Chapter Four

Sunday was the day that Edith Hummel accused me of being possessed by the devil.

It was church day; mass was at seven A.M., and I had an obligation that week as lector for the second reading. But that morning, I was late. Apparently, making it through the night unscathed was such a feat that my body decided to keep me asleep for half an hour longer than usual, forcing me to speed through my morning. Which would have gone by much quicker, as I reminded my mother in the car, had I not been obligated to wear a ridiculous dress whose zipper seemed hellbent on getting stuck every time I tugged at it.

At seven-oh-nine, my mother and I entered through the side door. She was fuming at our tardiness, so much so that she practically punched the tub of holy water and sent droplets spewing all over my clothes. By the time we got inside, Blessed Trinity Catholic Church was brimming with people, and the first reading was just about to begin. The lector, a doe-eyed girl named Avery, shook as she walked up to the pedestal. I should have been with her, sitting in one of the stiff-backed wooden chairs that were hidden just out of sight. Biting my lip, I sped up, resisting the urge to let out a stream of expletives as I hurried down the side aisle. Heaven knows the kind of hell my mother would give me for cursing in God's house.

Father Lucas, the main priest of the church, saw me from his perch at the right side of the altar. We made eye contact, and he made a discreet motion with his head toward the back wings of the church. There was an entrance from outside that would take me onto the altar without disrupting mass.

“I'm going around,” I whispered to my mom, as Avery began the reading in a quivery voice. My mother nodded curtly, then stepped purposefully into a nearby row of pews.

I hurried out through the back door, tossing a quick wave at Logan as I passed the place where he and his dad were sitting, and had reentered through the back moments later. I passed a white-clad altar server, who smiled at me, before slipping out into the church and hastily making the sign of the cross as I dropped into my seat.

A glance at Father Lucas revealed his bemused smile; no doubt I'd get a lecture for being late later, but for now, it was funny. Though, it appeared, not to Avery, because her entire face was red by the time she finished her reading and sat back down.

“Good lord,” she whispered, glaring at me, “do you know how nerve wracking that was? Never do that to me again, Parker Elway!”

I didn't get to respond, because just then, the cantor announced, “Please join in singing number 373 in your Spirit and Song books, Open My Eyes. That's 373 in the Spirit and Song.”

Avery and I rose, but I could still feel her dagger-eyes on the side of my face as I mouthed through the song. She swished her blonde bangs from left to right, gray eyes flashing. Avery was a nice girl—a year younger than me, active in community service, avid church attender, blah blah blah—but I swear, sometimes I felt like her babysitter.

When the song drew to a close and the voices of the congregation faded, I smoothed the puffy pink front of my dress, preparing to mount the stone steps of the pedestal. I heard the creak and moan of the old wooden pews as people sat down, and knew that was my cue.

At the top of the stairs I cleared my throat, adjusted the microphone, and glanced down at the sheet of paper before me. I always got nervous before a reading, even though there were only about a hundred people in the church and I knew every single one by name.

Like I said: Callery was a small town. The majority of people were either Catholic or Christian, particularly the former, but only about fifty percent of that group attended church weekly. Those of us who did were either diehard Catholics, fond of a typical Sunday routine, or forced into going by their crazy parents.

I guess you could say that I was a bit of all three.

In the moments before I spoke, I scanned the pews, methodically naming all the faces to calm myself down. Familiarity is a safety blanket—or at least, it was mine, and it was my pre-reading ritual every time I was lector.

Mel McGee, noted my mind, Marcus Ferrait. Theseus Miller. Emily Roswell. Logan. Juliette.

It only took a matter of seconds, too few for anyone to notice my strange habit, and when I was finished, I began.

“'A letter from Saint Paul to the Corinthians,'” I stated, loud and clear into the microphone. “'Brothers and sisters, I have—'”

I didn't get to say anymore. Just as my tongue began to fold over the next word, a desperate wail erupted from the pews. Startled, I stopped in my tracks, my voice swallowed by the sheer volume of the scream.

