Possess

thing?
    See? She was right. Demonic activity was following her around.
    Okay. She could handle this. She was a trained exorcist, after all. Bridget stilled herself and took a deep breath, trying to sense the room, just as Monsignor had taught her. Twice before in the presence of a demon, she’d been able to feel it in the air—the heaviness, the oppression, and that strange dizzy sensation of the walls stretching and skewing. Not this time. Her kitchen felt exactly like her kitchen.
    There was one other test, one other way to know if there was an entity in her house. She reached a tentative hand toward the wall. If there was something there, she’d definitely hear it.
    BRRRRRRRRING!
    Bridget let out a muffled yelp as the telephone broke the silence. Out of breath, her heart racing, she picked up the receiver.
    “Hello?” she panted.
    “Bridget?” her mom asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “Are you okay? You sound like you just ran home from school.”
    “I’m fine,” she lied. “I was in the bathroom.”
    “Oh.” Her mom sounded less than convinced. “Well, I left you a note on the refrigerator. Do you see it?”
    Bridget scanned the fridge door and saw a list in her mom’s neat, schoolteacher print, held up by a San Francisco Giants magnet. “Yeah.”
    “It’s your list of chores for today. You’re grounded, not on vacation.”
    Perfect.
    “And the last one is most important. Put the roast in at four forty exactly. I’m taking Sammy to math club, so we’ll be home after six and I want dinner ready to go, okay?”
    Pat pat pat pat pat. Bridget spun around, searching for the source of the footsteps. Still nothing. Was she losing her mind?
    “Bridget, did you hear me?”
    “Roast. Oven. Got it.”
    “Okay. See you soon.”
    Bridget held the receiver to her ear even as the dial tone buzzed. Her eyes were frozen on the kitchen door, swinging madly back and forth. From beneath the sleeve of her sweater, Bridget felt the charm on her bracelet give one violent lurch.
    Bridget stumbled backward, holding her arm as far away from her as she could. Animal footsteps, maybe, but she sure as hell didn’t imagine that .
    Bridget dialed the number for the St. Michael’s rectory from memory.
    “St. Michael’s,” the little old church lady who volunteered in the kitchen croaked forth. “How can I—”
    “Monsignor Renault, please,” Bridget blurted out.
    “I’m sorry,” she drawled. Was she talking this slowly specifically to piss Bridget off? “Monsignor is not to be disturbed this afternoon.”
    She always said that. And he always took her call. “It’s Bridget Liu.”
    As expected, the church lady grumbled something incoherent and put Bridget’s call on hold. A peppy rendition of “City of God” blared as hold music just long enough for Bridget to start to sing along with the chorus. Catholic brainwashing at its best.
    “Bridget?” Monsignor said. “Is everything okay?”
    “Um . . .” How exactly did she bring this up? There’s a ghost in my house? My jewelry’s moving by itself? She was going to sound like a lunatic.
    “Is something wrong?”
    “Kind of.” Monsignor was silent, waiting for her to explain. “I think there’s something in the house.”
    “What kind of something?”
    “I don’t know. It sounds like a cat, but I can’t see anything. Just footsteps and doors swinging like something went through them.”
    “Did you calm yourself? Take a breath and try to sense the room?”
    Bridget smiled. “Yeah, just like you taught me.”
    “And the house feels normal?”
    “Totally.”
    “Interesting.” Monsignor paused. She could almost see him twirling that massive silver ring around his finger as he drifted into thought. “You don’t hear anything? No voices?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Very interesting.”
    For him, maybe. Bridget was freaking the hell out.
    “I suggest,” Monsignor said after a pause, “that you try to ignore it. If it is an entity, giving it attention will only serve to strengthen it. Try and go about your afternoon as normally as possible.”
    Normal for a girl who can banish demons. Awesome. “That’s it?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “Oh.”
    “But call me if anything changes or the contact escalates, okay?”
    Bridget’s eyes crept toward the kitchen door that still hadn’t stopped swinging back and forth. “Okay.”
    “Excellent. Good luck.”
    Bridget’s mom hunched over her plate, trying to get some leverage as she cut a piece of pot roast