As God Intended

Mother Mary In The Mildew

"Victor, I'm going to let myself in." George called again, retrieving a key from his pocket and fastening it into the lock. For a moment the whole group held their breath, watching as the man's wrinkled hand grasped the door knob and began to turn. Sherlock clenched his fist even tighter around the rosary, as if losing circulation in his fingers was going to help him in any way. As the door swung they all stared intensely into the room, trying to make out any telling figure within the shadowed bed. The curtains were drawn tightly across the windows, though there was light enough to see just how disheveled the room had become. The room stunk of body odor and human excrement, as if the boy had been living within the confines of these walls for weeks on end without leaving once. There were dirty dishes shattered upon the floor, and from the faint light the sun could provide Sherlock noticed the promised scratches upon the wall, three strokes side by side and stretched almost from ceiling to floor. He shivered in discontent, feeling as though this was no prison for the mentally ill; it was a den for the devil. Yet the most disturbing part of the room was not what was inside, in fact it what was missing that caused Sherlock to go cold.
"Victor?" George called softly, stepping into the room only a single step so as to examine the darker corners of the room. There was no response, though the man didn't seem to want to go in any farther. Perhaps he was afraid that the boy was crouched and waiting for an attack, that or he just didn't feel safe being in the confines of these destroyed walls.
"George, you don't think he escaped?" Marie asked nervously.
"He's been so docile, why would he escape now?" George insisted, clutching nervously to the folds in his ill-fitting dress pants and turning circles in the spot he now stood. Sherlock tried to take a step farther inside, feeling as if the hallway was slowly becoming smaller, as if it was growing darker. Suddenly the bedroom felt safer than his current situation, the last in this small party, the most vulnerable from behind...
"Oh father, what have you brought me today?" came a purring voice from behind, unnaturally deep yet playful. Sherlock jumped to feel a hand clutch upon his waist, solid fingers squeezing upon his hip bone as if the boy intended to dig his fingers as far between skin and bone as he could manage.
"Victor!" Marie exclaimed, clutching her hand to her heart with the appearance of her son. Sherlock slapped the hand away, turning frantically and falling into the corner of the hallway, trying to distance himself as much as possible from the looming presence that seemed to grow in stature. It was just as Sherlock had imagined, a young adult with all the characteristics of a charming, mature young man. His brown hair was falling over his face in unstyled bangs, covering radiant blue eyes that seemed to glow ever brighter, and at the moment he must be standing well over six feet tall. He had an overbearing appearance to him, a power that could not be explained in any logical procession of words. His very presence had a choking feeling, as if his smile was sucking all of the oxygen from the room and leaving his guests breathless. For a moment Sherlock brandished the crucifix, though never released his fingers to reveal to the boy just what it was. Victor hesitated, sneering upon the man's closed fist, though he didn't dare come any closer.
"Father Holmes." Victor snarled. "Sherlock Holmes. William Holmes."
"How do you know my name?" Sherlock demanded.
"Logical deductions. Based entirely off past experiences." The boy chuckled. "We've met before."
"I don't recall." Sherlock admitted. Victor merely chuckled, twiddling his fingers together and eying Sherlock with a curiously hungry expression. The priest tried not to show fear; he tried not to let his emotions get the better of him. Despite his determination, Sherlock's fist was beginning to waver in the air, the beads of the rosary clanking together as they hovered and shook.
"Have you some idea what to do with me, Father?" Victor chuckled. "I'm just sick, I swear that's all that is the matter."
"Victor, how did you get out of your room?" George wondered, pocketing the key and approaching his son with as much confidence as he could muster. The boy sucked on his lower lip, bouncing his weight back and forth between feet as if trying to think of the correct answer.
"Oh father, I just turned the knob. I wanted a snack." Victor defended, trying to put on the most innocent composure he could manage. Though despite his demeanor, the boy was still radiating with a sickly energy, one which struck fear in his onlookers. This was no regular boy, Sherlock could tell just by the feeling radiating off of his skin. It was something much more evil, though what sort of evidence could prove such a claim? It was no so easy to get an exorcist, they took proof, they took money! Sherlock had very little of both of these things, not to mention almost zero respect from his higher authorities. If the bishop would be the one to have to sanction the exorcism then it was game over for the Trevor family! They might as well throw this diseased boy down the well; it would be much less messy than whatever plan the bishop could cook up to make Sherlock's life more difficult.
