Possess
Authors: Gretchen McNeil
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Dating & Sex, #Fantasy & Magic, #Horror & Ghost Stories
Possess
Gretchen McNeil
Contents
B
RIDGET STARED AT THE CLOCK
on the wall and cursed its painfully slow progression toward three fifteen. Was the big hand even moving? She slipped her cell phone out of her backpack for cross-reference. Damn. Seven more minutes. It was so like a Catholic school to make Latin the last class of the day. Institutionalized Purgatory.
“Hey,” Hector whispered from the desk in front of her. “Want to hit House of Pies after school?”
“Maybe.” The last thing Hector needed was another slice of Triple Chocolate pie.
“Maybe?” Hector swiveled his torso around to face her. “You got a hot date or something?”
Before Bridget could tell Hector to shove it, Peter Kim cleared his throat. “Shut up, you guys. Sister Evangeline’s going to kill us.”
Bridget glanced at the wizened little nun sitting motionless at her desk, engrossed in a romance novel. “Live a little, Peter. Seriously.”
Peter’s face was pinched as he slipped his book and pen case into his backpack. “So, Bridge, are you, um, going to the library today?”
A sly smile spread across Hector’s face. “Why, Peter? Why could you possibly be asking?”
Peter flushed.
“Because if she’s going and you’re going, maybe you two could go together?”
Bridget kicked Hector’s chair with the steel toe of her boot. She’d known Peter Kim since the second grade and was painfully aware of his decade-long crush on her. And the not-so-secret delight Hector took in torturing him about it.
“Well . . . I mean . . . ,” Peter stuttered.
Bridget’s cell phone buzzed, saving her from yet another awkward conversation with Peter.
“Who’s texting you at school?” Hector said, peering over her desk.
“Um . . .” She looked down at her phone and saw the name “Matt Quinn” blazing back.
Hector’s jaw dropped. “He has your cell phone number?”
Crap.
“Who?” Peter asked sharply. “Who has your—”
“‘Coaching your brother today,’” Hector read. “‘See you after?’”
Bridget couldn’t help but smile. She lowered her chin, hoping Hector wouldn’t catch it. Too late.
“Oh,” he cooed. “So you
do
have a hot date after school. Jealous.”
Bridget scowled. “He’s not your type.”
“Bridget.” Peter’s cheeks burned the same color as the ridiculous red Windbreaker he always wore, and his dark brown eyes were fixed on her, holding her gaze. “Who are you seeing after school?”
“No one,” Bridget said quickly, shoving her cell phone in her jacket pocket. “I’m not seeing anyone.”
“The cop’s son,” Hector volunteered. “The one that sent Milton Undermeyer to—” Hector stopped short as his eye caught Bridget’s and she gave him her best “I’m going to rip your heart out through your nose” stare.
Hector swallowed. “Sorry.”
“The cop who sent that murderer to see Dr. Liu?” Peter’s voice was shrill. “Yeah, I doubt Bridge’s dating the guy whose dad got hers killed.”
Bridget stiffened. It had been almost nine months since her father’s death, yet the raw ache still dug its claws into her heart every time she thought about it. Wasn’t it supposed to get better? Eventually the pain would go away, the nightmares would end, and the memories of that day fade to muted colors.
Without realizing it, Bridget reached for the charm bracelet she’d worn around her wrist since she was seven. A First Communion gift from her dad. She traced the familiar, ornate outline of the square cross with her fingers—the weird nonsense letters and the funny scrolling symbols—then closed her hand around the charm and squeezed, letting the sharp corners of the cross dig into the flesh of her palm. She didn’t want to forget. She’d rather hold on to the pain than lose him again.
“Dude,” Hector said, smacking Peter on the arm. “Not cool.”
Bridget released the charm. “It’s fine.” Her voice was steady. Good.
“Bridge,” Peter said rapidly. “I just meant—”
The back door of the classroom flew open, and Monsignor Renault stepped into the room. Latin 201 went silent as the tall, imposing figure of the school chaplain strode quickly to Sister Evangeline’s desk, where the nun sat complacently reading her novel. When he placed a gnarled hand on her shoulder, Sister Evangeline jumped and shoved her reading material into an open drawer.
