Part 5

            Despite Hansen's assurances, Janet called in sick to school.

            "Why doesn't the demon just possess them both?" she asked as they descended their front steps.

            "I don't know. Maybe there are rules in the spirit world - only one possessed soul at a time. As long as Gladys refuses to let go, the demon can't take full possession of Chucky. It fits with what I felt, anyway."

            "This is too dangerous to take on by yourself, Terry."

            "If it gets scary, I'll walk away. I promise."

            Stepping onto the Seller's property, Hansen imagined the ground opening beneath his feet and clawed hands reaching up to drag him to the lower depths. Must have seen that in a movie, he thought.

            "You're not even Catholic," Janet said.

            "The denomination doesn't matter. It's the power of the words and the spirit behind them."

            "Which you believe will drive a demon from this house, setting Chucky free to live a normal life . . .?"

            "Yes."

            "And what if you're wrong?"

            "It can't hurt to try," Hansen sighed impatiently.

            "You don't know that." Janet grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Maybe it can hurt to try."

            "What's the alternative, Janet? Walk away and pretend like I felt nothing? Leave the Sellers to deal with this by themselves? I might be the only one around equipped to take this on."

            "By equipped you mean . . .?"

            "Armed with faith. The disciples said, 'Even the demons submitted to us in your name, Lord.'"

            "Who were sent out in pairs! Who's going to help you?"

            Hansen proceeded up the sidewalk, Janet following. She glanced at the badly folded sheets of paper in her husband's hand. "Can't you make your liturgy a little more official looking? That could be today's racing forms."

            "What do you know about racing forms?" He reached out and pressed the bell.

            Janet turned to breathe in the gorgeous spring day, the bright sunshine belying her husband's dark task. "I asked Father Glenn to stop by . . ."

            Immediately, the door opened, revealing a haggard couple holding their sullen child between them. Silently, they stepped aside to allow the minister and his wife entry.

            "You're sure this will help?" Marsha rasped, both she and Tom awash in skepticism.

            "It can't . . .," Hansen looked at Janet and changed direction. "I believe it will. Yes."

            "Why do we have to stay?" Tom asked flatly.

            Hansen hesitated to talk openly in front of the boy, then quickly realized it didn't make any difference.

            As Marsha closed the door behind them, the air pressure seemed to rise. "I've done a little reading on this subject over the last few days, and most of my sources agree on certain facts. Taking Chucky out of the house will not help him. The demon has his "scent" so to speak and will be able to find him wherever you go. We want the demon to associate Chucky with extreme discomfort, so it will never come back. That's why the one in the process of possession needs to be close during the rite of exorcism."

            "This is all so unbelievable." Tom shook his head as if fending off a concussion, feeling anger and self-loathing for giving in to such a thing.

            No one disagreed.

            Hansen offered, "Well, we can not do it. It is your house, after all."

            A tense silence followed. "Maybe the power of suggestion will help . . ." Marsha began, tailing off because she knew all else had failed. Chucky did not need help, anymore. He needed a cure

            To their surprise, it was Tom who said, "Let's do this."

            Marsha looked at him questioningly. In answer Tom said, "We all saw the same thing. If there's any chance we can get rid of it . . ."

            "OK, the four of you go into the living room, sit down and start with these responsive readings."

            "Whoa! You mean we're taking part in this, too?" Tom asked, on the verge of belligerence.

            Hansen stepped back. "Well, yes, unless you feel uncomfortable about it. The rite has more power the more people who participate."

            Reluctantly, Tom took the sheet from Hansen's grasp. The minister and his wife exchanged worried glances.

            "This is supporting liturgy. I'll go up to Chucky's room and conduct the actual exorcism, that being the epicenter of the house." And also the place where Gladys died, Hansen surmised.

            With that he turned and climbed the stairs, the three adults intoning Psalm 53 by the time he reached the top.

            Chucky's room had changed little since the previous Friday night. The same toys littered the floor, the bed had not been made, but the pictures on the wall of animals and clowns took on a sinister tinge.

            Might as well get right to it, Hansen thought. He raised the remaining liturgy and began to read, "I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord for judgment, that you tell me by some sign your name, and the day and hour of your departure. I command you, moreover, to obey me to the letter, I who am a minister of God despite my unworthiness; nor shall you be emboldened to harm in any way this creature of God, or the bystanders, or any of their possessions."

            At first, he felt foolish, but that quickly gave way to foreboding, then gut-clenching fear. Janet was right. This was not a good idea.

            His tongue thickened and his throat constricted. His breathing became labored as if the oxygen had been sucked from the room. He struggled to continue, but soon fell silent.

            The demon - or something - was making it impossible for him to continue.

            Even worse, his hands and feet went numb, and he could no longer move his legs. He fell back against the wall as if pushed and pressed hard against it. An invisible hand grabbed him by the throat and lifted him from the floor.

            And this, he sensed, was only a fraction of the demon's power.

            Suddenly, a scream erupted from below. "Chucky! Come back!"

            He heard little feet ascending the stairs, followed quickly by heavier ones.

            Hansen saw Chucky bolt passed him into the room and dive onto his bed to burrow under the covers.

            Then, the door slammed shut behind him - and not from the wind, because the windows were firmly shut.

            A second later the Sellers and Janet reached the door, but could not budge it. Hansen and Chucky were now closed off and in the unprotected presence of something truly terrible.

            Suddenly, the door bell rang. Hansen could hear Janet say, "Stay here! I'll get it!"

            Muffled voices rose from below, then more steps.

            Terry!" Janet cried. "It's Papa Duke!"

            The voices sound garbled now as tears wrought by choking streamed down Hansen's cheeks.

            "Hey, Rev," Father Glenn O'Ryan spoke in his characteristic soothing voice. "How about opening up? These are not the days to be alone in a bedroom with a five-year-old. Trust me on this."

            Hansen could not make a sound, except for intermittent gasps. He tried to pound on the wall, but his arms felt like dead fish.

            "Chucky! Chucky!" Marsha cried, "Are you all right?!"

            "Let's call the police!" Tom shouted. "Who knows what he's doing in there!"

            But the arrival of the police meant failure. Even if he survived, and Chucky was taken from the room safe and sound, the paramount problem remained: a demon possessed this house and would stop at nothing until it had stolen the soul of Chucky Sellers. 

            And there was nothing he could do about it.

            Alone.

            The liturgy, Papa Duke, Janet - they were all right. Never try this alone.

            And he had not listened. Now, with his heart nearing explosion and a vision of his own obituary racing through his mind, Terry Hansen understood the depth of his arrogance and the feebleness of his faith. He had attempted to face down an eternal being from the pit - by himself. And he would shortly die for it.

            He prayed silently, "I lift up my eyes to the Lord. From whence will my help come?"

            At that moment he felt another presence in the room. Sorrow and despair briefly supplanted rage and hatred. The pressure in his chest eased slightly.

            It was the ghost of Gladys Timms.

            Would she, could she help me? He would have thrown himself on his knees and begged, if it were possible, but the cold hand of death held him fast. Besides, Gladys - like the demon - had no particular fondness for clergy types. Of this he was certain.

            In a voice barely a whisper, Terry Hansen pleaded what he knew could be his final case.

            As the handle rattled and a body slammed heavily against the wooden door, Hansen appealed to a betrayed soul, murdered by her husband a hundred and sixty years ago.

            "Gladys, I know what he did to you. I know he poisoned you. Constance Sharp left proof. I swear I will tell your story to the world. I will vindicate you! Please help me!"

            The demon's grasp weakened - but not enough. Gladys could not do it alone, either.

            Then Hansen reached down into his soul and appealed to the only power that could finish the job, the power that gave meaning to the words. Suddenly, he was able to raise the liturgy to his eyes: "I cast you out, unclean spirit, along with every Satanic power of the enemy, every spectre from hell, and all your fell companions; in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Begone and stay far from this creature of God. For it is He who commands you, He who flung you headlong from the heights of heaven into the

depths of hell. It is He who commands you, He who once stilled the sea and the wind and the storm. Hearken, therefore, and tremble in fear, Satan, you enemy of the faith, you foe of the human race, you begetter of death, you robber of life, you corrupter of justice, you root of all evil and vice; seducer of men, betrayer of the nations, instigator of envy, font of avarice, fomentor of discord, author of pain and sorrow. Why, then, do you stand and resist, knowing as you must that Christ the Lord brings your plans to nothing? Fear Him, who in Isaac was offered in sacrifice, in Joseph sold into bondage, slain as the paschal lamb, crucified as man, yet triumphed over the powers of hell.  Begone, then, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Give place to the Holy Spirit by this sign of the holy cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever. Amen."

            As he read, an enormous weight crushed against him until his head pounded and his nose gushed blood. Then, finally, as if the house itself exhaled, explosive energy shot from the room, shattering the window that overlooked the church across the street. The draperies fluttered madly, then fell limp. As the door opened behind him, Hansen ran to the window and looked out. He would never know if what he saw was a physical reality or merely a projection in his mind's eye, but he knew it represented truth - and finality.

            Speeding away from the house, wing to wing, a crow and a dove seemed bound together by an unseen force - until the crow veered left beyond the church and the dove disappeared to the right beyond the trees.

            His ears popped in time to hear a little boy cry, "Mommy!"

            Then another voice. "What did you break the window for?" Papa Duke chided, a strange combination of amusement and fear filling his face at the bloodied sight before him. "We can still make our tee time - after you clean up, that is."

            Once the police were dispatched with apologies, and stunned goodbyes were said by all, Hansen and Janet made their way back to the parsonage. Neither spoke a word, but they walked arm in arm.

            On entering, they turned, sliding both arms around the other's waist. She looked at him with worry and awe. His expression read little more than shock.

            "Well done, hero," Janet whispered.

            "I had practically nothing to do with it," he whispered back.

            "I've got the rest of the day off, and I really can't go out . . ."

            "Give me a couple of minutes, and then come up when you're ready. If you're ready."

            "You know my answer to that," she smiled, tilting her head for the long kiss that followed.

            When he woke his computer from hibernation there appeared on the screen the beginning of a resignation letter. He looked at it without emotion, but was soon distracted by a sound he could not recall ever hearing from the yard next door - a little boy's laughter. He rose, walked to the window and looked down. Below, a few yards away, Chucky kicked his feet out in front of him in a joyous swing that might have caused other mothers concern. But Marsha stood calmly behind the boy, occasionally raising a handkerchief to her eyes.

            On returning to the computer, Hansen closed the letter with the intention, perhaps, of finishing it another day. Today, however, he had a more pressing task to fulfill. Today, he had a promise to keep.

            He closed his eyes, prayed, and began to type.

            "It began as an amusing conversation piece, eliciting a smile, an occasional chuckle among those who claimed to see her, and a barely perceptible shake of the head from those who listened with gentle mockery . . ."

End