Occasional Demons Read online

  Does any of this make sense?

  Well, to me—as a nurse trained in the sciences—of course it didn’t. But if you read and believe those sleazy newspapers, it might make sense. No worse, anyway, than “Amazonian Frog Boys“ or the B-52 that was supposedly found in a crater on the moon. What truly amazed me was that Tom, an educated medical man—a doctor, for Christ’s sake!—would embrace such a cockamamie idea. And I’ll be damned if, after spending several nights talking with him, he almost had me convinced, too. He certainly had me worried.

  But Tom wrapped himself around the idea like Ahab, embracing Moby Dick just before he goes under. He clung to that idea and took it so much to heart that … well, this is what finally happened.

  Tom got in touch with a supposed expert on this theory and after much admittedly hazy philosophical discussion became convinced the “problem“ began at birth, not at conception. Never mind that an embryo’s fingerprints are formed much earlier in development. The “soul,“ so Tom was told—and believed—didn’t actually enter the baby until the instant of birth. I know that idea doesn’t sit well with the Right-to-Lifers, buy—hey, you believe what you want to believe.

  Becky carried the baby well. Tom told me often enough to keep a few pangs of jealousy tingling that she was “textbook perfect.“

  “Great! Good for her!“ I’d say, but beneath it all, I knew he was worried to his core that when Becky finally delivered, the baby—his baby—would have no fingerprints!

  No footprints!

  No soul!

  I had no idea what he planned to do about it. If I had, I certainly would have tried to stop him. But he planned it with all the skill and finesse of a murderer, and that’s exactly what he was, except in his case he was a self-murderer.

  Tom was in the o.b. the night Becky went into labor, and textbook perfect or not, she—like any woman—went through some things that night that she never expected. The labor was intense and basically unproductive. It lasted all night, then through the next morning and on into the afternoon.

  Tom—the textbook perfect husband and father-to-be—stayed by her side the whole time, doing whatever he could to make it easier. Truth to tell, I think he might have known too much. Certainly, he was much too involved with the situation to be effective as a doctor. Sometime around six o’clock that evening, he suggested giving Becky a squirt of Petosin to see if they could make the labor more productive. By this time, Becky was an exhausted, sweating, shaking wreck. There’s nothing like childbirth to strip you to the core of your humanity.

  Tom gave his wife the shot, and it seemed to help some. Nobody—at least at the time—saw what he did with the empty hypo. He must have pocketed it then. Anyway, once the drug kicked in and Becky’s labor was finally getting somewhere, once she entered transition, Tom backed away from the delivery bed. He asked the intern there to take over for him. He excused himself saying he was exhausted.

  Finally, Becky was fully dilated, and the stand-in doctor told her she could start pushing. Her face, infused with blood, turned a bright, beet-purple. The only sounds in the delivery room were her heavy panting and the steady beep-beep-beep of the fetal monitor. As I remember it now, there suddenly were two new sounds—the sudden, mewling cry of a baby, and the soft thump of a body, dropping to the floor.

  I had been in the delivery room for the entire labor and birth. I wanted to be there, and not just out of some vindictive desire to see the woman Tom wouldn’t dump for me reduced to a sweating, screaming mess. No, I wanted to be there if nothing else than to help Tom see it through. I still felt something for him. And—yes, I’ll admit it. I was curious to see if their baby was born with or without fingerprints!

  When I heard the soft thump, I turned and saw Tom, sliding slowly to the floor. I thought at first that maybe he had fainted, but even with the quantity of blood involved with a delivery, I was shocked—stunned, actually—to see a thin ribbon of blood lacing down the inside of his arm and dripping off his cuff to the linoleum floor.

  Even before I reached him, I knew he was dead...and I knew why he had done it. Using the empty hypodermic, he had injected a bubble of air into his artery. He knew exactly where to hit and when, and it didn’t take long for the embolism to kill him. I’m convinced he killed himself at the exact moment his daughter was born so there would be a soul available for her.

  Sounds crazy, I know, but who’s to say it didn’t work? Elizabeth Marie Jacobs was born with a full complement of fingerprints and footprints.

  Of course, the shock of a suicide—a doctor’s suicide—in the delivery room put the whole hospital into an uproar that lasted for weeks—months. It didn’t do much for Becky Jacob’s mental health, either, but she, at least, had baby Elizabeth—a part of Tom—for herself. In time, I knew that would help her heal the wounds.

  The next day, Mark Dufresne, one of the hospital orderlies, and I were looking at Tom’s baby through the nursery window. I was on some pretty heavy medication myself to help me deal with the shock of what had happened. I had also resigned that morning even though I didn’t have another job and couldn’t hold onto my apartment for long without one. I remember Mark commenting that baby Elizabeth had her father’s eyes.

  I remember saying to him, “More than you realize... “ I didn’t tell him...at least I don’t think I told him or anyone else, until now...that just three weeks before Becky delivered, Tom and I had made use of one of those empty beds during a particularly slow night. “For old time’s sake,“ he had joked with me afterwards, and I honestly didn’t mind. I missed him.

