Possess
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

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