About fifteen minutes later I pulled up to Father Alvarez’s church. Driving turned out to be pretty easy.
Father Alvarez’s pickup truck was alone in the parking lot. So, I walked straight inside to his office. His chair was empty, laptop closed. I can’t say I was surprised after what we’d just witnessed.
I moved out to the hallway and peered up and down the hall in both directions, but heard nothing. I tried the sanctuary next. Maybe the good father had been as scared as he seemed and had gone in to pray.
That’s when I heard a male voice echoing from the sanctuary. I opened one of the heavy wooden doors and immediately saw Father Alvarez kneeling, his head bowed.
“Father Alvarez.” I interrupted his prayer, my voice echoing through the sanctuary, making me sound young and small and terrified.
His bent head shot up. He crossed himself, then stood and turned toward me, tears in his eyes. “Kaitlyn. I’m sorry. I—”
I waved away his apology. “It’s okay, Father.”
He walked up to me and held my hands in his own. “No. It isn’t.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But if they ever found out.”
“What?” I searched his soulful face. Had what the demon said been true? “That you’re gay?”
He winced and made a quiet shushing sound. He looked around the sanctuary as if someone would overhear us even though we were utterly alone.
Despite being pissed he’d gone and left me on my own with a demon, my heart ached for him. This wasn’t easy for me, but it sure couldn’t be easy for Father Alvarez either. It’s not like any of us ran around chasing demons. And what that demon had said could really fry his world.
Father Alvarez took a seat in a pew and gestured for me to join him. “I’ve dedicated my whole adult life to God,” he said in a whisper that told me this was not something he was comfortable sharing. “To something I love. It’s something more important than me. Something bigger than anything I’ve ever known. But part of who I am doesn’t fit with that something.” He sighed, suddenly looking very tired and a little bit old.
It was sort of like my trailer upbringing didn’t fit in with who I wanted to be either. But did that mean I shouldn’t have more? Did that mean Father Alvarez shouldn’t? Or Keisha? Should she have suffered Dylan’s father and God knew who else just because of her skin color? What about Keisha’s daddy? He was a good man and a great baker. The best. How much had he suffered because of the color of his skin? Even Agatha. She’d suffered because she was a poor, unmarried woman who had a child with the wrong man. The world was so unfair.
“II ran away from my last post in Chicago, Kaitlyn. I had my secret then. I suppose I’ve known for a long time. Even longer than I’ve been a minister, but I didn’t admit it to myself for a very long time. No one else knows. No one but me. And, now, you.” His voice quavered, drifted, and his eyes looked glassy, before refocusing on the crucifix above the altar. “There was another possession there. In Chicago. A real one. I was assisting with an exorcism and the demon called me out in front of my colleagues. I denied it, of course, and they believed it to be nothing more than the filth and lies of a demon.” Father Alvarez looked at me then, sad and serious. “And they do lie, Kaitlyn. All demons lie. They twist their lies with the truth to confuse your mind and your heart. So you mustn’t listen to him. You must be wary.”
“But you did.” My voice sounded hollow, fear and disappointment filling up the hole in my heart that was made when Hunter died.
He nodded. “I ran from the truth. From my truth. So I came here. Partly to escape the demon. Partly to escape what I didn’t want the Church to know. I won’t run again, Kaitlyn. But I’m still not ready to face that aspect of my nature in a public way. I don’t want to give up my faith or this life, and the Church isn’t ready to accept it.” With a shake of his head, he gave a humorless chuckle. “How many demons are likely to be in a small Texas town?”
I guess one was enough. It sure was for me. I got it that Father Alvarez wasn’t ready to face his truth. I really did. I’d run from Mr. Anderson when I should’ve stayed and punched him in his ugly mouth. But now, running wasn’t an option for me, not anymore.
“Father.” I squeezed his hands tight in mine. “I don’t care if you’re gay or not. Or why you ran before. That’s not my business. And I don’t plan on saying anything about it to anyone. Far as I can tell, you’ve spent your whole life trying to do what’s right. Trying to help people and serve the Church, right?”
A tear slid down his cheek and into the graying stubble on his chin. “I have.”
“Then there’s no reason to stop doing that now, is there?” I weighed my thoughts and my words, wondering how I’d ended up trying to console a priest. “It seems to me like too many people judge other people for what they have or don’t have, for what color they are or aren’t, for who they are or aren’t . . .”
