Possess

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.

Two
    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