  I mind now, though, because I wonder if, when our baby is born, there will be another soul available.

  I wonder...

  Knocking

  The city was on fire.

  For the last six weeks, once the sun was down, Martin Gordon wouldn’t leave his house.

  He didn’t dare.

  He hadn’t seen any news reports since the television stations had gone off the air last week. It had been even longer since he’d read a current newspaper or magazine. But he didn’t need anyone to tell him that being out after dark was dangerous. From his second floor bedroom window, he could see marauding bands of young people, their dark silhouettes outlined like hot metal against the dancing flames of the burning city as they roved the desolate streets.

  The millennial celebrations had started in early December. At first they had been nothing more than sporadic nightly celebrations; but for the last few weeks, they had continued from dusk until dawn as throngs of people moved from city block to city block. What had started as a spontaneous celebration quickly turned into wanton destruction as people’s frustrations and insecurities took over. It wasn’t long before the burning and looting began.

  Martin had quit his job last week, on Monday morning. He thought “quit“ might be too strong a word. There was no superior left at the factory for him to give his notice to, so he just stopped showing up.

  He didn’t mind being out of work all that much. He’d never liked his job at the bank in the first place, and now he had plenty of time to do the things he enjoyed doing, such as working on his model railroads. Of course, with no electricity, he couldn’t run the trains. In the gathering darkness, he could only admire the work he’d done that day and hope that—eventually—once the electricity was restored, he could run them again.

  For the last several days, however, he’d spent most of the daylight hours reinforcing the barricades around his house. He’d sacrificed nearly all of the heavy oak doors from inside the house to cover the downstairs windows. He picked up some heavy-duty screws at the hardware store—literally, because there was no one there to pay—and, after cutting the doors in half, screwed them into the window frames. Someone would have to be pretty damned serious about breaking in to remove any of them.

  Getting food was becoming an increasing problem. Martin had run out of ready cash a while ago. All of the city’s banks had closed their doors by the second week of December, so his paltry
savings were locked up where he couldn’t get at them.

  Ultimately, it didn’t matter because all of the grocery stores within walking distance of his house, like the hardware store, had been looted, anyway. Without electricity, all of the perishables had gone bad, but Martin had enough dried and canned food squirreled away to last a month or more, maybe longer if he was careful. As it was, his meals were pretty uninspired—usually nothing more than cold beans or vegetables eaten straight from the can. All he could hope was that the situation would eventually calm down, and the police would restore law and order so everything could start getting back to normal.

  Whatever normal was in the year 2000.

  Every day, as soon as the sun started to set, Martin would make sure the front and back doors were secure, then settle down for a cold meal from a can before going upstairs, where he could keep an eye on the front yard from his bedroom window. Then, usually sometime after midnight, he’d settle down to sleep.

  He’d gotten so he could sleep through just about anything, unless a roving party of thugs and partiers came too close to the house. When things started to get out of control, he would wake up and sit on his bed with his loaded shotgun cradled like a baby in his arms. The only light he used was a single candle, which he placed behind him so it would illuminate the bedroom doorway without blinding him if anyone broke into the house.

  So far, though, there hadn’t been any trouble, and for some reason, tonight was unusually quiet. The millennium rioting was still in full swing, but some distance away. When Martin looked out the upstairs window, he could see the fire-lit buildings in the distance and hear the sounds of music and riotous voices, laughing and calling out in wild abandon.

  “Christ, some celebration,“ he muttered.

  Having lived alone for the last eight years, ever since his mother died, he had gotten into the habit of talking out loud to himself. He had never known his father who, according to his mother, had left the family when Martin was less than a year old. Like a lot of men in tough economic times, one day he went to the store for cigarettes and never came back.

  There was a sharp winter chill in the air, so after listening to the distant block party for a while, Martin decided it was safe to close the window and settle down to sleep. Because there was no heat in the house—even if there had been electricity to run the furnace, there hadn’t been any oil deliveries in weeks—his mattress was stacked high with blankets and comforters. His breath made puffy white clouds in the darkness as he lay down and watched the dull orange flicker of flames against the city skyline.

  He had just drifted off to sleep when he was suddenly startled awake.

  For a panicky instant, Martin wasn’t sure what had awakened him. The sounds of the celebrations were still far off in the distance. Concerned, he looked around the darkened bedroom, sure that he had heard something, but what?

  Is someone in the house?

  He felt a slight rush of apprehension.

  It was possible, he supposed, but he didn’t see how anyone could have gotten in without making enough noise to wake him up sooner?

  Moving slowly so as to make as little sound as possible, Martin sat up and reached over the side of the bed to where his shotgun leaned against the wall. He felt better once it was in hand. Tossing the bedcovers aside, he swung his feet to the floor. A numbing chill ran up the back of his legs the instant his bare feet hit the icy floorboards.

  Standing in a defensive crouch, he tried to stop his teeth from chattering as he waited for the sound to come again. Shivers teased like bony fingertips playing the xylophone up and down his spine. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled with anticipation until—very faintly—the sound came again.

