by Cora May
Just like every other night, the food she was given had been left out for some time, leaving her with a cold plate of icy mashed potatoes, overcooked steak, and a stale biscuit. She bit into each piece of food without even tasting it, though, ravenously scarfing down every last bit. The two scant meals she was given daily never felt like enough.
At fifteen years old, Chanta was a beauty. Her thin, five-foot-eight frame caught plenty of looks, thanks to her confident way of carrying herself, and the curves that had crept up in her teen years. She’d kept herself in shape by playing soccer. No matter how mud-stained she got during the day, she would always be seen in a long dress and heels as the sun went down. The scent of lilac and vanilla seemed to follow her wherever she went, a sweet reminder clinging to the pillows of the love-struck boys she went home with. Long blonde hair fell to her waist in waves, a perfect contrast to her freckled, sun-kissed skin. Her blue eyes shone like the ocean, and her full, pink lips framed a sweet smile.
She missed those days when she was on top of the world. Things changed suddenly after her sixteenth birthday. Classmates began to complain about being burned whenever she was in the room. The boys called on her less and less, claiming that her lips were made of fire and her breath felt like a thousand punches. She never laid a hand on any of her classmates, but everyone that complained had looked as though they had been badly beaten. Her mother was forced to pull her out of school as the situation worsened.
Things only got worse from there. Her family was terrified of her. Being cooped up in the house had made her restless. One day, when her brother had come home from school, he began to innocently tease her—as siblings do. It had been a particularly hard day for Chanta already, as her mother relentlessly nit-picked at the chores that she had already done, forcing her to detail every last inch of the house. She felt that she had been punished for something that was beyond her control when she was forced to leave school, and her mother was only making it worse. When her brother walked in the front door and immediately began teasing her for her lack of education, it had thrown Chanta’s temper over the edge. She yelled. She gritted her teeth. She clenched her fists at her side, and her entire face turned red.
But she had never laid a hand on him.
What had happened was beyond comprehension, yet she knew that it had been exactly what she wanted. He had begun to hurt. She imagined throwing her fist into his eye, and he suddenly threw his head back and came back with a black eye. When she wanted to drag her nails down his arms in frustration, giant, red claw marks formed from his shoulders to his elbows, leaving a trail of blood behind them. And where she had imagined kicking his shin, the bone split into two, leaving him in a sobbing heap on the floor.
She had never laid a hand on him.
In fact, she never would have even dreamed of truly doing those things to him. Even if she had touched him, she would have slapped him once or twice in anger and then walked away. It would never have been so cruel, so bloody. Yet, that was precisely the type of thing that happened over and over, and precisely why she was no longer accepted into any school.
Her mother had watched how Chanta’s anger would manifest in such a way—she had even been on the receiving end of that anger. She had decided that her daughter must be possessed. She had begun to call on many priests.
No priest had ever felt threatened by her at first. However, once the exorcism began, each priest quickly failed before leaving the house as fast as he could with an apology thrown over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Larr. There’s nothing I can do for you, girl. There are far too many spirits following her.”
“My apologies to your family, Mr. Larr. If it helps, I do not think the girl is possessed. Merely, she has a strong following of spirits, perhaps jealous of the people who interact with her.”
“She’s conjured them herself, Ms. Larr. Keep her locked up.”
It went on and on, but each priest seemed to say something along the same lines—that Chanta herself was not possessed. Some of them would offer advice with their apologies, but the only advice Ms. Larr ever seemed to follow was that of the priest who had told her to lock up her daughter.
And so Chanta was shut away from the world. The room was little more than a closet, with room for a small bed and not much more. She kept her clothes in two laundry baskets, one for clean clothes and one for dirty clothes. She was rarely given new outfits and had only one pair of old sneakers to wear. That was the fault of the first priest, who insisted on burning all of her old clothes and most of her other belongings as well. Chanta had gone from having everything and everyone to being locked in a cold, lonely room in only a matter of months.
She chewed her stale bread in the dark.
That night felt different, she decided. Something inside of her felt it, too. Perhaps it was the demon that her mother believed was possessing her, perhaps it was only her own nerves. Still, she felt a rustling of energy and emotion in her core—like a scared, anxious child. It made the bread in her mouth taste worse than it was, and she wanted to throw it across the room in disgust. But she needed to occupy her hands, something to focus on instead of her anxious thoughts.
Chanta tried to look out the window while she chewed. Whatever was outside was more than likely a better distraction than what was inside. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, there wasn’t much to see from the window. There was the clear, dark night sky, and the branches of a tree just outside her room. There was not even a cloud floating by to watch, and the moon was never visible from the square window. It must have been somewhere on the other side of the house, she decided, when she caught a flash of light like the moon had reflected off of something.
At first, she thought nothing of the reflecting light. It didn’t dawn on her immediately that the flash would have come from something in her own driveway, and even after she realized that, it took her another moment to realize how very strange that was.
Something weird was happening tonight.
