The Demonologist

Chapter 5

“There was no designated time for my arrival that I was aware of.”

“It is late,” he repeats, a hint of weariness in his voice, suggesting he is referring to something other than the time.

I step into what appears to be a waiting room of some kind. Wooden chairs with their backs against the walls. A coffee table with Italian news magazines that, judging by the acts of terror and blockbuster movies featured on their covers, are more than a few years old. If it is a waiting room, no one else waits here. And there is nothing—no signage, reception desk, explanatory posters—to indicate what service might be provided.

“I am a physician,” the man in the suit says.

“Is this your office?”

“No, no.” He shakes his head. “I have been commissioned. From elsewhere.”

“Where?”

He waves his hand. A refusal, or perhaps an incapacity, to answer.

“Are we the only ones here?” I ask.

“At the moment.”

“There are others? At other times?”

“Yes.”

“So shall we wait for them to arrive?”

“It is not necessary.”

He starts toward one of three closed doors. Turns the knob.

“Wait,” I say.

He opens the door, pretending not to hear. It reveals a narrow set of stairs leading up to the floor above.

“Wait!”

The physician turns. His anxiety undisguised on his face. It’s clear he has a job to do—lead me up these stairs—and has a distinctly personal investment in getting it done in the quickest manner possible.

“Yes?”

“What’s up there?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are about to show me something, right? Tell me what it is.”

The various answers he might give can almost be read in his eyes. It is a process that seems to bring him pain.

“It is for you,” he says finally.

Before I can ask him anything else he starts up the stairs. His polished leather Oxfords pounding on the wooden steps with uncalled-for force, either to prevent hearing any further comments from me, or to signal someone else of my arrival.

I follow him up.

The stairwell is warm and dark, the rising heat thicker with each step higher, the plaster walls slippery with condensation. It’s like entering a throat. And with the arrival of this impression, a sound: the subdued breathing of something other than myself or the physician. Or, more accurately, two breaths, overlapping and in time. One high and weak, a deathbed struggle. The other a bass tremor that is felt rather than heard.

It’s pitch dark when I reach the second floor. Even looking back the way I’ve come reveals nothing but the palest reach of light from the waiting room.

“Doctor?”

My voice seems to reanimate the physician, who switches on a powerful flashlight, blinding me.

“Le mie scuse,” he says, lowering the beam to the floor.

“Are the lights not working?”

“The power. It has been turned off for the building.”