felt . . . normal. The air wasn’t charged with malevolence, not cold, not sharp. There was no telltale sense of dizziness, no room pitching back and forth like the deck of a ship. No popping in her ears as the air condensed around her. At the Fergusons’, at Mrs. Long’s, Bridget had felt like someone was watching her, not from behind, but from everywhere at once, as if the house itself had grown a million pairs of eyes. Now here she was in the creepiest place on earth, surrounded literally by a million pairs of eyes, and what did she feel?
Nothing.
“Are you sure there’s something here?” she asked, peeling off her bomber jacket. Far from being cold, the shop was pleasantly warm.
“Yes,” Monsignor said patiently.
Bridget ran her fingers across the wall of the shop. No voices, no grunts, no howls, no screams. “I just don’t hear anything.”
Monsignor removed his stole from Father Santos’s bag. “Rule Number Four.”
“Do not let your guard down,” Bridget said diligently.
“Precisely.” Monsignor kissed the embroidered cross before draping the purple stole over his neck. “Watch.” He took his crucifix out of the bag and placed it on the counter.
The mood changed in an instant. Pressure built in Bridget’s ears. She tensed her jaw, and her ears popped. The new energy continued to build, centered on the cross. The atmosphere turned bad, foul, and Bridget caught a whiff of that familiar tangy metallic scent.
Out of the corner of her eye, Bridget saw a doll’s head spin.
“Dammit,” she said under her breath.
“Focus.”
Another movement from her left sent her heart racing. This time she thought she saw a whole shelf of dolls tilt their heads toward her. They were staring at her now, a wall of dead glass eyes. She was pretty sure they hadn’t been a second ago.
“Did you see that?” she whispered.
“See what?” Father Santos asked. Seriously, did he need glasses?
“Do not engage,” Monsignor said calmly, invoking Rule Number Three.
Don’t engage the creepy dolls possessed by Satan who are now all staring at you. Just pretend they aren’t there.
Bridget closed her eyes. Please don’t let a Chucky doll lunge at me with a freaking butcher’s knife. Please, please, please.
What happened next was almost worse.
“We have heard about you,” squeaked a chorus of high-pitched voices.
Bridget’s eyes flew open, and her heart leaped to her throat. Every doll in the shop was staring right at her.
“We know who you are. We know who you are. We know who you are,” the dolls sang. Like, all of them. Like, the entire freaking shop full of dolls in singsong unison.
“Christ on a cross.” Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
“Bridget?” Father Santos sounded worried. “What is it?”
“You don’t hear that?” she asked. So not good.
“What?” Monsignor asked. “What do you hear, Bridget?”
“A Watcher is here. What fun! What fun!”
A Watcher? Where had she heard that before?
“We defeated you. We defeated you,” the dolls taunted. “The Master is strong.”
Bridget spun around. The whole shop was alive, hundreds of dolls jittering and squirming behind their glass cases. She was so terrified, her brain was starting to shut down. She had to force herself to concentrate on what the dolls were saying. “Defeated me before?”
A childlike giggling rippled through the room. “Defeated the Watchers.” The dolls laughed. “Defeated the traitors.”
“Traitors?” Bridget asked. “What traitors?”
Monsignor’s voice sounded small. “Bridget, are you all right? What is happening?”
“What are they saying?” Father Santos added.
The giggling crescendoed, then abruptly cut off. “TRAITOR! TRAITOR! TRAITOR!” the dolls shrieked from the silence. “ONE OF US! ONE OF US! YOU ARE ONE OF US!”
Bridget clamped her hands over her ears. One of them? How could she be one of them, something evil and twisted, something that wasn’t even a part of her world? “I’m not! I’m not one of you.”
“LIAR! LIAR! THE TRAITOR LIES!”
Bridget felt like she was drowning under the voices. They swelled in volume 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 dol
ls 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 voice calling her name. Her full name, just like her mom did when Bridget was in a metric ton of trouble.