Chanta dropped the bread. It bounced off of her plate and to the floor, but she didn’t even notice. She rose from the bed, slowly. When she stopped chewing, she could hear the mumbled voices of women talking outside. She crossed the room and peeked out the window.
In the driveway was a long, black SUV. The windows were tinted to the point where she could not see the driver, and standing in front of the vehicle was a woman’s figure. Chanta couldn’t see her face, which was covered by a blue hood, shielding her from the cold. In front of that woman stood her mother, and the two were deep in conversation. Her mother looked distressed but relieved. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, though, their voices too muffled to hear clearly.
Chanta slowly eased the window open, just a crack, so that she could listen. She was greeted by the cold air, followed by the unpleasant conversation.
“I assure you, Ms. Larr, I have dealt with many girls in far worse condition than your daughter,” the woman said to Chanta’s mother. “I have dedicated my entire adult life to working with children like her. She will become whole again, should you leave her to me.”
The voice sounded sincere but also somewhat disinterested. Perhaps that was only because she had been doing this work for so long, but it made Chanta feel uneasy. It gave her the idea that this woman wasn’t truly going to care for her or put her interest first.
“Look, Mistress… Um…” Chanta’s mother trailed off.
“Prisanni,” she said demurely. “Headmistress Prisanni.”
“Right, Headmistress Prisanni,” her mother repeated. “You don’t understand the full extent of what you’re implying, I’m afraid. My daughter was expelled from school because of this. She’s seen several psychologists and more than her fair share of priests. Nothing has worked. She’s simply not fit for any sort of environment.”
“I’m afraid that priests and psychologists are not the answer. What your daughter needs, my school can offer. Let me help her, Ms. Larr. Let me help your family.”
&nb
sp; There were a few moments of silence as Chanta’s mother considered. The pit in the center of Chanta’s stomach grew, though, as she waited in anticipation. Finally, her mother responded.
“Very well,” she agreed. “Follow me.”
Chanta let out a defeated breath. Of course her mother would agree to it. She didn’t want to help Chanta, she was looking out for herself and her son. Chanta was in their way of happiness. She wouldn’t be given a choice.
Chanta let out a breath as she watched her mother walk the strange woman into her house. She turned away from the window and walked to her bed, defeat washing over her. The demon inside of her—or whatever it was—seemed to have a million different reactions to the news. Anxious, angry, defeated, scared—it was as if the demon couldn’t settle on one emotion.
Or, perhaps, there was more than one demon inside of her. Chanta let her mind idly ponder that thought as she sat down on her bed and awaited her fate.
She wished she could tell the demon to settle down inside of her. It wasn’t like she had a choice, or the ability to even voice her opinion on the matter. She hadn’t been given an opportunity like that for over a year. It was much less energy-consuming to just settle down and go where she was told than to try to fight it, as the demon was doing now.
Chanta sat on the bed, calmly glaring at the door as she waited.
A few minutes passed by, and she didn’t hear voices. Instead, she only heard the sound of footsteps on the wooden floor as the women neared her door.
The lock turned, and the door swung open to reveal Ms. Larr standing next to a woman that Chanta had never seen before. She was tall—probably as tall as Chanta herself, she guessed. It was hard to say, as this woman was wearing a pair of tall, silver heels. She wore a simple blue gown with silver buttons that ran down the bodice. Her hands were covered in long white gloves, emphasizing the delicate fingers beneath. Her face was breathtakingly beautiful—or, at least it could have been. Her plump dark pink lips were set in a sure frown, and her sparkling green eyes looked absolutely dull and bored. Her brows were raised high as she looked down on Chanta. Her beautiful red blonde hair was placed in a loose bun atop her head that showcased her curls.
She sized up Chanta. Without taking her eyes off the girl, she addressed her mother.
“She will be much better off with me,” she told her.
Chanta didn’t argue. She rose from the mattress and stood in front of the women.
“Gather your things, girl,” the strange woman told her. “You will need clothing, toiletries, and whatever personal effects you require.”
Without breaking eye contact, Chanta combined the clothes baskets, mixing the clean and dirty clothes, and added another basket that contained a few small items; a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bar of soap, and a hairbrush. Then she picked up the basket and stood ready in front of the women. Headmistress Prisanni watched her for a few more seconds and, deciding that Chanta was done, turned to her mother and spoke.
“Very well, then,” she said. “I will escort her to my driver, and we will be at the school by afternoon tomorrow. I must thank you for your time.”
Chanta thought it was a funny way to phrase the sentence. She must thank her mother, as if she was simply following etiquette and did not at all want to say thank you. Besides that, the “thanks” was misplaced, was it not? The headmistress was doing her mother a favor by taking her possessed daughter away. Certainly, that’s the way Ms. Larr saw it.
“Oh, please,” she told the headmistress, “the gratitude is all mine. I just want to see my daughter in a normal light again.”
Liar, Chanta thought.
She knew that her mother would never call after her, inquiring after her health or happiness. She would never ask to see her again. She would probably even move to a new city, claiming that her son was her only child. It was easier than having to tell the town what had really happened—that a stranger had come in the middle of the night and taken her away to some strange place for… For what? Treatment?