Jaw clenched, he shook his head. “I’ve never acted on my thoughts. I’ve never—”
I held up my hand. “Like I said. That’s not my business. But who am I to judge? It just seems like there aren’t enough people in the world doing good. There’re just too many of them out there trying to judge. And you’re one of the good ones. So why on God’s good earth would I go and try to stop you from doing good?”
“You won’t say anything?” He looked at me, a look that asked if I could be trusted with a secret. With his secret. One that could utterly destroy his life.
“Nope. I’ve got no reason to. This town’s better off with people like you in it.” I stood up and tugged on his hand, pulling him toward his office. “Now why don’t you come on and do what you’re meant to be doing and help me send this demon back to hell.”
“Wait.” He yanked me to a stop with him. “There are things I’ll need from my office. But if this is to be done properly, first I need to cleanse you.”
“Cleanse me?” Oh, Lord. If he only knew all the cleansing that’d need to be done. I may be young, but I had more sins than a barn cat stuffed full of mice. And he thought he could cleanse me in an afternoon?
“I’m not ready to face a demon again, Kaitlyn. Not yet. Especially not after what happened today. You can’t have any uncertainty—demons seize on that, thrive on it. I’d be worse than no help. And with Dylan possessed by that creature, we don’t have time to get the Catholic Church to approve a formal exorcism. You should have a priest perform the ritual, but under the circumstances, I’ll make you as ready as possible.”
“Okay.” My stomach did a flip-flop. Was he really planning to cleanse me, then send me back to exorcise a demon? Alone? I stifled a laughing cry.
He led me to the altar and placed a deep purple shawl around his shoulders. “The Body and Blood of Jesus Christ are truly, really, and substantially present in the Eucharist. Do you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ? That He died for your sins and is your Savior?”
I nodded my head and gave a half shrug. “I guess. It’s what my grandma used to tell me.” When she was sober enough to talk without slurring. “But I’ve never really gone to church.” And never Catholic church.
He took a little disc-shaped wafer with a cross from a small box near the altar and poured some red wine into a large golden goblet. “As long as you believe in your heart. That’s what matters.”
Did I believe? Really? I couldn’t lie to myself. Not about this. Not if I was gonna head out there and try to get rid of a damn demon. Was God real? Jesus? A week ago I wouldn’t have even thought about if I believed in anything supernatural. But now Hunter and Keisha were dead. I’d seen their ghosts. I’d seen the ghosts of Old Joe and Agatha Archer. And demons? The Catholic Church believed they were real. I’d seen one in Dylan. So, if demons were real, then I guess that meant angels and God were real, too. They had to be. I opened my heart, took a huge breath through my nose, and let it slowly out with my words. “I believe, Father.”
“Then kneel.” Father Alvarez gently pressed my shoulders until I knelt before the altar, the massive crucifix with Jesus looking down at us. “Soul of Christ, sanctify this girl; Body of Christ, save her; Blood of Christ, inebriate her; Water from the side of Christ, wash her; Passion of Christ, strengthen her; O good Jesus, hear her; within Thy wounds, hide her; let her never be separated from Thee; from the evil one, deliver her; at the hour of my death, call her and bid her come to Thee, that with Thy saints, she may praise Thee forever and ever. Amen.”
A ripple of energy flowed through me. A kind of tingly wave that made me light and giddy and hopeful all at the same time. If there was a God, which I now believed there was, then I’d just felt Him. “Whoa. That was some prayer.”
He blessed a wafer and the wine, then gave me what he called the Eucharist, which I knew from TV as holy communion.
The bread, which he called “the body of Christ,” was like wafer-thin cardboard. It was quickly followed by “the blood of Christ,” which was tart wine. I swallowed the wine-flavored paper, and wondered how this would help protect me from a demon.
Father Alvarez smiled at me, then made the sign of the cross on my forehead with holy water.
“You’re now ready to face the demon, Kaitlyn. But first, I need to get a few things that will help you.”
Father Alvarez knelt and unlocked a cabinet in the corner of his office that I hadn’t really noticed before. It was made of dark wood and carved with crosses. He pulled out a small glass bottle and a bag of salt, then rummaged around for a minute, before pulling out a thin book. “Here it is.”
The father stood up and opened the book. “This is a work by Father Amorth. For many years, he was the exorcist for the Diocese of Rome. He was also the founder and honorary president of the International Association of Exorcists. He’s said to have exorcised over seventy thousand individuals in a twenty-five-year period.” He read through a few pages, before stopping. “These are all prayers he used in exorcisms. Use the Roman Ritual and this one.”