“Monsignor Renault, what a lovely surprise,” she squeaked.
He brought his head down and whispered something in Sister Evangeline’s ear, then straightened up and handed her a folded piece of paper.
As he turned to leave, his eyes swept the classroom and caught Bridget’s. The incline of his head was barely perceptible.
It was time.
“Bridget Liu?” Sister Evangeline called as Monsignor closed the door behind him. “Bridget, I have a note for you.”
Bridget pushed herself to her feet. The classroom, her friends, the other students: Everything disappeared from view as she focused her attention on the folded white piece of paper Sister Evangeline held out to her.
She took the note with a shaky hand and returned to her desk.
“What the hell does that old weirdo want with you?” Hector asked.
The bell saved her from having to respond. Hector shot to his feet and swung his backpack over his shoulder. “So you walking to the library or not?” he asked, the note seemingly forgotten.
Bridget shook her head.
“Fine. But I want full details of your date with Matt Quinn, okay?”
She heaved her backpack onto her shoulder. “Sure,” she said absently.
It wasn’t until Hector turned to leave that Bridget stole a glance at the note in her hand.
2271 18th Avenue
4 p.m.
Suddenly Latin class didn’t seem so bad.
T
HE HOUSE DIDN’T WANT HER
there.
Shocking.
Bridget shivered and zipped her fur-lined bomber jacket to her chin, then pulled Monsignor’s note out of her pocket. She read the address off the front of the house, double-checking it against the crumpled piece of paper in her hand—2271 18th Avenue. Yep, this was it. Great. Fog billowed down the street, temporarily obscuring the row house from view. As the haze lifted, she scrutinized the building. Its dark windows stared at her like the cavernous eye sockets of a blanched skull: empty, soulless. The jagged fringe of decorative wood above the garage was a jack-o’-lantern’s grin. The fake marble staircase glistened dangerously under a layer of moisture.
What was she thinking? She should turn around and sprint the eight blocks back to the library, where Hector and Peter were hunched over a cozy wooden table, joking in half whispers while they muddled through algebra and history. That’s where she belonged, not here.
Get a grip, Bridge.
Maybe what had happened at the Fergusons’ house had been a fluke. A hallucination. Some weird family prank. Maybe if she walked up those stairs right now, she could prove to herself that she wasn’t really a complete and total freak of nature.
Or maybe her worst fears would be confirmed. Either way, she needed to know.
There was a muffled beep from her jacket pocket. Four o’clock. On cue, a light blazed from the house, illuminating a second-floor bay window through the thickening mist.
With renewed determination, Bridget crossed the street. But as she approached the house, the gooey San Francisco fog swamped her suddenly, blotting out the sun and obscuring all traces of the street, the house, the whole world around her.
Not only did the house not want her there, Mother Nature didn’t either. Great.
She couldn’t see a thing. The air hung in her nostrils like musty water, and for a panicked moment, Bridget felt like she was drowning. She stumbled forward, unsure if she was even moving in the right direction. Had the entire street disappeared?
Her boot struck the edge of the bottom stair, and Bridget groped for the handrail. House, stairs, rail. It was here; it was real.
Bridget kept the corroded metal railing in a death grip as she plodded up the stairs. The fog was everywhere: in her eyes, in her mouth, seeping into her tights and the deep pleats of her uniform skirt. She felt heavy, weighted, like the fog was trying to pull her down the stairs, away from the house, away from what lay inside.
The handrail ended. She reached out, half expecting that the house had dissolved into the fog, and let out a squeak as her fingertips grazed smooth, hard wood.
The moment she touched the door, the fog retreated, dissipating into nothingness as if it had been sucked up by a giant cosmic vacuum cleaner.
As she glanced back and watched the last wisps vanish behind her, the door flew open.
“Shit!” Bridget gasped.
A young man in black pants and a black short-sleeved shirt stood inside the house. He was squat, with the beginnings of a double chin and stubby, dimpled fingers. A shock of thick black hair was piled haphazardly on his head. His dark eyes gave her a once-over, head to boots and back again, before resting on her face.
