A little ink more or less

14.

“You don’t have to stay,” Castle said.

Katrine rolled her eyes at him as he cleared the table of the lunch dishes. She’d stayed the night after McCall interviewed her — privately, after a firm request to Castle. “Please,” she said. “How often does anyone get the opportunity to see an exorcism? Have you ever seen one?”

“Only on cable.”

“There you go, and you’re richer than cake. Sunshine like that’s never going to shine on a poor little matchgirl like me, so I have to take it when I find it.”

“Whatever turns you on,” he said. “I can’t promise it’ll be fun.”

She lit a cigarette and followed him into the kitchen, sliding a hand down his pant leg as he filled the dishwasher, and blowing smoke past his ear. “We’ll manage fun somehow.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Try to behave around the priests who are coming to fight the devil, all right?”

“Got it,” she said. “No blowjobs in front of the priests unless they say it’s okay.”

As if on cue, the doorbell chimed, and Castle felt a thrill shiver through him. He didn’t expect the exorcism to work, exactly — he was pretty sure he didn’t believe in any of the things that would have to exist in order to provide it with targets. But this was old-school Catholicism lurking at the door. Black-robed, incense-churning Catholicism, Inquisition Catholicism, doing the fire-and-brimstone thing better than Protestants ever could. Fuck the Puritans, fuck televangelists, no one put forth the fear of God like the exorcist. Mean motherfucking servant of God.

#

Romaglio was the first the door, with four men to his sides — none of them had priestly collars visible, which Castle supposed he’d be grateful for if he cared what the neighbors thought. He didn’t recognize them, beyond the broad basics of person-classification he’d picked up through nature, nurture, whatever reigned at the moment: they were all of them old, the youngest on the whiskers end of 60, and he’d peg that one as an American — one of two, along with the graying redhead in the back who might well have been Boston Irish. The rest had to be Italian, though, especially the short man next to Rommy, the one whose face was creased like he’d spent a year pissed off. Might well have, too: he looked old enough to have been around when Vatican II kicked in. That one had to be a Cardinal or a Bishop.

“Sebastian Castle?” the pissed-off-looking Italian asked. “We are come from Rome.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s actually Sebastian Castle Finch. Castle’s my middle name. But sure, yeah, come on in. Ciao, Rommy.”

Pissed-Off snorted as he led the priests in when Castle stepped aside, and once the door was closed, Romaglio introduced everyone. “Castle,” he said, gesturing to Pissed-Off. “This is Giacomo Cardinal Baroni, and his associates, Padre Piero Strabo and Father Philip Ramsey.” An elderly Italian man and the redhead, respectively. “And my own assistant in this matter, Father Lamont Pasmore.” The younger one, the other American.

Castle shook hands with the two who’d bother — Pasmore and Strabo — and nodded to the others, before giving Romaglio a brief hug. “Can I get anyone anything? Coffee — espresso — a bite to eat? I don’t know if you just got off the plane, or –”

“We will perform the rites,” Baroni pronounced officiously. He didn’t sound a bit like a mean motherfucking servant of God, more like one of those high school teachers who hated teenagers and you wondered why they took their job, but Castle supposed God didn’t recruit the same way the Marines did. Baroni peered over horn-rimmed glasses at Katrine, who’d peeked her head into the foyer from the living room. “Is this one living, or an apparition?” he asked.

“Uh, living,” Castle said. “That’s Katrine. She’s a friend of mine.”

“We will begin in the house’s basements,” Baroni said. When he spoke, he had a tendency to look away from people: it didn’t seem to be out of self-consciousness but rather because he expected them to be looking at him. This was a man who was used to commanding attention — used to commanding, period. “If the visitors become a burden to us, they will adjourn. Come, padres.”

“Ha,” Katrine said. “Compadres.” Everyone stared at her for a moment, except Baroni, who held his hands in front of him waiting for the others. “Um, hi,” she said. “I’m a call girl.”

“Wonderful,” Baroni said, and whipped a finger forward gesturing, Castle assumed, to be led downstairs. “Then you will know to come when we call, and not before.”

#

Katrine followed nonetheless, and no one said anything — except her, gasping a little when they entered the downbelow Castle had never told her about. He’d explain later, he guessed.

Romaglio gave Castle a glance that was hard to read. “Cardinal Baroni and the others would like to return to Rome as soon as possible,” he said as they descended the stairs. “But my flight back isn’t until tomorrow. We’ll have time to socialize if you like.”

“Yeah,” Castle said. “That would be good.”

When they reached the third floor, Baroni nodded. “This is as far down as the house goes, yes?”

