Oliver Muncing Exorcist

By John Paulits

Six edge-of-your-seat tales of the supernatural.

 

When a catastrophic invasion by elementals from "the other side" kills Oliver's grandfather and leaves Oliver crippled, he chooses to dedicate his life to investigating other-worldly phenomena, especially the nature of elementals, the evil force which sent him on his life's work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Feb 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781957228778

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Oliver Muncing, Exorcist

JOHN PAULITS

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Oliver Muncing, Exorcist

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

712 SE Winchell Drive, Depoe Bay OR 97341 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2023

eISBN: 978-1-957228-77-8

Copyright © 2023 John Paulits All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Sevannah Storm

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you for complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

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In memory of Gordon MacCreagh

Dear Reader,

These six stories were inspired by writer-adventurer Gordon MacCreagh who wrote for pulp magazines in the 1930s/40s. Oliver Muncing is the grandson of Mr. MacCreagh’s character Dr. Muncing.

After a catastrophic invasion from the other side kills his grandfather and leaves him crippled, Oliver follows in his grandfather’s footsteps and dedicates his life to investigation other-worldly phenomena.

John

Lost

If I’d known what awaited me, I would never have bought one of those former boarding houses scattered throughout Atlantic City. What appeared to me a perfect spot for my wife Shelley and me to spend our retirement years, turned out to be anything but.

Shelley’s health had kept her in bed much of the time; lately, it was all the time. Coughing fits racked her, and she and I hadn’t been out of the house together for a month when the noise started.

At first, it sounded like a board snapping and plummeting to the attic floor, always an hour or two after darkness fell. Shelley could not hear it from our bedroom on the second first floor, and at my age, I had little interest in climbing a ladder and poking around in a dark and dusty attic to investigate.

The old house made other noises, a crack or pop from the walls, but nothing like the sharp, abrupt bang coming almost nightly from the attic. It unfailingly gave me an attack of goose flesh as I waited to hear more, but it never repeated, so I decided I’d live with it.

One night, though, it sounded loud enough to attract Shelley’s attention, and she looked up from her book. Did you hear that, John?

Hear what? I asked even as my heart pounded.

Something fell on the roof, I think.

Oh, that. I’ve heard it before. It’s been going on for weeks. I don’t know what it is. I already checked the roof. I put down my book and listened, but as usual, nothing more came, and our conversation ended there.

A few nights later, the noise woke me from a deep sleep.

You don’t think someone could be up there, do you? Shelley whispered.

Of course not. My blood chilled. For the first time, the sharp cracking repeated itself.

She peered at me. I don’t like it. You better check into it tomorrow.

She began to cough, and after I’d gotten her a glass of water, I climbed into bed and waited, listening, allowing my imagination to run wild. She drifted off first. I envied her ability to do that. I rolled over to face her, content to let her breathing lull me to sleep.

I had my orders, so the next morning, I pulled down the attic ladder and, with a flashlight in hand, I climbed.

I pushed open the trap door and shone the light on an expanse of dust. Except for the little cyclone I set off by opening the trap door, the dust lay undisturbed. Nothing had fallen on the floor. I waved the light along the ceiling and found nothing cracked or broken. Nothing at all out of the ordinary.

The torchlight reflected off a bare bulb in a wall fixture next to a short chain. I wondered if it still worked, but again, my lack of curiosity got the better of me, and I declined to leave the ladder. I made a final circumnavigation with my flash. Satisfied I’d missed nothing, I closed the door, descended the ladder, then replaced it against the ceiling.

Well? Is the house crumbling around us?

I fluffed Shirley’s pillow and waited for her coughing to subside. The attic’s in perfect shape, same as when we moved in. Empty and dusty.

Then something must have fallen on the roof.

If it did, it rolled right off because there’s nothing on the roof. Why don’t you get up today? It’s beautiful outside.

Maybe tomorrow, she said, and another wracking coughing episode began.

All right. You rest. I left her alone.

The nightly disturbance kept to its schedule, however, and Shelley demanded I do something about it.

One evening soon after, I sat in the room beneath the attic while she slept in the bedroom below. I dozed over a book until I gave up, turned off the light, and leaned back in my chair.

Moments later, I heard it. Six times the noise sounded, like someone battering down a door. I hurried downstairs and outside. In the bright moonlight, I inspected my roof. Nothing on it. No tree limb swinging against it. No squirrel dropping acorns. Perfectly peaceful.

I went inside the quiet house and slid into bed next to Shelley. Sleep, however, would not come.

The next morning, groggy and out of sorts and with a flashlight, I went into the attic first thing—all the way in. Stepping with care on the beams I walked to the lone light bulb and yanked on the chain. The bulb must have been an Edison original, though, and it didn’t work. I searched every niche and corner of the attic for some clue to that god-awful noise but found nothing out of the ordinary.