Throughout the church, people were glancing around, confused and disgruntled, and it was a moment before we all noticed the elderly woman in the first row, sitting in her seat and shrieking one long note at the top of her shriveled lungs.

It was Old Edith Hummel, the ninety-something-year-old woman who had allegedly gone crazy after her daughter left town about twenty years back. She lived in a tiny hole of a house just off the main town center, alone save for an attendant who did everything from cooking her meals to changing her incontinence pads.

Said attendant was now crouching in front of Edith, grabbing the old woman's hands and murmuring what I assumed to be words of comfort. Father Lucas had descended the chancel and joined them, along with a small group of gossip-hungry citizens. I heard someone call for the ushers, but the two suit-clad men were already hurrying down the center aisle.

And through it all, I stood there, Saint Paul and the Corinthians completely forgotten, watching Old Edith as she howled her heart out, her eyes panicked and unfocused. The sound of her screams echoed off the high, vaulted ceilings, and I half believed that it'd blow the stained glass windows into a million little tinted shards and bury us all alive.

“Hey!” shouted one of the ushers. “Paramedics are on their way, they'll be here soon!”

In Callery speak, “soon” meant something along the lines of two and a half minutes. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

“All right, Mrs. Hummel,” Father Lucas said calmly, “just hold on for a moment, people will be here to help you soon.” His voice was amplified by the mic clipped to his robe, but it still barely made a dent in the overwhelming audio of Edith Hummel's screams. Undeterred by her continued noise, he placed a hand on her shoulder, closed his eyes, and murmured a brief prayer that no one could hear.

And immediately, the screaming stopped. Edith Hummel was silent. For a moment, the church reverberated with the emptiness of sound, the buzzing in our ears sharp and sudden. Shocked, the nosy people crowding her moved away, and I was left with a perfect view to see what she did next.

When she raised a bony, wrinkled arm and pointed her finger at me.

“The girl,” she intoned, her voice startlingly lucid. “The girl. It is the girl.”

I glanced over my shoulder as if there would be some other girl standing there, but Edith's eyes were boring into my skull. Everyone was staring at me now, elevated conspicuously on top of the pedestal, my hands pressed against the long-forgotten reading. My brain wanted to turn and bolt down the steps and behind the altar, but my body decided that we would stay frozen in place.

“Ma'am?” I said, because I felt the need to say something in response. “Are you pointing to me?”

The old woman's eyes went unfocused, and her outstretched hand began to shake. “It is the girl,” she repeated. “The girl had been touched.”

“Touched by whom, Mrs. Hummel?” Father Lucas asked gently, leaning down to address the woman.

“By...by him.” Her arm began to shake violently, and her harried attendant guided it down into her lap.

Father Lucas tilted his head, smiling knowingly. “By God, you mean? Why yes, ma'am, we've all been touched by Him.”

Edith Hummel became ramrod straight, her eyes clearing and her voice going level. “Not Him,” she snapped, her milky eyes still focused on me. I shifted uncomfortably. “Not Him. Him.”

“Who is 'he', Mrs. Hummel?”

The old woman leaned forward, her worn, frail body shrunken in her long dress. “Lucifer,” she hissed, her whisper deafening in the silence. “Satan.” Her eyes became wrinkled, accusatory slits as she uttered two final words.

“The devil.”

Then, in a slumping release, Edith Hummel pitched forward and collapsed into the arms of her attendant. And as I stood there stiffly, melting under the 150 pairs of eyes staring me down, no one made a sound.

The paramedics arrived soon after, and Old Mrs. Hummel was carried away, unconscious, on a stretcher. It happened fast—in heartbeats. And when she and her attendant were gone, the gossipers had returned to their seats, and Father Lucas had mounted the chancel, no one knew what to do.

“I apologize for that interruption,” Father Lucas said, clearing his throat, “but let us continue with the second reading.” Even the young priest, who was always so collected, was visibly shaken by the ordeal. The deacon, an older man named John, was white as a sheet.

