Possess

She didn’t like the E word. “He calls it a banishment.”
    “Yes. Yes, of course. But he didn’t . . . he didn’t mention anything about the Watchers?”
    Watchers? “I don’t think so.”
    “Interesting.”
    “Really?”
    Instead of answering, Father Santos pulled his notebook out of his desk drawer and grabbed a pen from the caddy. He flipped to an empty page and looked at her expectantly. “Why don’t we start at the beginning? Tell me exactly what happened at the Fergusons’.”
    That came out of the blue. “The Fergusons’?”
    “Your first exor— Er.” Father Santos scratched his chin. “Your first banishment, wasn’t it?”
    “Um, I guess.”
    “Then let’s start there.” Father Santos poised his pen over his notebook and looked at her expectantly. “You were babysitting, right?”
    Bridget nodded.
    “For the Ferguson twins?”
    Bridget nodded again.
    Father Santos laid his pen down on the desk. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”
    “Didn’t Monsignor already fill you in?”
    “He did,” Father Santos said quietly. “But I want to hear it in your own words.”
    Ugh. She so didn’t feel like going over this again.
    “It’s important.”
    “Fine.” She cast her mind back to the last night she’d babysat for the Fergusons. The night that changed everything.
    It had taken three readings of Curious George Goes to the Hospital , but Bridget finally got the Ferguson twins to bed. Remote in one hand, tub of Ben & Jerry’s in the other, she’d just settled in front of the TV when she heard the footsteps.
    At first Bridget thought it was one of the twins. But the steps were plodding and heavy, and echoed out from the upstairs hall like boots marching down the parquet floors. Clop. Clop. Clop. Definitely not the patter of bare feet.
    “Danny?” she called, her voice more casual than she felt.
    Clop. Clop. Clop. They were coming down the stairs.
    “Manny?”
    No response, just plodding footsteps. They reached the bottom of the stairs and came down the hall toward the living room. Steady, unhurried.
    Bridget’s stomach backflipped. There was someone else in the house.
    She slid her legs to the floor, cursing the creaky sofa, and tried to keep her voice calm. Maybe she could fake out the intruder. “Funny, guys. Go back to bed.” She tiptoed over to the fireplace and carefully pulled the metal poker out of the stand. “Your parents will be home any second, and they’re going to be pissed if you’re still awake.”
    The footsteps grew louder, stronger, so forceful she could feel their vibrations through the floor. They were almost to the living room, and Bridget positioned herself behind the door, poker raised over her head like she knew how to use it.
    How the hell did someone get into the house? She had seen Mr. Ferguson set the security system when he left—an intruder would have set the alarm off.
    Unless he was already in the house.
    Okay, don’t panic. The phone’s in the kitchen. Just hit him as hard as you can and run for it.
    A shadow slid across the floor, black and massive. Definitely not the twins.
    Oh, shit.
    The footsteps stopped. Bridget held her breath. Did he know she was waiting for him? Her arms ached as she held the poker overhead, and blood pounded in her ears. Just as her arm muscles were about to give way, the shadow withdrew and the steps retreated down the hallway. Where was he going?
    Bridget bit her lip and peeked around the living-room door. The light in the hall was on, but there was no one there. Huh?
    She crept out of the living room, expecting at any moment for Jason or Freddy to come at her with an array of cutlery that would make an Iron Chef drool.
    The footsteps continued up the stairs; she could hear each step straining under the weight of an invisible body.
    Hear, but not see. What the hell was going on?
    A door slammed from upstairs. Then the silence of the house was pierced by the terrified screams of Danny and Manny Ferguson.
    Poker in hand, Bridget sprinted up the stairs to the twins’ room. She had no idea what was up there with them, only that she had to get the boys out of house. They were her responsibility.
    She reached the top of the stairs: Their bedroom door was closed. Bridget dropped the poker and gripped the handle with both hands, but it wouldn’t turn.
    “Mommy! Mommy!”
    Bridget pounded on the door. “Guys, it’s me. Open up!”
    All she got was more screaming.
    “Danny, listen to me,” she