“An exorcism is a harrowing,” he said. “Do you know what that means? It’s a test of the exorcist, a trial for his soul. You know why we can’t just ask the demon to leave? After all, the Lord’s strong right arm is by our side, and through God all things are possible. Christ the Savior could blast that demon out of your friend like that,” he said, snapping his thick fingers in the cold air.
“But an exorcism tests us. It asks, ‘How strong is your faith? How deep is your belief?’ The exorcist must be willing to lose everything—all dignity, all safety, all illusions—everything is burned away in the fire of the exorcism, and what’s left is the core of who you are. It’s like lifting—when you’re deep in a set, your arms are shaking and you’re a melting candle of pain that’s burned down to zero; you got nothing left to give. And in that darkest moment you cry out, ‘Lord, I can’t!’ and a voice comes out of the darkness and says, ‘But I can.’ That’s the still, small voice that comes in the night. That’s the sound of something bigger than yourself. That’s God talking. And he says, ‘You are not alone,’ and enfolds you in wings of the eagle, and he carries you up. But first you have to burn away everything that doesn’t matter. You have to burn away leg warmers and New Age crystals, and Madonna, and aerobics, and New Kids on the Block, and the boy you’re sweet on in school. You burn away your parents, and your friends, and everything you ever cared about, and you burn away personal safety, conventional morality. And when all that is gone, when everything is swept away in the fire and everything around you is ash, what you have left is just a tiny nugget, a little kernel of something that is good, and pure, and true. And you pick that pebble up, and you throw it at the fortress this demon has built in your friend’s soul, this leviathan of hatred and fear and oppression, and you throw this tiny pebble and it hits that wall and it goes ping . . . and nothing happens. That’s when you’ll have the hardest doubts you ever had in your life. But never doubt the truth. Never underestimate it. Because a second later, if you’ve been through the fire, you’ll hear the cracks start to spread, and all those mighty walls and iron gates will collapse like a house of cards because you have harrowed yourself until all that’s left is truth. That’s what that pebble is, Abby. It’s our core. Few things are true in this life, and nothing can stand against them. The truth slices through the armies of the Enemy like the sword of righteousness. But to get there, to find the truth, we go through this trial, we submit ourselves to this exorcism. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He leaned back and regarded Abby.
“But,” she said, “what if we get arrested?”
Brother Lemon sighed.
“Think on what I said,” he told her, standing up. “And in the meantime, do what I do and say what I tell you to say. Can you do that? Just for a little while longer? We’ve come this far.”
Abby nodded. She was in too deep to quit now.
“Good,” Brother Lemon said. “Now let’s blast this demon back to hell.”
Gretchen watched them from the bed, grains of salt crusted around her eyes and mouth, salt in her hair, salt in her ears. Brother Lemon raised a glass of water that he’d prayed over in the living room.
“Thirsty?” he asked.
Gretchen’s tongue snaked out of her mouth and ran around her chapped lips. It was coated with a thick, white film. Brother Lemon knelt by the head of the bed, holding the glass so she could sip from it. At the first taste, she threw herself back, thrashing and howling. Brother Lemon dashed the water into her face.
“Blessed water!” he said triumphantly. “I drown you in God’s holy love!”
Foam spilled from Gretchen’s lips as her eyes rolled back into her head, leaving only the bloodshot whites exposed.
“Gut, head, heart, groin!” Brother Lemon shouted, pressing his Bible against each part of Gretchen’s body as he named them. “Face me, liar. Don’t you hide. Face me!”
A deep rumble emerged from Gretchen’s lips, a sound driven from the bottom of her stomach. The room filled with a dusty stench that Abby couldn’t place. “Get it out,” she gasped, her voice weak. “It’s going deeper. It hurts. It huuurts . . .”
Her voice disappeared in a hiss of pain. Brother Lemon sniffed the air.
“Cinnamon,” he said, smiling, and turned to Abby. “Smell that? Olfactory discernment. The unnatural odor of a supernatural presence.”
“There’s not much of me left,” Gretchen gasped, her throat spasming. “I’m drowning . . . he’s drowning me . . .”
Brother Lemon brushed past Abby, hurrying out of the room. He returned a moment later carrying a yellow plastic funnel and a gallon jug of Heinz distilled white vinegar. He used his massive hands to bend Gretchen’s head backward and forced the funnel between her teeth. She released great, angry whooping moans around it.
“Hold her legs!” Brother Lemon shouted.
Using one hand, he twisted the top off the jug. He used his teeth to pull off the white paper disk and spat it onto the bed. Upending the bottle, he sloshed a third of the liquid down the funnel.
Gretchen choked, gagged, kicked her heels against the mattress. The vinegar sting burned Abby’s eyes. Brother Lemon pulled out the funnel and held Gretchen’s mouth closed.
“Bucket!” he roared, as Gretchen thrashed beneath him.
Abby grabbed the bucket from where it was lying on the floor and held it out to him.
“Closer!” he yelled. “By her head!”
Abby got there just as he released Gretchen’s mouth, and she threw up all over her shirt. Brother Lemon twisted her to the side and she vomited thin yellow liquid. Then he repeated the process while Abby stood there, holding the bucket. This time, a gout of vomit sprayed the bucket in a high-pressure blast.
“I take up the sword of God’s spirit,” Brother Lemon said, forcing the funnel between Gretchen’s teeth. “I pierce you, driving away your lies.”
“It’s hiding,” Gretchen gasped. “Down deep, it’s going. . . . Do you think this hurts me?” Her voice dropped lower, her vocal cords rasped and scraped. “You’re damning your souls, both of you. You’re throwing away your salvation by torturing this pig. What would your God say?”
Gretchen’s head snapped back on her neck, and she bit her tongue. Her eyes opened, unclouded.
“Don’t listen,” she said. “Do it. Get it out. Get it out of me.”
Brother Lemon stood up and turned to Abby.
“I want you to go into the kitchen,” he said. “See if you can find some ammonia under the sink. We’re going to have a real fight now.”
Abby found half a bottle of ammonia under the sink, but she lied and said she didn’t, so Brother Lemon kept using the vinegar. The struggle went on for hours. Abby’s role was limited to saying “Christ have mercy on us” when Brother Lemon cued her, emptying the bucket as Gretchen filled it with progressively thinner and smaller amounts of bile, and holding down Gretchen’s legs. The guest bedroom warmed from their body heat until it felt like a sauna and condensation trickled down the walls. When they finally stepped out for a break, the sunlight burned their eyes.
They sat in the living room and Brother Lemon chugged water from a gallon jug. He sucked down half and poured the rest over his head and shook it, spraying cold water.
“Brrr!” he exclaimed. “Want some of this? It wakes you up.”
“There has to be another way,” Abby said.
“Don’t you worry,” Brother Lemon said. “Andras thinks he’s in the catbird seat, but he’s about to feel the boot of the Lord in his ass. Go fill the tub.”
Abby’s heart sank. “Why?”
“Full-immersion baptism,” Brother Lemon said, and he wasn’t smiling anymore. “The more we mortify the flesh, the harder we sanctify the spirit, the tougher it is for the demon to hide.”
Abby imagined him lowering a bound Gretchen into the bathtub as she kicked and screamed, pressing her to the bottom of the tub, bubbles rising from her mouth.
“No,” she said. “It’s too much.”
Brother Lemon pointed a beefy finger at her.
“Don’t coward out on me now,” he said. “You heard her. She wants it out.”
Abby shook her head.
“What good is the exorcism if she’s dead?”