In the Name of Evil | Chapter 6 [End]

A mixture of fear and grief overwhelmed Father Akkerman. Had Els been in the abyss with them? He worried that may’ve been the case and that he’d forgotten her, so he looked to the dark pit. But it was gone. The floor was in almost pristine condition, making Akkerman pause.
           That was when he heard footsteps behind him. Turning around, he looked out into the upstairs hallway. Allard Giese was coming up the stairs. When he saw the two priests he let out a sigh of relief.
           “Mr. Giese, what happened?” Akkerman questioned.
           “I could ask you that,” Els’ father responded. “You two disappeared. We heard screaming, but only Els was here.”
           “Where is Els now?”
           “Downstairs, with Chantel. She’s been saved, Father!” The man seemed overcome with emotion as he smiled. “We’ve been waiting for you and Father de Witte to return. Where did you go?”
           Akkerman glanced down at de Witte, who was still unconscious. In an offhanded way he replied, “I’m glad that Els is all right,” avoiding the question. Allard wasn’t a religious man, but even if he was, Akkerman wouldn’t expect him nor anyone to believe the story he had to tell. “Is there anywhere I can lay Father de Witte?”
           As if on cue, the two older men heard the priest groan. De Witte’s eyes, their normal blue color, drifted open.
           “Father?” de Witte grumbled, half conscious but looking up at the older priest.
           “I’m here,” Akkerman assured him.
           “Where’s Els?”
           “She’s downstairs.”
           “Is she okay?”
           “The exorcism was successful.”
           De Witte laid his head back in relief. Finally it was over, and it appeared the fallen angel had come out weak but otherwise unharmed. Akkerman stood before offering his hand to help Jasper, which he took, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.
           “Come downstairs when you’re ready,” Allard offered before turning his back to them and heading for the stairs.
           Akkerman then noticed that something was still missing, so he spoke up. “Mr. Giese?”
           The brown-haired man turned to look at them again, standing in front of the staircase. His light blue dress shirt was stained with sweat and tears, but was clean other than that. “Yes?”
           “Do you know where the pectoral cross is? I don’t seem to have it anymore.”
           “The golden cross on the chain?” Allard questioned, then answered: “Els was holding it when we found her in here. She has it downstairs with her.”
           “Is she awake?” De Witte finally spoke at his normal volume.
           “Yes.” The father again smiled. “Thank you both so much. If it wasn’t for you . . .”
           Akkerman shook his head. “You’re welcome. I’m grateful that she’s free, as well.”
           Allard nodded, paused, and then walked downstairs, leaving the two priests alone in Els’ room. It wasn’t cold upstairs anymore; the air felt cleared of evil. The old priest looked at the young one with a soft smile. They could finally rest; the demon that’d been torturing them for what felt like hours was vanquished at last. On the plus side, it seemed that de Witte was completely normal despite his weakness, which was to be expected. De Witte didn’t smile back, but his eyes expressed his ease of mind.
           “Do you remember much of what happened?” Kain inquired.
           “Too well,” Father de Witte answered. The response made Akkerman frown and sigh.
           “I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent what the demon did to you. It must’ve been horrible.”
           “That’s an understatement.”
           Akkerman wasn’t sure what else to say, so instead he turned his head to look at Els’ bed. One of the bedposts had snapped off at some point. The bed sheets were torn up. There were claw marks all along the walls. If the Giese family moved out, he wondered what the real estate agent would think when they saw the room, especially with its door knocked to the floor and damn near smashed in half. He realized he was still holding de Witte’s cross, so he decided to say one final prayer.
           “Almighty God, we beg you to keep the evil spirit from further molesting these servants of yours, and to keep him far away, never to return. At your command, O Lord, may the goodness and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ, our Redeemer, take possession of this man and woman. May we no longer fear any evil since the Lord is with us; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever.”
           “Amen,” de Witte mumbled.
           With the final prayer done, officially concluding the exorcism, Akkerman turned back to de Witte and extended the cross back to him. The young man snatched it and buried it in the access slot of his cassock. Assuming he was in a bad mood due to the pain he’d gone through, Akkerman didn’t react to his snappy disposition.
           “Let’s go downstairs and check on Els,” he suggested. De Witte only nodded, so they headed down, Akkerman leading. When they got to the warm first floor, they stepped into the living room.