Meanwhile, I stood there, a statue frozen by the blurry gazes of the congregation. They looked confused—my expression must have mirrored theirs. Like everyone else, I knew Edith Hummel, and I had for my entire life. As far back as I remembered, she'd always been the crazy old bat of Callery, the one who kids told stories about and adults looked at with pity. But it was common knowledge that her mind was not all the way here, if you catch my drift, and a clear, straight look from her was an undeniable rarity.

And what was it she had said: about being touched by the devil? I knew she was crazy. I knew that. She was nuts, and I'd just so happened to be in the line of fire during one of her episodes. It meant nothing. So why was there a gnawing, terrible feeling of horror in the pit of my stomach?

“Parker?” Avery hissed from behind me, breaking my reverie. I realized, belatedly, that everyone was waiting for me to begin. I could see the upturned faces of all the snooty mothers in the third row, appraising me silently. As if they actually believed Edith Hummel's proclamation.

Mind reeling, I shakily started the reading again from the beginning. “'A letter from Saint Paul to the Corinthians. Brothers and sisters...'”

Somehow, I managed to get through the whole page without incident, though my throat felt dry and I stumbled over several words. When I'd finished, Avery and I proceeded to the steps, bowed dutifully to the altar, and returned to our seats in the front row of pews. As I sank down onto the soft wood, I felt the needle-prick of all the eyes on the back of my neck.

That was the thing about my town: give them one thing to be suspicious about, and they'll take it and run. You can go ahead and give me the usual crap about stereotypes and small towns, but it's just human nature: when everyone knows one another and there aren't a lot of outlets for frustration, we amuse ourselves by talking about our neighbors. Gossip flows through Callery like rainwater through the sewage system, and I knew for a fact that by the next day, everyone in town would know about the incident.

The idea was far from appealing.

◙════════════◙

Logan found me as I was sloshing through the still-wet grass after mass on the way to my mother's car. People were crowding the lawn, and he grabbed my wrist as I was ducking beneath the elbow of Mr. Hastings, the general store manager.

“Parker!” he cried, hauling me to a stop. “Dude, are you okay?”

His hand was a refreshing warmth against my chilled skin, but I pulled my arm away. “Of course,” I snapped. “Why wouldn't I be?”

Logan sputtered incredulously, his face reddening from the nip in the air—the same nip that was making my fingers feel disconcertingly numb. In my rush to get to church, I'd brilliantly forgotten to snag a jacket.

“Parker,” Logan repeated, finally finding his words, “did you hear a word of what Mrs. Hummel said to you?” He gawked at me, his face all rosy cheeks and freckles and viridian eyes.

“Yeah. So?” I demanded. “We both know she's nuts.” I shrugged in a feeble attempt to feign nonchalance, but eleven years of friendship had taught Logan to see right through me. He raised a dubious eyebrow and put both hands on my shoulders.

“Questionable sanity aside...” Logan sighed. “Look me in the eye and tell me that what she said didn't bother you.”

I squirmed under his gaze; it did bother me, that much was true. Like I said: superstition wasn't my thing. But to have an old woman accuse me of being “touched by the devil” merely days after having a dream that sure as hell seemed like one of those paranormal possession flicks—well, there was no denying how freaky it felt.

Logan, though, was often too empathetic for his own good, and had been known to get himself seriously worked up over things that didn't involve him at all. Like that one time two years back when eight-year-old Terry Cranbrook's dog got run over, and he called their house everyday for two weeks to make sure Terry was all right until Mrs. Cranbrook got fed up and blocked his number. He always had the best intentions, sure, but there was a point when sweetness could become suffocating.

And I was doing quite enough suffocating in my nightmares.

