“You sure her parents don’t have a video camera? I’d love to get this on tape.”
All the way over, Abby imagined blue lights flickering silently in the rearview mirror. Some cop at the base of the Ben Sawyer Bridge was going to stop them for going seven miles over the speed limit, and when he gave them the ticket he’d hear Gretchen struggling in the back. Were her parents already looking for her? Had the Langs come home and called the police? Abby’s guts were so full of stomach acid, her burps could etch steel.
Her stomach kept twisting as they drove over the short bridge from Sullivan’s Island to the Isle of Palms, headed north on Palm Boulevard, and pulled up outside the empty beach house. Why hadn’t anyone stopped them? Why were they being allowed to do this?
“Here we are,” Brother Lemon said, putting the van in park. “Now what?”
The Langs’ beach house sat high on stilts, a wooden trellis enclosing the unpaved first floor and a long flight of steps leading up to the front porch on the second. Abby forced herself out of her seat, walked across the crushed oyster-shell driveway, unlatched the gates that led to the parking space beneath the house, and swung them wide. Brother Lemon cut the headlights and slowly rolled forward until he was under the house, then the pilings flared red and he cut the engine. There was no sound but a wall of crickets and the ocean.
While Abby found the key hanging from a nail on the back of the stairs, Brother Lemon pulled the tube of blankets containing Gretchen out of the van and slung her over one massive shoulder. Then they clomped upstairs.
Standing in the living room, breathing hard, Brother Lemon decided on the extra guest bedroom for the exorcism because it didn’t have any windows. They went into the room and switched on the single overhead light. The walls were bare wood paneling, the plank floor was covered with a rag carpet. The only furnishings were a plain metal bed frame with a bare mattress and a flimsy white wicker headboard. A matching white wicker dresser stood in the corner.
Brother Lemon went downstairs and bounded back up, panting, carrying his two surf bags and a cooler; he dumped them in the living room. Then he went into the guest bedroom, unwrapped Gretchen, laid her on the bed, and pulled out a wide selection of black nylon straps and handcuffs. All of them were too short.
“Are you sure you’ve done this before?” Abby asked.
“Get me an old sheet,” he said.
Abby came back from the linen closet with two sheets, which Brother Lemon tore into strips and used to tie Gretchen’s wrists and ankles to the bed frame. He left her hands down by her sides.
“It’s less pornographic this way,” he explained.
Leaving the door open, he and Abby went into the living room and waited for Gretchen to wake up. It was winter on the Isle of Palms, so no tourists were renting houses, only year-round people. Even so, Abby made Brother Lemon turn out the guest room light, and she wouldn’t let him turn on any others, so the two of them sat in the dark and went over the plan.
“Mostly we’re going to wing it,” Brother Lemon said.
“Wing it?” Abby repeated.
“Expertise, plans, strategies,” Brother Lemon said. “None of those are any use in an intense exorcism-type situation. You have to enter the arena of diabolic battle armed only with faith, love, and the power of Jesus Christ. Oh, shoot, I can’t believe I didn’t ask this before. You are baptized, aren’t you?”
“Sure,” Abby said, who actually wasn’t very sure at all.
“It’ll be dangerous in there for an unbaptized soul,” Brother Lemon said. “I’ll be doing some serious blasting of prayer and if you’re not girded with the full Armor of God, you might not make it through with your soul intact.”
Beach houses on the Isle of Palms weren’t supposed to be occupied in the winter. None of them had insulation, and none of them had heat. It was so cold that Abby’s fingernails ached. Wind whistled through the cracks around the windows and pressed hard against the walls.
“I want you to know what we’re walking into,” Brother Lemon said. “I need you in the room as my auxiliary, but you’re cherry, so I need you to follow my lead. Do exactly what I tell you to do, nothing more or less. Can you handle that?”
Abby nodded.
“There are four stages of an exorcism,” Brother Lemon said. “Although we’re not doing this the Catholic way, so technically it’s a deliverance. The first stage is Pretense. The demon hiding inside your friend wants us to give up. It wants us to doubt ourselves. So it’s going to pretend it isn’t there. I can see it, but you can’t, so you’re going to think I’m crazy. But you have to trust me. I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve, but it might take some time. Check?”
Abby felt ridiculous saying the word.
“Check,” she said.
“Once I get the demon to reveal itself,” Brother Lemon continued, “we move to the second stage. That’s the Breakpoint. That’s when things might get a little weird. The demon will stop pretending to be your friend, and it will begin conversing with us directly. No matter what happens, do not converse with the demon, do not engage with the demon, do not speak to the demon. It’ll try to trick us and draw us deeper into its traps and snares. Check?”
“Check,” Abby said.
“Then comes the Clash,” Brother Lemon said. “This is like the Breakpoint, only much, much worse. It’ll be full-on spiritual battle. Demons command the powers of darkness, so all kinds of funky stuff might happen. My daddy once saw a glass of water boil. I’ll do everything I can to protect you, but you have to follow my lead without question, check?”
“Check,” Abby said.
“Finally,” Brother Lemon said, “comes the Expulsion. This is when I’ll banish the demon and drive it from your friend’s body. When that happens, be ready for anything. It might attempt to enter one of us, it might take out this whole house. Who knows what it’s capable of, so stay frosty. You got all that?”
Abby nodded.
“How long do you think it’ll take?” she asked. Even in the dark, she could see her breath puff out of her mouth.
Brother Lemon blew into his hands and rubbed his palms.
“Deliverance can take anywhere from fifteen minutes to, oh, about an hour,” he said. “Maybe four or five, but that’s rare.”
It didn’t sound too bad, Abby thought. Maybe they could even return Gretchen before her parents came home.
“Abby?” a voice called in the dark. “Where am I?”
Brother Lemon and Abby looked at each other, eyes gleaming in the shadows, and then he stood up. Rummaging in one of his duffel bags, he pulled out an athletic cup and slid it down the front of his pants. He caught Abby staring.
“First place they go for,” he explained. Then he adjusted himself and picked up a well-worn Bible. “Let’s do the Lord’s work,” he said and headed for the bedroom, walking slightly bow-legged.
Inside, he snapped on the overhead light. The glare blinded Abby for a moment, but then her eyes adjusted and she saw Gretchen squirming on the bed, turning her head away from the light, pulling on the strips of sheet holding her down.
“This isn’t funny,” she said.
Abby closed the door behind them. Brother Lemon stood at the foot of the bed while Abby stayed near the door. Gretchen studied Brother Lemon.
“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle,” Brother Lemon prayed. “Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray. And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by God’s power, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander the world seeking the ruin of souls. Ay-men.”
“What the hell is this?” Gretchen asked. She turned wide eyes to Abby. “What’re you doing with this guy? You’re scaring me.”
Brother Lemon began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .”