Chapter
1
“SHELBY, CONCENTRATE.” Uncle Roy’s eyebrows snap together, forcing the skin at the bridge of his nose into a deep wrinkle.
I sigh and hold the heavy silver crucifix a little bit higher. Mrs. Collins is chained to the bed, her thin arms stretched across the mattress and secured to the headboard with iron handcuffs. Sounds totally sadistic, but it’s actually a necessary safety precaution. That old lady may look frail, but if she weren’t restrained she could easily tear me apart. And from the way she’s glaring at me with her crazy red demon eyes, I have no doubt she’d like to.
Before she was possessed, Mrs. Collins probably spent her days baking cookies for her grandchildren and planting tulips in her garden. Now? Her head is spinning on her neck like a globe on its axis, and she’s using language that’s so foul it makes my face burn.
Uncle Roy nudges me toward the bed. The crucifix starts to vibrate in my hands. Mrs. Collins’s eyes widen and she strains against the handcuffs, her body arching toward the ceiling. She isn’t wearing her false teeth, and her mouth is ghoulishly sunken in. Spit is flying everywhere, which is totally gross and part of the reason why I don’t want to get too close to her. That and the kicking. Her legs are flying around like the blades of a windmill. She’s working them so fast that her bottom starts to lift off the mattress, forcing her modest white nightgown to slide up to her hips in a very un-grandmotherly way and giving me a ringside view of her control-top underwear.
And then the rest of her starts to lift off the bed.
Crap. Looks like she’s figured out how to levitate. I guess I should have pinned her legs down after all.
I sneak a look at Uncle Roy. He just sighs and shakes his head.
Lifting the crucifix up even higher, I close my eyes and start to mutter the incantation. “Deus, in nómine tuo salvum me fac—”
“Say it like you mean it,” he says.
“—et virtúte tua age causam meam—”
“Louder!”
I glare at him. Seriously? How am I supposed to concentrate when he keeps interrupting?
“Deus, audi oratiónem … meam … um … áuribus?”
There’s a reason why Latin is a dead language. It’s impossible to learn. Which is why even though Uncle Roy has made me practice this chant a million times, I still struggle with it.
“Áuribus pércipe…” he prompts me.
“Áuribus pércipe verba oris mei.”
I make it through the rest of the incantation without stumbling. As I finish, I feel a shift in the air, and all the sound is suddenly sucked out of the room. Smiling, I open my eyes, expecting Mrs. Collins to be lying quietly against the pillows, returned to her sweet, seventy-year-old self, eternally grateful that I saved her soul.
Unfortunately, that is not what I see.
Mrs. Collins is still halfway in the air, twisting violently, her body being wrung out like a mop by some invisible force. Her tongue is swollen and hanging out of her mouth like a thick black eel, and her eyes … well, they’ve rolled completely back into her head.
So not only did the exorcism not work, but it seems to have agitated her even more.
Huh. Maybe I wasn’t speaking loud enough. Or maybe if Uncle Roy just let me do this without butting in—
There’s a splintering sound as Mrs. Collins suddenly yanks her arm back. Fortunately, it’s just a piece of the headboard breaking and not her actual bones. She rolls onto her side, one of her hands now free, and tries to work the other handcuff off, so I begin the incantation again. But before I can even get the first few words out, Uncle Roy elbows me out of the way and stalks toward the bed, his black robe flapping behind him like a crow’s wings.
“Deus, audi oratiónem meam; áuribus pércipe verba oris mei,” he bellows. “Nam supérbi insurréxerunt contra me, et violénti quæsierunt vitam meam.”
My jaw drops. I can’t believe he’s taking over. Again. I’ve been training three times a week for the past five months and he’s still never let me finish an exorcism on my own.
Such a control freak.
With a huff, I collapse into an overstuffed floral armchair near the window. The lacy curtains are pulled shut so the neighbors won’t see Mrs. Collins hovering over her bed like a UFO.
Uncle Roy continues the incantation, his voice strong and sure—the same way it sounds at the pulpit every Sunday. The kind of voice that even demons listen to.
Whatever. Who cares if I’m good at this or not? I’m not even sure I want to be an exorcist. He’s the one pushing me to do it, insisting that I have a gift.
Some gift.
“Nam ex omni tribulatióne eripuit me, et inimícos meos confúsos vidit óculos meus.”
Mrs. Collins is still struggling to free herself, desperately chewing at her wrist like a wolf trying to escape a steel trap. As Uncle Roy reaches the end of the incantation, a blast of hot air causes his white hair to blow back—a definite sign that the demon is being wrenched out of Mrs. Collins. Sure enough, a few seconds later, she drops back down onto the bed, completely limp.
Uncle Roy doesn’t lower his crucifix right away. Demons can be tricky. Sometimes they pretend they’ve gone and then, once your defenses are down, they attack. Just to make sure, he uncorks a small silver flask and sprinkles some holy water on her. It doesn’t burn her skin—another good sign.
Mrs. Collins moans. Her eyes flutter open, and I can see that they’ve returned to their usual blue color. She stares at us, confused. The possessed generally have no recollection of what happened to them, and considering how most people behave while possessed, this is indeed a blessing.
Uncle Roy takes her hand—the one not handcuffed to the headboard—and gently strokes it. “It’s all right, Rose. Just relax. You’re going to be okay.”
My irritation at him starts to fade a little; he has a very good bedside manner. That’s one more thing, according to him, that I need to work on.
I get up and walk over to the bed. I pull Mrs. Collins’s nightgown down over her legs and then unlock the handcuff holding her wrist. Her poor skin is raw from where she chewed at it. Good thing she didn’t have her teeth in.
While Uncle Roy continues to comfort Mrs. Collins, I open the door and let her husband into the room. He’s been pacing the hall for the past twenty minutes. Uncle Roy doesn’t like family members to be present during an exorcism. They have a tendency to freak out when they see steam coming out of their loved one’s ears.
Mr. Collins looks at me, his brown eyes hopeful. “Is she…?”
I nod. “The demon’s gone. She’ll be fine.”
His wrinkled old face crumples in relief. He rushes past me and kneels in front of Uncle Roy. He takes Uncle Roy’s hand and kisses his gold signet ring as if Uncle Roy is the Godfather or something.
“Thank you, Father,” Mr. Collins croaks.
Uncle Roy pats his shoulder. “Best to just let her rest tonight, Abe. I’ll call you tomorrow to see how she’s doing.” He drops his silver flask into the black leather doctor’s bag he uses to store his supplies and gestures for me to follow him.
We walk down the plastic runner path the Collinses have laid over their carpet and out the front door. As we climb into Uncle Roy’s ancient green hatchback, I glance at the little brick house. From the outside, you’d never guess anything weird ever happened in there.
But then again, looks can be deceiving. I’m certainly proof of that.
Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Honeybourn
