Possess (7 page)

Blech. She was looking forward to that meeting about as much as a trip to the dentist. There was something weird about Father Santos. He wasn’t like Monsignor Renault, whose very presence demanded respect. Father Santos was more like a doddering professor than an apprentice exorcist, and she hated the idea that he was watching her all the time, writing down every detail of her existence.

Sammy’s breathing slowed, the deep rhythm indicating that he’d fallen asleep. That made one of them. Bridget yawned, and her eyes flitted closed. She’d worry about it all tomorrow: the mystery cat, Father Santos, the Winter Formal. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

She was just drifting off when her breath caught in her throat. The charm on her bracelet tugged at her wrist, standing up of its own accord and pointing toward her closet door. Before she could even turn to look at it, she heard a noise. From inside her closet came a distinct scratching.

Claws against wood.

Nine

F
ATHER
S
ANTOS WAS WRITING IN
his little spiral notebook when Bridget arrived at his office. Classic.

She had knocked—twice—and hadn’t gotten an answer, so she decided to peek inside and see if the new History teacher had ditched her. No such luck.

Bridget didn’t see the priest at first. Even though the office was small and narrow, like a long broom closet, Father Santos had lined the room, ceiling to floor, with heavy wooden bookcases.

Empty bookcases. The intended occupants were half unpacked from an endless number of uniform cardboard boxes plastered with preprinted white and black labels that read
proprietà della biblioteca apostolica vaticana,
followed by a number written with a fat-tipped Sharpie marker in a smooth, unhurried hand. The boxes were everywhere. Some had been ripped open, their contents searched through and stacked on the floor. Most hadn’t been touched.

The desk was pressed into a corner, jutting out at a diagonal like an afterthought. The only other furnishings were two chairs: the one at which the priest sat and another in front of the nearest bookcase.

And Father Santos.

He sat forward in his chair so the tips of his toes just reached the ground. His writing pace was frantic, as if he was afraid his thoughts would disappear if he didn’t get them on the page fast enough. She wondered if he was writing about her, about what had happened with Mrs. Long. She wondered if his account of what she and Monsignor had been doing would end up on some cardinal’s desk back in the Vatican, or worse, the pope’s. Could she get excommunicated for practicing unlicensed exorcisms? Her mom would kill her.

Father Santos paused, scratched his upper lip with the cap of the pen, and scrunched his eyes, trying to capture some fleeting detail before it escaped. She thought maybe he’d notice her then, but with a quick intake of breath, he dove back into his writing. He reminded her of Sammy when he was fixated on a problem, his little genius mind utterly incapable of multitasking.

Bridget cleared her throat. “Father Santos?”

She might as well have shot a gun off in the office. Father Santos let out a shriek like a twelve-year-old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert and knocked a large pile of books off the corner of his desk.

“Bridget!”

Why was he surprised to see her? “Yeah.”

“What time is it?”

Bridget glanced around the office, quickly registering the lack of clock or window. “Seven thirty. Like you said.”

“Really?” He pushed back his chair and fumbled around with the pile of books on the floor. “Already?”

Sheesh, how long had he been there? “Yeah.”

“Come in, come in,” he said, wiping his brow with a dirty handkerchief. “Sorry about the mess.”

With a heavy sigh, she closed the door behind her, edged her way past piles of ancient tomes, and dragged the empty chair to the desk. Bridget clutched her backpack to her chest and stared at a spot on the wall.

Father Santos cleared his throat several times while he shoved his notebook into a drawer. “So,” he said at last. “I suppose you know why I asked you here?”

What did that mean? “I take it you don’t want to talk to me about my history grade.”

A wry half smile sprung from the side of his mouth. “That was a joke, right?”

“Yeah.” Was he for real?

“I thought so,” he said with a wink.

Lame.

Father Santos took a breath, then exhaled on a
whoosh
and blurted, “I, uh, want to discuss what happened with Mrs. Long.”

Bridget had to fight to keep from rolling her eyes. Yeah, like it took a brain surgeon to figure that one out. Was he going to give her an official scolding from the Vatican? Or accuse her of being a witch? Did they still do that? She said a silent prayer that she was in no danger of getting burned at the stake in twenty-first-century California.

She stared at him blankly.

“What you did,” he continued quickly. “W-with Mrs. Long and the, uh, the entities. That was highly unusual.”

