The Devil's Choir

The Devil’s Choir

by Chris Morrow

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright Chris Morrow 2012. All Rights Reserved

Print Edition ISBN: 978-1-936830-39-8

Website: www.devilschoir.com

Published by Athanatos Publishing Group

Website: www.athanatosministries.org

Cover by Julius Broqueza.

by

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Dedication

For Payton and Rhiannon,

who are a daily reminder that there is a God who loves me.

&

For Dani,

who is a daily reminder that God grants patience to prayerful women.

Acknowledgments

There are many people who made this possible. Without Anthony Horvath, Debbie Thompson, Dylan Thompson and everyone at Athanatos Christian Ministries, you wouldn't be holding this book. Thanks guys for believing.

Thank you Sally Fast, Jason Tummons and Levi Morrow, for reading this book while it was still a work in progress and for providing honest feedback. Levi, my father, passed away shortly after reading this story. I'm blessed that he had a chance to contribute to it.

Thank you Brent Warren for breaking it down, picking it apart, and generally making me a better writer.

Melody Metzger Swor was with me on this from the beginning. Not only did she lend her editorial skills, but she refused to let me give up on Melanie Elarton. I couldn't have done it without you. I'll be forever grateful, Mel.

Ari paused on the fourth floor landing and glanced out the window. A flat gray mist hovered over the street. Somewhere down the hall a baby was crying.

Like a friggin’ stew, huh? Chicago for ya. Rain’s just makin’ it boil, said an obese man perched on the steps, sucking an imaginary breeze through the filthy screen. That your car down there? he asked, wheezing. Nice ride. Don’t see cars like that much around here.

Ari stepped past him into the hallway where an aging yellow bulb hung from a frayed wire. Faded maroon wallpaper clung in patches to the plaster walls. Narrow wooden lathes poked out like bones. The air was stagnant, sour with mildew. Rain had found a way through the roof, falling to the stained brown carpet at the end of the hall with a rhythmic tap, tap, tap. The apartment building was an eyesore even for this corner of the city. Just the place to find a monster.

There were four doors on each side of the hall. The door to his immediate left was slightly ajar. Ari peered inside. An old television was tuned to static. He could hear water filling a bathtub in another room. He pulled the door closed and moved on.

Salvatori’s room was at the end of the hall. His door was open. Inside, an emaciated, unshaven young man sat in a hardback chair, smiling. His yellow teeth matched his jaundiced and wild eyes. He ran his bone thin fingers into his matted hair and crossed his legs casually. He was naked from the waist down. On the bare wooden floor at his feet lay a soaking wet canvas sneaker and a pair of sopping wet blue jeans. An open window did little to dispel the apartment’s stench.

Edwin Salvatori leaned forward. Ask me a question, any question?

Ari stood silently in the doorway.

Salvatori eyed him like a puzzle. You know, test me. Tests are like games. I love games. Let’s have a little fun. His crooked smile returned.

Edwin Salvatori, I’ve come to help you, Ari stated.

He’s not home.

Salvatori stood up, noticed his nakedness and began to giggle.

Ari slipped his hand into his pocket as he stepped deeper into the room.

What have you got there?

Ari closed the door and held up a small silver cross.

Salvatori chuckled, And I thought it would be a gun. He sat back down in the chair and crossed his legs.

What is your name? Ari asked.

Why don’t you tell me your name first? Salvatori replied. "I saw you drive up in your pretty car. I knew you were coming for me. I thought you would have a gun and a badge, but you aren’t a cop, are you? No, you are . . . aware."

Something menacing flashed in the man’s eyes.

Your name? Ari asked more forcefully.

Don’t you crows travel in pairs? Salvatori let loose with a deep guttural laugh that didn’t belong to the frail waif of a man sitting in the chair. Caw . . . Caw! he cried, holding up a fist. Your trinkets and your rituals do not frighten me. You are not even a priest! But you are a Jew. I’d know you people anywhere.

Ari spoke, Hu diin Yeshua tob qe’aa beqalaa—

Your Aramaic does not impress me.