“Bridget Yueling Liu.”
Bridget spun around and found herself facing the display case of historic dolls. Her stomach sank as she watched the Little House on the Prairie doll—the one that had winked at her—stand up and place its wooden hands against the glass.
“Bridget Yueling Liu,” the doll repeated.
“How did you know my name?”
The doll inclined its head. “He told me.”
“Who? Your master?”
The doll shuddered but didn’t answer.
“Okay.” Not the talkative type, this one. “Not your master?”
“I have a message,” the doll said.
It was the first time Bridget had heard a demon refer to itself in the singular. This entity felt different from the rest, kind of like the last demon who inhabited Mrs. Long—the one who had given her a cryptic warning. This demon had a distinct voice and personality, separate from the collective.
“Who are you?” she asked. “What is your name?”
Again, the doll was silent. Not that it mattered. The name was already forming in Bridget’s mind.
“Penemuel,” Bridget said hesitantly.
The doll didn’t even pause. “I have a message for Bridget Yueling Liu.”
“Fine. What is it?”
“The messenger was sent. His warning was not delivered. You must find the messenger.”
That was a new one. “Messenger?”
“You must find the messenger.”
“I don’t understand.”
With a shrill cry, the doll thrust its wooden arm into the case, cracking the glass door. “YOU MUST FIND THE MESSENGER!”
All right, all right. Don’t argue with the possessed doll, Bridge. She fought back her confusion and her fear and tried to concentrate on what Penemuel was saying. “Okay, find the messenger. How?”
The voice turned rigid and struggled to get the next word out. “Me-yer. Un-der. Un-der. Me-yer.”
Bridget froze. Milton Undermeyer.
The man who had killed her father.
“Un-der. Me-yer.”
“Who told you this?” she asked, panic welling up. “Who sent you?”
“Bridget Yueling Liu. He calls you Pumpkin Bunny. He says you will know.”
“No!” she screamed. Impossible. How could her dad be sending messages through a demon? That would mean . . . She felt sick to her stomach. That would mean he was where they were. That would mean he was in Hell. No, no, no! She refused to believe it.
The chanting in the shop rose to a fever pitch as the dolls continued to launch themselves against their cases. From around the room, Bridget heard the smashing of glass and a series of bloodcurdling screams as, one by one, the dolls hurled themselves at Bridget and the priests.
Bridget shielded her face with her arm as a Madame Alexander princess and two American Girls went flying past her head. “How did you know that? Who told you?”
“Pothered tints strut.”
“Spins truth tottered.”
“Thunder totters spit.”
“Find the messenger.” With a fierce jab, Penemuel sent its tiny arm through the display case, lodging it in the splintered glass.
“Potent dither trusts.”
“Where is my father?” Bridget screamed.
Penemuel lifted its head to Heaven. “My penance is done.”
Bridget slapped her hands to the glass case against the wooden nub of Penemuel’s hand. “Tell me where he is!”
“I am released!”
The doll lifted up off its shelf, shuddered once as Mrs. Long had done, then crumpled, lifeless.
“Bridget, what is going on? What are you doing?” Monsignor’s voice swirled through the chaos of the shop where piles of broken, mangled dolls lay twitching on the floor. “You need to finish the banishment.”
Bridget didn’t care, not about the demons or Monsignor or the carnage that was Ms. Laveau’s creepy little store. She only cared about what Penemuel had told her. A message from her dad to find Milton Undermeyer. She felt like she’d been kicked in the gut with her own steel-toed boots.
“Bridget!” She could barely hear Monsignor. The clamor had escalated, and the roar of voices encircled the room like a tornado. She needed to focus. Vade retro satana.
“I banish you,” she said halfheartedly.
The demons screeched in pain as the familiar tingle raced up Bridget’s arms and legs, strengthening her voice.
“I banish you from these dolls, from this shop, from this world.”
“No! No! Have mercy, little girl. Mercy!”
“Get out,” she repeated. The energy intensified in her stomach and her voice was a frightening roar. “Get out!”