“
You’re
Bridget Liu?”
If she had a dime for every time she had heard that. Her almond-shaped eyes were blue, and when added to curly brown hair and freckles, they threw everyone off. “Um, yeah.”
The young man gave himself a shake. “Sorry, I was expecting someone . . .”
Bridget arched an eyebrow. “More Chinese?”
“N-no,” he stuttered. “That’s not what I . . .” His voice trailed off. “Er, sorry.” He shuffled aside, motioning for her to enter.
Bridget hesitated. Was she really going to do this?
“Come in, come in,” the guy said quickly. “He’s waiting for you.”
Bridget stepped through the doorway. The atmosphere of the house was off. The air was condensed; her ears crackled with the change in pressure, and for a moment she felt dizzy. The room seemed to whirl and pitch like a fun house. She felt the floor tilt, and the ceiling and walls pressed in on her, creating angles that could only exist in a geometry problem or an M. C. Escher print. Furniture bulged, doubling in size. She knew it wasn’t real, just a trick of the eye, but still.
The house wanted her out. She could feel it.
Bridget lost her balance and stumbled forward, bracing herself against a grandfather clock. She’d felt this way once before. It wasn’t a good sign.
“Are you okay?” the guy asked.
Bridget pressed a hand to her head. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I’m—”
A shriek ripped through the house. Bridget spun around to find an orange tabby cat frozen in the hall, back arched, eyes so wide they practically popped out of its furry little skull. The cat let out a second terrified wail, then bolted past her, through the open door and out into the darkening afternoon.
Smart cat.
“Sorry about that,” the guy said, latching the door behind him.
Bridget straightened, trying to shake off the dizziness. “S’okay. Cats don’t like me.”
He shoved a hand into his pants pocket and retrieved a small wire-bound notebook with a gnarled bit of pencil wedged into the spirals. With a journalist’s ease, he flipped open the notebook and began to scribble. “Never or just recently?”
Bridget looked at him sidelong. Why was he taking notes? “Since forever.”
“Oh.” His head snapped up and he stared at her for a moment, his goatlike eyes locked on to her face. “You’re okay now?”
Bridget nodded.
“Because a second ago you looked like you were going to be sick.”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh. G-good.” He nodded twice, made one last flourish of notes on his little pad, and stuffed it back into his pocket. “I’m Father Santos, by the way.”
Bridget’s eyebrows shot up. A priest?
“Oh, right.” Father Santos fumbled around in his shirt pocket and withdrew a length of stiff, white fabric. “I, uh, came straight from the airport. I take my c-collar off when I fly. So I can sleep.”
He dropped the collar, twice, before his plump hands managed to thread it through the opening in his shirt. Bridget eyed him suspiciously. Monsignor hadn’t said anything about another priest.
She wondered how much Father Santos knew.
“Where’s Monsignor Renault?”
“Right,” Father Santos said. He turned and shuffled down the hall. “Follow me.”
The coldness of the room hit Bridget even before the smell of burning incense. The vapor of her escaping breath mingled with the swirl of perfumed smoke that hung over a double bed in the center of the room. Monsignor Renault knelt in prayer at the foot of the bed. He didn’t stir as they entered, but continued to mutter under his breath before he leaned back on his heels and made the sign of the cross.
Monsignor looked tired, hardly the confident priest she’d seen less than an hour ago. The wisps of white hair scattered across his bald head were pointing in several directions at once, like the Scarecrow showing both ways to Oz. His pale gray eyes seemed sunken, and his skin—gray to match—sagged off his face like raw pizza dough.
With a heavy sigh, he glanced up. At first, Monsignor’s eyes didn’t register her presence; they just followed Father Santos with suspicion as he waddled to the far side of the room. Slowly, Monsignor’s gaze drifted back to Bridget, and he smiled, instantly subtracting twenty years from his appearance. “Thank you for coming, Bridget.”
Bridget smiled in return. Monsignor looked so relieved to see her, and despite her reservations about coming, she knew she’d made the right choice. Monsignor wanted her there. He needed her there.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” she said.
