It’s not even noon yet. I can’t go back to school. I’m not sure I want to go back home. Then I daydream about how word’s getting around. Soon my phone’s going to blow up with text messages and calls.
Everyone will be buzzing about me.
And Nikki, she’ll be one of them. Imagining Nikki talking to her circle of friends, all impressed with what’s happened. Forget what Brad and Jon-Jon and Becca and Blaire think. They can think what they want. I’m sure I’ll get word from them. But Nikki, I bet she’s really into what’s happening.
Maybe turned on.
I can’t help it. It’s so awesome to think that I’m the one being talked about, all the way up to the “it” people, though I don’t totally know what that means. I’ve always had some names in mind, the people you know of but never really talk to. Those kinds of people. They are talking about me, maybe the way I’m thinking about them right now. Their talk is all curious and wondering, being like, “Hunter’s possessed. He’s been kicked out of Meadows because of it!”
But I guess I’ll go home.
I’m feeling really tired all of a sudden.
I have no idea how to go about this stuff. Know what that means. I need to call Becca. It’s kind of strange to think that as I talk to Becca, I’ll be thinking of Nikki. Of course, I’m also sort of worried about Becca finding out.
But I also don’t care.
You don’t just say no to Nikki Dillon.
I drive home slowly, taking detours and back roads, listening to nothing, deep in thought about my date at the end of the week. You do what you need to do to shut out all the bad. Feels kind of like it’s going to take a turn for the worse, you know?
I know, but I also don’t want to think about it. I shut that out and replace it with a well-constructed fantasy, I’ll call it practice, where Nikki and I go on a date and really hit it off, if you know what I mean.
I’m sure anyone would.
When you’re human, you got to just, like, know that you’re going to have these kinds of thoughts.
I’m human. And...
I wonder what it really is. Demon, sure—but where does it come from?
If I ever get a chance to, like, flat-out ask it a question, that’ll be the first one, right at the top of the list.
Where do you come from?
I read somewhere that symptoms shouldn’t start until nightfall. I call bullshit on that because it’s one P.M. and I’m hungry and locked in my room. The doorknob won’t turn and, yes, it’s unlocked.
It’s messing with me and getting stronger and bolder and meaner every day. I send everything above as a text message to Becca, who immediately replies with this exclamation point, three of them actually, and then:
“I heard! That’s like such bullshit!”
Duh. I text back, “I’m home with it.”
“Are you okay?”
“See previous message.”
“Wait, like, you’re stuck in your room?”
“Yeah,” and I add, “It’s cold in here.”
Becca texts back, “We need you to meet someone today.”
“Ditch school and help me. I’m clueless with this shit.”
It’s true. I can’t believe it, but yeah, I really do need Becca’s help. But everything I just said feels so fake, and wrong, and nothing at all sincere. But it’s there, so that’s something.
“I’ll leave at lunch period.”
Good. I want to text back, “I’ll be stuck in a room haunted by some demon, waiting for you,” but instead I text, “Thanks.” And again with the “Love you.”
We both text the same two words to each other.
It feels as strange as ever.
But Becca doesn’t ask about the party the other night. She doesn’t even act suspicious. Maybe she’s caught wind of the Nikki thing but she won’t say anything about it. I think it has a lot to do with how she’s reacted to what’s been happening. For being someone so close to me, she shouldn’t have done that, keeping her distance and stuff. But then she’s also skipping school and she never skips school, so...
I’m confused. What else is new?
I know you’re there, yeah.
I can sense it nearby, but it’s weird because I can’t get a make on where it’s standing. It feels like it’s everywhere around me. But it’s also not doing anything. It just wants to keep me here, in this room.
Like if I left the room I’d do something stupid.
I look up from my phone and shout, “Are you protecting me or some shit?”
I hear a creaking coming from the floorboards, kind of like how the floorboards creak when I shift my weight from one leg to the other. A low creak, and then there’s nothing.
I get a text from Brad. I don’t read it.
It’s probably just a bunch of “Bro, you got suspended?! That’s fucking wild! You the man!” kind of stuff.
I try the door, still not budging.
I sit on my bed, laptop open, and I start scrolling through blog posts and other stuff. Just wasting time.
Blaire texts me, “Halverson’s a douche.”
I text back, “Yup. Douching it up.”
Blaire replies, “You’ll be okay.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Talked to Becca. She’s on her way.”
I read that text again and again. Something about it...how it makes me picture everyone I know soaking in the drama that’s probably happening, and they’re all running around, exaggerating their concern, so that they also get some attention. That’s probably happening. And then I think of Nikki, picture her sitting at a table in the cafeteria, watching as Becca and Blaire make a scene. Everyone knows what’s going on.
And here I am, freezing and stuck in my room.
I get a call. When I look, it’s a number I don’t recognize.
Well then, ignore.
But the number keeps calling. I put my phone on silent. I go online and focus on something else.
This is all getting so overwhelming.
Becca messages me online, telling me that I’m not answering her texts.
“Yeah, getting overwhelmed by things.”