“The Emim will release us. You will feel our wrath. You cannot keep us out forever!”
Bridget held her hands in front of her. They were hot, searing, the warmth shooting up through her wrists and arms. “Maybe.” She laughed drily. “But I can try.”
She felt the weight of them as she threw her hands forward, concentrating on the demons themselves. “Vade retro satana! I banish you.”
There was a final shriek, then Bridget watched with satisfaction as a hundred dolls collapsed into silence.
Fifteen
“SO ARE YOU GOING TO tell me what’s going on or am I going to have to start making stuff up?”
Bridget froze midbite into her grilled cheese sandwich and slowly looked across the table at Hector. His diet snack bar and celery sticks lay untouched on top of his lunch bag. His arms were folded across his chest, and his left eyebrow kinked at a sharp angle. Uh-oh. Hector meant business.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really?”
Flail. Peter must have spilled about her “official parish business” after school yesterday. How was she going to explain it?
“You were going to tell me when that you asked hunky Matt Quinn to the Winter Formal?”
Bridget’s whole body relaxed. Oh, that. “It just sort of—”
“Look, if we’re going to be friends, you have to text me epic life events like this immediately. Like, within twenty seconds of the occurrence immediately. Get it? I have a reputation to maintain, and how would it look if I’m getting my information from—” He dropped his voice. “Peter?”
Bridget winced. “You heard it from Peter?”
“Heard it?” Hector snorted. “More like I got dragged into the insanity. He’s really freaking out.”
“Yeah.” Bridget remembered the wild look in Peter’s eyes when he confronted her in the hallway, the angry line of his jaw when he challenged Matt in the parking lot. “I know.”
“He cornered me in English this morning. Kept asking if I knew anything about it, rambling on and on about how you lied to him. Du
de, seriously scary.”
“Yeah,” Bridget repeated, sinking her head into her hands. “I know.”
“I mean, not that I blame you. I’d ask Mr. Sexy Eyes Baseball Player to the dance myself if I thought I had a chance. But did you have to go and do it after you turned Peter down . . .
what was it, three times?”
Bridget groaned. “Five.”
“Five? Daaaaaaamn.”
Bridget snapped her head up. “Okay, but what was I supposed to do? Go with Peter? And besides, it’s not like I asked Matt to go with me.”
Hector pursed his lips. “Really? Then how did it happen?”
“Um . . .” Why was everyone so intent on knowing how Matt ended up as her date to the Winter Formal? It just happened, people. Get over it.
Hector’s eyes flicked off Bridget’s face to something behind her. He pulled his hand to his mouth. “Peter,” he said through a fake cough, a second before Peter Kim dropped his lunch tray down next to Bridget.
“Hey, Peter,” she said, trying to sound casual. Pretty much anything out of his mouth at this point was going to be a disaster. She held her breath and waited for the worst.
“Hector,” Peter said through clenched teeth.
“Uh . . .” Hector’s eyes darted from Peter to Bridget, then back. “Hey, man.”
Peter slowly unwrapped his spork-napkin packet. “How did you do on the algebra test today?”
Oh, so that was it? Peter was going to ignore her? Bridget’s shoulders relaxed. Finally something was going her way for a freaking change.
“Okay, I guess,” Hector said.
Peter stabbed at his fruit compote. “Good.”
Silence descended upon their corner of the table. Bridget amused herself by switching between Hector’s uncomfortable fidgeting and Peter’s metered eating as he slowly lifted bits of his lunch into his mouth, chewed five times, and swallowed. He was like a robot, not even registering whether he was ingesting a piece of bean-and-cheese burrito or a wilted lettuce leaf. Peter just continued to lift the spork from plate to mouth while his eyes remained fixed on the table. It was mesmerizing and horrifying at the same time.
“Why so quiet?” Brad slid his tray down the table and climbed a gangly leg over the bench. “You guys have a fight or something?”
Possess Page 11
