Possess (2 page)

Three

M
ONSIGNOR’S DEEP VOICE FILLED THE
room. “I command you, unclean spirit, along with all your minions, to relinquish your hold on this servant of God.”

Mrs. Long’s eyes flew open, and black, empty pupils scanned the room, resting briefly on each of its occupants before returning to Monsignor. They were not the soft eyes of an old lady, but hooded, like a snake appraising its prey. Her cracked lips contorted into a grin, and she arched her spine.

“As a most humble minister of the Savior,” Monsignor continued, “I command you to obey me.”

“Liar,” Mrs. Long hissed, her head weaving back and forth. “Liar, liar, liar.”

Monsignor narrowed his eyes. “He has given me the power to tread upon the serpents and the scorpions, and to break the dominion of your master everywhere.”

Mrs. Long sat up and bounced on the bed. “Liar, liar, liar. He’s a liar, liar. Thinks he can lie to us, but we know all about the lies, the lies.”

Monsignor stood firm on the other side of the bed. He didn’t look scared at all, unlike Bridget, whose stomach writhed and churned with the remnants of her lunch. He gave Bridget a slight nod to reassure her that everything was under control.

The woman pointed a long, crooked finger at him. “We know you. We know you.”

“Depart, tempter,” Monsignor said. “Depart, seducer, full of lies and cunning.”

“We know what you are.”

“I am a servant of the Lord.”

“Liar, liar.”

Monsignor Renault placed his right hand on Mrs. Long’s forehead and held the cross directly before her eyes. “Behold the cross of the Lord. Begone, you hostile powers.”

Mrs. Long curled her lip and hissed again.

The hair on Bridget’s arms stood straight up. Last time there’d been no face to the evil. This was something for Monsignor and Father Santos to tackle. Not her.

“Begone, slave. Return to your master.”

With a roar, Mrs. Long’s hands shot forward, striking Monsignor Renault full in the chest. He flew across the room and crashed into the far wall, where he hung suspended, pinned to the wall by an unseen force. Bridget screamed.

“You know nothing of the Master,” Mrs. Long said. Or at least Bridget thought it was Mrs. Long. The voice had changed. It was deep, raspy, undeniably male, and it was accompanied by a growl that originated from deep within her body.

Suddenly Monsignor was released, and he crumpled to the floor. Bridget started toward him, but he held up a hand. “I am fine, Bridget. This corrupted spirit and its master cannot harm me.”

Mrs. Long ran a parched tongue over her lips. “He has power you only wish to achieve.”

Monsignor pushed himself to his feet; he did not look the least bit shaken. “Father Santos, the oil.”

The younger priest retrieved the holy sacramentals and removed the stopper from a decanter. Monsignor dipped his thumb in the consecrated oil and made the sign of the cross over Mrs. Long’s throat.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Mrs. Long cried, writhing on the bed.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,”
Monsignor bellowed. He moved his thumb to her forehead.
“In nomine Patris. Et Filii.”

“Traitor!” the woman shrieked.

“Et Spiritus Sancti.”

“Noooo—” Her scream choked off as Monsignor pressed his thumb into Mrs. Long’s forehead. The old woman’s whole abdomen rose off the bed, and then she flopped back onto the mattress, eyes closed, body limp.

All was still in the room.

Awesome.

“Is that it?” Bridget asked hopefully.

Monsignor shushed her. “What is Rule Number Four?”

“Do not let your guard down,” Bridget repeated diligently. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Father Santos scribbling more notes.

What was he doing? Focus, Bridge. She had to keep her mind on the afflicted person, just as Monsignor had taught her. She had to remember the Rules.

Rule Number One: Do not show fear.

Rule Number Two: Do not show pity.

Rule Number Three: Do not engage.

Rule Number Four: Do not let your guard down.

Rule Number Five: They lie.

She closed her eyes and repeated them over and over again like a mantra. Her breath stilled; the pounding of her heart lessened.

That’s when she heard it. Not voices this time, but grunts. Animal grunts. Like a herd of pigs running loose inside the house.

Without thinking, she placed her hand on the wall to steady herself.

The noises exploded in her head. A deafening roar, a mix of snarls and screams at once human and beastlike. She could feel the wall throbbing beneath her palm as if the beings inside were going to burst through the plaster.