So I lied. Or rather, I tried. I'm generally a fair liar, but thinking about the situation had put an anvil in my gut, and my words came out as garbled nonsense. My best friend eyed me skeptically, his gaze stiff and appraising and just like all those ladies in church who stared me down after Edith Hummel spoke—

My hands began to shake. It wasn't noticeable at first; just a little quiver that could have been attributed to the cold. But it quickly spread up my arms and down my back, a bone-deep chill that sent violent tremors through my entire body.

Logan's arms, still balanced on my shoulders, were thrown off. His expression morphed into one of alarm, and he quickly shed his jacket, pulling it awkwardly off himself, limbs flailing. People were staring now, but he paid them no mind as he flung that sweater around my shoulders, encasing me in the woolen warmth and his arms.

“Oh God, Parker, you're freezing,” he murmured, putting a hand to my cheek. “You're definitely not okay.”

I tried to shrug him off, but now my teeth were chattering and the action was pretty much impossible. “I'm fine,” I ground out. I clenched my jaw, trying to bite back a scream because it felt like my veins were freezing, my blood turning to ice. The cold, wherever it had come from, was more than just skin deep. It wasn't nearly so cold outside—only fifty-five degrees, maybe even sixty—and there was no proper explanation for the shivers. But they just wouldn't go away.

Until they did.

It happened suddenly; one moment, I was shaking like I'd been laying down in the snow; the next, I was collapsing loosely into Logan's chest. A sudden warmth blossomed out from my chest and into my frozen limbs.

“What the hell just happened?” Logan demanded, pulling back to look at me. The minor swear earned him a few disapproving looks from nearby adults, but he ignored them completely. His eyes were on me, boring into my face with unwavering intensity.

“I-I don't know,” I breathed. “I have no idea what that was.” I pulled his windbreaker tighter around me, hoping to calm my nerves with his familiar scent of wood shavings and Colgate toothpaste. It worked only slightly, but that hardly mattered, because my mother appeared a moment later. And she had no sympathy for anxiety.

“Parker Sage Elway,” she snarled, pulling me fiercely from Logan's grasp. “Where have you been? Do you realize that I've been looking for you everywhere? Come with me; we're going home, right now.”

“Mom!” I shrieked. There was something wrong. Normally, there would be a cordial hello for Logan, maybe even a smile. That day, she didn't even spare him half a glance. Nor did she acknowledge me when I screamed her name, not until I wrenched my arm away and stumbled back, shooting glares at all the people who stared. Logan was standing a few feet back, looking confused. I began to wriggle out of his jacket, but he held up a hand to stop me.

“Just hold on to it, I'll get it from you later.” His expression was twisted, worried. “And call me when you get home, okay?”

I pressed my lips together and nodded at him as his eyebrows knit into a single line. “Yeah, I'll do that. Thanks, Logan.”

He tossed a small wave as I spun around. My mother was waiting, tapping her foot impatiently. There was a good five feet of space around her in every direction; no one dared to go any closer. When I was within the danger zone, she recaptured her grip on my arm and began tugging me after her. My black ballet flats squelched in the mud, a sound that normally made her twitch, but she didn't even comment.

It wasn't until we'd nearly reached her silver Maserati that she made a sound, and that was only because she was prompted. Her fingers were on the unlock button of her keys when a voice rang out behind us.

“Iris! Iris, wait up!”

Mom whirled around, eyes ablaze, and I was dragged along with her. Brady Harding, the chief of police, was huffing and puffing as he ran toward us from the direction of the church. He paused when he'd finally gained our attention, his hands on his knees and his gut hanging precariously over his belt.

I could see him eyeing my mother's car with something like jealousy; not many people in this town had the money to afford a Maserati, and of all the people to be driving it, my mother was the last you'd expect. Even I was surprised when she'd rolled into the driveway last year in the sparkling silver sports car. Without a doubt, it was an object of envy for many townsfolk—particularly, it seemed, for Chief Harding. He'd tried to buy it off of her on more than one occasion.

“Iris,” he wheezed, “Parker. How are you?”

“In quite a hurry, actually,” my mother said blatantly. “What do you need, Brady?”

