The Possession

by Michael Rutger

  “Maybe. I guess it’s probably…what?”

  Ken was looking over my shoulder. “Hell’s that?”

  At first I couldn’t see anything except a cold, wet street. Streetlights weakly illuminated patches, but by eighty yards into the mist it was nearly impenetrable.

  Within that was a dark shape. “I have no…”

  The shape resolved into a person. Some unconscious part of my brain got this several seconds before my mind and had my feet in motion down the street toward it.

  At first the figure didn’t seem to register my approach. Then he or she started wandering off to the side as if to elude me. I changed angle to cut them off, and they started back the way they’d come.

  “Nolan,” Ken said. “Fuck are you doing?”

  I could see now that it was a woman with long wet hair, wearing a long coat. I pointed Ken to head to the left, cutting her off. She started turning slowly on the spot, as if trying to see a way out between us.

  “What the hell’s up with her?”

  “Must be drugs,” I said. There are a lot of meth labs hidden in the California mountains. I grabbed her shoulders, gently, not wanting to scare her, trying to hold her still. Her hair was soaked and clinging to her face.

  But finally I got a glimpse. “Holy crap. Go get Kristy.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, Ken. Be fast.”

  He hurried up the street back toward the bar.

  The woman suddenly wrenching her torso from side to side, nearly slipping out of my grasp. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold her securely from where I was, and so slipped behind her instead, clamping my arms around her stomach and chest.

  The door to the bar slammed open and Kristy came running. Ken followed, but Kristy runs fast. She slowed as she got closer, mouth dropping open.

  “Is it?” I said.

  Kristy crossed the final yards, hands held out in a reassuring way. “It’s okay,” Kristy said. “It’s okay.”

  She reached up and moved the hair from the side of the woman’s face, though by now I suspected it wasn’t a woman. I could tell by Kristy’s reaction that I was right.

  It was a girl. “Alaina?” Kristy said.

  Behind Kristy, Ken stood looking confused, one hand out to the side to keep Molly and Pierre back. Pierre came forward anyway, taking off his jacket.

  I let go of the girl, hung the jacket over her shoulders and moved around so I could finally see her face.

  “It’s her,” I said.

  The girl’s eyes swiveled to look at me. Her face was pale, tinged almost blue. “I don’t remember you.”

  “You don’t know me. But you know who you are, right?”

  “I’m Alaina.”

  Kristy was grinning. “That’s right,” she said. “You’re Alaina Hixon. Where…where have you been?”

  “In the woods. All by myself.”

  “Well, you’re home now. And you’re okay.”

  “I’m not okay.”

  “You are,” Kristy said. “Whoever took you, whatever happened…it’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. There will be people you can talk to, who’ll help you understand that. It’s going to be fine. You’re okay.”

  “I’m not okay,” the girl said. “I’m different now.”

  Kristy looked wary. “What do you mean?”

  An expression spread across the girl’s face. Slowly, and lopsidedly, as if she was having to remember how it went. It took me a moment to realize it was a smile.

  “I died,” Alaina said. “But now I’m back.”

  Part Two

  Sickness begins here. I am a dartboard for witches.

  —Sylvia Plath

  Chapter

  15

  Alaina started to wander away from us, as though she’d lost all interest and remembered she had to be somewhere else. Her movements were faltering, however, and by the fourth step she was staggering. Pierre moved fast and caught her.

  “Hey,” she said, voice slurred. “You’re cute.”

  “She’s really cold,” Pierre said, struggling to keep her upright.

  “Bring her to my car,” Kristy said. She started across the street. I followed. “Are you taking her home?”

  “No, ER. She’s sick, Nolan.” She pulled out her phone. “I’ll text you her address. Can you call her dad? Explain what’s happened. I’ll take Alaina to the nearest hospital.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Probably Chico. I’ll let you know.”

  “What about the police?”

  “Also Chico. I’ll call them from the hospital.”

