The Child's Cry

Chapter One

The bitter November wind raked its ghostly fingers across his face and Father Carin shuddered, pulling his scarf tighter. He was standing on the corner that led to Hawthorn Close, waiting for his senior to arrive. The tips of his fingers stung, and they had the strength of one of those claw machines that had robbed him of so much pocket money in his youth. He cupped his hands over his mouth and blew out three deep breaths, shuffling from one foot to the other in a desperate attempt to stay warm. The cold chilled him straight down to the marrow, but what awaited him in that house on Hawthorn Close would freeze the blood in his veins.

Father Carin squinted, raising a reflexive arm to his eyes to shield them. The cars high beams cast a silver shadow across the old brick houses as it pulled into the layby beside Carin.  The driver-side door opened, and Carin saw a black figure in a wide brimmed hat step out. 

'Sorry I'm late, Father Carin. Are you well?' Father Bowen said, his Irish accent a little too thick for Carin.

'Have you been waiting long?' Father Bowen asked, taking a black, worn leather bag from the boot. It reminded Carin of his father's medical bag; his dad had been an accomplished GP, and if it hadn't been for the death of his sister, Carin might have followed in his father's footsteps, but there were some things you just couldn't bear to face again.

'Not too long, Father. I'm just glad you're here.' 

Father Bowen nodded, his expression sullen. There was a look in his old green eyes that said "I wish our meeting could be under better circumstances".

With their bags in hand, the Holy men made their way to 24 Hawthorn Close. 

'You mustn't wear your heart on your sleeve, Father Carin,' Father Bowen warned, 'they know all of our weaknesses, our vices. They will use every trick in their arsenal to achieve victory. We must remain firm in our faith".

He knocked on the door. 'The child is there only in body. Let not pity cloud your judgement. Trust in me and trust in God that we will succeed tonight. Amen.' 

'Amen,' Father Carin repeated.

The lock clicked, the chain of the latch rattling as it fell away. The door opened, flooding  the lawn in a yellow glow. Standing in the doorway, trembling, was Mrs Bartlett. 

'Oh, thank God,' she wept, throwing her arms aloft as she broke into tears. Father Bowen removed his hat, placing it over his heart. 

'Good evening, Mrs Bartlett. 'I'm Father Bowen and this is Father Carin. We understand your daughter has been unwell.' 

Unwell...Carin thought, that's one way of putting it. The mother's report was like something out of a horror novel. He dreaded to think what condition the poor child would be in. One particular account stuck with him: "she had scratched the walls so hard that her nail beds had snapped back and fallen away". A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.

'Please come in,' she implored, pulling the door wide open.

Chapter Two 

The heat as welcomed as the tea Mrs Bartlett had brought in. Father Carin clasped his hands around the mug. Despite the heating being full on, his body still felt cold.

The child was asleep in the bedroom at the back of the house.

Father Bowen was listening thoughtfully to Mrs Bartlett. He was leaning forward in his seat, his face set, nodding as he let her speak. Mrs Bartlett dabbed at her red, puffy eyes with a balled up tissue.

'How long has it been since Ellie last ate?' Father Bowenasked.

'She hasn't eaten since Wednesday. I can only feed her when she's under hypnosis, but Mr Rawley refuses to see her now.' 

'Mr Rawley? What happened to this Mr Rawley?' Father Bowen enquired. His expression made him look like a man ten years older than his 76 years. His brow furrowed, his lips were drawn taut and it was only under the intense light that Carin noticed those bushy eyebrows.

Mrs Bartlett shook her head. 'He said that she "attacked him" but I don't believe that. She can hardly move, Father.' 

'Sorry, Mrs Bartlett, did you say she can barely move?' Father Carin asked. Although he would never admit it, he didn't believe that demonic possession was real; his father had once told him that conditions of the brain and body could defy explanation sometimes, but the devil certainly hadn't crawled up the patient's ass.

Mrs Bartlett swallowed hard. 'Her spine, Father...it looks like it's been...twisted.' Here she made a twisting motion with her hands.

'Have you taken her to a doctor?' Father Carin asked.

Mrs Bartlett shook her head. 'They'll say I did it.' 

Father Bowen and Carin looked at each other. 'May we see her?' Father Bowen asked. 

Mrs Bartlett nodded, sobbing. 

They set their cups down and picked up their bags. Mrs Bartlett took point and the men followed.