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What will all be over?

A darkness spreads over my skin, as if the devil himself is caressing me. She grabs my hand and rubs my wrist in slow circles like she’s doting on me. The same way she acted when she didn’t feed me for five days; the way she acts after she hurts me.

“How long was I sleeping for?” I ask groggily. It’s nighttime still, but my body is stiff, and my hips hurt from the coils deep in the mattress. I honestly have no idea how much time has gone by.

“Shh. Don’t talk. It’s best if you keep silent. Can you do that for me, Diana?”

A tall shadow fills the doorway, and I startle. A man walks in wearing robes…cold and unforgiving. A cross falls across his chest.

“Mama?”

“This is Father Malcolm, Diana. He’s going to help us cleanse this house.”

“Hello, Diana,” Father Malcolm says, stepping inside. The sight of him makes me sick. A spitting image of his precious daughter Cindy.

No wonder Mama put on red lipstick.

I push myself up to my elbows, goosebumps pebbling my exposed flesh as I realize I’m only in a small nightgown. Mama must have changed me while I was sleeping.

“Hi.” My voice is broken, weak. My mind’s eye flashes to Remy’s knife under my mattress, where I put it when I got home.

Mama squeezes my hand. “Everything is going to be so much better after this, Diana. Father Malcolm is from the local church; his daughter goes to school with you. He’s agreed to help us.”

He smiles at Mama, and Mama smiles back.

“This house carries so much evil, and he will make it better. He will make this place holy again.”

I don’t like the way Father Malcolm is looking at me right now, like he’s not here for the house, like he’s only here for me. He takes a couple of steps closer, and I flinch and remember Cindy telling me that her father gets rid of demons, showing me how he did it.

Mama hands me another cup of tea. “Drink this, Diana. Father Malcom isn’t going to hurt you. He’s also here to cleanse you of the demon you were born with, my sweet angel child.”

Ilay silent for a few minutes, refusing to utter a single word—and if it weren’t for my body forcing air into my lungs, I would refuse to breathe. I’m naked, all the sweat in my body has long since seeped out. My lips are parched, and my body’s trembling, not from the cold, but from something more sinister. Father Malcolm used his Holy Water to expel the demon inside me.

I’m cleansed.

My eyes are open, as if I don’t have control of them, and no matter how hard I try to close them to sleep, I can’t take my eyes off him.

Still wearing his pastoral robe, he sits in the corner of my bedroom. He’s studying me, assessing me, deciding what to do next. The air in the room is thicker than usual, and his dark silhouette casts a chilling presence, resembling the devil more than a man of God.

It’s been at least an hour since he nearly drowned me and seems unaware of the little girl in pigtails standing next to him, watching him as he watches me. He can’t see her, but I can. And I don’t think she likes him very much.

Standing in the pool of her own blood, she’s trapped in this place for eternity—caught between heaven and hell. A once innocent soul sucked dry of anything holy. I’ve been watching her shimmering in and out of view. But she’s here, her soul screaming throughout the room. I can’t believe I hadn’t seen her before.

Exorcism involves a lot of prayer. He walked around the room, sprinkling salt and dripping water, all while the ghost girl watched him from her bloodstain.

The sedative kept my muscles weak as Father Malcolm slipped my dress off, leaving me cold and bare. I couldn’t stop him, couldn’t move as I lay docile while he undressed me and poured Holy Water down my throat until I vomited.

Mama went to bed, leaving me alone with him, though I’m positive she took the sedative herself, as she usually does. I am barely awake after whatever she gave me, and I drift in and out of consciousness, though my eyes remain open.

Father Malcolm rises and utters a prayer, walks toward me, and pulls out a cloth, dipping it into his bucket of Holy Water.

He kneels beside me, his movement’s fluid and graceful. He places a cold, wet cloth on my forehead, and I flinch at the sharpness of the cold. My body relaxes, and he wipes my brow, cheeks, and neck before placing it in the water again, then wipes my arms and back.

He moves the cold compress to my chest, washing the fleshy part of my breast and moves down to my stomach, taking his time washing each thigh, working his way to my feet.

The coolness of the water feels nice against the hot, sticky air.

I stare at the girl wearing a white nightgown as Father Malcolm, oblivious to her haunting, continues the sacred rite. I barely blink as we stare at each other, her mouth opening as if she’s trying to tell me something.