Chief Harding straightened, pulling his shoulders back in an attempt at an authoritative position. But he wasn't nearly as imposing when wearing a tweed suit instead of his police uniform.

“I wanted to talk to you about Mrs. Hummel,” he said, using the deep voice that stops kids from stealing candy from the liquor store. “Do you have a moment?”

Both he and my mother looked at me, then my mother said, “Parker, get in the car.”

I raised my eyebrows up into the rim of my bangs. “What?”

“Get. In. The car.” Without looking away, she unlocked the Maserati. Her eyes told me to give in; I wasn't going to win anyway, and she wasn't afraid to make a scene in front of the chief.

“Fine,” I muttered, crossing my arms in defeat. “It's cold out here, anyway.”

I slunk into the passenger seat, glowering, and watched as the two adults moved slightly away from the car. My mother looked irritated, and Chief Harding looked concerned. Narrowing my eyes, I attempted to read the words streaming from their lips, filtering them into a conversation in my head.

“Iris...not...about...Hummel said?” That was the chief, who raked a hand through his comb-over as he spoke.

“Of course not. Why...earth...I be?” My mother, her jaw set.

“Well...you know.”

“...don't, actually.”

“Iris...all know what...Mary.”

“That...years ago.”

“But it happened before...same start. Could...again.”

“Bullshit.”

The last word was spat from my mother's lips, with so much venom that I reeled back from the window. I couldn't hear her, but I could see Chief Harding's shock in the side mirrors. They exchanged a few more words, but it appeared to be more of my mother bearing down on the chief than actual conversation. I hugged my knees to my chest and waited.

A moment later, the driver's door opened, and my mother stormed inside. Her eyes were flashing with anger as she jammed the key into the ignition.

“Feet down, Parker Sage,” she snarled. “Your shoes are disgusting.”

I obliged silently.

There was a thick whirring as the heat kicked in, and although I began to bake in Logan's thick jacket, I didn't take it off. It was the only thing between my mother and my bare skin, and somehow it felt important to keep it that way.

My mother was a statue as she drove, her jaw clenched, her brows knit, her eyes focused straight ahead. I sneaked glances every now and then, but her expression did not change. Whatever the chief had said to her, it had really set her off. But none of their conversation—at least, what I'd gleaned of it—made any sense. I didn't know what had “happened before,” and the only Mary I knew was Mary Home, my neighbor Stella's three-year-old daughter. Surely they weren't talking about her.

As my mom veered sharply into our driveway, I finally mustered up the courage to ask. “Mom, what did Chief Harding say?” My voice was quiet, meek, and pathetic, not at all like it usually sounded.

For a moment, it was so silent in the car that I wondered if my mother had heard me at all. With her hands clenched so tightly around the steering wheel, it looked for all the world like she had turned to stone.

I cleared my throat, tried again. “Mo—”

She cut me off by ripping the keys out and cutting the engine. Her hands were fists as she turned to me.

“Don't ask questions when you know that something is none of your concern,” she hissed.

“I didn't even—”

“I don't want to hear it, Parker. I want you inside, right now, and straight up to your room.”

I threw up my hands, furious. “Are you kidding me?” I yelled. “You're being ridiculous!”

There was a beat of silence, and my mother leaned closer to me. Then she let loose, shouting, “Oh, you want ridiculous? Fine! You go up to your room, and I don't want to see your face downstairs until tomorrow.”

“But—”

“You heard me, young lady. If I so much as hear the creak of your bedroom door, you're grounded for the rest of the week. Is that clear?”

Shocked, I said nothing.

“Is that clear?” she thundered.

Though I was shaking with anger, I managed a curt nod and a squeaky, “Yes, ma'am.”

My mother pursed her lips and gave an approving tilt of her head. “Very good.” Then, without another word, she stepped daintily out of the car and slammed the door hard behind her.

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A/N: I really don't remember half of the stuff I wrote in November, but that's okay because I'm pleasantly surprised at how not completely terrible it is :D