Mackie

“Hel-en, Hel-en,” the creepy gurgle-talk continued.  The sound could never be generated by human vocal cords.  “For children, death.  For He-len, death.”  I backed away from the balcony.

Now this was a bad day.

“I’ve had enough death,” I said.  “Get gone, whatever you are.  I’m not Helen.  Look down over there.”

Well, whatever it was must have followed Helen’s trail.  It entered the condo from the balcony above.  The first thing I saw were five-foot legs with three fingered toes.  The “toes” looked like sharp blades and they scrapped against the concrete of the balcony. The thing entered like a spider, skittering down, and I saw its body next.  The creature’s skin was translucent and I could see an impossibly complex mixture of blood, veins, and muscles all in constant motion. Its hands lowered the creature into the building but what they grabbed to perform this maneuver I never learned.  Then, its legs stepped forward and the body plopped down level with me. 

I saw its head or rather the back of it just before the monster performed the most creepy of maneuvers.  The monster’s head twisted completely and its “legs” suddenly reversed as well. They became arms.  Its head was human, or rather a mockery of a human.  It had elfin female features. Its eyes glowed yellow but were missing pupils.  It smiled madly and the yellow radiated from in its mouth.  “He-len,” it said.  Somehow, I realized, it was speaking with light.  “He-len.”

Sanity had completely exploded.  I was in Hell.  I had died in that alley and this was Hell.  The creature stepped into the building and its claws cut through the green shag carpeting and into the floor bellow.

“I am not Helen!” I said and I fired again and again.

God, I was accurate!  Each of the remaining eleven bullets in my gun struck him in the head.  I must have put five into its eyes and three into its mouth.  The most accurate shots were wasted.  The bullets vanished in the light radiating from the monster’s eyes and mouth.  The others—that went to the forehead—visibly affected the creature.  It recoiled as if slapped and I could see where the bullets penetrated.  The damage was visible.

“Not hurt Hel-en,” it said.  Its face moved closer to mine.

I screamed.  Too much madness for one day.  But blood had leaked into my lungs so blood came spitting out of my mouth.  This actually did cause the creature to pull back. 

“Blood!” it said.  “No Hel-en.”

“That way!” I said.  “Down the building!”

“No Hel-en. No Hel-en.  But…  Hel-en kin.  You Hel-en kin.  I kill Hel-en kin!”

I wonder what would have happened if I had thrown my weight against the creature and shoved.  Maybe it would have exited the building in Helen-fashion.  Then again, with those impossibly sharp claws, probably not.

No, I’d more than spent—or thought I had—my daily dose of courage.  I turned, jumped towards the door, brushed the chair I'd jammed under the doorknob aside, swung the door open, and ran out.   Yes, ran.  My knee was practically shattered, my ribs broken, I could barely breath, and so on and so on.  But I ran.  And what’s more, I ran quickly.  Of course, there was a price.  I knew with each pounding step I increased the extent of my injuries.  But I could do it and I had to.

Madness.  Insanity.  Hell. 

I lived in this building for ten years and I knew where the fire escape was.  That’s where I headed.  Behind me, the creature followed, it’s steps louder than an elephant’s.  Mercifully, the hallways were empty.  I opened the fire escape door and rushed in.  I leapt down the stairs five at a time, the pain in my knee so overwhelming I thought I would collapse but I didn’t.  As the pain grew, as my breathing became impossible, I slowed only slightly.  Seconds later, I was more than a story down.

Hospital.  Get to a hospital. 

The door exploded above.  Hospital?  Lead that thing into a hospital?  The monster would eat everyone alive.  I could feel the thing come down the steps: light and a gurgling sound mingled into an evil presence.  How could light gurgle?  No choice.  I started leaping down entire sets of steps and landed on my good leg.  Unfortunately, I didn’t have Helen’s balance and half the time I crashed against the wall.  But I did gain distance on the demon. 

Demon, yes that’s what it was.  A demon.  Church.  Church!

The rest of the floors passed like a blur.  By the time I’d reached the bottom, my knee was silly putty.  How would I ever walk normally again?  On the other hand, I’d never heard of anyone with a pulverized knee sprinting like an Olympic champion either. 

And that was exactly what I was doing.  I popped open the back door which of course set off the fire alarm.  Everyone on the street stared at me.

“Run away,” I shouted and spat.  The blood emphasizing my words.  “Run away!”  People screamed and scampered.  OK, it was me and the blood they were fleeing, but that worked.

St. Simon’s was only a block a way.  Father Paul was a good man, he would help me.  Wildly, I looked behind me but I saw nothing.  A large crowd had gathered around the fallen banister.  Oddly, I noticed the woman holding her heart recounting her harrowing story.  I was happy she was alive.  I could hear sirens.  Traffic had completely stopped and I wove my way through stalled cars and tore across the street.

It was early evening and Little Shanghai was bustling.  I picked up my pace.  What a sight I must have been, shouldering my way through the crowd.  I had a sneaker-print on my forehead, blood dripping from my mouth, and my eyes surely held the wildness of a rabid wolf.  People let me pass but this was Grimsby and no one offered to help.  Hell, I sped past so fast it’s possible no one could tell how badly off I was.  Well, at least no one asked my autograph.

The distance evaporated despite my condition.  I passed my favorite Chinese restaurant and right next to it were the beckoning double doors of St. Simon’s.  Up the steps I went.  I tugged at the doors.   They were locked. 