This time Bridget couldn’t suppress a laugh. Father Santos raised an eyebrow. He clearly didn’t see the humor.

“Sorry,” she said, drawing her backpack closer to her chest.

“Like I said, it was highly unusual. I’ve been scouring the histories for two days trying to find a similar case of divine grace, and I must say that I’ve—”

“Of what?”

Father Santos did a double take. “Divine grace. A touch from the hand of God, usually bestowed on those of exceptionally pure and vigorous faith. But I’ve been unable to find any cases involving someone so . . .” He paused, grasping for the correct adjective. “So young.”

“Oh.” Bridget doubted very much that was what he was thinking. “Is that what I have?”

Father Santos dropped his eyes. “Perhaps.”

Huh? “Perhaps?”

“I . . . I, uh, I thought Monsignor would have discussed this with you.”

Bridget shook her head.

Father Santos pushed his chair back from his desk and laced his fingers together around his belly. “Hmm. So he didn’t give you any explanation for your unique abilities?”

Bridget shrugged. “He just said I had a gift and that I had to be responsible and use it to help people.”

“Very good.”

“And then he started teaching me the Rules.”

“His rules of engagement during an exorcism?”

Bridget cringed. She didn’t like the E word. “He calls it a banishment.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. But he didn’t . . . he didn’t mention anything about the Watchers?”

Watchers? “I don’t think so.”

“Interesting.”

“Really?”

Instead of answering, Father Santos pulled his notebook out of his desk drawer and grabbed a pen from the caddy. He flipped to an empty page and looked at her expectantly. “Why don’t we start at the beginning? Tell me exactly what happened at the Fergusons’.”

That came out of the blue. “The Fergusons’?”

“Your first exor— Er.” Father Santos scratched his chin. “Your first banishment, wasn’t it?”

“Um, I guess.”

“Then let’s start there.” Father Santos poised his pen over his notebook and looked at her expectantly. “You were babysitting, right?”

Bridget nodded.

“For the Ferguson twins?”

Bridget nodded again.

Father Santos laid his pen down on the desk. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

“Didn’t Monsignor already fill you in?”

“He did,” Father Santos said quietly. “But I want to hear it in your own words.”

Ugh. She so didn’t feel like going over this again.

“It’s important.”

“Fine.” She cast her mind back to the last night she’d babysat for the Fergusons. The night that changed everything.

It had taken three readings of
Curious George Goes to the Hospital
, but Bridget finally got the Ferguson twins to bed. Remote in one hand, tub of Ben & Jerry’s in the other, she’d just settled in front of the TV when she heard the footsteps.

At first Bridget thought it was one of the twins. But the steps were plodding and heavy, and echoed out from the upstairs hall like boots marching down the parquet floors.
Clop. Clop. Clop.
Definitely not the patter of bare feet.

“Danny?” she called, her voice more casual than she felt.

Clop. Clop. Clop.
They were coming down the stairs.

“Manny?”

No response, just plodding footsteps. They reached the bottom of the stairs and came down the hall toward the living room. Steady, unhurried.

Bridget’s stomach backflipped. There was someone else in the house.

She slid her legs to the floor, cursing the creaky sofa, and tried to keep her voice calm. Maybe she could fake out the intruder. “Funny, guys. Go back to bed.” She tiptoed over to the fireplace and carefully pulled the metal poker out of the stand. “Your parents will be home any second, and they’re going to be pissed if you’re still awake.”

The footsteps grew louder, stronger, so forceful she could feel their vibrations through the floor. They were almost to the living room, and Bridget positioned herself behind the door, poker raised over her head like she knew how to use it.

How the hell did someone get into the house? She had seen Mr. Ferguson set the security system when he left—an intruder would have set the alarm off.

Unless he was already in the house.

Okay, don’t panic. The phone’s in the kitchen. Just hit him as hard as you can and run for it.

A shadow slid across the floor, black and massive. Definitely not the twins.

Oh, shit.

The footsteps stopped. Bridget held her breath. Did he know she was waiting for him? Her arms ached as she held the poker overhead, and blood pounded in her ears. Just as her arm muscles were about to give way, the shadow withdrew and the steps retreated down the hallway. Where was he going?

Bridget bit her lip and peeked around the living-room door. The light in the hall was on, but there was no one there. Huh?

