After Obsession

by Jones, Carrie; Wedel, Steven E

“They must have eaten the poison and died in the walls or something,” she says. Mom agrees with her. I keep quiet, but stay close to Courtney.

  “The smell’s gone,” Aunt Lisa observes. We start closing windows.

  “Come on, Court, let’s go upstairs and close those windows.” I motion her toward the stairs. She follows meekly as I go room to room, closing windows. We do my room last. “Stay in here for a while, okay?”

  She nods and sits on the bed. I go to a stack of cardboard boxes and start rummaging through them. One of the first things I find is an old University of Oklahoma cap I’ve had for years. The crimson has faded to near pink and the white OU stitching is frayed. And it stinks of old sweat.

  “Here ya go,” I say, stepping over and dropping it onto Courtney’s head. “A little souvenir from my home state.” I go back to my boxes, but from the corner of my eyes I see her take the cap off, look it over, sniff it and wrinkle her nose, but then she puts it back on her head, pushing her hair behind her ears once the cap is in place.

  In the third box down I find my old nylon-and-leather backpack from junior high. I take it out and open the main pouch. It smells like a garden despite the fact I have everything wrapped in plastic bags. I take out a few and toss them on the bed beside Courtney.

  “Is that pot?” she asks.

  “No. I wouldn’t bring that into your house.” I look at the bag she’s studying. It holds a thick braid of dried grass looped around itself a couple of times. “It’s sweetgrass. You burn it, but don’t smoke it.”

  “An Indian thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  The scratching begins beneath us. I swear I can feel my skin rippling over my skeleton when it starts. Courtney sits up very straight, a terrified look on her face. I can’t help but feel sorry for her.

  “It’ll be okay,” I say. “Give me just a minute here.”

  In the bottom of the backpack I find Baggies of incense cones and a little brass burner. I find the bag I labeled SAGE in big black letters and put a cone in the burner, then put the burner on my dresser. There are four or five plastic lighters in a side pocket of the backpack. I take one out and light the sage cone. The smoke drifts lazily from the brass. The smell is kind of like turkey dressing and pot.

  “That smells … good,” Courtney says. She hasn’t really relaxed.

  I nod and put all the unused stuff back into the backpack, keeping the sage cones on top. “It’s sage,” I tell her. “It’s used to … to purify places.”

  The scratching gets louder, faster under the floorboards.

  “Courtney? Alan? Are you two okay?” Aunt Lisa calls from downstairs.

  “We’re fine,” I yell back. “We’re in my room.”

  “Stomp on the floor and see if those damn mice will stop.”

  I stomp a few times. The scratching does not stop.

  “I’ll have to call an exterminator,” I hear Aunt Lisa say. “That’ll take care of a lot of that overtime.”

  “Courtney,” I say, going to her and taking her by the shoulders, making her look me in the face. “Courtney, listen to me. If something is bothering you, harassing you, something evil, like a spirit, would you want it to go away?”

  The scratching gets worse, like it’s going to burst through the floorboards and come after us. Courtney trembles in my grip. Her eyes try to stray away from me, toward the floor. I shake her a little and she looks back at me, but I’m not sure she’s seeing me.

  “Do you want it to go away?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Say it,” I tell her. “Tell it to go away. Say it and mean it.”

  “G-g-go … away,” she whispers.

  “Louder!”

  “Go away!” she screams. “GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY!”

  “Keep saying it,” I tell her, hoping it’s the right thing to do. I carefully lift the brass burner off the dresser and walk around the room with it, fanning the smoke and aroma around the room.

  “Go away go away go away go away. Leave me alone,” Courtney says, and now she’s almost sobbing.

  Beneath us, the scratching stops suddenly. It’s replaced by a long, drawn-out groaning sound, like someone bending wood and holding it just before the breaking point. I can hear Mom and Aunt Lisa pounding up the stairs. They’ll be here in a second. Mom will freak out on me.

  “Onawa, help me,” I whisper. “Great Spirit, help me.”

  The groaning stops as if cut off at the head.

  “Go away go away go away …,” Courtney is still chanting.

