The walls shook violently, sending vases and mugs and books hurtling towards the ground. The building itself seemed to be in pain, crying out for help as its soul was the battleground for the forces inside. Mr. Mitchell and his daughter held each other tight, silently praying for the safety of their family.
Finally, after an earth-shattering crack, the air seemed to still. The walls of their modest home settled back into the earth, and the evil, demonic aura calmed to a crisp, God-fearing chill.
After a tense five minutes and thirty-eight seconds, the blood-red front door swung out toward the lawn where they stood. A puff of dust followed the air that spilled from inside the house as the young priest stood in the door frame. He held his white collar in his hand and his disheveled hair showed clear signs of a struggle.
The two held their breath as they studied his face. It was unreadable for an almost unbearable amount of time until, finally, he flashed a small smile. He closed his eyes and nodded his head before combing a hand through his short, thick black hair. The two of them began to sob. Only this time, it was tears of joy. They ran past the priest towards the door. Only Mr. Mitchell thought to turn back and shake his hand. He thanked him profusely. The priest only had one last thing to say.
"Don't thank me. Just go, with God."
John sat hungover at the kitchen table, drinking a scalding hot cup of burnt coffee as he so often did on Sunday mornings. He found it to be the best hangover cure for a 30 year old, along with reading the headlines in the local paper. It sounded silly, what with any and all information at your fingertips in 2022 with the touch of a screen, but John found it to be as much of a physical and auditory experience as a visual one. The feeling of the flimsy paper in his fingers and the sound of the turning pages had an odd ritualistic quality that he just couldn't get enough of. Besides, it was nice to see your picture in the paper every once in a while.
He put the paper down and glanced at his phone. Another Sunday meant awaiting another phone call. And he found himself particularly excited about this one. He always kind of particularly excited for his eventual Sunday phone calls but this one would really be something.
As he swiped up on his phone screen, he took an ambitious swig of his coffee. Too ambitious as a matter of fact, because it ended up spilling down onto his bare chest and underwear.
"Jesus fuckin'
Christ!"
He got up and rushed over to the sink, leaving his mug down on the table to plant a ring of spilled coffee around its base as he soaked paper towels in cool water to soothe his skin. The coffee that reached his underwear luckily missed anything particularly sensitive before cooling down.
Jenny hated when he spilled things on himself like this. She used to tell him to 'pay the fuck attention' to what he was eating or drinking. That it was embarrassing when he was a mess everywhere he went. John laughed to himself, finding a special kind of humor in this. Besides, it wasn't his fault that he had trouble focusing on one thing at a time.
The cold paper towels felt good on the burns. He pulled them away for a moment. Just barely red. Not too bad.
He was at the sink tending his wounds when his phone started to ring. It was a pleasant, inoffensive ring tone, but to John's hungover head it was like a jackhammer prying at his ears. He turned quickly and carelessly back towards the table to snatch it. Stubbing his toe in the process. He clenched his teeth together, along with his hand as he brought it to his lips.
"Fuck!"
That was it. One yell. He needed to get it out. He took in a deep breath, letting it out as slowly as he believed time allowed. He grabbed the call, cool and collected.
"Father John Millow speaking."
...
"Oh. Oh, my Lord."
...
"Yes, of course."
...
"No, not at all. I would be honored. I am so sorry."
...
"Yes. I'll be there. And Charlene? Don't worry. He works in mysterious ways."
John hung up. He grabbed his toast for one last bite, the toasted crust irritating his marginally burned mouth. He needed to shower and get dressed.
John sat in his 2012 Honda Civic, watching the time tick by until he could work himself up to walk in. As the cars passed looking for the perfect parking spot, John searched for the perfect words. He wasn't normally this stressed for his typical Sunday, but the conditions were... unorthodox this time around. He laughed silently to himself. Jenny would have fucking hated that joke. By the end of their relationship, she was getting pretty sick of the simple puns and play-on-words jokes he so frequently used to supplement his humor. He thought she was just being an asshole for no good reason, so he never cut it out.
It was time. With that, he finally found himself in the right headspace, so he stepped out of the car and made his way toward the Panera Bread that sat so elegantly between a Foot Locker and a Chinese buffet in the strip mall. The heat and humidity was almost unbearable in his black vestments as he waked across the hot concrete. Off in the distance, he noticed some dark clouds slowly making their way across the mostly clear skies. Rain would be nice right about now.
The Panera was exactly like every other Panera sitting in a dying strip or shopping mall. A mix of yuppies and old heads filled every third table while the smell of expensive hospital food clung onto every surface it could reach. John made sure to keep his coffee under his nose to drown out the other scents.
Across from him sat Mr. and Mrs. Germaine. They were almost comically distraught. John caught the end of Mrs. Germaine's long, sad rant.
"... but they told us exorcisms aren't practiced anymore! How can they say that? To leave one of Satan's own amongst us... it's unjust. It isn't
Catholic.
"
He heard enough to know how to respond. "Yes, I have heard this a lot recently. It's troubling, to say the least."
Mr. Germaine chimed in. "It's so nice to talk to someone who doesn't look at us like we're crazy. I mean, the things we've seen can't be explained any other way."
"And they don't need to be, Carl. You both know I'm no stranger to this. And I don't mean to lack in humility, but I do have a good track record with these things." He leaned in to both of them, giving an assured look. "I promise your daughter is in good hands."
"Oh, thank God!" Mrs. Germain responded. "You have no idea how nice it is to hear some good news."
"I think I may have some idea," John responded warmly. "I'll be excited to see you all reunited once more. So tell me again of the signs you encountered?"
"Books! Falling off of shelves for no reason! Creaks and voices in the distance just out of sight! Sinks turning on and off by themselves!" Mr. Germaine had a dramatic flair about him. John liked that.
"And then our sweet daughter Alice." Mrs. Germaine continued. "At first, it just seemed like something was off. She started forgetting things. Acting a little different here and there from the daughter we know and love. But then... she changed. Started to scream out of nowhere. Lost her temper quickly and sharply. And then the house started to respond to her. Chairs would fall over or mirrors would crack when she got angry. And then... the
red eyes.
It was terrifying."
Mrs. Germaine began to cry. Her husband pulled her in for a hug as he kept his composure, giving John a stern look.
"We just want our daughter back, Father. Please."
"I promise that I will use all the power vested in me to return your daughter to you, safe and sound." John had become good at this. "I'll take your keys, and by tomorrow morning this will all be nothing but a memory."
Mrs. Germaine excused herself to the restroom. After she was out of earshot, Mr. Germaine took his opportunity.
"Look, we really appreciate you doing this. And if it's too much, what with Jen—"
"Please, Carl. It's okay."