“Gotcha,” she types, “on my way. Father James is cutting us like a huge break. I think he’s going to be the one that sees you.”
“Great,” and then I add, “Yeah, that’s really great.”
Becca asks, “Still locked in?”
“Yup,” I type back. Then I add, “Might have to leave via the window.”
“That’s like so fucked up,” she says.
“It is, yeah. I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“But we do know what’s going on though.”
I try to make sense of it, put it in words that would make sense to her: “No, I know, I mean... well, it’s just like everything people said about being haunted but it’s also very different.”
Becca doesn’t type anything.
“Let me try to explain.” But the explanation doesn’t come. I type out something that doesn’t make sense so I delete it. I’m at a loss. Then I ask, “Who’s driving you?”
Her reply: “Jon-Jon.”
I should have known. I mean, it’s not a bad thing, I guess.
I type back, “Cool.”
She knows me well enough to know that when I reply “Cool” it means the opposite of cool. She knows my mannerisms but she doesn’t know how I’m really feeling. And that’s what makes me think of Nikki as the real reason I’m going to keep doing this. I’ll break up with Becca when this is all over and Nikki and I are together.
Becca types back, “We’re heading out now. Be there soon, like ten minutes.”
“Okay,” I reply.
I lean back in bed, laptop on my stomach, hands in my pockets to keep them sort of warm.
I wait—wait for something to happen.
I look at my phone next to me; the screen’s lit up, people reacting. People are always reacting.
If anyone’s confused by this, just think
of how confusing it is for me. I’m full of mixed emotions. I want it gone but I also know that none of the attention would be there if it weren’t for the demon.
I think, “You are the reason I’ll be remembered.”
I expect something to happen, but nothing does.
I stare at the screen, watching the social media feed scroll with the latest from hundreds of people I follow.
Nothing happens.
I start to count each breath I see.
Then there’s the sound of someone messaging me.
I blink, realizing I hadn’t blinked in a good minute. Hands out of the pockets, I lean forward and read the message.
“They are outside.”
I look at the name of the sender but the name is mine. It’s my name.
I don’t know what to say, so I say, “Thanks.”
“The door is open.”
I read the message and then look at the door, wander over and give the doorknob a tap, then a slight jostle.
It’s open.
I look over at the laptop, breathing out a sigh that I see as a little plume, a cloud in front of my face.
When I look back the sender appears as “offline.”
I don’t have time to react though because whatever that was, it was right. They are outside. Jon-Jon’s car parked behind mine, Becca looking up at my bedroom window, waving.
I look at the phone and see a few missed calls.
Oh yeah, it’s on silent.
I switch the ringer back on, notice over two dozen missed calls and more than a handful of text messages. I run downstairs, taking along my laptop and the power cord too, because, well, I’ve learned my lesson.
At the front door, I shove the laptop in my book bag and I leave the house without looking. I don’t get a real chance to think about what happened until I’m sitting in one of the back pews of the church, waiting to be seen.
I put all the pieces together. And then it sort of makes sense, but not really. I was messaging myself?
Was that you?
5
JON-JON TELLS ME THAT THE EXORCISM IS THE REAL payoff. At first I don’t really follow. Sure enough he explains that first there are a series of meetings.
“Only, like, three,” Becca corrects him.
Jon-Jon brushes the comment aside. “Yes, three, but you see, there will be time—plenty of time, in fact—to milk this for some serious money. The payoff will be the exorcism.”
This bothers me. Jon-Jon isn’t a friend. He’s a businessman. He lives well as long as he makes money off others. He sells, sure, but he’s also got the betting thing going on. And I’m becoming, I think, his main prize.
“Why are you here?” I ask him, just because.
Jon-Jon with another one of his questions: “How confused are you, on a scale of one to ten, ten being amnesiac?”
I don’t answer.
Becca doesn’t like Jon-Jon either and tells him to leave the church. “This is a spiritual place, like, take it outside!”
Jon-Jon raises his arms in defeat. “Fair enough. I’ll be in the car.” To me he says, “Big money, think ‘big money.’”
When he’s gone, I ask Becca, “Why did you bring him? Of, you know, everyone you could have asked for a ride, you chose that guy...”
Becca’s embarrassed. She’s staring at her phone, compulsively refreshing her social media feed. “He asked me, okay? And I thought, ‘Emergency,’ so I just said okay instead of looking for someone else.”
I don’t want to even look at my phone. Forget that it’s there.
Everything’s exhausting. Everything’s also very, very good... but I won’t mention that. Not now. Not here.
We wait in the last pew for, like, an hour, but not really, it just felt like that long, before a priest who isn’t Father James introduces himself as Father Albert, greets us and apologizes for the wait.
“Okay,” I say.
Becca leads the way. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice!”
Father Albert sort of bows. “My pleasure, my pleasure.”
On the path to becoming a priest or a deacon or a nun or a monk—spiritual people—I guess you learn how to have a crap-ton of manners. Like, this Father Albert is incredibly nice. Like, too nice. So nice it makes something deep inside me angry. It feels insincere. No way Father Albert is really this glad to see us. I’ve got a demon attached to me; why would he be “delighted to see us”? Wait, did he even say that? Maybe I made it up.
