It was supposed to be an idyllic retreat for my wife and me. She's the artist who hasn't been able to paint since the cancer diagnosis. The chemo took the fine motor control out of her limbs. The new clean bill of health and the doctor's okay for a weekend visit was the kind of gift I hoped would liven her spirits.
The stunning view of the home as we rounded the lake to the home prompted her to demand that I stop the car so she could paint. I pulled out her equipment from the back, and as she worked, I marveled at my luck for finding this place on such short notice. The price was right, too. We didn't have much left in the accounts; the medical treatments had exhausted our funds.
She has that clean bill of health, and as I told her, "I'd pay anything for that." This stay will only cost me a few hours of work. A former work associate contacted me and said he'd heard about my wife's cancer. I could stay here over the weekend if I wanted. All I need to do is clean up the basement.
So I wired my sister, and with her fronting a small amount of cash for gas and groceries, I packed up my wife, her art supplies, and her clean bill of health. My love remained quiet for most of the ride. When she did make noise, it was that small petite snore of hers as I drove.
As an autumn chill pushed across the lake, I helped her back into the car, packed her art supplies, and made our way to the house. I prepared dinner as she napped next to a fire. The cold had set into her frail frame, and the fire, with the aid of a few blankets, sent her back to sleep.
I knew what was in the basement; I'd been here before. I swore to her I'd never go back to this. One should never make promises; fates have a way of exacting their own deeper sadistic pleasures. For a man such as me, classically trained, with the years of experience I have, there are only so many choices. Once you are in the know, this isn't a profession you can walk away from.
Dinner was lovely, with quiet chatter about nonsensical things husband and wives talk about. I complimented her watercolor painting from earlier. She's just now gaining her strength again. The day was more eventful than any three she's had in the last four years, save for our wedding day.
I tuck my drained wife into bed and prepare myself for the work to come. I removed that old black Valise from the rental car; I sold ours a month after her diagnosis. The battered edges of the black leather remind me of the work I've done. A frightful shiver rolls down my spine as memories that humans should not have burst into active retrospection.
I pulled out the long silver key my coworker had given me and started deconstructing the warded locks on the basement door. The smell hit me as I turned the doorknob and broke the seals to the depths below: sulfur, brimstone, bile, and gore.
It's two dozen steps down to the sub-basement where my work lies bound in silver chains. It's a seeming of a kid, a girl of about 13. The beast is good, but like all of the demons from below, it doesn't understand humanity. The uncanny valley of reality's human imperfections betrays it for what it is.
The child's unearthly beauty is a giveaway: perfect skin, lustrous curly red hair, and not a strand out of place. I was told it had been caught here more than a week ago.
"Is that you, priest?" the masculine guttural growl nearly brings me up short, and only by grasping the handrail do I place my foot on the last stair step.
I look at the silver wards on the floor, on the walls, and on the ceilings. I inspect the knotwork of those meticulously poured lines of Vatican silver. They'd broken the barrier two decades before I was born, and humanity learned quickly that the ones from below don't see, smell, or sense silver, even when held by the material.
"So, priest," the vile beast says. There is a sniff, a pause, and then an inhumanly long inhalation of air. The laughter is coarse, grating, and vile like out-of-tune instruments plucked and played in a horrible concerto. "You are no priest," it says. "Not anymore."
I set my valise down on the provided workspace and undid the snaps. The sound resounds in the space just as the laughter did. There is no sense or need to communicate; all the underworld beast will do is lie.
I did tell the universe I would pay any price and do anything. Here I am, once again, doing what I am good at. I chuckle—no, not good, best at.