“Yeah,” Castle said. “Unless there’s yet another hidden door or something.”

Baroni looked around as if searching for one, and then gestured to his vice-exorcists, or whatever they were. “We’ll start here. Work our way up if necessary. Piero, Philip, prepare. I shall pray for guidance.” He knelt immediately, exactly where he was, and began murmuring to himself.

The vice-exorcists headed back upstairs, Ramsey clapping a hand on Castle’s shoulder as he passed by, as if in sympathy.

“So,” Katrine said in an undertone to Pasmore and Romaglio, “What should I expect?”

“Likely nothing,” Pasmore said. “The Church recognizes the existence of Satan, and of demons who are capable of influencing events on Earth in his name. But he has no physical form, no physical presence: no odor, no sound, no voice, nothing to touch or see. Most exorcisms are performed on possessed individuals.”

Rommy snorted, and when Castle nudged him, he shook his head. “He’s right, but it’s only in the last few years that the rite of exorcism has been seen that way. It was changed in 1999, the last of the old liturgies to be revised following Vatican II. Before that, the presence of Satan in the world was a more respected tenet of the faith. But now — technically, Castle, we should not be here. We should not be performing this thing.”

“I know, I know, I told you I appreciate you pulling strings to bump me up the list –”

“It is not that. It is simply that one does not perform an exorcism on a house. A house has no soul to be tempted and corrupted: people do.” He looked hesitant. “I have recommended we exorcise you as well.”

Visions of Inquisitors with red-hot pokers and Catherine wheels flashed through his mind. “Um, no.”

“It is just like prayer, Castle. If you aren’t possessed, it cannot harm you. If you are, it can only help.”

“Okay, wait,” Katrine said. “What’s the point in doing this if you don’t think anything’s going to happen? If exorcisms can’t be done on a house?”

Baroni stood up, and for a moment looked imposing even though he had to look up at Katrine. “There are more things in heaven and Earth, and so on. The Church does not like to speak of it, but there are evils in the world which do not function as we expect them to. They are not outside our domain: Christ rules over all if we but know what to ask for and are meant to have His intercession. But the manner of their working is not known to us.”

Pasmore sighed, and Romaglio held up a liver-spotted hand. The old man had gotten older since being incardinated. “Now isn’t the time to rehash internal professional arguments. I’m sure everyone will agree that the bottom line is twofold: sometimes an exorcism works when we think it shouldn’t, and sometimes it doesn’t work when we think it should.”

“Yes,” Baroni said, although he seemed to say it with something like a sneer. “We minimize the ‘false negatives,’ as it were, by carefully screening those permitted to perform the rite.”

“And we sequester the false positives,” Pasmore added, with much more of a sneer — or maybe it was just more audible to Castle’s ear, with its Southie swagger, “by keeping we priests assigned to them away well out of the public eye.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Lamont,” Ramsey said as he and Strabo returned, bearing large, heavy-looking duffel bags. “I heard there’s a gas station down in Falmouth where the coffee machine bleeds the blood of Christ. I’m sure you can score a few inches of news coverage there.”

For a moment, Pasmore looked like he was going to sock the other priest, and then he relaxed and shrugged. “Rom’s right, there’s no need to get into it now.” He bowed slightly to Baroni. “I apologize, Your Eminence, if I sounded like I was trying to pick a fight.”

“Prattle, prattle, roil and rattle,” Baroni mumbled. “If I wanted a fight, you would have one. If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be able to pick one. Your apology is as unnecessary as it is falsely-assumed. If you want to be useful, help me into my vestments.”

Strabo took a dry-cleaning bag out of one of the duffels, which Ramsey unzipped to reveal a white, gold-trimmed robe thing that reminded Castle of what the priests wore during Mass. Everyone was quiet as Pasmore helped Baroni — whose arms were visibly frail, and shook when he held them out from his body, one of them crooked as though he wasn’t able to straighten it entirely — don first the robe and then a long purple stole. The thing had a feeling of ritual to it, like when Rambo put his red bandana on — but Castle thought maybe he just wanted it to feel that way.

“How well do you remember your Latin?” Romaglio asked quietly.

“Mostly the dirty stuff,” Castle said.

“Then I’ll translate anything that isn’t obvious.” He shifted a little, so he was half-looking at Katrine as well, including her. “From here on out, everything Cardinal Baroni says will be in Latin, save for the few Hebrew phrases he prefers.”

