Possess

with a flimsy table knife. Eventually she was able to tear a chunk of the overcooked meat free and get it into her mouth. Bridget couldn’t help but smile as she furtively watched her mom chew the meat for a full minute before she could swallow.
    “Excellent job with the pot roast, Bridget,” Mrs. Liu said with a big, kind grin. “Really, really great.”
    Her mom was a horrible liar. “Thanks.”
    “Isn’t it great, Sammy?”
    Sammy stuck out his tongue and made a slobbery motorboat sound.
    “Sammy!” her mom snapped.
    Bridget touched her tongue to the tip of her nose—one of Sammy’s favorite tricks—and sent him into a paroxysm of laughter, spouting bits of overcooked pot roast all over the table.
    “Samuel Michael,” her mom said, wiping up bits of food with a napkin. “That is not something we do at the dinner table. How old are you?”
    “Square root of sixty-four,” Sammy said, pushing the meat, potatoes, and carrots around on his plate in concentric circles.
    “Yes, Sammy.” Her mom sighed. “Now finish your pot roast.”
    “Gross,” he said.
    Bridget couldn’t help but agree. She’d meant to take the roast out after exactly an hour and twenty minutes, just like the note said, but she’d gotten distracted. She had been at the piano, working her way through a Chopin prelude and trying to ignore whatever it was haunting her house, just like Monsignor said to do, when she heard the same scampering paws across the dining-room floor. She continued to ignore it, but every few minutes she’d hear that damn cat again, each time with the same quick trot, scooting down the hall toward her room.
    The fifth time, she got up and closed every single door in the house: her mom’s room, her room, Sammy’s room, the bathroom, and the door that led downstairs to the garage. Closed tight, locking the cat in one of them. It wasn’t supernatural; it was just some poor, dumb animal trapped in the house. Mr. Moppet could just stay put until her mom came home.
    As soon as she sat down at the piano, she heard the footsteps again, pattering down the hall toward her room.
    She bolted from her chair and ran down the hall only to freeze in her tracks halfway. The door to her room was wide open, and from inside she heard a muffled sound.
    MEEEEEEOW .
    That’s when the panic set in. All her training, all Monsignor’s words, went right out the window. Bridget attacked her room, desperate to find the source of the noise. She pulled her bed apart, threw her closet open and dug through piles of shoes and old school uniforms. She hauled her desk away from the wall and even yanked the grate off the heating duct, just in case the cat had gotten inside.
    Still no Mr. Moppet, and the only result of her mad search had been a disgustingly overdone pot roast.
    “I think Mr. Moppet got in the house again,” Bridget said. That cat loved her mom and Sammy, so maybe they’d have an easier time finding the thing.
    Her mom glared. “That’s not funny, Bridget. You’re going to upset Sammy.”
    Had everyone gone insane? “Why would Mr. Moppet in the house upset Sammy? He loves that stupid cat.”
    “He’s not stupid!” Sammy screamed. He shot up from the table, face red as a well-done lobster, and launched his fork right at Bridget’s head. She ducked just in time; the fork barely missed.
    “Sammy?” she said. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
    “He’s not!” Sammy continued. “He’s not! He’s not!”
    Without another word, Sammy dashed from the kitchen. Bridget could hear his sobs as he ran down the hall to his room. Dammit.
    “Mom, what’s going on?”
    Her mom sighed. “I forgot. You weren’t here yesterday when Mrs. Shaughnessy stopped by.”
    A lump rose in Bridget’s throat as she realized what her mom was getting at. Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please don’t say the stupid cat is dead.
    “They had to put Mr. Moppet down.”
    Shit.
    Bridget stared at the ceiling in the darkness of her bedroom. Mr. Moppet was dead. Could she have imagined it all? She wasn’t insane; she’d heard an animal. She’d seen the door moving. And she was pretty sure there was no demonic presence in the house. Yet a phantom cat and her self-
propelled bracelet charm hinted otherwise. Was there another explanation?
    A light tapping at her door made her jump.
    “Bridge?” Sammy poked his head into her room. She could see his mess of dark hair in the soft glow of moonlight. “Are you asleep?”
    “Nope,” she