The anxious demon inside of her jumped at the thought. Chanta did, too, and her stomach sank to the bottom of the earth.
She resisted the urge to bite her nails. She would go with this woman with her head held high and let no one see the nerves she felt over the matter. No one would come to her rescue but herself now, but perhaps she could run away from this situation as soon as she was free from her mother.
She realized she wasn’t even giving this strange woman a chance. Perhaps she was taking her somewhere better. Perhaps she would like it there.
Fat chance, she told herself.
“Come along, then,” the curly-haired woman told her.
Chanta realized suddenly that she hadn’t even moved. Her nerves had stilled her sense of time. How long had passed while she was standing there, staring at nothing and pondering her own nerves? It must have been too long, she decided, as her mother and the woman were both looking down on her over their noses, suspicion coloring their eyes.
Chanta let out a sharp breath. She turned on her heels and walked through the house to the front door.
Without being told, without really looking at the car or letting herself pause to take in the situation, Chanta stomped outside and opened the backdoor to the black SUV and sat inside. The driver stepped out of the car at that moment and took the laundry basket from her lap before he closed the door. Chanta didn’t look at him, still staring straight ahead and not really looking at anything in particular.
Not even a minute passed before the headmistress was closing the passenger side door behind her and the driver was pulling away.
In her peripheral vision, Chanta could see her mother standing at the sidewalk and watching them drive off. Even though the windows were tinted enough that she knew her mother wouldn’t see her, Chanta didn’t dare turn her head to see the expression on her face.
She was afraid to see joy in those eyes.
A big, hot tear finally threatened to roll down Chanta’s cheek.
She let her eyes wander to the front seat where the mistress sat. The woman stared straight in front of her, not speaking to the driver and not speaking to Chanta, either. She wondered when she would get an explanation of where she was going.
For now, though, she didn’t mind the silence. Once the vehicle was far enough away from her neighborhood, she let herself look out the window. She watched the familiar scenery pass by. She saw the park where she had her first kiss. The memory played in her head like a home movie. She was nine, he was ten, and they had been swinging. They moved to the slide, where she slid down, and he followed close behind. It was at the bottom of that slide where he kissed her. Next, she saw her old school pass by. She had ruled that school as the popular girl at one point. She had many more kisses within those walls, sometimes between classes and sometimes at school dances—most of which she had been too young to attend without an invitation by the juniors and seniors she had kissed. She passed by her grandmother’s old house. She remembered the times when she would walk from the school to that house and bake cookies with her grandmother. They did it every Friday for years until her grandmother had to be put in a nursing home. She watched these familiar scenes pass by and knew she would never see them again.
Perhaps that was for the best, anyway. After all, those boys who had kissed her had always ended up hurt by her, and it was her fault that her grandmother had to be put in a nursing home at all. Perhaps the town would truly be better without her. She lost control over the big, fat tears in her eyes. She let them fall down her face freely, silently.
That was how the drive went. Not once did those tears stop, and not once did anyone speak to her. She wondered if they expected her to cry. She wondered if they did this quite often—steal away children in the middle of the night and drive them around until they sobbed.
She wished she had been stronger than that.
Instead, she cried until her eyes became too heavy and her head hurt too much. Eventually, she fell asleep.
When she woke, it was morning—or, perhaps a little later than morning. She wasn’t sure that the vehicle had ever stopped as they made their way to their destination. Had the driver slept at all? Had either of them eaten? Whatever the case was, she was glad she had slept through it. She wished she was asleep still, but she quickly realized why her slumber had ended. Her body was alerted somehow to the general anticipation of arriving at one’s destination. Without caring about being noticed, she looked around outside.
The SUV was pulling into an old yet elegant castle. The bricks were made of white stone, with luscious green vines of various plants crawling up the sides. Many of the vines were spotted with several different colors of flowers; there was purple, pink, yellow, and blue. The castle was built on a cliffside, and over the cliff, Chanta could see a beautiful green body of water and wondered what kind of fish might be in there. She could see the blueish-green fins of long, serpent-like creatures as they grazed the surface of the water.
The vehicle came to a stop in front of the main entryway of the castle. Two tall white pillars held a canopy that led to the door—Chanta half expected a drawbridge, but instead, there were two grand, gold-engraved doors, each twice as tall as Chanta herself. The driver came around to open the door. Chanta stepped out without even thinking, her mouth still agape in awe. She felt the need to be closer to the castle.
What is this place? she thought to herself.
Her sorrow was forgotten in that moment—even her sleepiness had dissipated. She allowed herself to be led up to the castle and through its grand doors—if only for the sake of quenching her curiosity.
As they approached, the doors swung open. Chanta gasped and glanced around for the doormen. There were none, though. She wondered how the doors opened, what sort of contraption the headmistress was using, and what sort of illusion she was trying to give. Certainly, this was not a place of magic. She assumed something more of science would have been the main force at hand in this place, should she be receiving treatments of some sort.