  It was the soft sound of someone knocking...

  …knocking on the front door.

  Martin’s heart pulsed heavily in his chest as he thumbed the hammer back on the shotgun and took a few cautious steps forward. He was breathing rapidly, trailing his frosty breath like a tangled scarf over his shoulders.

  Before he made it to the now door-less doorway of his bedroom, the knocking came again, louder this time. It echoed through the cold, dark house, which resonated like a huge kettledrum.

  Martin was shivering terribly when he stepped out into the hallway and paused to look over the railing. His eyes seemed to be taking too long to adjust to the darkness as he stared at the front door, positive that he could see it bulging inward with each heavy blow as the knocking sounded again.

  Tightening his grip on the shotgun, Martin started down the stairs. His gaze was focused on the narrow windows on either side of the door. He wanted to catch some indication of who was out there on the doorstep, but all he could see was the deep, black stain of the night, pressing against the glass like a stray cat, wanting to be let in.

  Martin took a deep breath, preparing to call out a challenge or warning, but his voice failed him, caught like a fish hook in his throat.

  He didn’t like this.

  Not one bit.

  But in spite of his rising tension, he kept moving forward. Every stair step creaked beneath his weight, setting his teeth on edge until he made it down to the foyer.

  The only light in the house came from the single candle burning upstairs in his bedroom. Hardly enough light to see by. The darkness within the house pressed close, squeezing against him like soft, crushed velvet. When he realized that he was holding his breath, he let it out in a long, slow whistle. His hands were shaking as he raised the shotgun and aimed it at the front door.

  Even though he was expecting it and was convinced that he was ready for it, his heart skipped a beat when the knocking came again.

  One...two...three times, the heavy blows pounded against the door.

  And then they stopped.

  The sudden silence hummed in Martin’s ears as he stood in the foyer, too frightened to say or do anything.

  His anticipation spiked as he waited for the sound to come again. He looked furtively from side to side as though expecting to see something creeping up behind him in the darkness even though he told himself there was nothing there. His gaze returned to the door when the unseen person on the other side began knocking again, even harder.

  Is it a friend? Martin wondered. Has someone stopped by to check if I’m all right?

  That didn’t seem likely.

  Martin didn’t have any real friends. He kept pretty much to himself, having gotten used to being alone after so many years tending to his invalid mother before she died.

  Thinking of his mother sent a tickling electric current racing up his back.

  What if that’s her out there? He wondered, unable to repress the deep shudder that took shook his insides. He couldn’t help but remember how, during those last, horrible years, when she was ill and bed ridden, she would bang on the wall to get his attention, pulling him away from his time alone with his trains.

  He tried not to think it, but the sounds were practically identical.

  No, he told himself. Mother is dead!

  He tried not to imagine what she would look like, her wizened form hunched on the crumbling cement stairs, wrapped against the cold in her yellowing burial shroud as she banged on the door to be let in. After eight years, her skin, gray from the embalming fluid that had replaced her blood, would be peeling off in large, flaky chunks as each knock rang through the house like a hammer on a Chinese gong.

  But no!

  That couldn’t be her.

  It was impossible.

  He had seen her coffin lowered into the ground.

  She was dead.

  Even if he hadn’t smothered her with her pillow, like the detective who had come by several times had suggested, she was dead and buried. And even if he had done something like that, he had only done it out off mercy, to end her suffering following the paralyzing stroke.

  He told himself he shouldn’t let his imagination get fired up like this. It wasn’t healthy. There was definitely someone out there, make no mistake
, but it wasn’t—it couldn’t be his mother!

  But it was someone, and when whomever it was began hammering on the door again, Martin told himself that, if they didn’t stop and go away real soon, he was going to unload his shotgun on them without warning.

  He didn’t care who it was.

  Even if it was some little kid who’d lost a kitten and was going door to door, looking for it. Or some crazed drunk or drug addict, lost and, thinking he was home, pounding on the wrong door to be let it.

  It didn’t matter.

  And even if it did matter, Martin didn’t care.

  Anyone with any common sense was safe inside his own home as soon as it got dark. The only people out and about at this hour were dangerous people who deserved to die if they were going to bother decent, law-abiding people like Martin, who wanted nothing but to be left alone.

  He’d shoot if he had to.

  He hadn’t heard the news lately, but he was sure there must have been hundreds if not thousands of deaths—both murders and accidental deaths—since the celebrations began. One more death in a city this size wouldn’t even be noticed. Not when the police had so many other important things to take care of.

  Still, Martin didn’t dare to call out, much less go to the door.

  Instead, he walked to the far wall and, leaning his back against the closed closet door—one of the few remaining inside the house—slid slowly down into a sitting position on the floor with his shotgun poised and aimed at the front door.

  The knocking continued unabated, coming more rapidly now, a heavy thumping sound that boomed louder and louder. Martin was convinced that, before long, the blows were going to smash the door to splinters. In spite of the cold, thin trickles of sweat ran down his face. His eyes felt like they were bugging from their sockets as he watched...and waited...wishing that the knocking would stop, and the person would leave him alone.