Chapter Sixteen: I Am the Shadow
The guards checked his briefcase. They made him walk through the metal detector. Then they made him turn while they punched in the secret code on the keypad. He turned back when they said it was alright, and watched as they unlocked the five locks on the door. They lead him through. He was now in a Plexiglas box. There was a loud, electronic noise, and the door opened. He stepped through. He was now in the Unnecessarily Secure Wing of Springfield General.
The Wing was shaped like a large octopus; multiple arms branching out from a central head. Around the start of each 'arm', each row of cells, was a large box, made of bulletproof glass, coated on each side with over three inches of Plexiglas. The door had both mechanical locks and electronic ones. The mechanical locks could be unlocked by any of the guards with one of their keys, but the electronic locks could only be operated by the door operator, who sat in the center of the 'head', in a Plexiglas cylinder, operating the door controls.
An armed guard greeted the father, and asked him what the purpose of his visit was. He showed him his papers, one signed by Ned Flanders, one signed by Agent Mallone and Seymour Skinner, and one signed by Dr. Hibbert, all authorizing his visit. The guard grimaced.
"Here. Go wait over there by the Plexiglas box labeled "Overkille". I'll show these to the door operator, and he'll open it for us."
The Father went over to the Okerkille ward's door. Of all the Plexiglas boxes, it was the only one that nurses were not going to and from, and was the only one whose door was guarded by two armed guards. The guard walked over to the operator, and knocked on the side of his cylinder. He looked up from his "Playdude" with a start, then, seeing his co-worker, asked him his intentions through gestures. The guard held up the papers, and the operator nodded and pressed a button on his enormous control panel, opening a small slot. The guard slid the papers in. The operator looked the papers over, nodded, and handed them back through the slot.
"Here you go, padre."
"Thank you."
The operator pressed the button. There was a loud, shrill noise, and a green light began to flash above the Plexiglas door. The guard took his ring of keys of his belt, and, after some searching, placed the appropriate key in the lock. He opened the door, and led the Father in. He closed the door, and locked it. He waved to the operator, who pressed the appropriate button, locking the door. The guard then walked over to the heavy steel door of the ward, and, after punching in the appropriate code in on the buttons, inserted his key in the lock on the door, and twisted. He then cranked the large lock open, and pushed open the heavy door.
The corridor was silent. Steel doors, with Plexiglas-coated bulletproof windows, lined the wall. Only one, the third on the right, was surrounded by armed guards.
"Okay," said the guard, "It takes a seven-number password here, plus a key, to unlock the door. One of those guards can open it for ya. Have fun."
The door closed. The priest felt as though he had descended into the bowels of the earth, cut off from the living. He walked over to the door, and showed the guards his papers. They nodded. Is that all anyone does here? One went for the door, placing his key in the lock, while the other three drew their weapons and stood, ready to fire upon whatever it was that dwelt within. The door opened. Silence. Darkness. Father went forth into the blackness.
The cell was dark. The only light cam from a single window, barred with titanium-cobalt bars, high up on the brick wall. Two bed, one on each side of the room. A toilet. A sink. plink….plink.
On the left-hand bed, sat Todd Flanders. His face was partly hidden in shadow.
"Hello, Father…" he said in a low, trembling voice.
The priest sat down on the opposite bed, and opened his briefcase. Inside it was a high-quality digital recorder. He turned it on. He set it on 'record'.
"Hello, Theodore. It's nice to meet you, boy-o. I'm Father O'Flaherty. You can call me 'Fr. Patty', if ye want." He said sweetly, placing his papers in the briefcase, and taking out a small notepad and pencil.
The creature on the bed smiled and tilted his head.
"Todd?..." he asked, in the smooth, oily voice, "Oh yes, the little one! He heard you. We heard you."
"Who is 'we'?"
"Don't you like little girls?" the thing asked, "Their little vaginas, I find, are just exquisite!"
Father O'Flaherty struggled not to gag. He grimaced and placed his hand to his chin, then jotted something down in his notebook.
"Or do you prefer little boys? Don't fight it, padre. I know you, you sick fuck! You like little, innocent boys, don't you now? Their bright little eyes, their tight little asses…look at me, Father! It's rude, you know. I invite you in, let you ask me prying questions, and you look away when I'm speaking to you!"
"…Right then. When were you born?"
"eh-July 4th, 1776. Gaheee-eee-hheee-eh-heh!" he answered in a raspy voice.
"What are the names of your father and mother?"
"God and…God!"
"Your earthly father and mother."
"Get up, ye lazy git! JesusMaryn'Joseph! The cows a' screamin' ta be milked ya' lazy!"
Father O'Flaherty paused. That voice…that was a voice he had hoped to never here again.
"What did you say?"