  “You don’t thin—”

  “No, Nolan, I don’t. Who knows how long it would take them to get here on a Friday night.”

  Meanwhile Pierre and Ken had half-carried the girl to Kristy’s rental and were sliding her into the back seat. “I’ll ride along,” Molly said, running around the other side. “Find out where the hospital is while you drive.”

  And that was the end of the discussion. Two minutes later Kristy’s car was speeding away down the street. “She does take charge, doesn’t she,” Ken said.

  “What’s that expression about pots, kettles, and blackness?”

  “No idea. It sounds stupid. But for once in your life you were right. We should be staying here with that girl and waiting for the sheriff to arrive.”

  “She’ll be closer to the cops at the hospital.”

  A woman was standing nearby, anxiously waiting to talk to us. “Was that her? Was that Alaina?”

  It was the woman Kristy pointed out to me in the bar earlier, the one tolerating a talkative husband. “Yes.”

  She stared at me, blinking. “You’re sure?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Oh, thank God.” She ran back toward the bar, already on the phone. I got out my own and called the number on the contact info Kristy had texted me, reflecting that it’s seldom you get to give a stranger such good news.

  There was no answer. I tried again. Still nothing. Looked at Ken. “So now what?”

  “Call the police,” Ken said.

  “Ken—”

  “Seriously, Nolan. We call the cops and go back in the bar, where you have a sizable tab that needs paying, and there is more vodka that needs drinking. Kristy has made this her business, and good for her. But it’s not ours.”

  I knew he was right. But also that Kristy had tasked me with informing Alaina’s father, and she’d likely trust me to accomplish this, and so wouldn’t do it herself. “Ken, I’m not going to sit and drink while some father doesn’t know that his daughter has reappeared.”

  “Nolan…”

  “He’s right, Ken,” Pierre said. “That’s not okay.”

  I started walking quickly back toward the motel. After a moment, Ken swore, and they followed.

  All I knew was the Hixons lived up a road off the highway a mile out of town. The address Kristy had given me wasn’t much help in the dark but after a few minutes I spotted something I recalled her mentioning—three oil drums blocking a drive. Ken parked, and I tried calling Hixon’s number again. Still no response.

  “I’m just going to put this out there,” Pierre said, as we stood looking past the drums. It was very quiet and extremely dark. “Isn’t it weird, if your kid’s missing, to not pick up the phone if it rings in the night?”

  “That would certainly be my take,” Ken said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I suspect in the first days you’ll have your phone glued to your hand. But by now? You’ll have gotten past expecting good news and are so exhausted that you turn off the ringer in hope of a few hours’ sleep.”

  “Could be,” Pierre said, dubiously. “It’s only nine thirty, though.”

  “So hopefully he’s still awake.”

  I held my phone up. Light from the screen showed glints of leaves, gnarled tree trunks, a drive that curved to the right. You know how woods feel at night, even near dwellings, and these were no exception. I remembere
d the last time I’d used my phone like this, however—trapped deep in a cavern in the Grand Canyon—and knew there was nothing to be scared of. At least, nothing in that league.

  We followed the drive around a stand of trees, past a rusting old truck. After a further thirty yards it widened into an open spot in front of a house that loomed as a darker shape in the darkness. No lights were on. The house looked dead, like it had been left alone there a hundred years ago, as if it lived by itself in the woods.

  I went to the bottom of the steps leading up to a porch. Turned off my phone in case this made it easier to see a glow within any of the windows. There wasn’t one.

  A sudden snapping sound. We turned to look. Couldn’t see anything. A moment later it came again. “Hell is that?”

  “Do they have bears here?” Ken said, his voice low.

  “I don’t think so,” Pierre whispered.

  “Actually, maybe,” I said.

  “Fuck’s sake. Grizzlies?”

  “No. There’s only black bears in California now.”

  “And how dangerous are black bears?”

  “I’ve never looked into it. But I’d suggest we err on the side of caution.”

