Possession: A Jack Nightingale Short Story Read online

  POSSESSION

  By Stephen Leather

  Jack Nightingale appears in the full-length novels Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade, Lastnight, San Francisco Night and New York Night. He also appears in other short stories including Cursed, Still Bleeding, Tracks, I Know Who Did It, My Name Is Lydia, The Asylum, The Creeper, Children Of The Dark, The Undead, Wrong Turn, and The Cards. The Jack Nightingale timeline is complex – Possession is set after Lastnight.

  Jack Nightingale climbed the stone steps to the Church of the Holy Cross in South Boston. The air was chill, a wind tugging at his raincoat and whipping leaves about, so he was grateful when he opened the door and slipped into the warmth of the nave. The place was massive, one of the oldest and largest stone churches in Boston. Three levels rose high above the nave to a vaulted ceiling with stained glass windows on each side. It smelled as cool and damp as a cave. Muffled whispers scuttled across the space, heads in the pews bowed low in prayer. Up above, pigeons nested in far corners, crooning in the darkness. Along the west side of the nave was a pair of confessional boxes lined against the wall. They were carved of smooth mahogany which glistened in the chamber. Nightingale made his way to them, entering one and closing the door behind him. He knelt. Through the mesh he could make out the profile of a priest. ‘Welcome, my son,’ said the priest in a soft voice.

  ‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned,’ said Nightingale. ‘It has been four months since my last confession.’ Was lying in the confessional a sin? Probably. The priest nodded, ready to hear his confession. Nightingale continued. ‘Over the months I’ve taken a fancy to my neighbor, a beautiful young woman. It first began at a barbecue her husband invited me to. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and I gathered she felt the same because she’d catch me staring and would smile at me. We talked and flirted a bit, and before I knew it we had started seeing each other in secret. First at the Motel 6 outside of town, then later on at my flat; even in her and her husband’s bed.’ The priest was silent. ‘I’m not in love with her,’ continued Nightingale. ‘It’s lust, I know that, but I think she’s fallen in love with me. She says she wants to leave her husband and I don’t know what to do about it.’

  There was a long pause. Then the priest spoke. ‘You don’t love her?’

  ‘No, Father, I don’t.’

  ‘Lust,’ said the priest, nodding sagely. ‘My son, I shall give you counsel. I advise you to renounce this affair immediately. Tell this woman how you truly feel, and end it. Do not go back to her. You have entered the bed of another man’s wife; you have committed the grave sin of adultery.’

  ‘You are right, Father,’ said Nightingale, ‘I’ll do as you say. It was a mistake. I have been such a fool.’

  ‘And you must make penance, perhaps by volunteering at this very church, or at the soup kitchen down on 3rd and Roxbury. And if in the future you should feel this sin creep up on you, this devilry whispering into your ear, you must appeal to the Heavenly Father for his love and counsel.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Do not thank me, my son, thank Him. Go ahead,’ the priest encouraged him. ‘Express your sorrow to the Lord, so that he may absolve you of this terrible sin.’

  Nightingale bowed his head. Closing his eyes, he said, ‘Dear God, I am deeply sorry for my sins. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you, whom I love above all things. I firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin. Our savior Jesus Christ suffered and died for us. In his name, please have mercy on my soul.’

  The priest bowed his head in prayer and brought his hands together. ‘God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Nightingale, crossing himself. ‘Thank you, Father.’

  Nightingale left the confessional. He walked down the aisle and pushed open the large wooden double doors. A gust of cold autumn air blew back his hair and ruffled his coat. He propped up his collar, took out a packet of Marlboro, and lit a cigarette. He sat on the stone steps as he smoked and watched people going about their day in the early afternoon, the sky a grey mass with dark pockets indicating rain. He smoked, and he waited.