"I said....stick it in yer' rear, fruitcake!"
Time for the real questions.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Aren't they beautiful?" asked a sweet, childish voice from the creature's mouth.
"And at sunset, the light shines through them, and they make rainbows!"
"What does?" asked the priest.
"Why, the crystals do! See them? They're hanging right from the ceiling there!"
The child pointed at a spot on the barren ceiling. The priest looked, out of curiosity, and having seen nothing, shook his head.
The thing lunged at him. The chains went taught. His teeth, cracked and yellowed, gnashed but a few inches from the Father's face. He stared the beast in it's yellowed eyes
"What is thy name, demon? I command ye, in the name of Jesus Christ-"
"-Fuck him!"
"You tell me thy name! What is it!"
"Bite me, Danny-boy!"
The priest sat, stoically, looking at the thing. It's eyes…how could this be a human being? How could God have made this? How could He allow it's very existence?
He reached into his open briefcase and took out a small flask. He opened it, and took a brief sip to steady his nerves. He wiped his mouth, sealed the flask, and put it away. The thing was looking upset, having neither angered nor frightened his quarry. He sat back down. A look of utter sadness was in his eyes. He looked at the priest.
"Do you like movies? I love movies. My favorites are 'The Godfather Parts I and II', 'Dawn of the Dead', the new one and the old one, they're all good…books, I like books…'Da Vinci Code', that's a good one. Really well written, one of the best books of the last five years, I say…"
"Personally," Father O'Flaherty replied, "I didn't like the book. I found it painful to read, and full of historical exaggerations and even blatent lies!"
"That's because they've brainwashed you, poor, pitiful fool," came an aged, yet powerful voice from Todd's throat, "They've blinded you, blinded you the real truth. I can help you. My domain is hidden wisdom. I can tell you every thing that you wish to know-"
"-Ye mean what I wish to hear!"
"Don't interrupt!!" snapped a woman's voice, "It's quite rude!"
"Get up off yer ass, boy!
The priest stood, a grave look on his face. The monster smiled. He reached into his briefcase, and took out a silver flask. He opened it, and began to splash it's contents on the child.
"AHHHH! OHHH! GOD, IT BURNS! IT BURNS!"
The creature fell on the ground. Vomit gurgled up from it's mouth, and it's eyes rolled up into it's sockets.
"Salots MaI…Ma I Owh Ouy let liw i…" was what it said as it lay on the floor.
"Which demon are you?"
"dratsab g'nikuf Uy, Enola kuf e't Em Evae-eel."
"Wodahs e't Ma i."
"SRouy hu klat dednim Ih siht vhu nun Dna"
"Why are you in this boy?"
"Em detivni ee-h."
"When will you leave?"
"Rethtom sih ekil, esproc ythlif a zi eh new!"
"DetcivNoC shI Eh R'tfa."
"!Reven!"
The think sat straight up and grabbed the priest by the collar. He tried to pull away, but it grabbed him by the wrist.
"Guard!"
The thing looked at him. The strange, pale light had left it's eyes; they were brown now, and were so tired, and red with swollen blood vessels. The skin was still pale, yet some of the natural yellow had returned to it.
"Help me…"
The door flung open. One guard pulled the priest away, while the another hit him with a tazer. The child fell, shaking violently, teeth chattering.
"You alright, padre?"
"Yes…my briefcase, please?"
"Oh, sure."
He fetched the priest's bag, holding open. The priest took the recorder out, hit 'Stop', then closed the bag. He looked at the boy, who was strapped in by the two other guards.
"He's out again!"
"Good. I'm sick of hearing that howlin'!"
"Does he sleep well?"
"Him? Never. I mean," he stood up, adjusting his cap, "He goes out like that, but the doctors say that his brainwaves are still the same as when he's awake and cussin' and swearin'. One shrink said that it's all in his mind, you know? I don't know. Ask, um, Dr. Scheidimantel. He'd know."
"Thank you."
He looked back at the boy, then left.
"Well, padre, he's certainly the strangest case I've ever seen," explained the young psychiatrist. The priest was sitting in the doctor's office. He was holding his briefcase in his lap. The young doctor, with curly dark hair and ruddy skin, was wearing his white suit, and, despite the health code regulations, was smoking.
"You see, the boy has a common complex: he knows something is wrong, that he would get in trouble if he was caught, and that is why he does it. It's a form of a thrill-seeking personality. He likes taking the risk, in addition to enjoying whatever pleasure is inherent in whatever activity is that he is not supposed to be doing. Of course, that is not unusual. Many young teens do that: sneaking off to have sex, drinking in the woods, smoking in the school bathrooms; stupid, reckless behavior, just for the sake of doing it."