He handed me the book and I read the title of the page. “Prayer Against Every Evil,” I said aloud, my voice shaking. “Okay. And you’re sure this will work?”
Father Alvarez gave me a nod-shrug, which wasn’t too comforting. “Only priests can perform true exorcisms, but you can say prayers of deliverance, which might work.”
Might work. Great. I needed more assurance than that, but what choice did I have if I wanted to save Dylan and help Hunter and Keisha?
The father handed me a small glass bottle embossed with a golden cross similar to the one he’d given Dylan. “This is holy water from the Jordan River near the very spot where Jesus was baptized. And, this,” he handed me the bag of salt. “This is salt from the Red Sea. It’s been blessed by Israeli rabbis and Catholic priests. The demon will flee from both the water and the salt.”
I put the bag of salt into my messenger bag and the bottle of holy water into my pocket, hoping all of it would make a difference. “Why didn’t you bring all of this with you when we went to the tree to begin with?” I had a feeling I already knew the answer, but I had to ask anyway.
“As I told you, true demonic possessions are extremely rare. So I brought holy water and blessed salt, just not from Jordan and Israel . . . Please understand, Kaitlyn, in my position I must explore every possible option first to ensure there isn’t a medical or psychiatric condition causing the issue. The existence of ghosts is widely debated in the Catholic Church, and the presence of demons takes time to evaluate. But I know what I saw today . . . Still, there is no time for Church approval.” He looked down before finally meeting my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Kaitlyn. I really didn’t think it would be possession. I believed a simple blessing would be sufficient to end the pain and suffering that happened to you at that tree. I believed it would be enough to help restore you from the trauma you’ve endured.”
“So you didn’t really believe we’d been seeing ghosts? Not even a little bit?”
Father Alvarez gave me another half shrug. “I haven’t seen any true possessions except for the one in Chicago. Even the Pope discourages exorcisms unless we’re absolutely certain there is a demonic presence. As I said, most cases stem from emotional crises, not demons. Now I know it’s real. Please forgive me.”
I pulled my bag over my shoulder and tightened the strap. “Well, at least you believe me now.” For what it was worth.
He let out a long sigh through his nose. “I do. Be careful about using the demon’s name. Only use it to summon him if you must. Remember what I said, don’t let any fear or uncertainty show. Demons can read your thoughts and feelings. They feed on negative emotions.” He gestured to my hunter-green bag, now stuffed with exorcism goodies. “I’ve given you the tools you need to send the demon away. Just rest in your faith.”
I didn’t have much faith, but I nodded anyway. “I’ll do my best.” I pulled Hunter’s bag close to my body and tightened the strap. Ready for battle.
“God bless you, hija. I’ll be praying for you.”
I gave him a tight-lipped smile and nodded. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”
The thought of Dylan with that demonic thing inside him sent shivers crawling along my arms and back. I sure hoped all this stuff Father Alvarez had given me would work because the sooner I could get that demon out of Dylan, the better. But I had to make one stop before I went back to the tree. I had an idea. Just a hunch, but I thought it might work. I had to see Patricia.
It took me over ten minutes—driving just under the speed limit—to get to the Old Antique Post from the church. I was getting the hang of this driving thing. Sort of. Next, I’d need to get a license.
I parked right out front next to the same rust-brown pickup truck that’d been there when Dylan and I’d come. I figured Patricia must be in.
The old cow bell clanged when I pushed open the front door. And Patricia was standing in the exact same place as last time, but this time she was making notes in a ledger. She looked up at me soon as the bell clanged and the door thudded closed behind me.
She shook her head slightly, then came out from around the counter. “You come to give me back my granddaddy’s journal?”
“Not yet. If you don’t mind I’d like to keep it a little bit longer.” I didn’t know exactly what I needed, just that it had to be personal. Something to link Agatha to her family. I’d gotten the idea when I’d filled Hunter’s bag with everything Father Alvarez gave me.
Patricia looked over my shoulder toward the door, as if expecting someone else to come walking through. “Where’s that cute friend of yours?”
I tugged the strap of my messenger bag snug against my shoulder, and hugged it to my queasy belly, a motion that was becoming a habit to make me feel more secure. “He’s still out there . . .”
“In the woods?” Her nostrils shot open and she grabbed the counter, her short, chipped nails clinging to the edge to steady herself. “At the Devil’s Tree?”
