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Trine
After Misha tells me to brace myself for anything, and above all, stay behind him, I walk into Tom Souter’s house.
There’s nothing particularly interesting about the house itself. From the corner of my eye, I can hear Luke talking quietly to a woman in the living room, but Misha doesn’t stop to introduce us. When he notices I’m lagging behind, he reaches back and grabs me by the hand, pulling me close to him.
He doesn’t have to do that. I can follow him without prompting. Yet as soon as we are in front of an open door, quiet male voices projecting to the sunken hallway, my heart drops to my stomach.
There might be nothing ordinary about the house, but the air thickens the moment we approach the room, and I can smell something acrid and rotten nearby.
Misha pushes me back gently, his finger on his mouth. He shakes his head as he gestures for me to be quiet. "Remember, don’t make any comments about his appearance," he says. "You’re only there to help him answer any questions."
My heart hammers in my chest. I feel like I’m going to be sick, partially because I wonder if they had a similar debrief before going into my bedroom and performing my exorcism. I haven’t even seen Tom yet and I know for a fact that this is going to be bad. Just thinking about how he looks is enough to send my pulse skittering.
I tell myself I’m just overreacting. This is just a kid; his situation is nothing like mine. I’m here to help him, not to worry about myself. Misha’s hands are on my arms, his fingertips digging gently into my biceps. "You don’t have to go through with this," he says. "You can get in your car and drive away. You can go home and forget about all this."
I can’t deny that there’s a part of me that really wants to do that. My body is screaming at me to run out of here. Leaving seems like the smart idea.
But I can’t. I won’t. I’m staying.
I’m going to do whatever it takes to find answers. Even if it makes me feel like I need to vomit.
I close my eyes so I can take a deep, steadying breath, and I wrap my fingers around Misha’s forearms. I meet his eyes, and for the first time since we’ve met, Misha looks genuinely worried.
I can’t allow myself to let his feelings get to me. "I’m sure," I say. "I want to do this."
He nods, his arms falling to his side. "Just look at me if you need to get out of there."
I force myself to smile at him. "I’ll be okay," I say. "I promise."
It’s a lie. Not a good promise. We’re both aware of that, but he lets it go anyway.
"Stay by the wall. And, uh, he might say things that are…"
"What?"
"Hurtful," Misha says. "Ignore it. That’s not him. You can’t pay attention to that part of him."
"How will I know?"
He shakes his head, shrugging. Great. He hadn’t said anything about this when we were outside. I fist my hands at my sides and steel myself to walk inside Tom’s room, the disgusting aroma making my eyes water. I clasp my hand over my nose and mouth, fighting the urge to throw up on this boy’s carpeted floor.
Rei doesn’t seem to have the same issue. He’s sitting on the bed with Tom, facing away from us, taking notes on his phone. As if this was just an ordinary patient. He looks up at me, flashes me a tight smile, and goes back to Tom.
Misha’s hand falls reassuringly on my shoulder, his fingertips closing in around my skin. He’s so close to me I can feel the heat rolling off his body, and I think there’s a part of him that wants to wrap his arm around my waist and pull me close. Maybe I’m just reading too much into it, but I can hear how shaky his breath is, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s scared of what’s happening or if it’s because he’s so close to me.
I don’t want to be presumptuous, but it certainly feels like the latter is affecting him.
I crane my neck back to look at him, and then I hear deep laughter, a gravelly noise echoing around the room. When I hear laughter, a shiver runs down my spine. I know what Tom sounds like, and it’s not like this. There’s a lilt to his voice, a raspiness, a sense of uncertainty.
But there’s nothing like that here.
Whoever is speaking—and it isn’t Tom, I’m not sure how I know but I know it for sure—isn’t uncertain at all. They know what they’re doing. What they’re trying to do.
And it feels like it’s to hurt me.
"Catherine Andrea Lange," he says, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else. Like it’s in the middle of his chest, and like his voice is projected from there, not coming out of his mouth at all. He cocks his head, his eyes shining in the darkness, a gruesome, toothy smile on his face. "I was speaking to the three stooges, but not you. He wasn’t expecting you."
I inch closer to the wall, pressing my body against it. Misha takes a step back with me.
