I Don't Want To Kill You Read Online Free PDF

consider myself an anti-religious person either. The truth is I just don’t really think about it that much; I didn’t go to church because my parents never went to church. When I chose the word ‘demon’ to describe the monsters I’d seen, I honestly didn’t even realise it was religious in origin. I used it because David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam, used it in a letter to the cops. Just because ‘demon’ was a cool word, it didn’t mean that the Handyman was a fallen angel or anything goofy like that.
     
    So no, I wasn’t going to church in the sense that I was going to attend a meeting and sing and pray or whatever. I was going to a church building because that is where pastors hang out, and I was doing it on Sunday because that is the best day (I assumed) to find one. Specifically, I was going to St Mary’s Catholic Church to talk to Father Erikson, who all the news programmes claimed was Pastor Olsen’s best friend. St Mary’s Catholic Church and the Throne of God Presbyterian Church were always working together on something or other, like soup kitchens and service projects, so I guess that made sense. A victim’s friend was the best lead I’d had in two months, so I figured it was time to ask the priest some questions.
     
    The parking lot was full, so I parked on the far side of the street and sat in the car until people started to file out: girls in floral dresses and men in white shirts and ties. There were more than I expected, but I sat quietly as they wandered to their cars, watching their faces intently. They talked and laughed. They smiled and scowled. They blinked in the light and stared at the world in sombre reflection. What were they guilty of? How far would they go if you pushed them?
     
    Everyone was a suspect in my eyes, from the oldest man to the youngest child. Any one of them could be the demon.
     
    They got in their cars and drove away. I climbed out of my seat and walked across the street and up into the church, ignoring the smiles of a group of old ladies who passed me in the foyer. Father Erikson was inside the chapel, walking up and down the pews and straightening a bunch of little red songbooks.
     
    ‘Hello,’ he said, seeing me and smiling. ‘Can I help you?’
     
    ‘I . . .’ I’d never done this before and I wasn’t sure what to say. It’s not like I could just flash a badge and start asking questions. ‘Do you have a minute?’
     
    He cocked his head to the side, looking at me, then set down the songbook in his hand. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘What seems to be the problem?’ He walked towards me, and I could see that his face was slightly frowning, his brow furrowed but his eyes wide. That was an ‘I’m concerned about you’ face.
     
    I shook my head. ‘No, no, it’s not like that,’ I said. ‘I’m not religiously troubled or anything, I just . . .’ I really hadn’t thought this through. Why would he answer some strange kid’s questions about a dead priest? I needed a story, and I needed it quickly. He had almost reached me.
     
    ‘Hi,’ I said, ‘I’m interning with the newspaper, and . . .’ I looked him directly in the eyes. The question slipped out before I could stop myself. ‘Do you believe in demons?’
     
    He stopped short, smiling in surprise. ‘Demons?’
     
    ‘Like, real demons,’ I said. ‘That’s a Catholic thing, right?’
     
    ‘Well, yes,’ he said slowly, ‘the Bible does talk about demons and evil spirits, but it’s not an especially big part of our faith. We teach people how to lead good lives and do good things, and if we’re lucky we never have to worry about demons at all.’
     
    ‘And if we’re not lucky?’
     
    He studied my face, looking different than before; concerned now in a worried rather than a caring way. ‘Why do you ask?’
     
    ‘Well, don’t you think it’s kind of important?’ I said. ‘If demons are real, and they can really attack people and stuff like they do in the Bible,