The Charterhouse of Evil (Haunting Clarisse Series Book 5)

Prequel

1846
The Santa Lucia, twenty miles from Western Australia

A sudden knock at the cabin door progressed to a loud thump.
“Your Eminence, there is a problem inside Father Corrido’s quarters,” a monk from outside his room said.
“What is it, Father?” the bishop asked upon opening the door for the monk.
“He’s locked inside and won’t let anyone in. We can hear the smashing of bottles and screaming.”
“Have you tried talking to him?” the bishop asked, holding on tight to a bolted-down table with both hands as the ship leaned to one side and then the other.
The ship was on its way to the port of Fremantle on the Australian west coast and caught in a fierce storm that had appeared out of nowhere. They were now being tossed about by a ferocious gale and high seas while only twenty miles from the port and on the last leg of the journey.
“Yes, Your Eminence, but he’s in a rage, and we can’t reason with him … And I swear to the Lord Almighty that his voice changed into a—”
“A demon?” the bishop interrupted.
The Benedictine monk nodded. “Yes, the voice of a demon. But, how did you know?”
“And is the chest still in his room where we placed it before we left port?”
“Yes, Your Eminence. He is the keeper of the chest.” The monk took a shallow breath. “Is that a problem?”
“My dear Father, only if you knew the evil that resided in the chest would you understand. The secret is known only to bishops and goes back a thousand years.”
“An evil, Your Eminence?”
The bishop tilted his head, reluctantly telling him, “Yes, Father, an evil so horrendous it would send shivers up your spine and question your faith altogether.”
“Does such evil exist?”
“Yes, and more than you think.”
The monk looked at him with prying eyes but didn’t say a word.
“You want to know why it’s on this ship?”
The monk nodded.
“We are transporting it far away from our monastery in Spain, to a new land inhabited by natives and a feral population of the worst kind.”
“Better it be stowed away in a new land than the steps of our monastic village,” the monk agreed.
“Yes, that’s our mission. And what harm could it do to an uninhabited place such as Western Australia’s desolate land?” The bishop turned his head toward the door and pointed to his drawer. “I can barely maintain my balance with this storm, Father. Help me … get my things in the drawer—the cross, holy water, and my Bible. Oh, and don’t forget my stole. And then take me to Father Corrido’s room. We need to make haste before it takes over his soul.”
“You mean, possession, Your Eminence?”
The bishop nodded. “Have you ever done an exorcism, my dear Priest?”
“No. But I—”
“No buts. There is a first time for everything. That’s how I learned to perform the rite.”
“But, what about Father Gennaro? He’s older and more experienced than me.”
“No, he’s too fat and lazy.”
“How about Father Cristiano?”
“He doesn’t have enough faith, so that leaves only you.”
The monk tried to persuade the bishop to choose someone else, but he was having none of it. As far as the bishop was concerned, it was time to bring a new monk into the fold. Besides, that’s how Benedictine monks trained their young flock—pushing them into the deep end without warning. A test of their character and faith.
“I am too new to the order of Your Eminence and still learning. I will get in the way and ruin everything.”
The bishop ignored his reluctance to participate and lifted his arm. “Take hold of my hand and lead the way. I’m a frail old man, but I can still fight demons. My mind is stronger than ever before.”
The monk gulped. The thought of confronting a demon for the first time made him shiver.
As they stepped down the creaky wooden stairs of the Spanish galleon to the accommodation wing, the whole specter of the evil’s intervention could be clearly felt. The stench of rotting dead rats, thin air, and a morbid sense filled the area. And, although it was not physical, it touched the feelings and consciousness of those with greater emotional intelligence.
The banging sounds coming from Father Corrido’s room, and the choice of profanity, could only mean one thing—something was amiss inside this man’s head and controlling him. He was a mild-mannered, gentle, kind monk who kept to himself, and his behavior was out of character.
