Possess

said.
    “Good.” She heard his bare feet pad across the floor, and with a sigh, she scooted over and held up the comforter for her little brother.
    “What’s wrong?” she asked to the back of Sammy’s head.
    “Nightmare.”
    “Elephants again?” Sammy had been terrified of elephants ever since he’d seen the psychedelic dream sequence in Dumbo .
    “No.”
    Phew. Getting him back to sleep after one of his elephant nightmares was almost impossible. “Was it about school?”
    She felt Sammy shake his head back and forth, then he pulled the comforter up to his ears and his body shuddered with a sob.
    “Sammy?” He rarely cried, or showed much emotion at all. What was wrong with him tonight?
    “Mr. . . . ,” he began, then his voice choked off.
    Ugh. The damn cat. “Mr. Moppet? You had a nightmare about Mr. Moppet?”
    “Mmhmm.” Sammy scootched toward her until his frigid feet just touched her knees. Bridget froze. Sammy hated being touched.
    “I’m sorry, Sammy,” she said. She laid a hand on his back, but he flinched away. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d known he was . . .” Dead? Stone-cold dead and haunting our freaking house ?
    “Had a dream,” Sammy said. His voice cracked. “Had a dream about Mr. Moppet.”
    Bridget stiffened. “A dream? Was he . . .” Flail, how did she bring it up? “Was he in the house?”
    “In the house,” Sammy repeated. “Running in the house.”
    Yeah, not a dream, kiddo.
    “Running up and down the hall,” Sammy continued. “I could hear him.”
    Bridget wasn’t sure if she was happy someone else could hear the phantom cat or sad that Sammy was plagued with this nightmare. “It was just a dream.” Bridget hoped her voice sounded convincing. “Mr. Moppet was sick, and now he’s . . . he’s in Heaven. He’s happy there.”
    Sammy glanced back at her. “Cats don’t go to Heaven,” he said. “Sister Monica said so.”
    Stupid freaking nuns. “Well, he’s in a better place, okay?”
    “Promise?”
    “I promise. Now try and get some sleep, Sammy.”
    He snuggled down into the pillow next to her. “Okay.”
    So Sammy could hear the footsteps too. Ugh.
    Good news, Bridget wasn’t crazy, although having Sammy as her sanity touchstone wasn’t exactly the most comforting thing in the world. Bad news, she couldn’t pretend the footsteps weren’t really there. Something was in the house. Something she couldn’t see.
    She rolled over and stared at her alarm clock, the deep red glow of numbers telling her that she’d be lucky to get five hours of sleep before she had to get up for her meeting with Father Santos.
    Blech. She was looking forward to that meeting about as much as a trip to the dentist. There was something weird about Father Santos. He wasn’t like Monsignor Renault, whose very presence demanded respect. Father Santos was more like a doddering professor than an apprentice exorcist, and she hated the idea that he was watching her all the time, writing down every detail of her existence.
    Sammy’s breathing slowed, the deep rhythm indicating that he’d fallen asleep. That made one of them. Bridget yawned, and her eyes flitted closed. She’d worry about it all tomorrow: the mystery cat, Father Santos, the Winter Formal. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
    She was just drifting off when her breath caught in her throat. The charm on her bracelet tugged at her wrist, standing up of its own accord and pointing toward her closet door. Before she could even turn to look at it, she heard a noise. From inside her closet came a distinct scratching.
    Claws against wood.

Nine
    F ATHER S ANTOS WAS WRITING IN his little spiral notebook when Bridget arrived at his office. Classic.
    She had knocked—twice—and hadn’t gotten an answer, so she decided to peek inside and see if the new History teacher had ditched her. No such luck.
    Bridget didn’t see the priest at first. Even though the office was small and narrow, like a long broom closet, Father Santos had lined the room, ceiling to floor, with heavy wooden bookcases.
    Empty bookcases. The intended occupants were half unpacked from an endless number of uniform cardboard boxes plastered with preprinted white and black labels that read proprietà della biblioteca apostolica vaticana, followed by a number written with a fat-tipped Sharpie marker in a smooth, unhurried hand. The boxes were everywhere. Some had been ripped open, their contents searched through and stacked on