           Els was on the couch, snuggled against her mother. Her hair was a mess and she looked exhausted, but other than that she looked normal. She gazed up at the two priests with a concerned look, so Akkerman gave a warm smile to sooth her.
           “Thank you, Father,” Chantel said as she stroked Els’ hair. She had happy tears in her eyes. “Thank you so much. I can never repay you.”
           Akkerman nodded his head at her. He noticed that Els was in fact holding onto the pectoral cross, but he said nothing of it. If needed, he would return for it, though he felt he could explain to his superiors why he didn’t bring it back.
           “We’ve said the last prayer,” he announced. “Els should be safe now. She’s out of the demon’s reach.”
           Those words relieved Els, who cuddled closer to her mother and closed her eyes. There was no question that she needed a lot of rest to regain her strength.
           For the first time, Akkerman felt a sense of pride about his life choice to become a priest. He’d saved two lives from the hands of the devil, after all. But he admitted he wouldn’t have been able to do it alone. Father de Witte deserved most of the credit, as he’d fought the demon head-on and managed to keep his soul.
           When he glanced at Jasper, Kain was relieved to recognize him as being the same gentle man that he’d met earlier that night. His expression was a tad grim, though Akkerman understood the sentiment. He’d probably looked the same after his first exorcism, and he hadn’t been possessed during it.
           The old man let out a contented sigh. The night was almost over. Els was safe. He’d done what he arrived to do. Silently, he hoped that his mother was watching him from Heaven, and that he’d finally made her proud.
           “How long were we gone?” de Witte asked the family.
           “About forty minutes,” was the reply, from Allard.
           Funny, Akkerman thought. It felt so much longer than that.
           There was a beat of silence before Akkerman said, “We should prepare to leave.”
           “So soon?” Chantel asked. “Please, stay a while.”
           The old man shook his head. “We wouldn’t want to impose. You all seem so tired.”
           There was no argument, so Akkerman returned upstairs to pick up the holy items he’d left. On the floor of Els’ room he found the bottle of holy water. The blessed liquid had mostly spilled out, but he didn’t care. He only wanted to drop the holy items off at the church and return home to get some sleep. Both the cap of the bottle and his bible were under the bed. He couldn’t find de Witte’s bible, though, so he assumed that the young man already had it.
           After picking up everything he could find and realizing at some point that he was again wearing the violet stole and his surplice, Akkerman returned to the first floor. De Witte was looking at himself in the mirror that he’d been staring at before the exorcism. Els was resting, but still awake.
           “Father Jasper,” Akkerman inquired, “do you have your bible?”
           “Is it not upstairs?” the blond priest asked.
           “I’m afraid not.”
           De Witte shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll get a new one from the church tomorrow.”
           With that settled, Akkerman turned to look at the Giese family one last time. “Goodnight.”
           “Goodnight, Father,” Chantel said. “Thank you for everything.”
           Akkerman opened the front door, but stopped when he heard Els’ voice.
           “Father, wait,” she called. He and de Witte looked back to see her walking toward them, wearing one of her mother’s robes over her shoulders. When she was close enough, she held the pectoral cross out to them. “I think this is yours.”
           “You should keep it,” Akkerman suggested. “It will keep you safe.”
           Els smiled with tired brown eyes. “Thank you,” she replied, holding the cross close to her chest.
           “Be safe, Els.”
           With that, the two priests left the Giese house. Els stood by the doorway, watching them go with a small smile.
           It was snowing lightly. Akkerman took a deep breath of fresh air. The street lights created beams of gold, making the fallen snowflakes under them sparkle.
           “I’m going to take the shortcut,” de Witte told him. “I want to get to the church and call it a night.”
           Though there was a main road that they could take to get to the church, the winds were cold and harsh. The shortcut cut through some alleys, saving five minutes and also giving protection from the brisk air.
           “I’ll go with you,” Akkerman said.
           The duo began walking down an alleyway, strolling beside each other. There was a long beat where neither of them knew what to say. It was becoming readily apparent that neither priest truly knew the other. They’d only met less than an hour and a half prior, though it felt so much longer.
           “Where are you from?” de Witte asked to break the silence as they walked.
           “New York,” Akkerman answered.
           “Really? How is it there?”
           “Bitterly cold.”
           “Not much different, then?”