–ramaa weshbaq ruuheh!

Tell me something I don’t know. Salvatori’s dark sunken eyes rolled back in his head and he jumped to his feet, hurling the kitchen chair against the wall, shattering it. I’ve had the Biblical text read to me in hundreds of languages. Now impress me.

Wapagri saggye’deqaddishii dashqibiin hewaw qaamu.

The possessed man froze.

"You? You are one of them? Salvatori stumbled a few steps back But you can’t be one of them." The voice was still not human, but it had changed. The strength and arrogance had gone out of it. Salvatori backed into a table.

Your name! Ari shouted.

Pleading, the demon responded in Edwin Salvatori’s frail human voice. Please don’t bind me.

Your name!

The demon began to speak in dozens of different languages, most Ari knew, some he did not. It was begging for mercy. It had reason to fear. A common exorcist could cast it out, but it could always prey on another host. Ari was no common exorcist. He would cast it into the abyss.

Salvatori slung the table across the room. Ari sidestepped it and lunged at him, pinning him to the wall, but he was slick with sweat and grime. Ari pulled out a set of handcuffs just as the demon shrieked in some old forgotten language, It’s not time!

Salvatori lashed out with superhuman strength, throwing Ari backward, causing him to lose his footing on the wet floor. In less than a second Salvatori leaped through the open window onto the fire escape.

I command you in the name of Yeshua HaMashiach! Come out!

Gladly, the demon replied, and with that Salvatori stepped backward off the fire escape. Ari rushed to the window in time to see the young man’s body strike the alley below. The demon had moved on. As for Edwin Salvatori, God only knew. One thing was certain however, Salvatori would no longer be setting fires.

Exhausted, Ari retraced his steps down the dimly lit hall. He stopped when he came to a pool of water rushing out from under the door of the apartment he’d looked in earlier. He opened the door and called, Hello, is anyone here? When no answer came, he followed the stream to the bathroom where his eyes fell on an elderly woman floating face down in the tub, her limp body listing in the water that washed over the side in waves, flooding the cheap linoleum floor and soaking a single canvas sneaker.

The first girl was Jenny Anderson. She disappeared on the day that Melanie arrived in Oak Springs, Kansas. Ten days later her body was discovered in a farmer’s field.

Melanie Elarton rubbed her tired eyes as she was entering Oak Springs. Behind her the morning sun broke the horizon, its morning rays painting the sky orange. The sight of the glowing little town in front of her was refreshing.

We’re finally here, she said to her aging Ford Taurus, as if it was an old friend. In the seat next to her was a pile of empty Styrofoam coffee cups f rom a dozen grease huts and all night roadside diners between Philadelphia and the Missouri-Kansas line. She stretched. Her entire body was tense from hours behind the wheel and from the short uncomfortable naps she’d taken at rest stops along the way.

Stopped at a red light, she caught sight of a glimmering gold weathervane atop the courthouse spire. Turning off the main drag she headed downtown, passing pretty little homes with nicely manicured lawns. A boy, maybe eleven or twelve, was pedaling his bicycle along the sidewalk, tossing newspapers from a canvas bag.

A tired smile parted her lips when she looked on the town square. The Romanesque stone courthouse stood at its center and facing it in every direction were little shops lined up similar to the row houses of her Philadelphia neighborhood. She’d driven the last hundred miles with her window down so she wouldn’t doze off. Now, through the open window, she picked up the scent of donuts. To her left, nuzzled between an insurance agency and an antiques shop, the red neon OPEN sign flickered in the window of Fultz’s Bakery. She couldn’t resist.

The baker smiled and winked at her as he joked with a pair of old men sitting at a nearby table. Melanie ordered two glazed donuts and a glass of orange juice and sat next to the window. The tart orange juice washed the heavy taste of coffee out of her mouth. She had to laugh as two little girls tried to decide between chocolate with sprinkles and strawberry éclairs.

Don’t argue. You don’t have to get the same thing, said their mother with an exasperated sigh. You’re gonna wear me out before noon. In the end they both opted for the chocolate.

