Possess

on her face.
    “ You’re Bridget Liu?”
    If she had a dime for every time she had heard that. Her almond-shaped eyes were blue, and when added to curly brown hair and freckles, they threw everyone off. “Um, yeah.”
    The young man gave himself a shake. “Sorry, I was expecting someone . . .”
    Bridget arched an eyebrow. “More Chinese?”
    “N-no,” he stuttered. “That’s not what I . . .” His voice trailed off. “Er, sorry.” He shuffled aside, motioning for her to enter.
    Bridget hesitated. Was she really going to do this?
    “Come in, come in,” the guy said quickly. “He’s waiting for you.”
    Bridget stepped through the doorway. The atmosphere of the house was off. The air was condensed; her ears crackled with the change in pressure, and for a moment she felt dizzy. The room seemed to whirl and pitch like a fun house. She felt the floor tilt, and the ceiling and walls pressed in on her, creating angles that could only exist in a geometry problem or an M. C. Escher print. Furniture bulged, doubling in size. She knew it wasn’t real, just a trick of the eye, but still.
    The house wanted her out. She could feel it.
    Bridget lost her balance and stumbled forward, bracing herself against a grandfather clock. She’d felt this way once before. It wasn’t a good sign.
    “Are you okay?” the guy asked.
    Bridget pressed a hand to her head. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I’m—”
    A shriek ripped through the house. Bridget spun around to find an orange tabby cat frozen in the hall, back arched, eyes so wide they practically popped out of its furry little skull. The cat let out a second terrified wail, then bolted past her, through the open door and out into the darkening afternoon.
    Smart cat.
    “Sorry about that,” the guy said, latching the door behind him.
    Bridget straightened, trying to shake off the dizziness. “S’okay. Cats don’t like me.”
    He shoved a hand into his pants pocket and retrieved a small wire-bound notebook with a gnarled bit of pencil wedged into the spirals. With a journalist’s ease, he flipped open the notebook and began to scribble. “Never or just recently?”
    Bridget looked at him sidelong. Why was he taking notes? “Since forever.”
    “Oh.” His head snapped up and he stared at her for a moment, his goatlike eyes locked on to her face. “You’re okay now?”
    Bridget nodded.
    “Because a second ago you looked like you were going to be sick.”
    “I’m fine.”
    “Oh. G-good.” He nodded twice, made one last flourish of notes on his little pad, and stuffed it back into his pocket. “I’m Father Santos, by the way.”
    Bridget’s eyebrows shot up. A priest?
    “Oh, right.” Father Santos fumbled around in his shirt pocket and withdrew a length of stiff, white fabric. “I, uh, came straight from the airport. I take my c-collar off when I fly. So I can sleep.”
    He dropped the collar, twice, before his plump hands managed to thread it through the opening in his shirt. Bridget eyed him suspiciously. Monsignor hadn’t said anything about another priest.
    She wondered how much Father Santos knew.
    “Where’s Monsignor Renault?”
    “Right,” Father Santos said. He turned and shuffled down the hall. “Follow me.”
    The coldness of the room hit Bridget even before the smell of burning incense. The vapor of her escaping breath mingled with the swirl of perfumed smoke that hung over a double bed in the center of the room. Monsignor Renault knelt in prayer at the foot of the bed. He didn’t stir as they entered, but continued to mutter under his breath before he leaned back on his heels and made the sign of the cross.
    Monsignor looked tired, hardly the confident priest she’d seen less than an hour ago. The wisps of white hair scattered across his bald head were pointing in several directions at once, like the Scarecrow showing both ways to Oz. His pale gray eyes seemed sunken, and his skin—gray to match—sagged off his face like raw pizza dough.
    With a heavy sigh, he glanced up. At first, Monsignor’s eyes didn’t register her presence; they just followed Father Santos with suspicion as he waddled to the far side of the room. Slowly, Monsignor’s gaze drifted back to Bridget, and he smiled, instantly subtracting twenty years from his appearance. “Thank you for coming, Bridget.”
    Bridget smiled in return. Monsignor looked so relieved to see her, and despite her reservations about coming, she knew she’d made the right choice. Monsignor