“I know.”
Bridget’s smile faded as her eyes drifted to Father Santos. He stood by the window, jotting down notes at a furious pace.
“Father Santos has just arrived from Rome.” Monsignor’s voice was flat. “He will be working with me for the time being.” He didn’t sound particularly happy.
“The Vatican is c-concerned with the elevated number of possessions and infestations in the San Francisco area,” Father Santos said, without looking up.
“Oh,” she said.
“I have explained to him the nature of your unique, ah, abilities,” Monsignor continued.
Bridget wondered how that conversation had gone down.
Monsignor Renault cleared his throat and, with a flick of his head, drew Bridget’s attention to the bed, where an elderly woman lay on her back, covers pulled up to her chin. She looked to be asleep, though her quick, shallow breaths hinted otherwise.
“Shouldn’t we move her?” Bridget asked.
“No.”
Bridget crinkled her brows in confusion; then her eyes grew wide as she realized the truth. “Her?”
Monsignor nodded. “Yes.”
Oh, crap. She’d thought it would just be the house, not a living, breathing person.
“It speaks through her,” Monsignor continued. “But has not yet taken complete control.”
Bridget began to inch her way toward the door. “I don’t think—”
“Bridget.” Monsignor’s voice froze her in her tracks. “Bridget, you can do this. I have faith in you.”
Faith. Great.
“If she d-doesn’t want to be here . . . ,” Father Santos started.
Monsignor narrowed his eyes. “She wants to be here, don’t you, Bridget?”
“Want” was a pretty relative term, but Monsignor’s eyes searched her face, practically pleading for the right answer. She couldn’t disappoint him after all he’d done for her. She swallowed hard and nodded. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“Thank you,” Monsignor said, staring directly at Father Santos. The younger priest looked away and shuffled his feet.
Monsignor’s face was grim as he looked back at Bridget, but his gray eyes twinkled as if they shared some secret joke at Father Santos’s expense. “Don’t worry. Mrs. Long cannot hurt you, I promise.”
Bridget gazed at the tiny Mrs. Long—she was ninety pounds maybe, but only after she ate a giant burrito or something—and there was no vapor emanating from her nose or mouth. The old woman’s breath was frigid.
Bridget bit her lip, attempting to hide the abject terror rising up from her stomach to her throat like bad sushi.
“What is Rule Number One?” Monsignor Renault asked softly.
Bridget swore that man could read her mind. “Do not show fear.”
“Do not show fear.” Monsignor pulled himself up to his full six-foot height, straightening his back and holding his head erect. Despite his age, his shoulders were square and broad, and he looked strong enough to take on a sumo wrestler. He wore his usual long black cassock piped with red, and a purple sash around his waist. A silver ring encircled the middle finger of his left hand, so thick it was more like a single brass knuckle than a piece of jewelry. Monsignor was old-school Catholic, a spectacle of ancient traditions and beliefs that fascinated Bridget and scared the crap out of her at the same time.
And if he thought Bridget could handle this, then she was damn well going to try.
“Father Santos,” Monsignor said. “Please prepare the room.”
Father Santos opened a black bag and removed a purple stole, which he handed to his superior. Monsignor Renault kissed the cross on the back of the stole, then draped it over his neck. Next came two small crystal decanters—one of holy water, one of consecrated oil—then a covered bowl of salt, a tray of Eucharistic wafers, and several thick, white candles. After lighting the candles, the young priest took the salt and carefully sprinkled a stripe across the threshold of the bedroom, then deposited a small pile in each of the four corners.
“Bridget,” Monsignor murmured without looking at her.
She jumped. “Yes?”
“Do you remember what we discussed?”
Bridget’s mind fumbled for the Rules he had impressed upon her over the last few weeks. The warnings, the training, the explanation of things she wasn’t entirely sure existed. “I guess.”
“You guess?” Monsignor turned to her slowly and repeated the question. “Do you remember what we discussed?”
Bridget’s mouth went dry. “Yes, Monsignor.”
“Excellent.” Monsignor raised the crucifix to his chest and stepped toward the figure on the bed. “Let us begin.”