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Luke
Mrs. Souter offers us coffee and cookies, and even though we try to turn her down, she pours it for us. She’s the only one who eats, absent-mindedly putting the tiny wafers in her mouth. I think she’s doing it so she won’t grind her teeth together.
She keeps bouncing her leg up and down, her sandal barely staying on her foot.
"Thank you for coming," she says, her gaze staying on my collar for a few seconds. "I don’t want to bother you, but I didn’t know what else to do."
"We’re here to help," I say. "There’s no judgment from us, so please feel free to tell us everything that’s happened."
"Every detail might matter," Misha adds. He’s wearing a black shirt, his sleeves rolled up, his tattoo just peeking out from his clothes. He looks more like he’s here to take on some home improvement project than to do an exorcism. This casual demeanor normally puts people at ease, but I can tell Mrs. Souter doesn’t like it. She called us for an exorcism. I think she expects us to look the part. "When did you start noticing a difference in how your son acted? Just so you know, I’m recording this, but don’t hold back, alright? I won’t show it to anyone. It’s just for our own recordkeeping."
Misha places his phone between us. Mrs. Souter’s gaze flits between him and the phone.
"It’s okay, Mrs. Souter," I say. "Only the three of us will ever listen to this recording. You can say anything you need to."
She sighs, her shoulders slumping. "I don’t know," she says. "He started acting a little strange after he graduated from high school, and then after that, he stopped hanging with his friends as much. His girlfriend moved out of state for college and he just…he was always a quiet kid, but something happened. Something changed."
"Like he was depressed?" Misha asked.
"That’s what I thought at first," she says softly. "But it’s more than that. He started getting these bruises on his fingers, and his toes, and I thought he was hurting himself. And then…"
"Then?" Misha asks when she trails off.
Her voice is shaky when she speaks again. "And then I saw it happen," she says. "He just…this bruise appeared right in front of me. He hadn’t bumped into anything. He hadn’t been hurt. Something happened, though."
"Had he been doing any physical activity before that?" Misha asks. "You said he was an active kid during your call, so gym, skateboarding, anything like that?"
She furrows her brow. "I don’t know," she says. "It’s hard to say. But then things started to get worse, he…we would be watching tv in the living room, and he’d turn to me, and he’d say things I couldn’t understand."
"Like things that make no sense?"
"No," she says, shaking her head. "Things in a language I don’t speak. In a language neither one of us speaks."
"Do you know what language it was?" I ask her.
"German, maybe?" she says, sighing. "I don’t know. I thought he was playing a prank on me. But things changed after that. He stopped eating, he stopped…going out, doing anything, and sometimes I would hear him cry in the middle of the night and he sounded so pained. I kept asking him what was wrong, but he wouldn’t tell me. I don’t think he knew. Then he tried to hurt himself, and I…"
"It’s okay, Mrs. Souter," I say.
"You can call me Toni, father," she says warmly, then turns her gaze to Misha, suddenly aware she’s being rude. "You can too, sweetie."
He holds back a smile. "Thank you, Toni," he says. She flashes him a smile. "Has your son ever had any health issues before?"
"Ever?"
"Yes, ever," I reply. "Any detail might help us."
She furrows her brow. "When he was really little, he used to eat things that weren’t food," she says. "Well past when it was developmentally appropriate. He always seemed to crave dirt. We just thought it was a weird little quirk, we thought it was funny. The pediatrician told me that I just needed to keep an eye on what he was ingesting, that he would grow out of it–and he did. I never thought about it again. Only brought it up to embarrass him in front of his friends."
Misha smiles. "Thank you," he says. "This is very helpful. Do you mind if we look at his stuff?"
"He keeps most of his things in his bedroom, and I…I don’t like going in there, but you’re welcome to join your colleague," she says, her eyes brimming with tears. "Please help my son. I wish I didn’t need to call you, I’m sure you have many more important things to do, but I just…I can’t sleep. I’m worried he’s going to die. He’s so young…"
"We’ll do everything we can to help him," I say. "Do you mind if I pray for him?"
She closes her eyes, tears sliding down her cheeks. "No, please, go ahead."
Misha bows his head, his eyes closed, but I know I need to make this quick. This part is important—prayer matters. Even when the client isn’t possessed, this is often the part that makes the family most hopeful. And even if the outcome isn’t good, and it frequently isn’t good, there’s something to be said for a few minutes of solace.