Baroni made the sign of the cross, intoning in a voice that was probably booming when it was young, and still had a well-worn rhythm to it, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” and held his right hand out in front of him, facing the stairs. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti!” Ramsey and Strabo repeated it, at Baroni’s sides while Pasmore followed behind them, and Rommy brought up the rear with Castle and Katrine, who looked around like she was expecting pea-soup or a burst of blood from the floor.

“Veni, Sancte Spiritus, reple tuorum corda fidelium, et tui amoris in eis accende. Emitte Spiritum tuum et creabuntur,” Baroni said, taking slow and deliberate steps as he walked towards the second floor, and the other priests responded with, “Et renovabis faciem terrae.”

“Oremus.”

“Deus, qui corda fidelium Sancti Spiritus illustratione docuisti. Da nobis in eodem Spiritu recta sapere, et de eius semper consolatione gaudere. Per Christum Dominum nostrum.”

“They’re invoking the Holy Spirit,” Romaglio whispered.

They reached the top of the stairs, and Baroni repeated the invocation and the sign of the cross, before adding, “Ab omni hoste visibili et invisibili et ubíque in hoc sáeculo liberetur!”

“From every enemy both visible and invisible and everywhere in this lifetime be freed,” Romaglio whispered. “Saint Eric expelled one thousand demons in the form of hot coals from a man with that single command.”

No hot coals came.

They stood in the central room of the second floor of the downbelow, and prayed the Lord’s Prayer in Latin, all seven of them: “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo.”

Strabo opened a thick leatherbound Bible — the first Castle could remember seeing that had thick pages, like a premium limited-edition hardcover, instead of those paper-thin ones — as Ramsey lit a censer of incense and began to swing it lightly in front of him, just enough to disperse the smoke, which preceded them as they walked through the house, every room, even the bathrooms. Strabo read passages from the Bible chosen seemingly at random, and Baroni continued his intonation of Latin prayers, occasionally pressing his palm flat against the walls.

They eventually reached the third floor, and nothing had happened. No protests of demonic voices, no signs of change, nothing but sickly-sweet incense getting in the curtains and upholstery — God, just how many of his mother’s genes had he inherited? — and a lot of the Church Latin he’d learned coming back to him. Katrine wasn’t the only one who seemed disappointed: although Romaglio only looked tense, and Baroni perfectly inscrutable, the other priests seemed simultaneously let down and on edge.

“I’m getting a real other-shoe-dropping vibe,” Katrine said, and immediately blushed like she wished she hadn’t said anything.

Baroni actually nodded, though. “Yes. Something is not well here. I believe you were right about that, Mr Finch, even if we can find no sign of it right now.”

“Well, I’m glad you don’t think I’m crazy at least,” Castle said, but he was perturbed by all the build-up and felt like a silly shit.

“No, no, not crazy. I am sometimes unsure there is such a thing.” Baroni waved a bony finger in a small circle, and Strabo and Ramsey came to Castle’s sides — not grabbing him, but like they were ready to. “Mr Finch, we must entertain the possibility that it is you who are possessed. Please do not be worried about Padres Strabo and Ramsey: a possessed man, when his demon is about to be expelled from him, sometimes thrashes or becomes otherwise violent. We are protecting you, and not only you.”

With that, the priests grabbed him strongly — for their age — by the shoulders, but were only restraining him, not trying to hurt him. It still kicked up a little panic in his gut when they forced him against the wall to leverage the restraint, no less so when Baroni made the sign of the cross and smacked his palm down on Castle’s forehead. Romaglio and Pasmore stood behind him, as silent as broken stones.

“Pater noster,” the Cardinal said, “qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Ecce calix voluptatis carnis qui laetitiam vitae donat. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Placeat tibi, obsequium servitutis meae, et praesta, ut sacrificium quod oculis tuae maiestatis indignus obtuli, tibi sit acceptabile! Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo.”

Romaglio dabbed holy water on his forehead, around Baroni’s fingers, and it went on like that for the better part of an hour — long enough for Castle’s feet to get sore. At first he stood perfectly rigid, sweat trickling down behind his ear and rolling down his neck and shirt. He didn’t believe in possession, he didn’t think — not in demons, or any of that Roger Corman crap. But he believed he’d gotten the shit kicked out of his face by something he couldn’t see or feel, and somehow he’d always suspected the little girl was the real cause of everything in Poltergeist, Indian graveyard or no Indian graveyard. Maybe this was all his fault. Maybe he was some kind of psychic timebomb and everything was leaking out of his head.

But that tension and half-formed fear eased, as he watched it ease out of Katrine as well. He wasn’t shaking and convulsing. He wasn’t spitting pea soup or spinning his head around. He let it go on, because he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing — maybe it was something that took a few hours.