  I get to her just as Mom and Aunt Lisa appear in the doorway. I put my hand on Courtney’s shoulder, and she stops. She looks up at me, her eyes still wide, but less scared than they were a minute ago.

  “What was that?” Aunt Lisa demands. “Was Courtney screaming?”

  “What’s that smell?” Mom asks.

  “The noise?” I ask, turning to face the women. “I don’t know. The smell is incense. I thought it’d help get rid of the other smell. Is that okay?” I ask Aunt Lisa. Her face is all scrunched up with worry.

  “It wasn’t you?” She looks at the little brass pot smoking in my hand. “That’s just incense?”

  “Yeah. Sage,” I say.

  “Just be careful with the matches.” Her voice is distant, troubled. She doesn’t believe that I don’t know what was making the noise. Would she believe me if I tried to explain it? I don’t know, but I’m not ready to tell everything and have it rejected yet.

  “We’re okay,” I say. “If you two have to work late, maybe you should go on to bed. I’ll keep Court up until midnight. That’s when she can go to sleep, right?”

  Aunt Lisa nods, then says, “Yes. Midnight. You sure?”

  “Yeah. Go on. Whatever the noise was has stopped. No more mice, either.”

  “You’re a good boy, Alan,” Aunt Lisa says, and now her voice is a little more relaxed. “Your mama raised you right.”

  “I guess,” I say, and offer a weak grin. “I think me and Court are going to hang out in here for a while. Maybe unpack some of my stuff.”

  Mom says, “Don’t stay up past midnight. You both have school tomorrow.”

  “We won’t,” I say. They leave, and I turn back to Courtney. “You okay?”

  “No.”

  “You will be.”

  She shudders. “I don’t think so. He’ll come back.”

  Courtney makes me start another incense cone before she falls asleep. When she does, she’s sitting propped up against the headboard of my bed, my stained and stinky University of Oklahoma cap still on her head. She looks more peaceful than I’ve seen her since we arrived in Maine.

  “What have you done, cousin?” I whisper as I pull her into a more reclined position and put a blanket over her. “Did you invite this thing?” I look at the sudden acne on her face. Thanks to the magical informational powers of Google and Wikipedia, I now know that there are four stages to possession. The first is invitation. Obviously, something has been invited. At least, it’s obvious to everyone who isn’t over thirty and working in a paper mill.

  The second stage is infestation and usually involves poltergeist activity. I glance at my dresser, where the broken picture frame lies. Third is obsession, and there’s usually some kind of bodily change at that stage. Like sores. The last stage … full possession.

  That’s the Christian version. The Navajo call the whole thing Ghost Sickness.

  Call it whatever you want, I think Courtney has it.

  • 11 •

  AIMEE

  I push away from my dad, cross to the stove in two strides, and grab the knife by the handle. Storming to the dishwasher, I shove the knife into the utensil rack, then slam the door shut.

  We don’t speak. Dad motions for me to sit down, but I don’t because I’m way too freaked out. His face looks horrified. “Aimee!”

  For a second I can’t breathe. I’m too shocked. “What?”

  “How did you do that?”

  “You thi
nk I made the knife twirl?” The dishwasher stays shut. I check; even in my anger, I check.

  His face blanks out. “That’s the only logical explanation.”

  “Dad!” Every inch of my skin hardens up with hurt. He thinks I did that? He thinks I’m so crazy, such a liar, that I’d make a knife spin? I somehow manage not to swear at him, not to give him the finger, and instead stomp upstairs to my room.

  “Honey, I’m sorry, but if it wasn’t you—it—it—I can’t—” He’s calling after me, but I don’t go back. I can only be the peacemaker so much, you know?

  Later, I get a text on my phone. It’s from Blake: I AM SO SORRY. PLEASE DON’T THROW US AWAY.

  I don’t know how to respond to that, so I spend most of the night painting. I know this isn’t normal. Paint thinner wafts through the entire house with its clean, sharp smell, but nobody wakes up. Nobody comes to my room to see if I’m okay. I would like to pretend this doesn’t bother me, but it does. I would look out the window at the river, but I’m afraid of what I might see. That’s why I don’t sleep. I’m afraid of what I’ll dream. But at 3:10, I give in. I close my eyes and lean back against my bed, sitting up, like that will keep the dreams away.