Tears I didn’t even know I’d been holding in busted out of my eyes and ran in rivers down my cheeks. All the fear and anger and worry I’d held in with Father Alvarez came pouring out of me. I sucked back a sob and nodded.
In a split second, Patricia was there, her bony arms wrapped around me. “Come on now, sweet girl.” She squeezed me tight, and I let myself go in her embrace. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a hug like this. A good, solid, motherly hug. I just cried and cried and cried until there was a big wet patch on Patricia’s shirt. “It’ll be alright.” She stroked my hair and patted my back like loving on me was the most natural thing in the world.
I let her hold me like that for a long time, letting the comfort of her arms ease my battered heart. I finally pulled away a bit and wiped snot away with the back of my hand, slick and wet and almost as disgusting as I felt. “I—don’t—see—how,” I gasped.
Patricia grabbed a box of tissues and handed it to me, then shoved a stool my way. “Sit yourself down right here and tell me what in tarnation’s goin’ on.”
She pulled up another stool for herself and sat across from me and patted my knee encouragingly.
After several shuddering breaths, I calmed myself down and told Patricia everything that’d happened since we’d first been in to see her. I told her about what’d happened with Father Alvarez and the tree and Agatha and Dylan and the demon. Of course, I left out the part about Father Alvarez being gay or running from another demon like I’d promised I would. It didn’t make a difference anyhow. I just told her he’d been right freaked out.
And I told her my idea. I needed something personal. Anything.
By the time I finished, Patricia was standing, wringing her hands and pacing. Back and forth. And back and forth. And back and forth. “I don’t know. I don’t know about any of this, child. I don’t want to go messing about with nothing supernatural. Especially when my own preacher won’t even go back to that tree.” She crossed herself.
“Please,” I nearly begged, but stopped myself. She was afraid, I could see that. And now I understood it. Fear is what kept that tree haunted all these years. And fear was what had made it haunted to begin with. Fear was a nasty thing. A powerful thing. Fear is what made people hate. Fear made people judge and make bad decisions.
Maybe they didn’t hate Agatha for being poor. Maybe they were just afraid of what her poorness meant to them. Just like maybe folks didn’t hate me for being from a trailer park. Maybe they were just afraid of what trailer park life was like or maybe they were afraid of living like that themselves. Same with Keisha. Maybe some white folks were just afraid of black folks because they looked different. Because they were judged based on the color of their skin. But I wasn’t afraid of someone’s color or of being poor. And my worst fear wasn’t the tree anymore. Shoot, it wasn’t even me being afraid I’d never get to leave this dead-end town and my loser life. No. My worst fear was that Dylan and Hunter and Keisha would be tormented for eternity by that demon.
“I didn’t know where else to go. I just need something that’ll help. Something besides all the stuff Father Alvarez gave me. I don’t know what. It’s just this feeling I’ve got.” I looked up at her, my eyes stinging. “Isn’t there anything you can do? Anything . . .”
She kept pacing back and forth, not bothering to look up at me. “I can’t do nothing for ya. You’d best use what Father Alvarez has given you—or have him talk to the Church and wait for a priest. Or don’t go back at all.”
“I have to go back.” I stood up, wringing the strap of my messenger bag until it cut into my palms. “I can’t just leave Dylan out there. Or Hunter or Keisha either. I won’t.”
“Then stick with what Father Alvarez gave you, and surely the Lord will give you mercy.” She crossed herself again, then stopped mid-pace and turned to look at me.
“What is it?” A whisper of hope tickled the pit of my stomach and fluttered into my chest.
She tapped her finger to her lips, then pointed it toward the back of the store. “There is something. Something I have that might just help you get through to my grandma.”
Five minutes later Patricia had pulled a dusty old shoe box down from a backroom shelf. “Aside from his journals, this is the only other thing my granddaddy said I had to keep. There wasn’t no question about it.” She removed the lid, revealing a pasty-white rag doll with short brown braids poking up around its head in little knots. Its grotesque smiling face was sewn on and it wore a pink-and-green plaid dress. “Keep my book and this dolly. Always keep them. That’s what Granddaddy told me. Keep them close.”
The doll’s smile creeped me out about as much as its musty, decaying smell. “Whose was it?” My voice sounded strange and empty.
