Possess

ahead, lips puckered and slightly flared like they were cooing. Most of them were chipped, the flesh-colored paint flaking off their faces, and they sat at odd angles, leaning on one another for support like an infant leper colony.
    Right in the middle of the case sat the largest doll, a Little House on the Prairie -ish thing whose wooden face looked like it had been mauled by a dog. Bridget glanced away from the doll, then froze. She could have sworn the thing moved. Her heart pounded as she tentatively stepped back in front of the case and bent down so her face was level with the doll. This time there was no mistake.
    The doll winked at her.
    In a panic, Bridget spun around for the door but found herself staring at a wall of dolls. To her left, to her right, all four walls were lined with similar glass cases, packed to the brim with round-faced dolls. Plastic, porcelain, swaddled like infants, dressed like fairy queens and Disney princesses. Caucasian, black, Hispanic, Asian—a United Nations of horror.
    Bridget shivered. Of course this place was infested with demons. Of course it was. This was Hell.
    “Monsignor, I’m so glad you’re here.” A woman rushed forward. She had wavy black hair and wore a black turtleneck, skirt, and tights, with painfully red lipstick smeared across her mouth. She looked more late-nineties goth than fussy doll shop owner.
    “Of course, Ms. Laveau.”
    “Papa said if anyone could help, it would be you.”
    “We’ll see what we can do.”
    “The noises have gotten more . . .” Ms. Laveau passed a hand over her hair. “Violent.”
    Monsignor nodded. “I see. Still only at night?”
    Ms. Laveau nodded. “I’m sorry you couldn’t witness it yourself when you were here last week, but I noted the times like you suggested.” She handed him a piece of notepaper.
    “Hmm. Sunset and three o’clock in the morning?” Monsignor asked with raised eyebrows.
    Father Santos whistled.
    “Is that bad?” Ms. Laveau asked. Her voice was breathless.
    Monsignor placed a hand on her arm and turned her away from the younger priest. “Not at all, Emily. It will be fine.”
    Ms. Laveau caught sight of Bridget huddling near the door. The red lips bent into a frown. “I’m sorry, the store is closed.”
    “Bridget is with us,” Monsignor said with a nod.
    Yes, I’m with them, Bridget thought. Aren’t I just the luckiest girl in the world?
    Ms. Laveau glanced at Monsignor, who nodded in a reassuring manner. “Never fear, Ms. Laveau. Bridget’s done this kind of thing before.”
    Bridget swallowed hard and forced a smile in an attempt to look like she wasn’t about to pee in her pants.
    “Oh.” Ms. Laveau sounded disappointed. “I guess . . . whatever you suggest, Monsignor.”
    Monsignor inclined his head. “Thank you.”
    Ms. Laveau watched with wide eyes as Father Santos began to assemble the candles and sacramentals on the main counter. “What shall I do?”
    “I recommend you go and get a cup of coffee,” Monsignor said. “Or maybe dinner with a friend?”
    Ms. Laveau’s face fell. “I don’t get to stay?”
    Great. One of those amateur ghost hunter chicks. She probably had at least one set of tarot cards and a Ouija board stashed in her apartment.
    “I’m afraid you might complicate the situation.” Monsignor led Ms. Laveau expertly toward the door. “For a successful, er, blessing, we need to have only professionals present.” Ms. Laveau was about to protest, but with a tinkling of the bell, Monsignor had maneuvered her out the door. “I’ll give you a call when we’re finished.”
    Bridget couldn’t help but smile at how Monsignor handled Ms. Laveau. Too easy.
    Now if only the doll shop was the same.

Fourteen
    F ATHER S ANTOS HAD ALREADY PREPARED the room. White candles blazed on the counter next to the cash register; their orange-and-yellow flames reflected in the endless glass display cases, making the entire shop look like it was ablaze. Decanters of holy water and oil stood valiantly side by side, and a stripe of salt lay across the back entrance, with a small pile in each corner of the shop.
    “We’re ready,” he said.
    Monsignor didn’t even look at him. “Did you sanctify the front entrance? I do not see any salt across the threshold.”
    He was right. No salt across the front door. After what had happened at Mrs. Long’s, it was a careless blunder.
    “Yes, yes,” Father Santos said. He grabbed the bowl of salt and ran to the door.