  He was halfway through a second cigarette when he heard the door open and the shuffle of footsteps. Nightingale knew that the priest was a smoker but whereas Nightingale was a fan of Marlboro, the priest preferred to roll his own. The priest stopped at the top step and looked down at Nightingale. He was wearing his robes, his large belly protruding in the midsection. His face was red and pockmarked with acne scars from a boyhood long ago. Bright blue eyes shone out brilliantly in contrast to the unhandsome face. ‘You seem reluctant to leave,’ said the priest, walking down the steps.

  ‘Just admiring your beautiful city,’ said Nightingale. He took out his cigarettes and offered the pack. The priest thanked him, taking the cigarette and inserting it between his lips. Nightingale leaned over and lit it for him with his old battered Zippo.

  ‘You are not from here,’ said the priest. It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘England,’ said Nightingale. The truth. ‘But I’ve lived in the area for a few years.’ A lie. There were stoplights in the square. Several cars had parked at the red light but an old beater with deafening rap music careened past the parked cars and ran the light. Several people laid on their horns.

  ‘A beautiful city indeed,’ said the priest, watching the speeding car with disapproval. ‘Though there are some undesirable elements, I must say.’

  ‘Reminds me of the quote - “What strange phenomena we find in a great city. All we need do is stroll about with our eyes open. Life swarms with innocent monsters.” Says it all, really.’

  The priest smiled through a puff of smoke, impressed. ‘Baudelaire,’ he said. ‘Though I think he was talking about Paris.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just like the bit about innocent monsters.’

  Still smiling, the priest extended his hand. ‘Father O’Grady.’

  Nightingale took it. ‘Jack Nightingale.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, son.’

  ‘Same.’

  A pretty young mother and her young son walked along the sidewalk. The boy, blond with blue eyes and bound head to toe in thick winter clothes, stared at them. O’Grady smiled and waved at the little boy, who turned and buried his face in his mom’s stomach. ‘Do you have any children, Jack?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘None that I know of.’

  O’Grady laughed. ‘And what do you do? A teacher of literature, perhaps? With a leaning towards the French poets?’

  ‘Nope, not me, Father. I wouldn’t have the patience to sit in some stuffy classroom and regurgitate the same thing over and over again. Nah, I’m an investigator. Eradicating evil, that sort of thing.’ He blew smoke up at the leaden sky.

  ‘A most noble profession,’ said O’Grady.

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘Kind of my calling, you could say.’

  ‘Good and Evil are among the oldest rudiments of creation,’ said the priest, cigarette dangling between his lips, O’Grady bared two fists together, knuckle to knuckle. ‘An unstoppable force against an immovable object.’ He pushed his fists until one began pushing the other in the opposite direction. ‘But only the good wins. It always does.’

  ‘And which one are we?’ asked Nightingale.

  O’Grady stoppe
d the display and took the cigarette back in his hand. ‘I’m sorry? What do you mean?’

  ‘We’re the good, I know that. But are we the unstoppable force or the immovable object?’

  ‘Huh,’ said O’Grady, ‘good question, I never really thought of that. I suppose we could be either. But I’d like to think we’re the object. The object – good – is immovable, therefore we cannot lose. We do not have to emit a force against something, we merely have to prevent it from forcing us into submission.’

  Nightingale blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘I like it. But there’s that other saying: “Evil prevails when good men fail to act.” I can personally say I’ve seen it firsthand a number of times when I was a hostage negotiator. I think if all us good men fail to act, it’s only natural that the evil, or the “unstoppable force” as you call it, will take over. So which one are you, Father?’ asked Nightingale, watching him. ‘Are you good, or evil?’

  O’Grady laughed. ‘Good, of course! At least I should hope so. I wouldn’t be in this profession if I felt otherwise.’

  Nightingale flicked the ash off his cigarette. ‘I thought so. Which brings me to why I’m here today. I know someone. A boy. He needs your help.’

  The priest frowned. ‘My help? I thought you needed my help, with your confession…’

  ‘Sure, I was overdue a confession, but I wanted to meet you. Because of the boy.’