Patricia lovingly picked up the doll and stroked its braided head. “This here was my mama’s doll. Grandma made it while she was pregnant with Mama.” Her lips trembled. “Granddaddy got it from her house after they hanged her. He gave it to Mama soon as he got her back from the orphanage Preacher Mellberg put her in. Mama kept it from then on. It wasn’t long before Mama died that she gave it to me. She told me it was the only thing she had of her mama’s. It was the one thing that kept her connected to the most important person she’d ever lost.”
Patricia stroked the doll’s head one last time, then held it out to me.
I hesitated. I’d come here to find something personal, but could I really touch a doll made by the witch who’d made my life a living hell?
Patricia pushed the soft, demented-looking doll into my hands. “I don’t have a daughter, only a couple of sons,” she sniffed. “I was planning to give it to my niece . . .” She looked at the doll, then back at me. “But you need it. I know that now.” She closed my fingers around the doll and held my hands in her own. “You give it to my grandma if you see her. You tell her about my mama. Tell her about Mary. Maybe it’ll remind her she used to be a mama herself.”
Something about the doll felt right in my hands. Old and dusty and fragile, but still right. Maybe Agatha and I weren’t so different after all. Sure, we were from different times and different lives, but we’d both been poor and we’d both struggled to survive. We’d both lost people important to us. I’d lost my daddy, and, in a way, my mama, too. And Agatha had lost her only child. A pang of loneliness struck my heart. A twang of agony that must’ve been only a measure of what Agatha felt when she’d lost her daughter.
I tucked the rag doll safely into my messenger bag beside the book of prayer and blessed salt, and prayed Patricia was right. I prayed it would remind Agatha that she’d once been a mama. The kind of mama who’d do anything for her child. I prayed it would remind her of what it’d been like to love.
When I pulled up at the tree, the sky was turning a misty pinkish orange, and the sun was just settling back behind the trees. I climbed out of Dylan’s car, being sure to leave the keys in the ignition in case I had to get away quick, then secured my messenger bag with all its anti-demon supplies over my shoulder and slammed the door shut. No need to be quiet or sneak around and pretend they didn’t know I was coming. I was sure they knew: the demon, the witch, and any other spirit haunting the place.
Everything was calm. Calm and silent. Not a squirrel squeaking or a bird chirping. I took a deep breath of moist summer air and wished I could hear the sounds of crickets and cicadas. Usual summer sounds. As if in answer to my longing, the wind began to blow, tossing the leaves against each other in a raspy rustle, and whipping my hair into my face with a little slap, slap, slapping sensation ’til I tucked it behind my ear to make it behave.
The tree’s dark arms reached up and out, black and bony against the dimming sky. I took a couple steps closer to the spot where Dylan had set up the Ouija board when the demon possessed him. I patted my pockets, feeling for the crucifix in my left and bottle of holy water in my right. Both were where I’d put them, ready and waiting. Next, I reached past the dolly and pulled the book of exorcism prayers from my bag and opened the salt so I could grab some quickly if I needed it.
As soon as I was ready, I faced the tree and took a deep breath of grassy summer air. “Dylan!” I called. “Dylan! Come on out. I came back for you.”
I waited.
And waited some more.
The glowing ball of orange sun disappeared completely behind the sulking trees, and a nearly full moon rose into the sky. And still, no Dylan.
“Oh, come on.” I scuffed the toe of my well-worn sneakers in the gravel and waited. Listening.
“Agatha. Keisha. Hunter,” I yelled, my voice echoing through the darkening trees and foggy fields. “Somebody . . . anybody.” My voice fell to a murmur on the breeze, then I sucked in a deep breath of humid summer air and let it all out in a single word.
“Alastor!” I hollered at the top of my lungs so that a few birds in a distant tree twittered up into the sky like tiny black pinpricks. Then there was nothing. No movement. No sound. Only hungry silence.
Kicking the gravel with my toe, and trying not to swear so I didn’t undo the cleansing Father Alvarez had done on me, I trudged back to the car to get the one thing I hadn’t wanted to bring out. The Ouija board.
It was lying on the floor of Dylan’s backseat where we’d tossed it. I swallowed back the fear worming its way into my throat, grabbed the board, and headed back to the spot Dylan had set it up. I needed to call the supernatural, and this was the only way I knew I could do it that the spirits would obey.
I set my bag beside me and opened it so I could easily reach the salt. I tried to ignore the doll, which was staring back at me with dark, lifeless eyes. I shook away the goose bumps crawling up my arms, then opened the Ouija board and placed the planchette in its center. “This’d better work with just one person,” I muttered. If not, I didn’t know what I’d do. Maybe trek through the woods in search of a demonic Dylan? I shook my head wondering how on God’s good earth I’d gotten myself into this mess, and then put my fingers over the planchette. This had to work.
