Possess

and crashed over her in waves. Her legs buckled and her body sank to the floor. Why wasn’t her power working?
    “WE WILL DESTROY YOU!”
    As if to remind her, the St. Benedict medal vibrated violently, flapping back and forth against her wrist.
    “WE WILL DESTROY THE WATCHER!”
    That’s right. The charm had a motto. “Vade retro satana,” Bridget murmured. She was barely aware she spoke the words out loud. “Vade retro satana.”
    “LIAR! LIAR!”
    “Vade retro satana. Vade retro satana.” Feet and hands tingled.
    “TRAITOR AND A LIAR!”
    “Shut up!” she screamed. Bridget pushed with her legs like she was power lifting a heavy weight. With a withering effort, she lurched upward, shoving the voices away. “SHUT UP!”
    Silence.
    Bridget slumped forward, hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.
    “What did they say?” Father Santos stood behind the counter, his ever-present notebook and pencil at the ready. “Do you remember?”
    Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.
    A heavy arm reached around her shoulders, bracing her while she panted. “Are you all right, Bridget?” Monsignor asked.
    Bridget nodded and straightened. “I think so.”
    “Good.”
    “Now if you can remember”—he shot a hard look at Father Santos—“tell us what the entities said.”
    “They said,” Bridget panted, “they said they knew who I am. That I was one of them.”
    “Interesting.”
    “What do they mean?” she asked. The dolls’ words had her worried.
    Monsignor frowned. “I’m not entirely sure.”
    “Why doesn’t she ask them?” Father Santos said. He didn’t look up from his notebook, just continued to write.
    “Rule Number Three,” Monsignor said. His voice was steely. “Do not engage. It is never a good idea to actively address an entity unless you are trying to discover its name.”
    Father Santos shrugged. “If we want to know what they’re talking about, Bridget should ask them.”
    As Father Santos uttered her name, a murmur echoed through the room, pinging from corner to corner like a demonic game of telephone. “Bridget. Bridget. Bridget,” the dolls echoed.
    Monsignor put his hand on her shoulder. “What do you think, Bridget? Would you like to try?”
    Try talking to a shop full of demonic dolls? Not really. “Okay.”
    He patted her shoulder, then took several steps away.
    She could do this. She had a great power, didn’t she? And they were just dolls, anyhow. “That’s right,” she said, pivoting in place to face each wall in turn. “I’m Bridget. Do you know me?”
    “We know who you are,” giggled one wall of dolls.
    “Shh, don’t tell her,” replied the opposite side.
    “She cannot harm us. We are strong. We are many.”
    Bridget laid her hand on the nearest display case. “Tell me what you know,” she said. “Or I will banish you.”
    The instant the word left her mouth, chaos erupted in Mrs. Pickleman’s Tiny Princess Doll Shoppe. Hundreds of dolls leaped to their feet and began to twitch and lurch in their display cases. Bridget felt like she was going to be sick.
    “Holy shit,” Father Santos said under his breath.
    “The Master is strong! The Watcher cannot banish!” the dolls screamed.
    “I—I can and I will,” Bridget said, trying to stay calm.
    “The Watcher is a fool. The Master’s spies are many! He will break you.”
    The sound of tiny plastic and porcelain bodies crashing into glass thundered through the shop as the dolls launched themselves against their glass prisons. Faces and arms, bodies and legs smashed and shattered. The entire shop vibrated, whole display cases lurching and tottering away from the wall. The shelf on which Bridget rested her hand gave a sickening crack as the glass splintered. A Little Red Riding Hood doll’s face jutted through the glass like Jack Nicholson in The Shining .
    “I will banish you,” Bridget said again. Her voice wavered.
    Then it got really weird.
    The dolls began to chant nonsensical verses as they stomped their feet in unison. It was no longer a child’s squeak, but a hundred booming voices rumbling through the shop.
    “Pothered tints strut.”
    “Spins truth tottered.”
    “Amazing,” Monsignor said.
    “What does it mean?” Father Santos asked.
    Bridget turned to them. “You can hear that?”
    Father Santos scribbled at a frantic pace. “Absolutely.”
    “Thunder totters spit.”
    “Potent dither trusts.”
    From amid the roar of incessant chanting, Bridget caught a distinct