           The priests shared a laugh. Humor felt almost foreign to Akkerman after the terror the demon had put him through, but he was happy regardless. He hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed laughing until then. The trauma had given him a new lease on life. He felt as though God was watching him for once. Finally he had faith.
           That was when he was shoved violently against a wall by the younger priest. One second he was fine. The next, he felt a sharp pain in his lower abdomen. At first he didn’t do anything. He had no reaction, the shift in mood so abrupt that he wasn’t even sure what had happened. Choking on a fluid that he felt rising in the back of his throat, he lowered his gaze.
           De Witte was making incoherent, stammered noises of shock. He didn’t seem to understand what had happened either, though he was the one staring at whatever his hands had done.
           When Akkerman saw that the base of de Witte’s cross had gone through his cassock, he knew what happened but couldn’t believe his eyes. The base was blunt, and yet somehow de Witte had managed to stab him in the stomach with it.
           “F�"Father, I . . .” De Witte’s voice was low and shaky from shock. “I don’t know why I . . . I just . . .”
           Before Akkerman could speak even a word, de Witte ripped the cross out of his abdomen. To his surprise, the base was no longer blunt; instead it was sharp, pointed into some sort of stake. He had no idea when that happened.
           De Witte stabbed Akkerman again, and again, and again, over and over. At first the old man could tell that the fallen angel was trying to stop, but once it became clear that he had no control, his resistance ended. The stabs became rougher and deeper. De Witte had a hand on Akkerman’s left shoulder, the man’s chin buried in his blond hair. Crimson ichor splattered against the pavement below Akkerman as the younger priest kept on stabbing. Finally Akkerman’s legs gave way and he slipped to the ground, sitting in a pool of his own blood. With ragged breaths and blurry eyes, he looked up.
           De Witte’s left hand, in which he held the bloody cross, was now dyed red, the front of his white surplice decorated with lines and large patches of scarlet. He stared down at Akkerman with a blank expression and eyes clouded over with black.
           “I told you,” the old man heard de Witte’s voice, distorted, tell him. “I am a demon of my word.”
           Akkerman only stared. His eyes began to burn from fatigue and the welling of tears. He began to weep, half conscious, lowering his head. His own blood was pooling around him. The red syrup that flowed out of his several stab wounds leaked out between his fingers.
           “Don’t hurt Els,” he begged through his uneven sobs. “Please, don’t hurt Els.”
           “Goodbye, Father Akkerman.”
           Watching de Witte walk away in the direction they’d come from but being powerless to stop him, Akkerman continued to snivel. He tasted copper, but didn’t want to cough, because that would cause him too much pain. Leaning his head back against the wall, he felt his consciousness slipping. His eyelids were growing heavy.
           He found himself thinking about his life, wondering where his former girlfriend was. Was she all right? He hoped that she’d found a man to love�"that she’d mothered a happy family; that wherever she was, she was happy. He thought about all of the people he used to know when he was younger. How had their lives turned out? Did any of them still think of him? Doubting it, he let out a weak chuckle.
           He’d never known his father. For most of his life he’d hated the man for not being around. At some point, though, he’d simply stopped caring. But he’d never forgiven. In that moment, as he lay dying, Akkerman tried to picture what his father might’ve looked like. Once he had a clear mental image, he pulled his lips apart to speak and managed to whisper, “All is forgiven, father.”
           That was when he felt a soft, warm hand on his cheek. With his weak green eyes, he looked ahead. His mother was kneeling before him, glowing. She had a loving expression as she began to wipe the tears from the right side of his face with her thumb.
           “Mother . . .”
           “I’m here, darling,” she told him. “It’s all right now.”
           “Mother, I . . . I’m sorry. I couldn’t save them.”
           “You tried, my son. I’m so proud of you. So very, very proud.”
           Kain closed his eyes. His lips trembled from emotion. “Will I be seeing you, mother?”
           “Yes, my love. We’ll never be apart again.”
           All of the old man’s pain slowly left him. It was over. He’d given his all, and although he’d failed, he’d earned his mother’s love. She was proud of him. He could be happy with that much.
           “I love you, Kain.” These words from his mother were the last Akkerman heard before everything faded away. When his body was found a few hours later, there was a contented smile on his weathered face.
           Kain Akkerman was finally at peace.