“Shall I break open the door, Your Eminence?” the ship’s master asked. He was a large, stocky man with a long white beard and wore a captain’s hat. His presence alone was enough to intimidate you.
The bishop held up his cross and Bible in anticipation and nodded. “Here, my dear Priest; splash the holy water when I give you the word, and don’t be alarmed by what you’re about to see. It’s part of their ploy to intimidate you.”
“What do you mean, Your Eminence? A monster?”
“It’s the face of evil, unlike anything you have ever imagined—demonic. Be mentally prepared.”
The ship’s master thrust a battering ram into the door, smashing it open on the second try. Splinters of wood from the keylock fell to the ground. Then he was blown back against the hallway wall by an extraordinary force, as though something had plucked him by the throat and thrown him. The ship’s master lay dead on the ground, with blood streaming from his head.
“Now! The holy water!” the bishop called out.
“But the ship’s master … shouldn’t we attend to him?” The monk was distracted by the power of the demon.
“He is dead. Now do what I say!”
“Yes, Your Eminence.” The monk sprayed the holy water through the entrance of the room.
Steam rose like a puff of smoke toward them, and a voice yelled in pain, resonating outward.
The anticipation gripped their spines as they curled their backs in a reactionary spasm.
Whatever was in the room had been affected by the holy water, but it was not enough. It was momentarily disabled before it growled, and they could hear the clunk of hooves heading toward the door.
The monk instinctively gripped the arm of his eminence as he waited for the demon to appear beyond the clearing smoke. He watched in horror as the hateful image of hell validated his thoughts about the underworld. It was an incomprehensible evil that couldn’t be fathomed in the usual sense—deformed, shapeless, and so ugly it defied all meaning.
“How can anything be so vile?” the monk questioned.
“You dislike my configuration, Priest? You prefer I look like one of your angels?” the demon said in a husky, deep voice that he forcibly pushed up through its throat.
“What do you want from the chest?” his eminence asked of the demon.
“So, you know why I’m here ….”
“And what have you done to Father Corrido?”
“Ha, ha, ha. Like I do with all of you—tear you to shreds! Here, would like a piece of his arm or a leg?” The demon threw one of Father Corrido’s arms at them, where it landed at their feet, bloodied and detached, his hands curled in the moment of death from the pain the monk had suffered. Splatters of blood from the impact landed on their trousers.
The monk swallowed and placed his hands over his mouth, ready to vomit.
“Hmm, I sensed that would affect you. Would you like his severed head, too?” The demon took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before throwing Father Corrido’s detached head toward them.
The monk turned and vomited on the floor, unable to grasp the horrendous death of his fellow monk.
His eminence, ravaged by the death of his monk, stood firm in the face of his execution. “You can’t get into the chest unless I let you. I know that, and so do you. And no matter who you tear to shreds, it will never let you in without my secret prayer. Yes, a chest without a lock, a key, that only prayer can open. And prayers are something your demons are not good at.”
The demon growled in anger as it leaped toward the monk, holding him firmly by both arms, snuggling him against its hairy chest so he couldn’t escape.
The monk tried desperately to release himself from the clasps of the demon, but it was too powerful. It became an exhibition of demonic strength.
“Say the prayer, or I will rip off his head, too, here in front of you, Your Eminence,” the demon mocked. “Where is your God now, as I dismantle the monk into pieces, bit by bit? Listen to his screams of pain and begs for mercy, because no matter who you are, everyone clings to life in the twilight of death. Even a servant of God!” The demon chuckled then slithered its purple, forked tongue around its lips, as though ready for its next meal.
His eminence reached out to the monk with the Bible in his hand and prayed for his impending death by giving him his last rites.
The monk closed his eyes, awaiting his execution, as a tear rolled down his cheek.
In the bishop’s mind, the plight of the Benedictine monk was more significant than one man. A sacrifice for God to protect the contents of the chest. Because opening it up would unleash hell and change the balance between good and evil forever.
