Page 58 of Play Nice

“I’m Father Bernard,” he said. “I’m here for a quick visit, to see your new house.”

Cici made a face. “Like that other guy?”

“Father John, yes. He’s a friend of mine.”

So often we’re trained to ignore our intuition. That it’s impolite or irrational to be anything but sweet and nice, arms open, ankles crossed. I was scolded by my parents, by teachers, by friends, by ex-lovers, by your father. I was told so many times that my intuition was wrong when it was right that I didn’t know how to trust myself anymore. Men love a beautiful fool. Weak men, rather. I didn’t want you girls to suffer the way I did.

“He had a pretty bad time,” she said, and returned to her breakfast.

Elle and Dee said nothing. They exchanged looks and then got up and went to their room.

Cici stayed at the table, occasionally poking at her oatmeal while doodling on a notepad.

“It’s better if I explore the house alone,” Father Bernard said. “Without your influence.”

“ ‘Influence’?” I asked.

He waved me off again and started to wander around, muttering prayers to himself.

I sat beside Cici at the dining table with my coffee, now gone cold.

Father Bernard moved through the house. He was slow, methodical. With his Bible and his prayers and a vial of holy water.

Cici drew. I finished my cold coffee.

Elle emerged from her room. “We’re going to be late to school.”

“You can be late,” I told her. What could I do?

She huffed, clenching her jaw, her fists, and stormed back into her room, slamming the door.

I looked over at Cici. She was drawing a picture of the house.

“That’s very good,” I told her, because it was. Not just good for a seven-year-old. She was a prodigy. A very talented artist.

“Thanks,” she said. “I know.”

There was a crash downstairs.

I gasped, but Cici was unfazed. She raised her eyebrows, shrugged.

“Father Bernard?” I called as I got up and went over to the stairs.

He was coming up to the landing, patting his head with a handkerchief.

“Alexandra, I need to speak with you,” he said sternly. “Outside. Now, please.”

“I’ll be right back,” I told Cici.

“Ooooh, you’re in trouble,” she singsonged, grinning at me.

I met Father Bernard outside. He paced on the front pathway. It was a hot, sticky day. Impossibly humid. He was drenched in sweat.

“I have known Father John for a long, long time. We were altar boys together, before you were even a twinkle in your father’s eye. When I received the call from him, I knew the matter at hand must be urgent. You see, all priests are aware of and educated on the subject of occult phenomena, but only some are specialists in dealing with such matters. I am one of such specialists, which is why John reached out to me. He relayed his concern of a possible infestation. Diabolical interference.”

An awful expression in general, but especially from the mouth of a priest, and this priest in particular.

“I’m sorry. What does that mean?”