Page 59 of Play Nice

He looked at me with a solemn expression and said, “I am sorry to inform you. I believe there is an entity living in your house. And I believe it may be demonic.”

It was the single most terrifying moment of my life up until that point. It was also the most liberating.

I never could have anticipated what would come next

Here was someone who was substantiating my fear, confirming what I had known all along.

There was evil lurking inside my home.

“What do I do?” I asked him, practically on my knees, pleading.

“It is very rare, though not impossible, for such an entity to inhabit a home. Possession of places and things are often means to an end for such entities. It is their ultimate desire to possess the flesh. A body. A mind. A person. That is why I believe you and your daughters may be at risk. But for my own integrity, I will need to be sure before I perform the rites of exorcism on your home. It is my recommendation that we have an outside investigative research team confirm that this is in fact a demon we are dealing with and not, say, a ghost or poltergeist. I have some names. In the meantime, I suggest you take some precautions.”

“Like what?”

“Do not underestimate the power of prayer. The power of God. Are your daughters baptized?”

—

I remember Father Bernard in the abstract. I see him, a man dressed in black, but where there should be a face, there’s nothing. An indistinguishable smear of features. My mother’s description of him wasn’t enough to resurrect his image, what he looked like.

I see my sisters in their school uniforms. I see the kitchen table, the paper in front of me, a box of colored pencils, a sharpener, neat spirals of pencil shavings, my drawing of the house not yet complete.

I see my mother. See her, hear her. But I can’t touch her, and she can’t touch me, can’t hear me, see me. She looks past me. Beyond me.

Behind me.

—

I wake up on the couch to the sun streaming through the windows. I don’t remember falling asleep. There are four cans of White Claw on the coffee table. My sketchpad is open, with a new doodle.

The words “Leave Me Alone” floating in space, with stars and planets all around.

I do remember drawing this.

I check my phone. It’s past noon. I have two contractors coming today to look at the kitchen and the bathrooms, to give me a quote for those and the floors. The first will be here in forty minutes. I wanted to get up early and start priming downstairs. I wanted to do yoga. Shower. Have coffee. Post photos I took in Brooklyn last week. Now my content posting schedule is off. Now I’m tragically uncaffeinated.

I gather up the cans of White Claw and put them in the recycling bin under the kitchen sink. I change into a long Oxford shirt that I wear as a dress and slip on a pair of loafers, make myself presentable for company.

I brush my teeth, rinse with Listerine. I can still taste the fear in my mouth, even after my valiant attempts to wash it out.

There are mice. They’re living in the walls. That’s what I heard. The scraping. There’s a lingering electrical issue. The flickering lights. There’s me, more worn than I maybe realize. All this back and forth. Brooklyn. Penn Station. New Jersey. Leda. Daphne. Dad. Amy. Mom. Past. Present.

Or maybe it is the demon that my mother was so convinced lived here with us, who wasn’t exorcised after all. The ultimate freeloader. The unwelcome guest.

The part of me that wanted my mother vindicated had been much bigger and braver back in New York. Had been much bigger and braver before last night.

The first contractor is fifteen minutes late and calls me “hon,” which isn’t my favorite, but I play into it and get a better quote than the second contractor, who is the consummate professional and calls me “Ms.,” which apparently comes at a cost of seven thousand dollars.

The first is condescending when I ask questions like “What if I did the demo myself?” and “Would it be possible to take out this wall?”

The second sighs and puts his hands on his hips a lot as he looks around.

I was always going to pick the one who charged me more—I trust a bargain only in a thrift shop. It’s just so satisfying that I get to reject the one who clearly thinks I’m incapable.

To be fair, I am incapable. Painting is one thing, but I’ve come to realize there’s no way I can replace a countertop or put in hardwood floors by my lonesome. Those Instagram Reels are deceiving, but there’s no deceiving a deceiver.

If I’m doing this, I want to do it right. Hiring a professional will pretty much decimate my savings, but I consulted with a few Realtors who assured me it’ll be well worth it. No risk, no reward. The satisfaction of leaving this place unrecognizable will be so sweet, the scent of it wafting toward me like a pie left to cool on a windowsill.