  “Which involves what?”

  “Staying still, and being very quiet. Unless it attacks, in which case we stay still but be very loud. I think.”

  “Oh, I’ll be loud,” Ken muttered. “They’ll be able to hear me shouting ‘I hate you Nolan’ in Canada.”

  A moment later I heard the cracking noise again. I thought it was farther away, though in the woods in the dark it was hard to be confident. And when it came to bears, I wanted to be confident before choosing my next move.

  “Go up on the porch,” Ken suggested. “It might be less likely to attack up there.”

  “Okay.”

  I put my foot on the lowest stair. It creaked, loudly. It seemed certain the others would, too, so I went up the rest in one big step. Ken and Pierre followed quickly.

  We stood together on the porch looking out into the murky darkness. After a full minute with no further cracking sounds, I lifted my phone and triggered the screen again, reasoning light might scare any animal away. A broken tricycle lay on its side in the bushes.

  Then something came running straight past the house.

  All three of us yelped like girls. I’m not being sexist—I mean the pitch was much higher than I would have believed any of us capable of. Especially Ken. Whatever it was, it moved fast. There was a rush of air, the sound of leaves shoved aside as it exited the clearing. Then it was gone.

  “What the hell was that?” Pierre whispered.

  “Coyote?”

  “It was a lot bigger than a coyote.”

  “Fuck this,” Ken said. “Anybody in that house has to be awake by now. Just knock on the bloody door, Nolan.”

  The top half of the door was constructed of smeared glass panes, one of them cracked. I put my head up close. No sound from inside. I knocked.

  We waited a minute, then I knocked again, harder. No movement inside. No sound from upstairs. “Okay,” Ken said. “Nobody’s home. We’re done.”

  On impulse, I put my hand on the doorknob and turned it. It wasn’t locked. The door opened silently.

  “Uh, Nolan,” Pierre said. “You shouldn’t—”

  “I know.” I pulled it shut again. “But isn’t that a little weird?”

  “This is the arse-end of nowhere,” Ken said. “They cleave to the old ways. Which probably includes keeping a loaded shotgun by the bed. Seriously, I’m done, Nolan.”

  I took a step back, wondering whether to try one more time. But it seemed either the house was empty or the occupant didn’t want to talk to strangers in the night. Ken was right about guns, too. The parts of California that don’t live on avocado toast and soy lattes have plenty of weapons at their disposal. “Okay, yes—let’s bail.”

  “Nolan,” Pierre said. “Check this out.”

  He was standing near an armchair a few yards along the porch. A similarly distressed side table was alongside. An ashtray overflowing with butts. A coffee mug.

  “What?”

  He indicated for me to come closer, and pointed. I leaned over, saw the mug was half full. Put the back of my fingers against the side. It was warm. Not was-hot-once, but still hot enough to drink.

  “We should leave,” I said.

  When we got back to the car we stopped.

  “So what do you—” Pierre said.

  “No idea,” I said. “But we’re going with Plan Ken now. We came, we tried, we failed. The cops can let Alaina’s dad know she’s back.”

  “Nolan,” Ken said. His voice sounded odd.

  “What?”

  He nodded toward the car. In the moisture on the windshield, someone had scrawled two words.

  GO NOW

  Chapter

  16

  At midnight the three of us were sitting in chairs on the walkway outside my room when a car pulled into the lot.

  Ken dropped his cigarette to the ground. “You going to mention the message on the windshield?”

  Kristy parked near the office and got out. I’ve known Kristy long enough to be able to tell merely from the way she opens a car door that she’s good and pissed.

  “Not right away,” I said.

  Kristy came storming over, Molly following more slowly. I caught Moll’s eye and could see her stuck between trying to nonverbally communicate to me, as she normally might, then realizing this was my ex-wife, and so it might not be appropriate. Her face settled into an expressionless halfway house.

  I stood. “Is Alaina okay?”