She crept out of the living room, expecting at any moment for Jason or Freddy to come at her with an array of cutlery that would make an Iron Chef drool.

The footsteps continued up the stairs; she could hear each step straining under the weight of an invisible body.

Hear,
but not see. What the hell was going on?

A door slammed from upstairs. Then the silence of the house was pierced by the terrified screams of Danny and Manny Ferguson.

Poker in hand, Bridget sprinted up the stairs to the twins’ room. She had no idea what was up there with them, only that she had to get the boys out of house. They were her responsibility.

She reached the top of the stairs: Their bedroom door was closed. Bridget dropped the poker and gripped the handle with both hands, but it wouldn’t turn.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

Bridget pounded on the door. “Guys, it’s me. Open up!”

All she got was more screaming.

“Danny, listen to me,” she pleaded to the more levelheaded of the six-year-olds. “Open the door.”

The door flew open so violently that it knocked her across the hall. Her skull smacked into the wall, and as she crumpled to her knees, Bridget caught sight of the twins through the open door, huddled together on the floor in the corner of their room.

“Guys, run!” she yelled. Too late. A cacophony of slamming doors filled the hallway, and Bridget froze in horror: Every door in the house was opening and closing by
itself.

They needed to get the hell out of there. Like, now.

Bridget scrambled to her feet, waited for the door to swing open, then sprinted into the twins’ bedroom. She grabbed one of the boys with each hand and hauled them up, ready to make a beeline out of the house. Whatever was in there with them wouldn’t be scared off by a babysitter wielding a poker, that was for damn sure.

The bedroom door slammed shut before she could drag the hysterical twins out of the room. As quickly as it had started, the banging doors stopped and the house fell silent.

Then the closet door slowly creaked open.

Bridget turned. An imposing black mass filled the entire closet from floor to ceiling. It seemed to be made of shadows and darkness, sucking light, energy, and hope right out of the room. It seethed, growing larger and smaller as if taking deep breaths, yet it made no sound.

Sweet cartwheeling Jesus! This couldn’t be happening. She backed up to the wall, keeping the twins behind her. She had to protect them as if they were her own brothers. As if they were Sammy.

The mass glided forward, blocking the door, and Bridget could sense its hate. Dark, focused hatred. As it came toward her, the room began to pitch, and Bridget was swamped with an overwhelming sense of dizziness. She staggered and placed a hand on the wall to steady herself.

That was when she heard them.

“There’s no escape from us. No escape. We own it. We own this place. We were summoned and we won’t go back.”

“Back?” Bridget asked without thinking.

She felt a collective gasp, a hundred people inhaling at once.

“She hears us.”

“No, she doesn’t. She cannot.”

“She does. Look at her.”

“Impossible! The Master protects us. They cannot hear us unless we take their voice.”

“I . . .” Holy crap, what the hell were these things? “I can hear you.”

This time the voices in the wall shrieked like they’d just been set on fire.

“
No, no, no, no, no, no!
” they all screamed at once. Then gibberish filled her ears as the voices broke into a language she didn’t understand. The black mass wavered.

It had to be a hallucination. Maybe they all had food poisoning? Food poisoning from pepperoni pizza. Sure, why not? It was the only way this made sense.

Bridget took her hand off the wall to brush a strand of hair from her face. As soon as her palm left the rough, stuccoed surface, the voices stopped. She held her hand an inch from the wall and could hear them again, muffled in the background.

She could hear them. They could hear her. Maybe she could use that to her advantage? Bridget placed her hand flat against the wall.

The voices were still speaking nonsense, louder now, arguing among themselves. They seemed less terrifying when she pictured them as bickering old church ladies. The thought actually made her smile and gave her the courage to speak.

“Get out,” she said.

“It is speaking to us? Is the traitor speaking to us?”

“Get out of this house.” Her voice sounded strong, even if she felt like she was going to ralph her vanilla ice cream all over the rug.

“We don’t listen to you.”

“We don’t listen to her.”

“We were summoned. The Master wants us here.”

“Well, I don’t want you here.”

“Bridge?” Danny (or was it Manny?) sniffed.

“It’s okay, boys. It’s going to be okay.”

“This is our home now.”

“Don’t talk to her. The Master wouldn’t like it.”