What time was it?  I thought it was maybe eight.  I pounded.  Maybe I should rip the doors open.

No.  You can’t break your way into a church.  Now, maybe this seems like a silly superstition to you, but it was the way I felt then and still feel.  I was calling upon God for aid.  How dare I break down the doors of His House?  God would help me if He chose.  So, I pounded.  And prayed. 

And the doors opened.

A surprised Father Paul stared me in the face.  I brushed past him, squeezing his shoulder familiarly.  As soon as I was in, I slammed the doors shut. 

“Good God, child, you’re hurt!” he said.

I yanked him away from the doors.  “A demon’s hunting me,” I said.  Well, I tried to say.  By now I really had trouble breathing and so had trouble speaking.  Ardinary person would have fallen unconscious from lack of oxygen (or possibly the pain).  I’d just ran a block in maybe fifteen seconds. 

“What did you say?” Father Paul said.  His voice was staccato but everything else about him was beautiful.  The white hair, the sensuous lips, the beautiful roman nose.  Oh, sure, I loved Father Paul—but I didn’t lust for him. 

“A demon,” I said, pronouncing the words carefully with what little breath I could draw.  “A demon,” the sound was a bloody hiss but I was speaking, “a demon is behind me.”

“I thought you said demon,” he said.

Now this was just like Father Paul.  I say something and he says, “Did you just say what you clearly annunciated?”  It’s rather an annoying habit in a confessor. 

“I must call an ambulance,” he said.  His right hand reached out and supported my left shoulder.

I shook my head.  “Demon.”

“Child, demons aren’t real,” he said.  “They’re metaphorical illustrations.”

Dummy!  I rapped on his head as if to see if there were anyone home. He looked surprised and than laughed.  “I have a parishioner who does that all the time to me.  Maybe I’m a little thick headed.  But a demon?  Do you mean a bad person or…”

“Real,” I said.  Father Paul kept running his hand through his hair with his other hand. 

“Your hair is still there,” I said softly and slowly.

Well, that positively shocked him because that’s what I always said whenever he did that.  “Do you know Mackie Normand?”  I knocked on his head again. 

And then I knew the beast was near.  I could feel it. 

“Oh my God,” Father Paul said.  His hand rested on my shoulder and he could, maybe through me, sense the monster too.

“The Altar,” I said.  Finding my voice, albeit only with a great deal of blood and spittle.  Father Paul hoisted me up and carried me to the altar.  That seemed strange.  I had always been so large before and now I was so light that even Father Paul could carry me.

“Hel-en kin,” the demon said.  “Hel-en kin.  Die, Hel-en kin!”

Its voice came from everywhere and nowhere.  I know that’s cliché but it was just a plain fact.  Every light source echoed its cry—and yes, they all gurgled and I can’t explain it.

But when the door opened and the monster strolled in casually—as if it were a normal person—I was shocked silly.  How was it that no one outside noticed this monster?  Father Paul said something he would later need to confess.  I added a few choice words but at least I had my confessor about.  Maybe since we were about to die I should have him recite last rites.  How could this demon survive a church?

The monster crawled towards us down the wide aisle.  It’s sidled towards us like a crab.  “Hel-en kin,” it said.  “Revenge!”

“Stop,” Father Paul said.  Never mind his odd voice, he can seem very authoritarian.  The monster did actually pause.  “Leave this temple of God unholy creature.”

Yeah, I thought sarcastically, that’ll work.  I slowly got to my feet.  “The cross.”

“Yes,” Father Paul said.  He grabbed a cross and held it high.  “Get back!”

The monster came closer.  I placed my hand on Father Paul’s shoulder.  “Pray,” I said.  And we did.  He prayed loudly in his most booming voice and I prayed silently.  I just didn’t think I had the strength for fighting.  The demon didn’t hesitate.  I think I heard it laugh. 

“Stay firm,” Father Paul said, more to steady his own shaking hands than to succor me.  I stood as firm as the high altar itself.  I felt a strange confidence that settled my stomach and warmed my chilly spine.  Perhaps brewed from the absolute hatred I felt for this monster.  It was my enemy.  Like Poe, this creature dripped evil.

 Father Paul’s prayers intensified.  The monster lifted its claws.  “Die!” it said.

I prepared to intercept the blow; perhaps I could drive the monster back.  But it wasn’t necessary.  The creature lunged forward but as it did so an aura of the purest light formed around us and it was repulsed.  It’s hard to know who was the more surprised, the monster or Father Paul.  For me, the whole thing seemed very natural.  Our shield was more than mere light.  It was a weapon.  But how did I use it?

The monster struck again and failed again.  It started pounding against the shield but it was like woodpecker attacking a fossilized tree.  The creature could never penetrate this barrier, I knew, because our faith and my power was stronger than its.

It raged, it fumed, it pounded, and finally its claws raked the marble of the church floor.  We stayed safe.  Yes, I supplied most of the power—where it came from I don’t know—but Father Paul was helping me.  The church was helping me.  That meant God was helping me.  A demon couldn’t defeat God.

“Now that’s interesting,” Helen said.  “Because I’ll be damned if that isn’t the strongest Sanctified shield I have ever seen.”

How she came in I never found out.  She was just there, in the back of the church, standing as confidentially as if she’d just bought the church and was already window shopping in the mall she would build once she had it torn down.  Helen had her purse slung over her shoulder and she’d wrapped a jacket around her waist to staunch the bleeding.  But she was here. 

“Boy is my face red or what?” she said.