  It doesn’t.

  I am below water. There’s a canoe on the surface, and someone swimming. The water freezes against my skin. A seal floats by, sad eyes warning me, as I try to break toward the surface, and then … hands clutch my legs, pulling me down, down. My lungs are about to burst. My limbs are slow moving, stretching, twisting. Then I see who it is holding me: a man with eyes of water and a mouth that smiles, smiles, smiles …

  You are mine …

  I must be so wiped out from the nightmare that I actually sleep like I’m dead the rest of the night. No dreams. No fears. In the morning I go down to breakfast. I do not go kayaking. I can’t trust the river, not today.

  We all sit at the table, all four of us. If we put a dress on Gramps we’d almost look like a perfect family. We’ve all got cereal and orange juice. It’s strange.

  “Dad doesn’t think the house is haunted,” Benji announces.

  We all look at him. We all look at Gramps, whose spoon dangles from his fingers. “Your father doesn’t believe in ghosts.” He ducks the spoon into the milk.

  Benji leans up in his seat, arching forward, eyebrows down and ready for a fight. “How can he not believe it? There were footsteps upstairs and nobody was there!”

  “I didn’t witness it,” Dad says with his mouth full. He never talks with his mouth full.

  Nobody says anything. Last night he said he can’t believe in these things. I think it would hurt him too much, make him feel like he couldn’t protect us like he couldn’t protect Mom, and that makes me hurt for him so I try to break the silence. “Well, how’s the Cheeto auction going?”

  “We’re at $850,” Gramps announces. His eyes are proud. Benji whoops and Dad chokes on his orange juice.

  “You’re kidding,” I say. “$850?”

  Gramps raises his right hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  “When were you going to tell me?” Benji demands. He pours extra sugar on his cereal. Dad reaches out and takes the sugar away.

  “When you stopped being so cranky,” Gramps says. He slurps more cereal, his eyes twinkling. He loves the running I’m-cranky-no-you’re-cranky joke he and Benji have going.

  Benji’s mouth drops open and he points at his chest. “Me? I’m not the cranky one!”

  “You two and your crankies,” Dad says, and somehow the way he says it makes the conversation stop.

  I try to think of something to say. I can’t. I glance at my dad and wonder if he’s thinking about the spinning knife, too.

  “No river today, Aimee?” Gramps asks. “Kayaking’s good for you. Good exercise, calms the mind.”

  “Nah.” I shudder. “Not today.”

  “You need to sleep better. You’re going to wear yourself out,” he announces. “I found her wandering around last night. Had to tuck her into bed.”

  Dad’s hand leaves his juice glass and clutches his coffee mug instead. “Really?”

  My head feels like it’s twisting around. “I don’t remember that.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Gramps says into the awkwardness. “You were asleep.”

  Great. More ammunition for my father’s “Aimee is crazy” theory. Dad changes the topic again. “The ER has been incredibly busy lately. The number of assaults is way up …”

  I stop paying attention when he starts talking about the capital campaign for a new emergency room. Benji mouths, “Blah, blah, blah …,” which makes me giggle.

  Dad’s still there when Alan’s truck pulls in.

  “That him? Courtney’s cousin?” he asks, shrugging on his suit coat and staring out the window.

  “Yeah.” I tug at his elbow. “Come away from the window, Dad.”

  “That’s not much of a truck,” he complains.

  “It’s fine.”

  “He’s getting out. Blake never gets out.”

  “He’s getting out?” I run to the window and look. He is. He’s actually getting out of the truck and striding toward the door. Oh, wow—he’s so tall and he’s almost smiling. My heart does some weird fluttery thing but I do not become completely ridiculous and put my hand over it or anything. “Guys don’t get out of the car when they pick you up for school.”

  “They do if they want to get all kissy-faced,” Benji pipes up. He’s peeking out the window, too. “Man, he’s huge. You’d have to stand on a chair to make out with him.”

