October 10, 2017

(This post was originally published May 13, 2010 and is part of an ongoing serial of fiction stories about Sister Lucretia Dismas, aka the ‘Noir Nun’, a violent foul mouthed nun fighting crime and occult menaces)

Heart racing violently, tears threatening to burst forth in relief, the woman observed Sister Lucretia Dismas walking up the stairs and down the long corridor of the drab concrete hallway. As the nun strode forth in sweeping steps, her habit and robe billowed splendidly, sentient, living extensions of the holy woman’s will.

“Here, it is here!” the woman whispered, pointing to a half-open door at the end of the hall.

Other neighbors also congregated around the door, fearful, in shock, looking incredulously at Sister Dismas.

Shrieking and inhuman sounds emerged from the darkly lit doorway. The nun slowly pushed the creaking door open. She walked past a modestly decorated unlit living room, and into a bedroom. She saw a priest from a parish other than her own (but then, her parish was highly isolated and secretive), a white woman in her late forties, and the subject of her visit – the woman’s 17 year old son, tied to a chair, growling, making feral faces and contorting his neck.

“What are you doing here? You need to leave right NOW!” The priest squealed, startled and red faced by the presence of Sister Dismas.

“Please, Father Taylor, don’t be angry,” the boy’s mother said. “My neighbor insisted she can help with these things. I….”

“KEEP THE WHORE OF THE NAZARENE AWAY FROM MEEEE!” the boy cried in a guttral shriek, straining against his bonds. His lips were peeled back, baring his slightly crooked front teeth. Then he began gargling at the back of his throat, rolling his eyes back.

“Sister,” the priest said in a fearful voice, his thin prim lips pursing, “you CAN NOT be here, this is a matter in which you CAN NOT help!”

Sister Dismas regarded the priest closely. Silently, she turned away from him, and walked towards the bound boy, who continued his menacing grimaces and tortured howlings. She appraised him for a full minute while mother and priest looked on.

Then, she raised her long, thin left arm in a sweeping motion and delivered a swift backhand slap across the boy’s face, with a satisfyingly loud crack. The boy’s head whipped to the side. A red welt remained on his cheek. The gargling and grimacing ended, replaced by a look of stunned incredulity.

“Cut the the Linda Blair bullshit,” Sister Dismas said in a voice of ice and steel.

Father Taylor visibly reddened and opened his mouth to speak. “Shut your motherfelching mouth,” the nun interrupted his anticipated outburst.

Turning to the mother, she then said “this asshole has somehow convinced your son to play at being possessed. There’s no negative spiritual entities here. It’s clear to me you want something, Father Taylor – maybe you want to deflect attention from something else.”

“John?” the mother said to the boy, frowning. “Is she lying?”

“Uh – ah -” the bound boy cleared his throat. “Satanicus luciferum in viti…” he continued, attempting to grimace again. He stopped, shoulders slumping.

“HOW DARE YOU?” Father Taylor screamed. “You’re only a NUN! YOU have no authority, and you couldn’t perform an exorcism anyhow!”

Sister Dismas approached him and bent down slightly to put her face within an inch of the priest. “I’ve performed exactly twenty-four exorcisms to date since I was initiated to the Sisterhood. You wouldn’t know a real case of possession from your ass, and you can be sure you’d be crapping your cassock if you ever did come across one. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with a reporter from the Weekly Star-Informer.”

She turned to leave, but before doing so, turned again to the mother and said, “Don’t waste my fucking time ever again.”

The priest gripped her shoulder tightly. “I’m going to report you! Your arrogance, your disregard for Church authority, your vile mouth – – !!”

Quick as a flash, the nun whirled around, placed her palms squarely on the priest’s chest and shoved him violently. The priest tumbled to the floor, his limbs flailing helplessly, his arm glancing hard against a wooden table.

“I’ll confess tomorrow.”

 

 

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