Finally, Rommy asked, “How’re you feeling, Castle?”

“Fine,” he said right away. “Kind of hungry.”

The priests sighed collectively.

“Something is in this house,” Baroni said again. “We will begin again from the downbelow: perhaps the departure of the clerk will help. If not, I must ask the woman to leave.”

“Hey,” Katrine said, and Rommy shook his head.

“It’s nothing personal, miss,” he told her. “But you don’t live here and you aren’t performing the rite. Most of what Castle told me about, and all of the most striking occurrences, happened while you were out of the house. It is possible you are somehow interfering without wishing to.” He paused, and glanced sidelong at Baroni. “Cardinal, the music box I mentioned.”

“Yes?” Baroni cocked his head to the side, like a cat listening at a can opener in another room. “Enzio, you have good instincts. It is a shame they are so wasted with such trivial things. Fetch me this music box.”

They fetched it together, as it were, rather than everyone running up and down the stairs, and everyone sat around the living room as Strabo examined the box.

“Padre Strabo is our technical expert,” Baroni noted with a weird tone of pride. “If there are mechanical oddities to the contraption, he will note them accordingly.”

“It’s of good make,” Strabo said after a moment. “Not mass-produced. Perhaps a century old, a little more, a little less, hard to be exact without opening it up. Well cared for, or it would have rusted. Mr Finch, you say the mention of ‘her mouth’ came when the box unwound itself?”

“Well — the crank was moving backwards, yeah.”

“Let us see what happens when we play it as such things are meant to be played, then.”

He held the clown-headed circus tent in his lap, holding it down with one hand, fingers splayed, as he turned the crank with the other. Music started almost immediately, creakily, sounding familiar but warped: calliope music was like that, and it’d always kind of pissed Castle off, having to sit there listening for a few seconds to something he knew he recognized, only to figure out it was a crappy carnied-out version of “Addicted to Love” or “Up Where We Belong.”

This one sounded kind of Big Band-ish, Dixieland-ish, and they all sat there listening, ears cocked, as Strabo played the box, until Pasmore suddenly blurted out, “In the winter — in the summer — ain’t we got fun?” Everyone looked at him, and he twitched his fingers in a c’mon-c’mon gesture. “Times are bum — and getting bummer — still we got fun. There’s nothing surer — the rich get rich and the poor get — children! In the mean time — in between time — ain’t we got fun?”

Now the tune’s familiarity fell into place, and Castle could feel a tension leave the room.

“Okay,” Strabo said. “That helps us date it a little better — that song’s from the 1920s, isn’t it? Now let’s play it backwards.”

Castle hissed a breath involuntarily and leaned forward to listen as Strabo forced the crank backwards. That clown’s face had an open mouth, too wide, like a cartoon: no teeth, just lips and tongue and big black gap. “Backwards now,” it said, in a singsong but insistent voice, wavering like a warped record. “Backwards now, backwards now, play now, tease better play.”

Baroni coughed. “Padre Strabo?”

Strabo frowned. “It seems to have a recording mechanism of some sort, perhaps. That would have been immensely expensive and intricately involved a century ago, but not out of the question. That did not sound like my voice, did it?” Everyone shook their heads. “There is some sort of distortion, then, which is to be expected and could account for the rearrangement of the words.”

He paused, lifted the box, and put it down on the table — and the crank, as if jostled awake by being moved, began to clank backwards again, the gears audible, sounding like measuring tape. “Welcome to the circus, Sebastian,” the voice said this time, sounding sneering, sounding female. “Welcome to the circus. Welcome to the downbelow.”

Castle leaned forward and vomited on the rug, a sudden mouthful of salt and cloudy saliva that left his tongue coated with bile and seemed to drip from the roof of his mouth like condensation. “Ugh,” he said, as Baroni considered him dispassionately and Katrine jog-stepped to the kitchen. “I’m sorry. I just –”

“Sure,” Pasmore said. “We all heard it. Don’t worry.”

“Curious,” Strabo said. “And I doubt very much a mechanical explanation. Your Eminence?”

Baroni reached for the music box and placed his palm against it. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” he said, with a determined look on his face. “Veni, Spiritus. Emitte Spiritum tuum et creabuntur. Ab omni hoste visibili et invisibili et ubíque in hoc sáeculo liberetur.”

As he’d done with Castle, Baroni kept at his exorcism of the music box for an hour to no apparent effect. He finally leaned back and exhaled a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers as he closed his eyes. “Very well. We adjourn to the downbelow, then.”