Possession

Adrien Carver
Jul 10, 2017 · 5 min read

Thomas vomited the vile green goo up, hacking it out of his throat like phlegm. The stuff kept coming. It got on his forearm.

After the vomiting ceased, Thomas went to the kitchen for another roll of paper towel.

“This is such a pain in the ass,” he thought as he began to clean up the mess.

There were flies buzzing all over the sliding door out to his balcony. He had no idea where they kept coming from. They buzzed all night. Their corpses littered the floor along the sliding door. It was disgusting. He’d quit vacuuming them up because they just kept coming.

He was going to just have to ride this out. He found out earlier that day that he wasn’t just enduring a sickness, it was a full blown demon curse with some level of possession.

He didn’t hear any voices in his head or around him, that was at least a good thing.

He wasn’t even sure how he’d been cursed, or possessed. He hadn’t come across any witch doctors with smoke coming out their nostrils or old crones pointing crooked fingers at him and whispering hexes or fallen priests murmuring curses and damnation.

In that way, demon possession was a lot like getting an STD. His skin burned and itched, he felt generally shitty like he was having a lowgrade cold or something, his libido alternated between dormant and raging, and it all came out of nowhere, unpredictable as ever.

It had all started a few nights prior, when he’d woken up in the middle of the night with his skin burning red and itching like fire. He’d tried to turn over and go back to sleep but as he’d switched positions in bed to try and find something comfortable, he’d seen there were letters on the wall. They were glowing, like a neon sign.

There was a name carved into the wall, glowing an infectious red, slashed into the dry wall just above his mattress, as if with a nail.

“Azrael”

It was definitely Biblical sounding. But Thomas hadn’t chalked it up to demon possession quite yet.

“This is a dream,” he mumbled to himself. He’d gotten up, put some lotion on his arms and legs, wondering if he was having some sort of food reaction. He’d had Chinese that night at that shady place over on Huron River Drive. It was probably from that.

When he came back, the name was gone from the wall.

He’d woken up the next day in mid afternoon. He was still feeling sick, though the itch and burn had subsided some. The skin on his arms was red and dry but was free of welts or blemishes of any kind. His legs and patches of his torso had the same problem. His head was swimming, and his sinuses were plugged.

He’d googled his symptoms.

Then he remembered the name on the wall. Where had he heard that name before?

He was certain he’d never heard of it.

He googled the name. Azrael. He expected nothing to come up.

His blood had run cold when he saw that Azrael was in fact the Angel of Death in Hebrew Biblical texts.

Thomas didn’t know what to do at first. He wasn’t particularly superstitious or religious, but he dug his grandfather’s old crucifix out of his Box o’ Stuff in the closet just to be on the safe side. He set it next to his bed.

He’d endured his condition for another day before the vomiting started. It came without notice. He was standing over his microwave, heating a bowl of Spaghetti-O’s, when all of a sudden he felt his stomach turn inside out and he threw up all over the counter. The puke was green and stank like swamp rot.

Irritated, Thomas wiped it all into the sink and ran the faucet scalding hot. Then he went back to bed.

Then the flies had shown up. At first there were only two or three, and Thomas had opened the door and shooed them outside as soon as he saw them. But then he’d leave the room and come back and there would be five. Then more. No matter how much he swatted them or shooed them out the door, they kept returning. The door was sealed, there were no maggots in the seams of the carpet, no evidence as to where the damn things could be coming from.

So Thomas stayed in his apartment by himself for the next couple days, watching movies and surfing the Internet and hoping the spell would wear off. His skin was so dry and so red he was repulsed by himself. The vomiting spells came and went. The flies continued to buzz at the doorwall.

“I have no idea what I did to deserve this, or why this is happening,” thought Thomas.

He searched his symptoms again, including projectile vomiting, and to his surprise the third choice was demon possession. He clicked it, thinking of Azrael the Angel of Death, and was led to a chatroom where he listed his symptoms and was put on with a person who asked him questions like “What flowers have you picked recently?” and “Have you desecrated any holy monuments, either accidentally or purposely”

“Not that I know of,” he said.

“Hmm,” said his new helper friend. “You definitely have upset the Angel of Death. The flies are a dead giveaway. You’ve strayed far from the path of righteousness, and it’s completely feasible that you are too far gone for God to save you, I’m afraid.”

“That really sucks,” typed Thomas. “What do I do?”

“Let the curse run it’s course,” said the helper. “Without a cause I can’t diagnose or give a prognosis. Though I wouldn’t walk into any churches or touch holy water until it’s passed. You could be struck by lightning or burst into flames or worse.”

“How long will this take? I’m starting a new job soon.”

“It depends. It could last years.”

“Goddamn it.”

“Yes — yes, right there. That is the problem. Do you have any holy items that you keep handy? They could hasten the healing process, though again, I’m afraid you do sound like you’ve strayed quite far from the Shepherd’s flock.”

“I have a crucifix that I put next to my bed.”

“That’s good. Be careful how you touch it.”

Thomas had racked his brain, trying to remember where he’d picked this up. He couldn't think of anything. He didn’t go out. Where could it have come from?

Then, a few nights later, Azrael showed up.

Thomas was sleeping relatively peacefully when he opened his eyes to find Azrael floating over him.

He was an enormous black demon, not unlike the creature in the Night on Bald Mountain skit in Disney’s Fantasia. He seemed to be made out of smoke. He floated over Thomas’s bed and Thomas could see Azrael had a huge erect dick jutting out from his thighs. He shifted his hips, trying to avoid it.

The name AZRAEL was scrawled on everything in his room in that horrid red neon slashing. His skin felt like it was on fire. His nose and throat were torrid with thirst.

“You have been marked for damnation, Thomas Ferrell Nixonditch,” growled the smoke-beast that hovered over him with red eyes. “You have lived a life of lies and selfishness, and now you must pay for that with an eternity of suffering.”

“Yeah, but — “ Thomas said, but he felt the bed around him dissolve and the blankets were torn away from him by some tremendous wind. There was a black hole beneath him, a swirling oblivion that stank of sulfur and shit.

“No excuses,” thundered Azrael. “You are all mine now!”

He laughed triumphantly.

“Motherfucker,” thought Thomas as he was overtaken by the black.

Adrien Carver

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