Much has happened in the past two days. Let's see if I can compose myself enough to relate what's going on. I don't exaggerate when I tell you that I feel lucky to be alive.
My tale begins Thursday night at 3:00 am. Well,
Wednesday if you take into account the visions, but anyways...
I was lurking behind Saint Brigid's Church at Tompkins Square Park. Hidden among a few tiny tombstones and graffiti painted dumpsters, I arranged six red candles in the form of a hexagon - about a foot in diameter. In the center, I placed a single white candle. After lighting the red ones (clockwise), I took from my pocket the 12th card of the Tarot, The Hanged Man. I put flame to the white candle and held the card above the fire. The Tarot card began to burn. The sound of a mob, first a faint whisper which grew into a roar sounded the phrase "let him swing!" over and over. I held the burning Hanged Man above my head and whispered, "let him swing." I heard the click of a gallows. The anger of the necktie party became celebration.
And then silence. From the clouds the silhouette of a man's body tumbled limply like a rag doll. He wore black robes and around his neck sat a noose, the end of which reached beyond vision. His arms were bound behind him. His fair Irish features marked with an emotionless expression. He slowly fell another forty or thirty feet until snapping tight just a few inches above the white candle. His body jerked and his legs kicked wildly. The pale ivory skin of his neck turned the shade of eggplant and burst blood vessels filled his blue eyes with crimson explosions. His swollen tongue jutted from his mouth, forcing out an unholy homily of inhuman grunts and choking noises.
After swinging for nearly a minute, he finally came to rest, the tips of his toes touching the flame of the white candle. They ignited and began to burn like kindling. I asked, "Father O'Riley, what can you tell me about the Pope's visit this weekend."
The spirit regarded me with utmost contempt, "I don't respond to that title anymore."
The fire had reached the wretched thing's knees, "Glenn O'Riley... what can you tell me about the Pope's--"
The ghost leered through the smoke of it's burning form, "You carry the same stain as my boys. That mark of love, that sacred blessing--"
The fire had reached his upper thighs, "Glenn O'Riley! I command you to speak!"
I turned the burning card so that it burned faster. The inferno consuming O'Riley's ghost seemed to match the card's intensity. The fire climbed as far as his midsection. The rope binding his wrists had burned away. He swung his arms wildly. They resembled slender matchsticks.
"Tell me about The Purification!"
The dead preacher howled his sermon, "The Holy Father brings with him a fire to cleanse the wickedness of this cruel city. Minions of The Void shall be purified. Sorcerers, seers and speakers of the dead will burn before His greatness! The Purification is here, my child."
He held his burning hand outstretched as though to grasp the card. The arm was a nothing more than a skeletal cinder, but the fleshy parts of his palm and fingers remained. They bled profusely as though slashed with a razor blade.
The card burned completely and with it O'Riley. His ashes dropped to the ground among discarded needles. The flame raced up the spectral rope. The screeching soul reminded me of a bottle rocket. I dropped the scorched Tarot card on the priest's grave. Pederast was chiseled across his headstone.
"Fuck you, weirdo."
***
The majority of my thoughts on Friday were primarily consumed with what the former priest had warned me. The Purification is coming. Here's the deal about ghosts and their portents. Ghosts are kind of like gossip tabloids. The bigger the rumor means the more readership and more money. But with The Void its all about dreadful omens and fear mongering, kind of like the Republican party - but not as ancient. But something about O'Riley's warning (and his bloody hand) sent a genuine shudder through me. And I do not shudder easy.
That night I was supposed to meet a friend out in the East Village for dinner. But an uneasy sensation paired with my off and on agoraphobia moved me to cancel. I stayed in Friday night with the curtains drawn and my lights off. It was 10:30 pm. I sat in the dark Indian style, exploring my tense feelings - when my doorbell rang. I froze. The doorbell rang again. On my knees, I peered down from my second floor window. A black sedan sat idling in front of my apartment. It's headlights were on. The doorbell rang again. A group of teenagers, maybe seven young men, strolled up the sidewalk talking. Two men in black robes briskly walked away from my apartment. They were carrying briefcases. After they got into the ominous vehicle, it quietly rolled out of view.
I laid awake in bed the entire night with a chair under my front door knob and a small hand gun beneath my pillow. I fled immediately for Larchmont the next morning to stay with Ms. Margerie. She told me I was being ridiculous and worrying about nothing. I returned this morning. She was wrong.
My door was unlocked. Had I left it unlocked in my hurry to leave? Had someone broken in? Was someone here? I tried sneaking, but my creaky floor ratted me out. I'm an exorcist, not a ninja. Luckily, no one was there. Even better, nothing seemed missing. Most of my magical, material mojo is stored in rental spaces around Manhattan. My disorganized closets could have been ransacked, but then again -- I'm a mess when it comes to laundry. No one had been in my apartment. I guess I had left the door unlocked.
I called Ms. Margerie to tell her that my paranoia had indeed gotten the best of me. I laughed, "I totally expected His Holiness hiding inside with a Howitzer--"
And then I went dead silent. Margerie asked, "Are you there? Heeelloooooo? Ground control to Dandy Darkly..."
I stared above my bed at the single bloody hand print dominating my white wall. The ghost of Father Quinn had been right. The Purification was here.
