway, watching Father O’Leary enter the room. There was no sound from the bedroom, just an eerie silence. The flickering light of candles illuminated Father O’Leary and the hallway for a moment, and then the young priest entered and closed the door behind him.

  Paul turned his attention back to Father James.

  “Father McFadden didn’t need to send you,” Father James said, making no attempt to mask his feelings. “We have this thoroughly under control.”

  Paul didn’t answer. He thought of Father O’Leary’s face in the doorway when he had first arrived—the young priest looked like a scared animal ready to bolt away in panic at any moment.

  “How old is the girl?” Paul asked again. He wasn’t going to waste time arguing with the old, egocentric priest about whether he should be here or not. It was too late for that now. Father McFadden had sent him and that was the end of it.

  “She’s seventeen years old,” Father James finally answered Paul’s question. “Her name is Julia.”

  “Who else is in the house?”

  “Just us, Julia Whittier, and her father, Richard.”

  And the demon, Paul thought. But he didn’t say anything. It didn’t need to be said. He glanced around at Julia’s possessions scattered around the living room. He walked over to the bookcase and looked through the pictures and framed photos. He found what he was looking for—a photo of Julia. He picked it up and turned to Father James.

  “I’m ready,” he told the old priest.

  But Father James stood very still in the murky living room. “I don’t approve of the methods you use,” he said.

  Paul nodded like he was noting Father James’s objections even though they really didn’t matter right now. He walked towards Father James without a word, his canvas bag still in one hand, the photograph of Julia in the other.

  Lightning flashed and lit up the living room in a wash of light-blue light, and it gave Paul the sense of being underwater for a moment. And in that moment, his mind slipped back to the horrifying vision he’d seen while driving here. The images themselves hadn’t been horrifying, but it was the feelings that had accompanied them: dread, helplessness, loss. He couldn’t help feeling that something was terribly wrong here in this house.

  Father James didn’t bother expounding on his disapproval of Paul’s “methods” as he called them. He’d had his say an
d that seemed like it was enough for him. He turned without another word or gesture and walked through the living room, past an archway that led into the kitchen, and then down the hall to the bedroom door.

  Paul followed Father James. He knew that the old priest, like most Catholic priests, thought Paul’s practices during exorcisms were esoteric and banal at best, and dangerous voodoo at worst. But Paul wasn’t going to waste time defending his ways. He had learned his gifts and techniques from his father. And his father had learned them from his father. Paul came from a long line of Investigators for the Church, and he was only sent to the very worst cases of possessions.

  And this was a bad one, he could already sense that.

  Father McFadden told Paul on the phone that this exorcism had been going on now for over thirty-six hours with no sign of the demon letting Julia Whittier go. That was why Father McFadden needed to send Paul here.

  Paul followed Father James down the dark hallway. The only sounds were their shoes clomping on the wood floor and the rain pelting the roof. Paul noticed photographs and portraits arranged neatly along the hallway wall—the story of the Whittier family through the years, a history of Julia from baby to teenager. A mother was in many of the photos but she wasn’t here at the house.

  Paul wondered why.

  Father James didn’t give Paul a second look as he twisted the door handle and entered the bedroom.

  CHAP†ER †HREE

  Paul felt the drop in temperature immediately as he walked through the doorway. It was a little chilly outside, especially with the rain, but nowhere near freezing. In the bedroom it had to be forty degrees at the most.

  The bedroom was lit up by a collection of candles on a small table in the far corner of the nearly empty room. On the table with the candles were two worn bibles, three glass vessels of holy water, and two large crucifixes.

  Father James closed the bedroom door and locked it as Paul walked towards the middle of the room. His breath clouded up in front of him as he exhaled.