"But it's not just that. You see, he is a true psychopath: he is technically sane, that is, in the clinical sense. He can tell the difference between right and wrong, he is not disconnected from reality, or the effects of his actions. But he, quite simply, he doesn't care. It is what was once called 'moral degeneracy' or 'moral insanity'."
"Also, he has been diagnosed as having a genuine case of multi-personalities. He has several, several of which are more sedate, some benign, and some out-and-out violent. He has several that are quite vicious, others that seem completely distant and detached from reality, and his 'normal' personality, which is the one we have seen the least of, so far, which is that of a frightened sixteen-year-old named Todd Flanders, who fears that he has completely screwed up his life and his family."
He paused, taking a long draw on his cig. He sighed, exhaling blue smoke, and stared out the window.
"He has numerous 'paraphilias', that is, unnatural sexual urges. First of all, he, when he is in one of his more sexual personalities, he seems equally attracted to males and females, that is, he is bisexual. He is also attracted to young children, pedophilia. He is attracted to death, and dead persons; necrophilia. He loves to see, and what's more, inflict pain on other persons. Sadism. Again, the thrill of doing something forbidden, but he also derives sexual excitement from it, the way a heterosexual person might derive sexual excitement from kissing a beautiful girl or viewing pornography. For the standard sadist, the concept of normal sexual activity, mutual pleasure, giving of oneself, is lost, replaced with an obsession with pain, the belief that only in causing others pain can one receive pleasure. But, I'm afraid, that with a case as complex and downright unusual as Todd's, normal explanations go right out the door.
"How so, doctor?"
"Well, first off, he manifests strange, animalistic behavior, in addition to the aforementioned disorders and paraphilias, behavior that would lead one to believe that the child is not psychotic but psychopathic: completely insane, experiencing frequent, elaborate hallucinations that, to him, are indistinguishable from reality, and reason and logic are no longer forces at work in his mind. That is what I thought, until I interviewed him. Yes, he was profane, he cussed, he swore, he made strange gestures, he told deliberate lies, he evaded and ignored questions, but, all in all, knew what he was doing, and, when he wanted to, answered my questions, both the control questions and random questions, truthfully. And, of the seven other psychiatrists who have interviewed him, only one has said otherwise."
"Then we come to his scans and tests. Yes, when he was initially caught, he had trace amounts of opium and marijuana in his blood. But, by the time he was re-captured, all the trace toxins had left his system. His previous records showed no history of drug abuse, accidental poisoning, abnormal mercury exposure, or severe head trauma. His recent head X-rays show no skull abnormalities. We have performed EKG's, CAT scans, PET scans, MRI's, even an ultrasound, just to be safe, and nothing out of the ordinary has showed up…kind of."
"'Kind of', doctor?"
"Well, I said that because of his brainwave measurements. During sleep, there are no changes in his brainwaves, whatsoever. It is truly unusual. Also, during his "sleep cycles", his heart rate, blood pressure, and body temperature plummet far beyond normal levels. It is as though his mind is still active, yet his body has ceased to function. Really, I stumped."
"Hmm…may I have copies…you know, of all these medical records?"
"What for?" he asked, putting out his cigarette.
"For his father t'see. I was sent 'ere by him to, you know, try an' talk to his son for him…poor man, he can hardly function, 'e's so distraught. I thought I could talk to his son, cause I'm his new pastor, y'know, and I thought I could pick up the records for him t'see, y'know?"
"Hmm…" the young doctor had to think about it. Yes, the doctor-patient laws maintained privacy, but if he was the family's minister, and was sent by the boy's father…plus, every had read that the boy, while sane, acted totally insane in the papers. What harm could it do?
"Sure. Here." And he stood up, and got the boy's rather thick file out of his file cabinet.
"Thank ye, doctor."
"No probl'm," he said, lighting another cigarette.
"I must be goin' now. Nice meetin' ya, Doctor Scheidimantel."
"You too, father. Take care now."
That evening, the Jesuit paid a visit to the Frink household. He needed the Frinks' technological expertise to help him with the tapes he had made of the boy's babbling. He knocked on the door of their "retro-chic" abode. It was Celia Frink who answered the door.
"Oh, good evening, Father. And what brings you here, gnoi-hvaiving?
"I was wondering if your husband and yourself might help me with a tape I have made of the Flanders boy's interview. May I?"
"Why of course, burhavin'-knavin'. Enter, if you so please, the Frink home!"
"Thank you."
As he stepped inside, a robotic coat rack approached him.
"Take your hat and coat, sir?" it inquired in a halting, metallic drone.
The priest smiled and placed his hat and coat on the strange machine, then followed Mrs. Frink. They passed through the living room, where Max and Larry were watching TV.
"Hello, Max!"
"Helloe, mr.-father-poyson!" he replied.