  “Benji!”

  “She’s turning red,” Benji gloats. “Girls only turn red when they like a boy, right? It’s like all the hotness goes right to their cheeks. Gramps told me that.”

  My dad turns and looks at me. His eyes widen. “He’s got a lot of hair there.”

  “It’s nice.”

  “He’ll never get a job with hair like that.”

  “Dad, shut up. Stop being such a suit.” I grab my bag and rush to the door. I yank it open before Alan can ring the bell. His arm’s upraised and his finger is ready to push. Everything inside of me sort of sighs out just seeing him. I touch the bulge the medicine bag makes on his chest. I can’t help myself.

  “Hi,” I manage, blushing harder. I can’t believe I just touched him like that.

  He smiles. “Hi.”

  Benji materializes behind me. “Dad. They’ve said ‘hi.’ They’ve taken the first step, but like most teenagers, they’re failing to make any other words. They are dumbstruck by love. Dumbstruck! Dumbstruck!”

  I whirl around and my backpack slams into the door frame. “Benji! Stop! You sound like Gramps!”

  He grins devilishly.

  I turn back to Alan, trying to apologize. “That’s my little brother.”

  “I figured that by the whole height thing and the teasing and the fact that you’re both in the same house in the morning. It was either that or you just rent kids to seem more wholesome. I go for wholesome.”

  “Funny. BYE!” I yell and shut the door behind me. We walk down the porch together. My hip bumps into his leg.

  He opens the door of the truck for me.

  “How’s Courtney?” I ask before he closes the door.

  “Better …” He looks back at my house. “She’s better right now, at least. I think. Her mom is taking her to school. She insisted.” We get in the truck. It already smells like him, deodorant and earth and good. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “You thought I wasn’t okay?”

  “I worried about you all night,” he admits, and puts the truck in reverse so he can get us out of the driveway. The truck kind of moans. “I couldn’t get you on your cell.”

  “I forgot to charge it. Sorry.”

  For a second neither of us says anything. I try to ignore the heebie-jeebie feeling creeping up on me. On the ride in he tells me what he’s learned from looking up possession last night. I tell him about my knife experience and how my dad
thinks I’m somehow behind all the stuff that’s happening in our house.

  “But you think it’s your mother?” he asks as he parks the truck.

  We sit there for a moment. I must look scared or like I need comfort or something because he grabs my hand and says, “It’s okay, Red.”

  Swallowing hard, I nod. “I don’t want to be crazy.”

  “You aren’t.” He smiles, and I look away from his mouth to where our fingers touch as he says, “If you are, then so am I.”

  “That’s not very convincing,” I try to tease.

  He laughs and says, “We should get going.”

  Just like that he lets go of my hand and we hop out of the truck. He doesn’t lock his truck like Blake always locks his car. Not that I’m comparing them. Oh my gosh, we held hands. It was only for a second. Maybe Oklahoma people always hold hands. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything. Blake would kill him if it meant anything.

  During my free period I head to the library instead of the art room. I flip open my laptop and connect. The sweet librarian lady, Mrs. Hessler, smiles at me. She leans over the table, but she’s careful not to look at my screen. She tries so hard to give us privacy.

  “Let me know if you need any help, Aimee,” she says. Her frog earrings dangle and sway against the bottom curls of her dark brown cropped haircut.

  “Thanks,” I say, and smile.

  “You have such a beautiful smile.” She straightens up. “Just like your mom.”

  She nods as if satisfied with her statement and turns away. I google “hex counter” and get all this crap about decimal counters.

  “Great,” I mutter. Meanwhile, I check out the Cheeto bids on eBay. The picture Gramps took makes it really look like Marilyn Monroe. It’s kind of freaky. I click back to the search engine and type: “protect from evil.”

  Bingo. The first site is some sort of healing medieval chapel based in the United Kingdom. It says that people vulnerable to psychic attacks are already nasty and already busy manipulating other people. But it also says there’s a whole other category of people who are vulnerable, and those are people who have healer personalities. They are the kind of people who are ultra caring and compassionate and kind of absorb all the emotions of the people around them.