The paper boy she’d seen earlier suddenly appeared at the front door, lugging a stack of Oak Springs Sentinels. He unbundled the papers, pausing to hand the cashier a copy. Melanie caught sight of the headline stretched across the top: Crops Suffering Drought. The boy stuffed the bundle into a rack by the door and as he was leaving the baker let him pick out a donut.

Melanie studied the courthouse, its combination of sharp lines and flowing curves. Her major was psychology, but she could see herself studying architecture were she not so completely enthralled with the study of the mind. She noticed that over a stairway leading to a basement entrance was a sign for the Oak Springs Museum and Historical Society. That would be worth checking out. She was standing to leave when she spotted a man near the main entrance. His clothes were from a bygone era. Despite the bright morning sun he cast no shadow. He looked puzzled, then afraid. He began sprinting across the lawn and then suddenly disappeared. She sat back down and quickly realized that she’d been digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands. She wondered what fate may have befallen the man. The truth is there are some things you simply can’t outrun.

She left the bakery a little before seven. The landlord who oversaw the apartment complex wouldn’t be in his office until nine, so she decided to check out the campus. It was Wednesday morning and classes weren’t scheduled to start until Monday, but there was so much to do and she was anxious to become familiar with the campus. She pulled a map of Oak Springs from her enrollment packet. Taking High Street north off the square, she drove through the town thinking about how it was that a Pennsylvania girl might choose to attend a small private university in Kansas. It was a decision forged during a difficult time. She’d requested literature on every university in the country with a strong psychology department. She waited tables during the day at Carlson’s Diner and her nights were spent with Grandma Kate, talking and laughing when Kate felt okay, sometimes crying when she didn’t. The cancer and the medication both made Kate weak. When she would sleep Melanie would bring out the brochures. She was looking for two things in a college, a prestigious psychology department and a school that was small enough where students had names instead of numbers. The day after Kate’s funeral Melanie chose Callaway University. Her grades in high school, combined with her high college entrance exam scores, easily secured admission.

Melanie followed High Street to the edge of town where there were a series of grain elevators with farm trucks lined up in front. Tanned farmers stood together talking and waiting for their turn to unload their crops. Two miles outside of the city limits she steered her old beat-up but reliable Ford up a hill, around a curve and there stood Callaway University.

The brochures didn’t do the campus justice. It was populated by gothic brick buildings and modern steel behemoths full of windows reflecting back the morning sun. Dormitories stood on either side of Raymond L. Callaway Boulevard. From her reading she knew that Garrison was for the girls and Stoneman for the boys. For a school with an enrollment of only thirty-four hundred students, Callaway was impressive. It should be for what they charged. Thank goodness for scholarships and financial assistance.

Binding the campus together was a maze of one way streets and brick sidewalks. She passed a small park that featured a little pond with an island at its center. A wooden bridge connected it to land. Next to it was a small stone cathedral with a wood shake roof and a tarnished metal cross pointing toward heaven from its steeple.

Melanie decided to park her car and take in the rest of the campus on foot. She was exhausted, but she had also had enough of sitting behind the wheel. She turned left into a vast parking lot that had been constructed to accommodate a large domed building. Across the front was a sign reading Claxton Arena in gold block letters. Below in powder blue script it read, Home of the Jack Rabbits. She snatched her purse out from under the pile of empty coffee cups and began her walk. She was tempted to trek over to the park and cross the bridge to the little island, but decided against it and instead followed the sidewalk toward a pair of aging brick buildings, one of which was Callaway Hall, the administration building. There would be time for the island another day. She located the registrar’s office where a gray haired woman sat behind a wide desk shuffling through file folders. She looked up at Melanie and smiled.

My name is Melanie Elarton. I’m a new student and I think I’m supposed to pick up some paperwork.

Well then, you’ve come to the right place, Miss Elarton. In fact, I think I came across your file a moment ago. She dug through the stack until she found it and handed Melanie a large sealed envelope.

Thank you, Carol, Melanie said, taking the envelope in her hands.

The woman looked at her with surprise, Have we met?