  “I have no idea,” Kristy said, tersely. “Molly called the cops while we were on the way. They got to the hospital ten minutes after us. At which point it was immediately ‘Great, girls, thanks so much, run along now.’”

  “Well, I guess you’re not a relative,” I said.

  “I know that, Nolan. But I am the person who delivered a missing teenage girl to them.”

  “Did they manage to contact the father?” I’d texted Kristy to let her know we’d failed. I’d left it at that, without further detail about our trip to the Hixon house.

  “Not by the time we left, I don’t think. But they weren’t sharing their every move. They took a statement and then did everything but shove us out the door.”

  “Getting their ducks in a row,” Ken said.

  Kristy turned bad-temperedly to him. “What?”

  “Girl goes missing. Twelve days later, she returns. On foot. Which suggests she’s been in the area the whole time.”

  “In which case,” I added, “people may be drawn to ask how the hell the cops didn’t find her before. Did they not look in the right places? Didn’t they ask the right people the right questions? Did they screw up? Is this the kind of thing the newspaper or CNN or everyone on Twitter should hear about? Can we get #TheCopsFuckedUpAgain to trend?”

  “The police will want to get a picture of their liability,” Ken said, “before Alaina starts telling her story to anybody. Especially if they’re not family.”

  “And most of all if they’re an actual investigative journalist,” I concluded. “Don’t you think?”

  Kristy visibly calmed. “One of the annoying things about you two is your occasional tendency to make sense.”

  “Infuriating, isn’t it,” Ken said. “It’s our secret weapon.”

  “Did the doctors say what they thought could be wrong with her,” Pierre asked, “before you had to go?”

  “No,” Molly said. “The ER nurse said she’d never seen anything like it.”

  “Alaina even told the doctor he was wasting his time,” Kristy said. “On account of the fact she was deceased. She was quite calm and reasonable about it.”

  “I did find a couple of possible explanations on the web when we got back,” I said. “Cotard’s delusion is one. A rare condition where people think they’re dead. Sometimes even that their internal organs are putrefied, or m
issing.”

  Kristy didn’t say anything. “Well,” Molly said, into the silence. “That does seem kinda right. What causes it?”

  “Could be a particularly nihilistic form of depression. The French physician it’s named after characterized it as ‘la délire des négations,’ —a psychosis of personal negation. A couple of the better-known cases seem to be related to head trauma, though, so lesions of the parietal lobe might be implicated.”

  “Alaina had no sign of head injury,” Kristy said. “And nobody has mentioned her being depressed.”

  “Good. And basically nobody knows for sure. It’s not a recent fad, either, like identifying as being dead. Cotard’s case was in 1880, but the first known description is from 1788. Chances are it happened before, too.”

  “It’s not Cotard’s,” Kristy said.

  “Well, option two is confabulation. Basically a memory error when someone’s trying to paper over the gaps of something they can’t process or can’t remember. Something won’t fit, so they create a fake memory that feels absolutely real.”

  “It’s not that, either.”

  “I see. And you’re sure of this because…?”

  “Being with her in the car, and in the hospital, before they made us leave. It’s not a delusion.”

  “Uh, yes it is. She’s not dead. Ergo, it’s a delusion.”

  “No, it’s a diversion,” Kristy said. “I don’t think she really believes she’s dead. Or that she was dead.”

  “So…why’s she saying it?”

  “To cover up for someone.”

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense, Kris. And who? Didn’t she specifically say she’d been out there alone?”

  “Yes,” Molly said. “I asked her again in the car, and she said the same thing.”

  “Exactly,” Kristy said. “Which is my point. Why would a girl disappear in the forest? How would she stay hidden from search parties? Why would she remain out there for twelve days? Someone drugged her, and she’s confused, blanked the experience—or is trying to bury it in real time. She’s trying to avoid facing what was done to her, or she’s covering for someone. And I want to know who that is.”