"Are we speaking to Victor Trevor?" Sherlock asked finally, keeping his voice calm and firm. The boy's blue eyes blinked quietly, and for a moment he began to approach with soft, careful footsteps. Sherlock brandished the cross again, shaking his fist as if to remind Victor of the power he possessed.
"Who else would be speaking, love?" Victor wondered.
"Have you taken his body?" Sherlock asked again. The boy chuckled, clutching his fingers to his chest and grabbing hold of his skin, trailing his hands the whole way down his sides as if to caress his own shape, as if to play a game of temptation with the onlookers.
"His body?" the boy wondered. "My body, you mean? A young, healthy body."
"Victor, stop speaking like that!" Marie cried. "Come to your senses!"
"Mother, you're not helping." Victor sighed. "Can you not see I'm seducing this old man?"
"Seducing?" Sherlock snarled, stepping forward again and releasing the rosary from his fingers, allowing the cross to dangle between his fingers and demonstrate the power of God. The boy flinched, withdrawing back a single step as if the appearance of the holy symbol took him aback. Marie had begun to cry again, stifling her tears behind her clenched fist and shutting her eyes tight, as if trying to pretend she did not see her vulnerable son with the maddened eyes, hissing at the mark of the Father.
"Victor go back to your room." George demanded at last, stepping aside and jabbing a finger towards the bed.
"I've been in my room long enough." Victor whined, though there was a sense of playfulness in his eyes, as if he found this entire conversation to be terribly entertaining. Sherlock was still trembling, though he found it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes focused upon the boy. For some reason Sherlock felt guilty for staring, as if he wasn't allowed to look as long as his eyes demanded. Seducing this old man...what sort of audacity did that boy have?
"Go to your room." George demanded again. At last Victor began to shuffle, rearranging his limbs and slouching heavily within his frame. Sherlock lowered the rosary, figuring he had to let the boy pass through one way or another. As Victor began to shuffle forward Sherlock countered his movements, sliding along the wall so as to keep the space between them safe and constant. At long last the boy was lingering within the door frame of his bedroom, his fingers playing against the door frame and scratching upon the wood. It was only now that Sherlock realized his hands were covered in dried blood, once a deep red now caked into the folds and divots of his long fingers.
"Get inside!" Marie demanded, giving Victor's back the necessary push and sending the boy tumbling onto the hardwood inside of his bedroom, giving her husband just enough time to pull the door shut and turn the lock securely. There was no protest from the other side; Victor seemed to have fallen silent. Perhaps he was accepting defeat, or perhaps he figured this whole encounter was a win on his part. Either way, he was satisfied enough with the ending to let it be such. Together the party of three descended back down the stairs, treading carefully and fearing what they might find within the house. Victor had been loose and unmonitored, and the blood on his hands had to have come from somewhere. It was only until George let out a cry that they found the true victim to the boy's escape, a mangled corpse of what used to be a cat, now torn open in hideous strokes and left bleeding upon the living room carpet.
"Oh Charlie!" Marie wailed, tears falling ever more freshly as her husband pulled her out of the house, leading the dazed adults out onto the front porch. Now that they were safely between two doors, Sherlock felt at least able to recover from his encounter with Victor. His breath was still coming in heavy heaves, and for a moment his legs were feeling rather weak, as if they were threatening to give out at any moment. The world spun, with the cries and shouts of the Trevors beginning to fade into a soft, buzzing background noise.
"Mr. Trevor, let me give you my phone number. Your son is not well, I fear. But we will need to be sure, before we make any decisions about what to do." Sherlock admitted at last, once he felt he had enough energy to speak.
"Do you think it's a demon, Father?" Marie wondered, regaining her composure enough for a final question. Sherlock hesitated, stepping up to the porch railing and supporting himself on the heavy cross beam.
"I'm not sure." He admitted, staring out into the peaceful fields and wondering how something so evil could have crawled its way out here. "But whatever it is, it is not a creature of God."