“Bridget, are you all right?” Monsignor’s voice cracked.

Her breaths came shallow and ragged as the noises pounded through her ears. “Yeah, I—I think so.”

“What is it?” Father Santos asked. “What do you hear?”

“I . . .” Crap, what
didn’t
she hear? She closed her eyes. “Grunts.”

“Grunts?”

“Animal grunts. And screams. They’re . . . I don’t think they’re human.”

“They are gathering their power,” Monsignor said. He tightened his grip on the cross. “Be ready.”

Bridget had no clue what “ready” meant. Ready for what?

Her answer came immediately. The foundations of the house rocked. Bridget lost her balance and staggered a few steps until Monsignor’s strong hand gripped her arm, steadying her. Mrs. Long grunted and snarled, then Bridget watched in horror as the old lady’s body went rigid—feet flexed, arms plastered to her sides—and began to rise off the bed.

“Jesus!” Bridget said, forgetting who was in the room.

“Concentrate,” Monsignor said. “Do not let them distract you.”

Yeah, sure. Concentrate with an old lady levitating a foot away? Easy.

The screams and growls filled the room. Father Santos glanced around, searching for the source of the noises, and made the sign of the cross. “Dear God.”

“Concentrate,” Monsignor repeated. “They cannot harm you.”

As if in response, a barking laugh echoed through the room, followed by a rush of air coming from the wall behind the bed. Photographs and perfume bottles blew off the dresser and crashed to the floor in a mess of broken glass and twisted metal. The candle flames flickered and shuddered, fighting desperately to remain lit. It was a torrential wind, so forceful it sucked the air right out of Bridget’s lungs.

Crucifix raised before him, Monsignor leaned into the wind. “I command you—”

“Fool!”
It was the voice of many—a dozen voices of different pitch and timbre, all shouting at once—and it came from the walls, the ceiling, the floorboards.
“We fear you not. The Master is strong.”

Father Santos snatched the holy water off the table and joined Monsignor beside the body. He sprinkled Mrs. Long up and down while Monsignor placed the corner of his stole on her neck.

“Begone, you hostile powers!” Monsignor roared.

“The lion of Judah’s tribe has conquered,” Father Santos replied.

“Heed my words!”

“And let my cry be heard by you.”

The wind surged as both priests struggled to stay on their feet. A print of a Madonna with Child was ripped off its hook and flew across the room, splintering the cheap wooden frame against the wall. The drapes around the window splayed out and rippled away from the pane.

Monsignor shielded his face from the wind with a raised arm. “Every unclean spirit, every infernal power, every legion. We cast you
out
!”

The house lurched again, and all three of them tumbled to the floor. Bridget was thrown against the door, scattering the salt Father Santos had sprinkled across the threshold. The instant the line was broken, the door flew open and the wind rushed in as if it had been waiting outside for the opportunity. It swirled around Mrs. Long like a tornado. The room spun, a chaotic whirlpool that stung Bridget’s eyes and lashed at her face. She ducked her head, barely avoiding a crystal vase that had been caught in the roiling air. It smashed into the wall above her head and showered her with shards of glass.

She squinted against the tumult and saw Monsignor vault to his feet and throw his body against the door.

“Bridget, the salt!”

It took her a half second before she realized what he meant. She grabbed the bowl of salt from the table as Monsignor struggled to close the door. With a heavy groan, he lurched forward and Bridget heard the door click. As quickly as she could, she spread a line of salt across the threshold.

The room lay still.

She and Monsignor looked at each other and smiled. One crisis down.

Their celebration was cut short by a deep, grating cackle. It was an ugly sound: a dozen voices laughing at once but without joy, without lightness.

Evil. That was the best way to describe it.

Bridget slowly turned and found Mrs. Long sitting upright on the bed once more, eyes open, a black goo oozing from her mouth down her chin, staining the white cotton of her nightgown. The entities were inside her once again. Bridget could feel them.

Monsignor Renault nodded to Bridget. “It’s time for you to try.”

Try. Try to talk to them? Try and make them leave the old lady’s body? Try to lure them out? She didn’t know what to do.

“Bridget,” Monsignor said. “Remember the Rules.”

The Rules. Right. Do not show fear. Do not show pity. No pity. This wasn’t a person anymore. What had Monsignor called them? Demoniacs.

