SHORT STORY: SALOME

By Nicholas Cormier III

                Photo Credit: Ave Maria Radio

SALOME

Couldn’t tell Mother what the exorcist said. Didn’t matter. Church called her first. Said my problem was a psychiatric one—there was no demon. Not what I’d been told. Salome was the spirit’s name. Found out during the first exorcism. Spoke in languages I’d never heard. Uttered unknown vowels. Articulated incantations in ancient syllables. Said SA-LO-MAY. Rose out of me as the grey-robed Franciscan demanded her name. Took complete control. Reanimated. Bound to the basement of my body. Cursed current coursing through me. Stormed through the corridors of St. Michael Catholic Parish like a category four wreaking havoc on the Gulf Coast. Chased the priest. Father Bill’s eyes widened with worry. Could see fear grip him. Voice sounding less sure as he attempted to recite the rite. From the cellar of my soul, I fought the urge to decapitate him. More power to stop the legion of Salome than he. Inkling of faith enough to force her retreat. 

Father Bill painted Salome to be some kind of femme fatale. Catholic lore. All that jazz. Way the story went was way back when a hot young woman with an innocent face danced so sexily that King Herod pledged, he’d do anything to please her—including giving her half his kingdom. Remembered as much from catechism. Salome conferred with her mother who happened to have an ax to grind with The Baptist. Some say John said Mom’s marriage to Herod was unlawful.  Salome requested John’s head. Herod reluctantly agreed. Wanted to save face. Rest is history. You’ve seen the Baptizer’s head on the platter. 

Bill hypothesized that Salome’s chief aim was imprisonment of the human soul through lasciviousness—and murder. Gave me a crash course in demonology. Milton would’ve been proud. Way the Franciscan broke it down went like this—every demons tied to a bigger demon.  Salome’s soul got eaten by Belial due to her mother’s vengeful ways. Belial’s a big fish in the lake of fire. Perhaps the biggest. Wicked ain’t the word. Backed by Belial she became unstoppable. Salome collected many a man’s soul for him. Grew in strength over the years. Multiplied like a Mogwai thrown into the Pacific Ocean. Built a network by adding souls to Belial’s collective. Stronghold over geographic regions. Became Legion. Placed cities and countries under his spell. I’m sure you’ve travelled to a few. How’s that pertain to me?  Truth is I’d made a pact with Belial myself. 

Father Bill thought Salome came to me through the boa bones once worn around my neck. Believed my mother not wanting me created a loveless hole I’d filled with women, drugs and the like. Left me vulnerable to demonic attack. When at my weakest—Salome seized me. Vertebrae once worn around my neck acted as a conduit—attracted more spirits. Couldn’t deny that some of it made sense. No stranger to temptation. I’d broken many a vow. Did a lot of drugs. Compromised too many values to ignore his theory. Burned the vertebrae as he’d demanded prior to the second exorcism.

Attempt number two at expelling her made it clear there’d be no victory. Wouldn’t let go. Clung to me. Bill and his team of charismatics tried like hell to break Salome’s hold on my soul. What happened in that sanctuary still escapes me. Remember being hypnotized by Bill and his prayer partners. Being balled up in a chair while they preternaturally reviewed each trimester in my mother’s womb. Father didn’t proclaim victory like he had after the first exorcism. Room was somber. All that prayer power to no avail. Couldn’t beat her. Bill decided learning to live with the thing was my only course of action. Gave me a prayer to say every day to loosen Salome’s grip. Make life more manageable. He also offered me a place to stay. Said I should come live on the grounds of St. Michael’s church. If I accepted the offer, he’d train me to use my spiritual gifts. Make me a charismatic like the team that attempted to free me. Deliverance ministry. A real Jedi is what he called it. Gave me time to mull it over.

Wifey and me drove back home grappling with the reality of what John Milton wrote about in Paradise Lost. Great battle in heaven. Fallen angels. Unholy legions lurking about the world—up to no good. Sole purpose to piss off the Big Amigo. Humans caught in between. Warfare of the highest order. Spiritual. Whole thing seemed surreal. Gladys and I couldn’t help but laugh about my having two unsanctioned exorcisms. Brushed off any thought of moving into the church to enter training to fight demons—or whatever the fuck Bill was proposing. Funny thing about the spiritual realm opening is the brain almost immediately fights to close it. We’d just about erased the events of the evening by the time Gladys pulled up to our one-bedroom apartment in Plano, Texas. Being an actor, I pretended to be fine to ease her mind. Hiding the fact that a powerful spirit lived behind my eyes.