Not until that night did I realize something was very much out of the ordinary. Again, Shelley was too ill to be disturbed, so I spent the evening in the room beneath the attic. Just past midnight, an eerie square of light outlined the edges of the attic door. The Edison original light bulb had flashed on.

The noise followed, and the edges of the attic door darkened. Then the light around the door reappeared. Disappeared. Reappeared. Disappeared. The awful crash accompanied each flash of illumination, then abrupt silence. A different kind of fright from any I’d known in my life washed over me. Not only had I heard, but now, I’d seen evidence of something unnatural occupying my house. I could no longer ignore things.

The next morning, her cough worsened. I had the doctor in, and he left medicine. I didn’t want to upset her, so I didn’t tell her about the attic light. Every time I thought of the light going off and on, a light I couldn’t get to work earlier, and those noises like something trying to get in, my skin crawled. The house no longer was hospitable, and I had no idea to whom to turn.

The next night proved even worse. I sat in the room under the attic, drawn there by some weird fascination. The night stayed quiet until I heard coughing. I had never heard Shelley from below, and my stomach went into a whirl when I realized the coughing came from one floor above me. From the attic.

I bolted out of the room in a panic and flew to her side. Her appearance increased my alarm. Ashen, she opened her eyes and tried to speak. I leaned over to her.

Something…is…is… She was too weak to continue and stared at me in confusion.

The doctor arrived just after daylight. He gave her a sedative but didn’t recommend a hospital visit. A bad spell, he said. She’d recover. I didn’t mention the cough in the attic because a doctor couldn’t find a cure for that.

I remembered reading as a young teenager about strange disturbances in a small town called Brunton, not far outside of Philadelphia. I didn’t sleep for a week after reading about them. They called in a man named Dr. Muncing to investigate. This had occurred some sixty years earlier, though, and this Dr. Muncing would, no doubt, be long gone by now.

Figuring I had nothing to lose, though, I went to the living room phone and tapped in the number for information. I gave them the name of Brunton and asked for the number of Dr. Muncing. They had a Muncing but not a Doctor Muncing. I took the number. When I tried it, a man answered.

I’m trying to locate a Dr. Muncing, I said.

Dr. Muncing? That would be my grandfather. You’re a bit too late, I’m afraid. May I ask why you’re trying to get in touch with him?

My name is John Montgomery. I’m having…a problem.

"Ah. My name is Oliver Muncing, and I have followed in my grandfather’s footsteps, Mr. Montgomery. What kind of disturbance are you having? Noises? Manifestations? A combination?"

This fellow didn’t waste any time. Noises. A banging in the attic as if some…someone was trying to get in.

"You wanted to say something, didn’t you?"

My heart jumped at the way he read my mind.

No matter, he went on. How serious has it become?

The alarm in Muncing’s voice did me little good.

Very serious, I answered. Last night, I heard a cough from the attic, and my wife—

Good God. Do you have a sick person in the house?

My hand tightened on the phone receiver. Yes, my wife. S—

She has a cough, and the noises have become more pronounced, and the entity has even taken over your wife’s cough.

That’s right, but how could you know? The man’s prescience had me on the edge of panic.

My grandfather once told me of a similar case. This is more serious than you imagine. Your wife is in great danger, as will you be if it gathers enough strength. I must come right away.

What he meant by it I couldn’t bring myself to ask. Yes, please do.

I gave him the particulars and went to sit with Shelley, who, thank heaven, lay resting. Within three hours, the longest three hours of my life, he stood at my door.

A stranger man I never wished to see. Though young, he was bent and lame as if he’d suffered a great fall. His glasses were so thick his eyes seemed to bulge.

He offered me his hand. The attic I believe you said, Mr. Montgomery. Take me there at once. Has anything happened since we spoke?

I assured him the time has passed without incident and led him on a long, slow climb to the third floor.

Does the entity reside up there?

That’s where I’ve heard… I couldn’t bring myself to repeat either the word ‘manifestation’ or ‘entity.’ …whatever it is.

Muncing stared at the attic door.

What is it? I asked.

He glanced at his watch. It won’t be dark for several hours. We’ll need to make the house as bright as possible. Lights on everywhere. The entity will not go into bright lights. We must make your wife’s room as bright as possible. Take me there now. I want to be certain the preparations are adequate.

We went down the stairs to Shelley’s room and peeked in. She lay asleep. At Muncing’s urging, I promised to move whatever lamps I could into the room. As we turned to leave, my wife coughed. I closed the door behind us.

No sooner had we started away when a second cough followed, with a different timbre than my wife’s. Then two coughs sounded simultaneously. Muncing, in his hop-frog motion, burst through the door.

I rushed behind him to her bedside. Shelley? Can you hear me? Shelley?

Muncing put his finger to his lips. Mrs. Montgomery, who is with you? Are you alone?

She opened her eyes, now dimmed with perplexity.

He mumbled, "How can it have such strength in broad daylight? Mrs. Montgomery, are you alone? Who is with