As soon as I touched the pointer, a sort of zappy jolt shot through me, making my fingers tingle. The planchette began to move—slowly at first—in long, lazy, looping circles as if it was on a Sunday stroll. I didn’t have Dylan’s way with words, but I needed to say something. “Okay, spirits.” I felt lame and stupid. The same kind of stupid I always felt when someone found out that I lived in a half-broken-down trailer at the edge of town.
Nope. I wasn’t gonna go there. There was no point in letting a demon use my bad feelings or its twisted truth against me. “Hunter, are you there?” I reached out with my senses, hoping to feel him, but got nothing. The planchette kept looping round and round, not spelling anything. So, I took another breath and prepared myself for a whopping. “Keisha?”
That’s when I saw it. A shadowy form beneath the tree, its eyes glinting in the moonlight. Her head was cocked at an awkward, unnatural angle, and she shuffled along the ground making a scretch-scretch-scretch sound in the gravelly dirt with the toes of her worn-out shoes.
My heart leapt from my chest to my chin and I grabbed a handful of salt.
Scretch. Scretch. Scretch.
Closer she came.
And closer still. She was wearing a long, pale dress with faded floral print. Not anything Keisha would’ve worn, which made sense since it wasn’t Keisha.
“Agatha?” I croaked, all the bravery I’d felt in the safety of the church evaporating like the mist dancing and twisting around me.
“Why have you come back to my tree, girl? We let you live. That boy fought to let you live.”
“What’d you mean? Hunter?”
“No, girl. Are you so thick-skulled you can’t see what’s right in front of you? Dylan. That boy’s got a strong will. He tried to protect you. But Alastor has him now.” She smiled, teeth hauntingly white in the moonlight.
“Being haunted isn’t any way to live. You’ve got to stop this. Once and for all.” I forced authority into my timid voice.
She crept to the edge of the Ouija board, not more than three feet from me, staring down at me like some little rodent she’d like as kill as set free. And she laughed. A hearty, cackling laugh that made my skin crawl.
“And why would I do that? Why, when this town took everything from me? Everything,” she spat.
“It’s taken a lot from me, too, Ms. Archer.” I forced the words out, trying to reach some part of her that had once been alive. “This town made my daddy leave and took my mama, too.” A surge of hopelessness engulfed me. I fought back tears, feeling myself go weak.
“And why should I care, little girl? It was the likes of you and your kin who brought me to ruin.”
I looked her straight in the eyes, hoping, pleading for her to listen. “You’re wrong, Ms. Archer. I’m not like that—even if some folks in this town are. I’m poor. Always have been. But things are starting to change. Little by little. Person by person. Keisha was my friend. A good one. And I couldn’t care less about the color of her skin or what religion she practiced. I never cared about that. Ever. Sure, some white folks still think it matters. But there are also people who don’t want to be associated with poor people like me, either. And why should that matter? Why should any of it matter? As long as no one’s hurting anyone else—it shouldn’t!” I shook my head, a sense of clarity coming into my mind that I hadn’t had since—well, since ever.
“There are good people out there, Ms. Archer. And bad people. There are folks in between. Black and white, rich and poor. Some judge more than others. Some judge less. But I’m not one who decides if someone is good or bad, decent or not, based on what they have or on their religion or on the color of their skin.” I took a deep breath, hoping I was getting through to her. “And as for why you should care? It’s not on my account. It’s for your granddaughter. She wants you to stop, too.”
Agatha Archer froze when I said that and her evil eyes grew almost tender. “My granddaughter?”
I looked at her, then really looked at her. Her crazy hair was full of branches and leaves, her face streaked with graveyard dirt, her neck still raw from the noose. All these years of haunting and pain and misery and she didn’t know. I realized it then. She had no idea what Henry Willis had done. She had no idea she still had family out there who loved her.
Tears ran down my cheeks and pity flooded my heart. Pity for Hunter and Keisha. Pity for me and Dylan. Pity for Ms. Archer and the whole mess that had become her life and her death. “Oh, Ms. Archer. I’m so sorry for all that happened to you. For those cruel, stupid people who took your daughter away and forbade Mr. Willis from marrying you. I’m sorry for all that’s happened to all of us. There’s so much you don’t know.”