Father Bill’s divination with the aid of his charismatics revealed I was an unwanted child. That fact left an opening. Salome filled it. Fear the unholy thread that sewed her to my soul. Mother mentioned feeling abandoned while pregnant. Most I’d been told on the subject. All I knew was enroute to Germany Mother got turned away. Too pregnant to fly. Went to her sisters to have my brother and me. Dad was in Berlin. Uncle Sam’s property. Careerist. Chose to stay on duty instead of being bedside for my birth. News that brought Dad home? Same news that brought me into this world. You have one beautiful son. 

Identical twins separated at birth by an umbilical noose. Brother died before he’d fully left the womb. Naval string knotted around newborn gristle. Doctor kept pulling. Each tug tightened the birth cord until big bruh turned blue like those Hindu statues of Krishna. Cause of death? Strangulation. Cause of contention in my parents’ marriage. Each dealt with grief differently. Pops wanted to sue for malpractice. Mother thought money wouldn’t bring my brother back. Said she’d leave if his death became about dollars. Born prematurely. Don’t remember Germany. Came to consciousness in Acadiana, Louisiana when grandmother entered the picture. Fought valiantly to ensure I didn’t have to run off to preschool like my oldest brother or cousins. Wrapped her wings around me. Safest I’ve felt was in her large arms. Protected from the world—my parents… and Salome. 

Sugar. That’s what everyone called her. Everyone but me. I just called her grandmother. Her love anchored me to this world. Sat next to Sugar. Reeling from trauma too fresh to bear. Uncomfortable from the start. Siamese souls bonded by grief. Lost her husband early into my mother’s childhood. Cause of death? Gunshot wound. 12-gauge. Self-inflicted. Never spoke of him—to me at least. Insisted we share a bed, which acted as a post-natal chamber for my fragile spirit. Barefoot sidekick following her on morning jaunts to feed chickens. Watching her pick out yard birds from the coop. Ringing their necks daily with one-hand. Made a snapping sound when their spinal columns cracked. 

Rarely left grandmother’s side in those days. Helped her boil chickens. Pluck their feathers. Bam! Food on table. Miracle on par with the feeding of the five thousand. Cajun style meal only a creole single mother of ten with countless grandkids could create. As my cousins always said, “granny threw her drawers in that pot.” Tricksy, her Alaskan Malamute mut tied to a white stained tree trunk helped me watch over her old yellow house at the end of Jefferson Street. Potholed road of poorly poured cement acted as a divider between grandmother’s home and a massive cemetery. My brother’s tiny grave resides there. Looks like a compact coffin coated in plaster of paris. Sits apart from the other burial chambers—far smaller than the others. Born and died dates are the same. Started most mornings staring at an alabaster angel atop my brother’s tomb wondering why I was here instead of him. Thought that comes back every now and then. Grandmother’s only demand was that I go to church on Sunday. Whipped me once—day I refused.

Met Salome one day in the backwoods of St. Martinville, Louisiana. It’d become a habit of mine to go on adventures after the chickens were fed, and coops checked for eggs. I’d slip past rows of double stacked tombs into the wilderness where my uncle’s wooden kennels housed his hounds. Journeying deeper into the greenery darkened by tall trees each day. Found a rusting shack made of corrugated metal sheets in the middle of the woods. Sat off the ground. Sturdied by concrete slabs. Steps made of old wood led up to a door sealed shut by a large iron horseshoe-shaped padlock. Spent countless afternoons trying to break it. Returned to grandmother’s house each day to search for items to pick that lock. Struck at the antique hunk of iron with all my might. Damn near broke one day. Grew too tired to continue. Decided the next day I’d finish the job. When I went back its owner had it refortified. Dejected. Returned to grandmother’s intent on staying out of those woods. 