  O’Grady looked confused. ‘I’m not sure I understand what you’re on about.’

  ‘To perform an exorcism, the exorcists must first go to confession to purify themselves of sin. Right?’

  ‘I’m sorry, you said you were an investigator?’

  ‘I investigate paranormal disturbances. A boy I know is possessed and I need the help of an able priest to exorcise him. Your help, Father O’Grady.’

  O’Grady stubbed out his cigarette and put it in a receptacle. He shook his head, his cheeks quivering. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘Of course you can, you’re a priest. A man of God. A man who believes in the struggle between good and evil.’

  The priest stopped.‘No, I mean I don’t believe you’ve come to the right place. Try a psychiatrist. I’m certain the boy is dealing not with a demon but with some sort of mental disorder. Almost all of these cases are.’ The priest started up the stairs but Nightingale grasped the man’s elbow.

  ‘Almost all of them, right,’ said Nightingale. ‘But not this one. I’ve investigated dozens of these cases, Father, read all the research, and I can assure you this is the real deal. You said you’re good, otherwise you wouldn’t be a priest. I believe you. But if that’s true how can you let an innocent boy die in the hands of a devil?’

  ‘The Devil or a devil?’

  ‘A devil,’ said Nightingale. ‘One of Satan’s minions, but a powerful one.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked the priest, frowning.

  ‘This one calls itself Bakka.’

  The priest froze. In an instant his face paled, and he leaned against the iron railing so fast Nightingale reached out because he thought the old man was falling. The priest composed himself, breathing deeply. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘May I have another cigarette?’ Nightingale quickly took out his Marlboro, gave him one, and lit it for him. The priest sucked it in, and when he blew out the smoke he seemed to be sighing with it.

  ‘So you know that name,’ said Nightingale.

  The priest nodded. It seemed an eternity before he spoke. ‘There are many demons and devils in the underworld, Jack,’ he said eventually, his voice a low growl. ‘But few are as wretched and evil as the one you just mentioned. Bakka is known by the clergy to be one of Satan’s most devout servants. It was a man once, millennia ago, back in the time of Christ. As the legend goes, this man invited his family to a banquet hall. Men, women, children, his own wife and children among them, and all their relatives. While they were dining, the man slipped out and barred the doors, then splashed the building with oil and set it on fire. He burned his entire family alive, and the next morning, once the fires cleared, he used what was left of their bodies to perform Black Mass. It is not known why he did this, whether he was possessed by a demon or by Satan himself, or whether he did it of his own wickedness. But several days later he was tracked down in the remote countryside and killed. Since then it has become one of Satan’s most powerful minions.’ He took a long, slow drag on his cigarette and blew smoke. ‘Bakka is what you might call special,’ continued the priest, ‘because it doesn’t need to be invited by a victim; it simply chooses them. But this devil can’t survive on its own; it must be inside a human. If it’s exorcised from the boy it will be forced to go somewhere else, to another human nearby. If there is no human to enter, it will be vanquished.’ O’Grady looked at Nightingale. ‘So even if this is Bakka, there’s no way to ensure anyone’s safety at the exorcism. It’s virtually impossible.’ He drew on his cigarette again. His face was ashen.

  ‘I happen to know a way to protect everyone present,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Is that so?’ said the priest, his voice loaded with disbelief.

  ‘You can leave that part to me. I just need you to be there. I need a priest. Do you know how to perform an exorcism?’

  ‘Yes, I know how, but all exorcisms must be approved by the Vatican. There are fifty exorcists in this country designated by Bishops to combat evil. Try one of them. The Vatican will supply a list. I can get it for you if needs be.’

  ‘I’ve tried several. They won’t return my calls. I don’t need someone who has permission from the Vatican, I need someone who knows what they’re doing and you seem to be the prime candidate at the moment. You know what this devil is. You know what it’s capable of.’