“I shall meet my creator, Your Eminence,” the monk said rebelliously, knowing what fate awaited him.
That angered the demon even further. With one massive twist of his arm, the monk’s head was decapitated and strewn on the ground, a quick execution, swift and without mercy. The demon had made its point.
“So, will you say your prayer now?” the demon asked as it grinned. Its sharp-edged teeth exuded from its lipless mouth, spewing the monk’s blood.
“I will never give anything to you or the three-fingered hand of your demon master; you know that. It baffles me why you keep persevering.”
“Ha, ha. I look for cracks in the human frailty among your kind. There is always one prepared to forgo your God—a weak link in the chain of monks over the generations.”
The ship continued to rock, tossed about on the high seas, as his eminence took hold of a wooden beam for balance. He did what he knew best during such confrontations—pray aloud. And not just any prayer, but secret ones vested in a few of the Benedictine order. They were written by the holiest of Benedictine monks, to ward off demons during confrontations. They were the words that launched a powerful spell against evil. Because, although the devil had tremendous physical strength, it could not fight against the words.
He held his Bible up toward the demon as blood from the decapitated head leached along the floor toward his feet. His eminence tried to sidestep the blood, but it made no difference, as his shoes became soaked in red.
He prayed, unperturbed from the hideous cries and insults lashed out by the demon in a frugal attempt to regain control. He held on to his holy cross in one hand and the Bible in the other, reaching out toward the monster’s revolting sight. The tide had turned, and this time it was the demon under attack—a reversal of roles.
“Be gone with you, the servant of evil,” he said.
The intensity rose a couple of notches, and the demon curled his body, trying desperately to hang on to his presence, but it was futile. He was waning, no match for the powerful and secret prayers weaponized against it.
“Be gone, you servant of evil,” his eminence said, pointing toward the demon with a cursed look and determined.
The demon retreated into the room, pushed along by immense energy.
“Be gone, you servant of evil,” his eminence said.
The demon continued retracting into the corner of the room until a final yelp. Next to it, the chest rattled like as if something wanted to come out, to be released. But not this time.
“Be gone, you servant of evil.”
The demon turned into a puff of smoke that was sucked into the chest. Now a captive of its evil box, strewn amongst other monsters that had tried and failed.
How many demons did the box contain? Over the centuries, there had been several battles of a similar type. Each time, the devil had ended in the chest, locked forever.
Amongst them was the three-fingered hand of a demon that had gotten away. But without that hand, the demon’s power was limited, so it became the demons’ quests—repeatedly mounting challenges against the Benedictine faith.
Exhausted, his eminence sat next to Father Corrido’s bed while taking a deep breath as he stretched out his legs.
As he felt his socks soaked from the blood of his monks, the realization of what had just transpired hit him.
Next to the bed was a table with a photo of Father Corrido’s parents. His eminence had lost two good men today whom he was close to. He had known Father Corrido since seminary school. They had been long-time friends.
He took a handkerchief from his side pocket and patted his forehead while sighing. His loss saddened him.
The ship had stopped rocking about as the storm passed, and the high seas became calm again. The captain’s bell rang, signaling land and the Port of Freemantle in sight. They had arrived at their destination, but with the bodies of two men decapitated, and another dead, it could become an embarrassing investigation by the authorities.
His eminence didn’t worry too much about the legalities. They had a highly paid lawyer waiting for them at the port, just in case.
It was always going to be a risk when transporting the chest. The Benedictine hierarchy had known the demons would make a play for the chest while in transit, so they had been prepared with an entourage of intelligent people to deal with the situation. Call it a church cover-up, with a spin team well versed in such cases.
The journey had been thought-out by the Benedictine order before they had left port. They had been fighting the demonic entity for centuries and knew its tactics well through previous experience.
However, the task was not complete. The chest still needed to be transported to its new resting place—New Norcia and the recently built monastic town for Benedictine monks. Its final resting place was far away from Spain and its demonic influence.