He’s excruciating though.
Look at the way he walks. All pious and calm, like every day lasts forever and there’s nothing more important than seeing and speaking to Becca and me.
Father Albert’s office is really neat and tidy. Of course it’s neat and tidy. Why wouldn’t it be? Look at the guy.
Becca does all the explaining.
Father Albert folds his hands and listens all calm and contently.
He’s really bothering me. I mean, yeah...
Ugh. I just can’t stand it. People like this.
He can’t be serious.
Father Albert apologizes for a second time. “Unfortunately, Father James will be unable to perform the exorcism. Yet I am able to accommodate you and happy to complete the task.”
Becca smiles. “That’s great. I understand.”
Father Albert asks me a series of questions, starting with “How do you feel right at this moment?”
I should be honest, right? I should just say what’s on my mind. Yeah.
Well, here it goes: “I’m kind of annoyed. Annoyed at you, at this whole thing.”
Becca’s like, Hunter, the fuck? But she doesn’t say that; she just looks at me in a way that says something along those lines.
Father Albert nods. He’s so understanding.
I say, “And see, that makes me even more annoyed.”
Father Albert says, “That’s fine. Next question I want to ask: Has the unclean spirit contacted you directly?”
Unclean spirit? I think about this one... but then I go with: “I don’t think so. I mean, I’ve heard things. Whispers. My name, maybe.”
“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm—this is quite normal.”
But then I remember the messages. I kind of stop myself, second-guessing it, but then—why the hell not?—I tell him. I tell him about the messages.
“That does sound like direct contact.” Father Albert starts writing in a Moleskine journal.
Becca looks freaked out. “What does that mean? Like, what does it mean for us, I mean Hunter, if the demon’s contacted him, like, directly?”
Father Albert takes her question like target practice. “It implies that the unclean spirit—we prefer not to label them ‘demons’—is increasing in presence.”
“Like, getting more powerful?” Becca says, all confused.
Father Albert nods, not even looking at us while he writes in that stupid journal. “That is correct. The unclean spirit will begin breaking down Hunter.”
I’m already broken down, what else can happen?
Becca, she doesn’t have to try so hard. Her face is flush red and she’s biting her nails, “Oh no, oh no. That means... what does that mean?”
Father Albert is Mr. Cool. “Calm down, my dear. There is still plenty of time. Naturally, the parish encourages a timely exorcism. This isn’t true in Hunter’s case. But, well, one more question, Hunter—do you feel like you’re being watched at all times?”
I shake my head. “No, only when I’m home alone.”
“In a certain room, or everywhere?”
“Mostly, um, my bedroom.”
Father Albert goes back to writing.
We sit there in silence, a real waste of time.
“I am going to expedite the next meeting. From here, I will visit your homestead and bless it.”
Becca again, all nervous: “And then what?”
“After blessing the house, we will arrange to have an evocation, or summoning. I will act as lead but Father Andrew will accompany.
”
“Evocation...” I say.
“Yes, it can be an unpleasant term, but that’s how Father Andrew is recognized in the parish. It is quite clear, Hunter, that you have attracted a spirit that doesn’t wish to linger. Some are more aggressive than others. By the looks of it, you attracted an unclean spirit that seeks to possess you as quickly as it can. Now”—Father Albert waves a finger—“do not attempt to contact the spirit. You must ignore its advances.”
“Yeah,” I say, having trouble hiding how pissed off I am at this whole thing, “I’ve been doing that. Been wearing, like, two hoodies and gloves and all kinds of shit, basically staying in bed, but I’m ‘ignoring’ it.”
“Excellent.” Father Albert doesn’t even seem to notice how angry I am. “The spirit will soon commence with expending more energy.”
Before Becca can even ask, Father Albert has an explanation.
“The spirit will become more aggressive. We must push up the exorcism to a week from today.”
I lean forward. “So that’s like...”
“Next Wednesday.”
Becca’s happy all of a sudden. “Oh wow, that’s, like, perfect!”
Is it? I don’t know why but I feel weirded out by how soon it is. And also how Father Albert’s all casual about something that’s so serious. I don’t know if I can trust him. And even after we shake hands and go back to the car, Becca filling in Jon-Jon with the details, I still can’t shake the feeling that I can’t trust him.
I realize that it’s because of the one thing he said, the one thing he saved for me, whispering it in my ear when we shook hands:
“Your anger isn’t your own. Be vigilant with your emotions. You are the only one capable of understanding the difference between direct feeling and conjured, manipulated senses.”
I’m angry because he told me that and then just let me go. I didn’t get to ask why or what he meant.
Jon-Jon looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Why are you so moody? Everything’s rolling well.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t trust Father Albert.
I don’t like that I might not be acting like myself. I don’t like the idea he put in my head that this anger, and pretty much anything that happens, can be something doubtful. He’s making me doubt everything now.
What is real and what isn’t?
Falter Kingdom Page 8