  The priest shook his head. ‘It’s very risky. Very dangerous. The boy could die. So could you.’

  ‘I can’t do this on my own, Father. I’m not a priest. I’m just a man.’

  ‘As I said, there are other priests better qualified than me to assist you.’

  ‘We don’t have time, Father.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘For you? Or for the boy?’

  ‘For everyone,’ said the priest. ‘Why me? Why did you come to me?’ He drew on his cigarette and his hand shook.

  ‘Because you aren’t too far away from where the boy lives. I can drive you there so you can see for yourself. Look Father, I will take full responsibility for whatever happens. But one thing is for sure, if we do nothing, the boy will die.’

  The priest grimaced. ‘So you’ll take responsibility for my death, will you? Or for my soul being damned to hell for all eternity. That’s not much of a comfort, frankly.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I mean I’ll make sure nothing happens to us. I have experience in these matters. I can protect you. And me. And the boy. I know a way we can cast out the devil and make sure he does not enter anyone else, and that will result in its destruction.’

  The priest smoked. He thought for a moment. Storm clouds had rolled in and thunder was grumbling in the ashen sky. Rain drops started to fall. Nightingale spoke first. ‘Just see the boy. That’s all I’m asking, Father. See the boy and then make your decision. It’s the least you can do.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Plymouth. Fifty minute drive south of here.’

  The priest handed Nightingale his smoldering cigarette. ‘All right, hold this. I’ll need to get my coat.’

  ***

  It rained during their drive to Plymouth, Massachusetts, site of the Pilgrims’ landing on the Mayflower in 1620 and the ninth oldest city in the U.S. It wasn’t far south of Salem, where in the late 17th century dozens of people were burned at the stake, stoned, and drowned for being suspected of witchcraft. Nightingale drove a rented Jeep Cherokee. He’d turned down the offer of a SatNav and instead gave the priest a map on which he had drawn their route in red ink. The priest had changed into a rumpled grey suit and packed his clerical garments in a leather holdall along
with, at Nightingale’s request, several bottles of Holy Water.

  They pulled up to an old Victorian home with a seashell driveway and parked. The seashells were bone-white and slick from the rain that was now pouring down. Within moments of stepping out of the car they both felt it: an overwhelming sense of dread. The atmosphere suddenly felt heavy and oppressive; their rib cages felt like vices which were slowly constricting the closer they got to the house. Father O’Grady put his hand to his chest and gasped.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said the priest, though he obviously wasn’t.

  Nightingale knocked on the front door and it opened. A small shriveled woman with dark rings around her eyes greeted them. She was young, early thirties, but she looked much older, and ill. Her blonde hair had streaks of grey in it and her skin was wrinkled. Nightingale knew that only weeks before Lisa Wilson had been quiet beautiful. ‘Mrs Wilson,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought help. Meet Father O’Grady.’

  Mrs Wilson attempted to smile but it looked more like a grimace. She took Father O’Grady’s hand in hers and kissed it. ‘Thank you so much for coming, Father. Please, come inside. You’re getting soaked.’

  Nightingale and the priest took off their drenched coats and shoes. A fire was burning in the hearth and Nightingale gravitated towards it, warming his hands. The priest followed. ‘You feel it?’ said Nightingale. The priest nodded, and shuddered. They were in a living room with family photographs on the walls and in frames on the coffee table and mantelpiece. Father O’Grady examined a picture of the parents and the boy smiling into the camera. It looked like one of those family photos you see in picture frames when you buy them at shops. The perfect family. ‘Beautiful boy,’ O’Grady said, running a nicotine-stained finger along the glass.

  ‘Coffee?’ asked Mrs Wilson. The men nodded and she disappeared into the kitchen. They heard footsteps on the stairs. A tall, thin man in a white Oxford shirt came down the steps. He was blond like his wife but with no grey hairs, yet his eyes told it all. They were sunken and tired-looking. Empty.