Possess

inside the house.
    Without thinking, she placed her hand on the wall to steady herself.
    The noises exploded in her head. A deafening roar, a mix of snarls and screams at once human and beastlike. She could feel the wall throbbing beneath her palm as if the beings inside were going to burst through the plaster.
    “Bridget, are you all right?” Monsignor’s voice cracked.
    Her breaths came shallow and ragged as the noises pounded through her ears. “Yeah, I—I think so.”
    “What is it?” Father Santos asked. “What do you hear?”
    “I . . .” Crap, what didn’t she hear? She closed her eyes. “Grunts.”
    “Grunts?”
    “Animal grunts. And screams. They’re . . . I don’t think they’re human.”
    “They are gathering their power,” Monsignor said. He tightened his grip on the cross. “Be ready.”
    Bridget had no clue what “ready” meant. Ready for what?
    Her answer came immediately. The foundations of the house rocked. Bridget lost her balance and staggered a few steps until Monsignor’s strong hand gripped her arm, steadying her. Mrs. Long grunted and snarled, then Bridget watched in horror as the old lady’s body went rigid—feet flexed, arms plastered to her sides—and began to rise off the bed.
    “Jesus!” Bridget said, forgetting who was in the room.
    “Concentrate,” Monsignor said. “Do not let them distract you.”
    Yeah, sure. Concentrate with an old lady levitating a foot away? Easy.
    The screams and growls filled the room. Father Santos glanced around, searching for the source of the noises, and made the sign of the cross. “Dear God.”
    “Concentrate,” Monsignor repeated. “They cannot harm you.”
    As if in response, a barking laugh echoed through the room, followed by a rush of air coming from the wall behind the bed. Photographs and perfume bottles blew off the dresser and crashed to the floor in a mess of broken glass and twisted metal. The candle flames flickered and shuddered, fighting desperately to remain lit. It was a torrential wind, so forceful it sucked the air right out of Bridget’s lungs.
    Crucifix raised before him, Monsignor leaned into the wind. “I command you—”
    “Fool!” It was the voice of many—a dozen voices of different pitch and timbre, all shouting at once—and it came from the walls, the ceiling, the floorboards. “We fear you not. The Master is strong.”
    Father Santos snatched the holy water off the table and joined Monsignor beside the body. He sprinkled Mrs. Long up and down while Monsignor placed the corner of his stole on her neck.
    “Begone, you hostile powers!” Monsignor roared.
    “The lion of Judah’s tribe has conquered,” Father Santos replied.
    “Heed my words!”
    “And let my cry be heard by you.”
    The wind surged as both priests struggled to stay on their feet. A print of a Madonna with Child was ripped off its hook and flew across the room, splintering the cheap wooden frame against the wall. The drapes around the window splayed out and rippled away from the pane.
    Monsignor shielded his face from the wind with a raised arm. “Every unclean spirit, every infernal power, every legion. We cast you out !”
    The house lurched again, and all three of them tumbled to the floor. Bridget was thrown against the door, scattering the salt Father Santos had sprinkled across the threshold. The instant the line was broken, the door flew open and the wind rushed in as if it had been waiting outside for the opportunity. It swirled around Mrs. Long like a tornado. The room spun, a chaotic whirlpool that stung Bridget’s eyes and lashed at her face. She ducked her head, barely avoiding a crystal vase that had been caught in the roiling air. It smashed into the wall above her head and showered her with shards of glass.
    She squinted against the tumult and saw Monsignor vault to his feet and throw his body against the door.
    “Bridget, the salt!”
    It took her a half second before she realized what he meant. She grabbed the bowl of salt from the table as Monsignor struggled to close the door. With a heavy groan, he lurched forward and Bridget heard the door click. As quickly as she could, she spread a line of salt across the threshold.
    The room lay still.
    She and Monsignor looked at each other and smiled. One crisis down.
    Their celebration was cut short by a deep, grating cackle. It was an ugly sound: a dozen voices laughing at once but without joy, without lightness.
    Evil. That was the best way to describe