Harlan Ellison - Shatterday

“Theresa,” he said, stepping away from the wall and taking her hand, “you look a trifle whiplashed.”

She hugged him and kissed his cheek. “My God, Jake, have you been listening to him?”

The psychiatrist nodded slowly. “I have indeed. But it’s not so much what be says, as the way he says it. A little de Sade, a little Gilles de Rais, echoes of Proterius, a smidgeon of Cotton Mather and some direct quotes from the Evangelium Nicodemi, if memory serves well. All made contemporary by the addition of Jung, Freud, Adler and Werner Erhard’s look-out-for-number-one. Nothing particularly spectacular about it; most modern demonologists plunder the same bag. But your Brother Michael in there has a sense of the dramatic, and a voice to match, and a nasty way of bringing in current events that… well… I can’t say I’m looking forward to sharing a microphone with him.”

She drew a deep breath. “Jake, stop it! This flake does a good enough job scaring the hell out of me on his own. I mean, it’s like Exorcist time in there. When he starts talking about the return of the devils I swear to God I can feel the slimy things in that booth. And I never thought a kid’s Halloween mask could chill me, but each time he looks at me with those green eyes I feel every part of my body trying to run away and leave my head behind.”

Millie handed her a Kleenex from the box. “Your lip,” she said. Theresa took the tissue and blotted herself.

“Okay, don’t worry about it,” Jake said, setting down the empty coffee cup. “I’ll come on like the voice of rationality.”

She smiled wanly, feeling like a fool. This was hardly professional behavior.

They walked back into the on-air studio just as the news was ending. Theresa moved to the console and flipped the toggle switch on the intercom. “Jerry, let’s do the Southern California Buick Dealers, Pacific Telephone and Roto-Rooter. Is there a live tag on the Roto-Rooter commercial?”

The tinny voice of Jerry from the other side of the control room glass filled the booth. “Yeah. Ten seconds.”

He ran up the cartridges and for a moment, before she turned down the sound in the booth, the Buick announcer’s voice filled the air. When she turned back to her guests, Jake Theiss had already seated himself at the empty third mike, to the right of her swivel chair. She drew a deep breath and sat down. “Jake, this is Brother Michael Darkness; Brother Darkness, Dr. Jacob Theiss.” She watched them shake hands. She studied Jake’ s face closely, but if he reacted to the touch of Brother Michael’s hand, as she had reacted the first time he had touched her, the only time he had touched her, earlier that evening, the psychiatrist concealed the fact. Jake did not shiver. He smiled at Brother Michael and said, “I’ve been listening to the interview. Pretty strong medicine for a lay audience just around dinnertime, wouldn’t you say?”

Brother Michael’s face was impassive. “If you think I’m a fraud, Dr. Theiss, why not just come out with it. Mendacity is unappealing in someone who professes to being a man of science. Even such an alleged science as the study of the mind.”

Theresa’s heart beat faster. It was as though she had just received two separate and powerful electrical shocks, so close together they seemed one: outrage and fear at the antagonism of the man in black, which might lead in a moment to a thrown punch; and delight at the instant animus between Jake and the Brother, guaranteeing a controversial second hour for the show. She hated herself for feeling pleasure, but it was always this way when something terrible but promotable happened on the show.

“I didn’t know you also read minds, Brother Darkness,” Jake said, swallowing the affront. “If I wanted to call you a fraud, I’d certainly wait till we were on the air.”

Brother Michael’s tone softened. He knew he wasn’t going to get a fight. Not now, at any rate. “I’m pleased to know you recognize the apocryphal texts. Too few practitioners of what you call ‘the healing arts’ familiarize themselves with the black documents of antiquity.”

Theresa was lost.

“I beg your pardon, what do you mean?” Jake said.

“I mean: you were correct in recognizing my quote from the Evangelium Nicodemi.”

A chill spread its web across Theresa’s back. Jake had said that in the waiting room. How could Brother Michael have heard it? She reached over and flapped the toggle for Millie. “Did we leave the intercom feed open?” Millie shook her head no. Theresa stared at her through the glass. The chill spread deeper and farther. She looked at Jake with confusion.

He caught the look. “ A condemned document dating from the third century. It describes Christ’s descent into hell and a session of Satan’s sanhedrin, his court.”

The Roto-Rooter jingle was just ending and Theresa held up a hand for silence as she riffled through the sheaf of tags for commercials, and simultaneously punched the square red button that gave her a live microphone.

“So say goodbye forever to clogged drains caused by those tree roots that’ve grown into pipes. Get to the root of your problem by calling your Roto-Rooter service representative…” She conversationalized the written tag, reading it with warmth and friendly understatement, but all the while keeping her eye on her guests.

“Well, we’re back with Brother Michael Darkness, the head of the Euchite Sect, a group we’re told has no affiliation with any orthodox or recognized religious denomination; a man who says he represents those who believe in the return of the dark forces that once ruled the Earth. And we’re being joined now by Dr. Jacob Theiss, M.D., Ph.D., a member of the governing board of the American Psychiatric Association, he’s on the staff at the UCLA Medical Center, and the winner of many prestigious awards in the field of human behavior. Dr. Theiss, have you been listening to the interview so far?”

“Yes, Theresa. And I’m most intrigued by Brother Darkness and what he’s been saying. But I think you’re mistaken when you say that the Euchites are an unrecognized sect.

“Brother Darkness, correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t the Euchites an early Christian sect who believed that each man had a congenital devil that could be expelled only by constant prayer? They were supposed to have repudiated the sacraments and moral law, to have worshiped Lucifer as the oldest son of the Creator, isn’t that right? About twelfth century, if I remember correctly.”

Brother Michael leaned forward till his face almost touched the microphone. “Very good, Dr. Theiss. I’m pleased and surprised at your erudition. Quite correct, on every point.”

“And you’re reviving this sect here in Los Angeles, in the middle of the Age of Plastic?”

“When better? The time is right.”

“What do you mean by that?” Theresa said.

“Just look around,” Brother Michael said softly. “Everywhere a belief in the irrational and the obscure takes greater hold daily. Films tell us we are being watched by aliens from other worlds or that demons infest the night; there is a frenzied rush to believe in astrology, in demonology and assassination conspiracies, in superstition and magic; we seek messiahs on all sides; Atlantis, the Bermuda Triangle, lost worlds at the center of the Earth, spirits speaking from the grave; Eastern mysticism… they dominate our every waking moment and plunge through our dreams at night. Do you think this is accidental? No, I’m sure you don’t. You may be confused and frightened by it all, but in some secret part of your mind and your soul you understand that it is the first clarion call of the ancient devils, come again to rule us. As is only right and proper.”