She bit her lip in a way that almost made her look human. “Is Henry still alive?”
“Henry Willis?” My voice echoed in the darkness. Of course, she was asking about Henry Willis. “No, ma’am. He died several years back.”
She clenched her teeth, her expression growing fierce again, and she took a step closer.
“But” I had to buy myself time. She had to hear me. Really hear me. It was my only chance to make things right. “He made sure you weren’t forgotten. He found your daughter. He found Mary. He raised her himself and made sure she knew about you.”
“Mary?” If ghosts could cry, she’d be doing it now. At least that’s what her face looked like. “Mary’s alive? And Henry raised her?”
I figured it wasn’t any good to tell her that Henry’d been married and they’d adopted Mary from an orphanage and that Henry’s wife never even knew Mary was his real child. That’d make her mad. So, I’d stick to what she needed to know. “Yes, ma’am. He raised her. But—” I didn’t know if I should tell her Mary was dead or not . . . but she might demand to see her. So, I decided I’d better tell the truth. “It’s been years since you passed, ma’am. Mary is in heaven now.”
Her face grew dark at that, the rage in her eyes like boiling oil. But I rushed on. “She lived a long, happy life. She was married and had a child of her own. You have a granddaughter, Ms. Archer. Her name’s Patricia. And she’s still alive. And she has children. A couple sons, I think. So, you’ve got great-grandchildren. They know about you. They know you’re their family. Henry made sure of it.” I groped around in my bag and pulled out the doll. “And Patricia, your own granddaughter, gave me this.”
I held the rag dolly out in front of me for Agatha to see. “She said you made it for her mama. For Mary. And Mr. Willis gave it to your daughter as soon as he found her.”
Agatha dropped to her knees, then a sort of crackling, weeping sound escaped from the pit of her soul. “Patricia was my mama’s name. My daughter.” She gasped and reached out for the dolly. She was so close now I could feel the cold roiling off her like mist from the sea. “She got the dolly I made her.” Tears sparkled on her cheeks. “My Mary named her child after my mama?”
“I suppose she did.” I placed the old doll into Agatha’s outstretched hands and recoiled from the chill that snaked its way up my arm.
“And Henry . . . he didn’t give up on her?” She looked at me, her eyes wet and imploring. “He found her?”
I wanted to reach out to her, but didn’t dare for fear she’d lash out at me. “Yes, ma’am. He did. He raised her and loved her with all his heart.”
“And Patricia, my granddaughter.” She said the word like it was a delicious piece of fruit, ripe and bursting. “My granddaughter wants me to stop.”
“She wants the accidents and the killing to stop. And she wants you to be at peace.” Maybe this would work. Maybe, after all these years of pain and desperation and longing, Agatha Archer would finally be at peace. Maybe she’d finally be free.
Agatha looked up at the stars for a long moment, holding the doll close to her heart. Finally, she rose to her feet, a look of calm resolution on her face. “Stand up, child, and prepare your water and your salt. Prepare your verses.”
I cringed. How’d she know about what I’d brought?
As if reading my thoughts, she smiled. “You aren’t the first to come and try to drive us away from here. But you are the first one who seems to understand. The first one who seems to care. You’re the first one to tell me about my Mary.” She stroked the doll’s yarn hair. “The first one to tell me I have a granddaughter.”
She was right. I did care. Losing my daddy had nearly crushed me. It’d crushed Mama, and I’d lost her, too. Sure, she was home every night, but drunk and mean and useless. She wasn’t my mama anymore. Not really. Then I’d lost Hunter and Keisha. Of course, I cared. I understood. “How will this time be different?” My voice was nothing more than a hollow echo.
“You mean how will you not end up dead?” Amusement laced her voice, and she gave me a wicked, knowing grin. “Because I control Alastor. It was me who summoned him before my death. It is he who has killed and brought my curse on this town and its people. I can’t send him back now that I’m a spirit. But I can help you do it.”
Fear rippled through my veins, pounding into my soul with every pump of my heart. This woman—this witch—who controlled a demon stood right in front of me. And she had the power to help or kill.
She closed her eyes and murmured something under her breath, a prayer or a spell I couldn’t tell. When she opened them again, she looked at peace. “I will summon him. I will do what I can to hold Alastor while you exorcise him from your friend. Then maybe I can finally rest.” She looked at the doll and smiled. “Maybe I can finally be with my baby girl. My Mary.”