He walked with the lady of the house to the laboratory in the back, where the professor was tinkering with a large machine that was partly concealed by a large, white shroud.
"Jonnie, we have a guest, gloy-fleeving. It's Father O'Flaherty. He needs the sound-diviso-tron."
"Oh, goodness gracious, Father O'Flaherty, furlavin-navin! Of course, by all means!"
The Father handed the tape to the professor, and he placed it in a large in a large, complicated machine.
"It's really quite simple, you see. The tape is played through, and the data is processed in the computer. It plays it through, forwards and backwards, at various speeds, and records each one as a separate file. Files, aside from the original, that contain more than two words from the English language, are marked, and then it is the simple task of the operator to listen to all of those tracks. Galvin-Glavin! So what are you looking for, O Padre-poyson? Some, Freudian-like slips, some subliminal messagores?"
"Something…"
"Jonnie, we have something, d'ho-d'hloiving!" called Mrs. Frink, who been listening to the various tracks.
They walked over, and she handed the priest her headphones while she made a few final adjustments.
"I heard something when the tracks are played backwards at normal speed. I've set it so that it plays your questions in order, then plays his answer backwards at normal speed."
The priest placed the headphones on his head. He looked to Prof. Frink, then to Mrs. Frink, and nodded. She pressed play.
"I will tell you who I am…I am Stolas!"
"Who are you?"
"An' nun 'a yer high talk'a yers!"
That voice...No…it can't be…they told me…He is dead!
"Leave me the fuck alone, ya fuckin' bastard!"
It was a child's voice, a child of but thirteen years...a child who had had enough…
"I am the Shadow!"
The third voice was familiar. But it came not from the priest's distant past, but from his days as a young priest, a Jesuit and a scholar. He was in Armenia…
"Why are you in this child?"
"He invited me!"
"When will you leave the boy?"
"NEVER!"
"After the conviction!"
"When he's a filthy corpse, like his mother!"
He took the headphones off.
"You feelin' good, Father? You're looking ill, what with the paleness, and the not breathing, and I'm shutting up now…"
"I need my tape back, please. And I'd like a copy of what I just heard, please."
That night, he returned to the Flanders' home.
"Mr. Flanders, d'ya have any tapes of Todd speaking before the incident?"
"Maybe…oh, I have a good one! Just wait!" He rushed into the basement. The priest heard Flanders yell:
"Homer! What the F-U-D-G-E are you doin' in my basement?"
"Tending my mushrooms, of course! The real question is 'what are you doning in my basement'?"
"But this is my basement, Homer! Is that my coffee you're fertilizing your mushrooms with?"
"And if it is?"
Five minutes later, Ned emerged holding a cassette.
"Rod made it last November. It's a tape he was goin' to send to Maude…my wife, up in Heaven. If it can be of any help…"
"Thank you. Thank you Ned. Ye've been so brave in all'uh this."
"Father…why my boys? Of all the kids in Springfield…?"
"Ned, I can not be certain. But this is my guess: the were so sheltered from the evils of the world, that, when exposed to the world in all it's evil the had no immunity. The had never dealt with evil or temptation; the had never had the chance to resist temptation."
All that night, Father O'Flaherty worked on his letter to the Bishop, detailing all that had gone on in his investigation. He faxed the letter to the Bishop, then took a copy of the letter and placed it in a large parcel, along with copies of Todd's medical records, copies he had made of the three tapes, photocopies of his notes, documents from the court case, newspaper clippings, and pictures of Todd, taken before, during, and after the crimes. That morning, after Mass, he mailed it to the Bishop by express mail.
One day. Two Days. Three Days. Four. Five. It was now the sixth day.
Father O'Flaherty locked the new, steel-reinforced church doors, and headed home for lunch. He had just heard and hour of confessions, and his mind was in a fog. During confessions, he was in a strange trance, listening, aware, yet feeling as though he was somewhere else, as though he was Someone else. As he came within sight of the rectory, he saw Seamus holding a letter.
"Father! Yu've got a letter from th'Bishop!"
"Seamus, m'lad, are ye in the habit o' goin' through me mail?"
Seamus looked down in shame.
"Aye. Mea culpa."
The priest shook his head and took the letter from his friend's hands. He looked at it. It was addressed to him. And it was from the Bishop. He opened it.
Whatever the answer would be, it was bad. The letter was short. Either way, there was not much to be said.
"To Father Patrick F. O'Flaherty, P.h.d., S.J.S.;
I grant you my official permission to perform the rite of exorcism on the child Theodore Flanders. Proceed with caution. May God bless and protect you, and the prayers of the Virgin be ever for us and our Church.
Yours in Christ,
Bishop Henry Ludkin
"Father…what is it?"
"I have somethin' t'do, Seamus. I've somethin' t'do…"