Melanie pointed at the placard on her desk with the name Carol Tillis inscribed on it.

Oh, the woman blushed. They just got me that the other day. I came in and it was sitting there. I’ve worked here for twenty years and I’ve never had my name on my desk until now. Have a seat dear and I’ll save you the hassle of reading through all of that. I’ll give you the lowdown and answer any questions you might have.

Melanie listened as Carol went over several items relating to the operations of the school, such as when Melanie could pick up her books, when she needed to have a student identification card made, how to request transcripts, and the like. Melanie took in what the woman was saying, but also had no trouble picking up on what the woman was thinking. Some people naturally guard their thoughts, but sitting across from Carol was like standing next to a radio tower. The signal could not have been stronger. Her thoughts didn’t come to Melanie in the form of actual words. Instead, what she saw was a cocktail of non-verbal flashes of thought and emotion that sometimes translated to mental images. Occasionally a word would slip through; a garnishment, the celery stalk in a Bloody Mary.

I see here that Dr. Marston is your advisor. I suppose you’ve spoken to him.

Yes, I enrolled with him over the phone a few weeks ago. He was a lot of help.

They don’t get much better than Dr. Marston, said Carol, and Melanie knew that Thomas Marston was one of the professors that had given Carol the name placard on her desk.

He is also teaching one of my courses this semester, Intro to Psychology. I can’t wait to meet him, to thank him in person for helping me get set up here.

Melanie wanted to take as many psychology classes as they would allow, as early in her education as possible. She was anxious to understand her own mind.

Dr. Marston has been coming into his office in the mornings. You might be able to catch him. I’m sure he would like to meet you before classes begin. I see you also have Tim Anderson as a professor. He’s a good one, too. You’ll like him, but I don’t think he’ll be in today. He’s at a speaking engagement in California. She looked at Melanie’s class list. The others I haven’t seen around much the last couple of days. Carol frowned internally; glad to have avoided a couple of them.

Melanie stood up to leave.

I hope you find all of your professors to be delightful, Carol said with a smile.

Melanie stepped out of Callaway Hall to find that it was already warming up. She fought the urge to get in her car and go directly to her new apartment and sleep through what was shaping up to be a sweltering day. Instead she decided to see if Dr. Marston was in. She found nothing stirring in the lobby of Quincy Hall. On the third floor she came across a janitor on one knee repairing the hinge to a door that opened into a large lecture hall. He looked up at her and his lips parted in an ugly grin. Vile thoughts slithered like snakes behind his eyes. He slicked his hair back and motioned toward an open tool box.

Would you mind handing me that screwdriver? he asked, hoping she’d bend over.

Repulsed, she slid the entire box toward him with the toe of her shoe.

Could you tell me where Dr. Marston’s office is?

Up one more floor. Take the stairs, turn left and his office is the first one on the right.

Dr. Marston’s door was shut. A note taped to the window read, I’ll be out of my office until Thursday morning. Melanie sighed and made it a point to return the next day. She found that on her tired legs going down the stairs was even a workout. She located the first floor ladies room and opened the door to the sound of laughter. An attractive girl with shoulder length blond hair was leaning over the sink adjusting a contact lens. Melanie stepped up beside the girl, turned on the tap, cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed cold water on her face. The adrenaline that had come with stepping on campus for the first time was wearing off. In the mirror Melanie watched as a tall girl in ragged jeans and a t-shirt stepped out of a stall. She was smiling, still laughing at whatever had been said as Melanie had entered. She had long crimson hair, a shade of red that was too beautiful to have come out of a bottle.

As Melanie took a handful of paper towels to dry her face the redhead asked, You have a late night, too?

I drove all night. I’m new here.

The blond looked surprised. Sounds like you were pretty eager to get here.

Yeah. Melanie fought back a yawn.

Do you know anyone? Made any friends yet? asked the blond.

Not yet.

Well, we’ll be your first. I’m Ann, said the blond, giving a little wave. The redhead introduced herself as Josie.

I’m Melanie and I’m liking it here already.

"Yeah, most folks around here are pretty polite, but there are some jerks too.