Shack haunted me. Pull of its potential treasures drew me back to it a few weeks later. Found the door unlocked. Looked around. No one in sight. Picked up a nearby stick to act as a weapon and eagerly went inside. Slid through the cracked door. Sliver of sun crept in illuminating a tattered twin mattress resting in the center of the room. Musty odor stinging my nose as an energy I’d never felt crawled up my arms and legs. Propelled by curiosity as I studied walls covered from floor to ceiling with what looked like newspaper clippings. Inspected further. Wasn’t newspaper. Looked more like pages from a Life magazine. Various shapes and sizes of colored paper forming a tapestry of naked bodies. Women and men doing titillating things. Copulating. Piqued my interest. These weren’t Playboy images. More Larry Flynt than Bob Guccione. Hardcore. Searing. Coaxed me closer. Treasure far greater than my young mind could conceive. Stayed for what felt like hours. Eyes fixated on every wrinkled stained square—corner to corner. Forbidden fruit. Sound of branches breaking underfoot broke me from my trance. Grabbed my stick resting on one of the walls. Peeked outside. Prepared for combat. Saw no one. Bolted out of the shack. Damn near did a faceplant. Pushed myself up and continued running. Heard a whisper as I ran. Voice said, Come back. 

Rushed through morning chores with Sugar the next day eager to revisit the shed. From a distance I could see the dilapidated door swinging in the wind—just as I’d left it. Could hear every sound in the woods. Sensed no one. Like Alice in Chains sings, Eat of the apple so young. Spent all day with Salome. Fell in love with the feminine form. Seed of lust planted. Longed for more. In awe of my young erection responding to new stimulus. Physiology 101. Salome watching me. Encouraging me to run fingers along the wall and on myself. Voice kept whispering. Suggesting things. Father Bill mentioned there being stages leading up to possession. If that’s true—my youthful relationship with Salome was what he called infestation.

 

Influenced. Voice followed me everywhere. Kept leading me back to the shack. Sexual images stained my brain like drops of mercurochrome diffusing in water. Seeped into my consciousness. When my eyes closed at night, a pornographic PowerPoint projected onto the backs of their lids. Aroused. Attuned to Salome’s whisper. Curious. Too young for shame. Used to rub every woman’s pantyhose that came to visit grandmother. Hypersexualized. I’d taken to running around naked. Exposing myself. Grandmother made sure to tell me to keep my clothes on. Told me to keep my bird covered. Shooed me back to the den when she’d catch me in the back room attempting to play doctor with a girl cousin. Returned to the sex shed repeatedly until one day near end of summer, which coincided with school beginning—it vanished. Dead grass marked the spot where the shack once stood. Walked with Salome ever since seeing inside. Followed more than one of her suggestions that summer. Even tried to fuck a dog. Once—just once.

Kindergarten. Lights out. Nap time. Floor littered with children resting on foldable rectangular mats. Mine was orange. Some so close I could feel their breath on my face. Mission given to me by Salome? Commando crawl to Rebecca’s side of the room. Objective? Make it to her mat, which was blue. I’d attempted to make it to her mat every day at naptime since she accepted my marriage proposal. No bullshit. She’d been my girl since we locked eyes on the playground. Grabbed her hand. Asked her to be my wife. Proposal accepted. Inseparable. Real recess. Goal was to consummate our kiddie marriage at Salome’s urging. Not an easy feat. Nap time was only thirty minutes. First ten spent mapping a route through the maze of mats while waiting for other kids to fall asleep. Then there was Miss Judice's dreaded fifteen-minute walk through, which always concluded with her leaving the room until end of nap time. If I darted off my mat too soon—she’d catch me. Almost did several times. 

Face pinned to cold linoleum. Pulling myself forward with my elbows on what must’ve been the fiftieth attempt to reach Rebecca. Made it through the labyrinth of resting children. Successfully dodged Miss Judice's fifteen-minute check. Still watching the clock. Only five minutes to spare—finally landed at Rebecca’s mat. No time to waste. Kiddie cuddling commenced. Can’t remember if we kissed. Get the sense we did. Tried to undo her belt. Just as determined as I was to break open that old, rusted lock on the shack. Large white strap with double rows of holes fastened tightly by two metal pins. This wasn’t like trying to undo a bra in high school. This was a medieval chastity belt that only a father with a daughter who knew Salome could’ve tightened. Broke my will. Army-crawled back to my mat. Deterred. Returned to grandmother’s side, where I remained until Mother moved me to Texas.

                                                                                  

AUTHOR'S BIO

Nicholas Cormier III. Air Force Veteran. University of Texas at Arlington. M.B.A, Texas State University. Actor. Writer. Director. Owns Runner Films. Volunteers for Veteran-organizations. Homelessness Liaison, Community Veterans Engagement Board. Veterans Patient Advocacy Council. USC Warrior Bard. UCLA Wordcommando. Nicholas' flash fiction and short stories were accepted for publication by MAYDAY Magazine, Lolwe Magazine, The Good Life Review, Jupiter Review, Black And…,As You Were, and LEON Literary Review.