The demoniac laughed again. “You send a child, a little girl, to the sacrifice? Priest, your savior forsakes you.”

“You can do this, Bridget,” Monsignor said calmly. “Find out its name and you will control it. Do not listen to anything else.”

Find out its name. Okay. That should be simple enough. “What’s your name?”

“What’s your name?” the demoniac mocked. It clapped its hands and grinned at her. Five minutes into her first official exorcism, and Bridget already felt like a complete failure. What was she supposed to do next?

Father Santos cleared his throat. “Um, maybe . . . maybe try touching her.”

Bridget glanced at him. He had the notebook in his hand again. “Touching her?”

“Like you did with the wall.”

“Father Santos,” Monsignor snapped. “Let her do it herself. She needs to learn.”

Right. The voices were transmitted through her touch. With a tentative hand, Bridget reached out and grabbed a skinny, blue-veined arm.

Mrs. Long shrieked at Bridget’s touch. It was a cry of rage and pain. “No, no, no, no, no. Impossible!”

The demoniac was scared of
her
?

“Get away!” it screamed. “Get away from us!”

“What is your name?” Bridget repeated.

But Bridget didn’t need the demons to speak their names. They formed in her head as if she were reading their minds.

“Ramison,” she said.

The demoniac twisted its arm, trying to free itself. “No! Why are you here? How are you here?”

“How can she know that?” Father Santos asked. “That’s not possible.”

Monsignor held up his hand. “Silence!”

Bridget closed her eyes. “Tulock.” Another voice was screaming out. “And Bemerot. They are servants of—”

“Do not tell him!” the demoniac howled. “He already knows, he already knows.”

“Rule Number Five,” Monsignor said. “They lie.”

There was a fourth presence; it felt weaker than the other three, and yet the others begged it for help. This demon was different. She couldn’t feel it, couldn’t hear the sound of its voice. It wasn’t in the room, but somehow Bridget could sense the demon’s rage, its hatred toward Mrs. Long and the priests. Toward her, though, she sensed confusion.

Bridget smiled. It was intimidated by her. Cool.

The riff of one of Bridget’s favorite songs ripped through the room. Her cell phone. Dammit. She’d forgotten to tell her mom she’d be late.

The demons took advantage of her momentary lack of concentration. “Traitor!” they shrieked. “You will be punished for your treachery.”

“Was that your cell phone?” Father Santos asked.

“Sorry.” Her mom was going to be so pissed off.

“Concentrate,” Monsignor said gently.

“Oh, right.” Time to cut the crap. She needed to finish the banishment and get home before her mom grounded her for the rest of her natural life.

“Who do you serve?” Bridget called out, doing her best impression of Monsignor Renault’s stern, commanding voice. She heard Father Santos snicker. “Tell me, or I swear to God I’ll . . .”

Her voice trailed off. A tingling sensation emanated from Bridget’s fingertips, spreading out through her body in waves. Her lips buzzed, and as she ran her tongue over them, they tasted tangy, metallic. It was like she was drawing energy from the demoniac, sucking it into her body. Totally freaky, and yet it felt . . .

. . . good?

Focus, Bridge! Ignore the weird new feeling and concentrate on Mrs. Long. She tried to think back to her training sessions with Monsignor. He had told her what the demons feared most. Banishment.

“Tell me,” she said. “Or I’ll banish you?”

The demoniac froze.

“That’s right,” Bridget said with a smile. She felt a surge of confidence, like she actually knew what she was doing. “I’ll banish you.”

“Good girl,” Monsignor said under his breath.

The demoniac threw back its head and howled. “Nooooooooooooooooooo!”

Her cell phone went off again, but this time Bridget didn’t flinch. She had the upper hand; time to finish it. She grabbed the woman by the sides of her wrinkly old face. “Tell me who you serve!”

The tingling intensified, centering in the pit of her stomach. She loved the way the electricity snapped and crackled over her skin.

“Amaymon,” the woman croaked. “We serve Amaymon.”

Monsignor Renault and Father Santos gasped.

“Amaymon knows you,” Mrs. Long said. “Amaymon knows what you are.”

A hot wave rushed through Bridget, starting with her fingers and washing over her body. It moved down from her stomach, lower, and ignited a spark deep within her.