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I really like it. I really like him.
The realization sinks in, but I’m still trying to process what happened inside the house. I can’t deal with having these many feelings at once, not when I haven’t even managed to process what happened a few minutes ago.
“Am I what?” he says, turning his face to look at me, the darkness of his brown eyes contrasting against the paleness of his skin. He was clearly rattled, too. "Have any of you ever been possessed?"
He furrows his brow as he considers this. "Their stories are not mine to tell. But no. I don't think that's what's going on here, and I don’t think I’m particularly vulnerable to this. If I haven’t gotten possessed by this point, then I probably never will be.”
“You don’t think so?” I ask softly. He doesn’t seem too convinced. It’s like he’s trying to talk himself into believing it.
“Nothing will happen me. I’m not particularly in tune with the supernatural, I don't really get vibes or anything like that. I just know how to approach things when they get out of control, that's my only special talent. Nothing else."
He makes it sound so simple. I don’t think it’s simple at all, but I can tell he wants me to drop this line of questioning. Still, I’m not ready to go inside, and I don’t think he wants to, either. The longer we can remain out here—the longer we can avoid going back into Tom’s room—the better it will be for both of us. I guess my best bet is to keep making conversation for as long as I can.
"You mentioned that you got into this because you know people who fell through the cracks. Have you seen anything like this before?" I ask. I can’t help but look back at the back door, where we both came from.
I can't hear anything from out here, but even then, I know the exorcism is still happening. I know it has to be, and even that vague awareness makes my stomach clench in fear. Things are happening in there that I have no idea about, and I instinctively touch my neck, remembering how Tom's hand felt as he gripped it tightly. As he tried to kill me.
“Yes,” Misha says. He’s watching me closely. I know he can see where my hands are, and his gaze flits between them and my eyes. But he doesn’t ask me about it, and I’m really grateful that he decides to keep the focus on himself. "You don’t start…hell, you don’t stay in this line of work if you don’t see things like that.”
I swallow, my mouth dry. “When?”
He sighs. “Long story,” he says, looking around. “I grew up in a house like this. It was really beautiful. My family and I lived in a suburb in Massachusetts, like an hour away from Boston. My parents owned some land, and the house was surrounded by oaks and pines and red maples. The leaves would turn yellow and brown and as my sister and I left the house to go to school in the morning, we could hear the leaves crunching underfoot. And honestly, I don't know how, but the ground always smelled like cinnamon and apples. Fall was always my favorite season, because it was almost time to do crazy stuff like go sledding or whatever. There was something really serene about those months. And I also really liked that my mom was going to…”
"To what?"
"She was going to calm down. She liked fall too,” he says.
“Was she possessed?”
He laughs, a little bitterly. “No, she was just an asshole,” he replies. “But my parents were deeply religious, and when they heard that there was a kid in our neighborhood who was possessed, they decided to take my siblings and I to see him. Not to help, they felt we were slipping away from their grip, and they wanted to scare us.”
I watch him. “Fuck.”
“He wasn’t,” he says. “To be clear, now, as a grown-up, I realize that the thirteen-year-old kid who we went to see was sick, and it was probably his parents’ making. He looked so terrible. His skin was greying, and he just…he used to be my friend, and he wouldn’t even look at me anymore.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yeah. And then he died,” he continues. “I’ve never been able to figure it out, but they either starved him or poisoned him to death. All because they wanted everyone to feel sorry for them.”
“Jesus,” I say, barely holding back the urge to wince.
“Yeah, there was an investigation, but not enough to convict. The church my parents went to believed they were being persecuted, and eventually the state dropped any investigation or whatever. I understand there’s a ton of red tape around removing a child from their home, I mean, trust me, if anyone gets it, it’s me. But when I came into this, I thought I would stop anyone who wanted to do something like that to a child. That was my plan.”
I wait for him. He turns to look at me, and he swallows. “Sorry, tell me if this is too much,” he says. “I don’t talk about it a lot, but…I don’t know. You’re easy to talk to.”
“No. I want to know.”
“Anyway, fast forward to my practicum,” he says. “I’m doing crisis intervention at a rural health clinic, mostly pediatrics, so I’m focused on kids and teens. And there’s this girl there…she’s young, and she’s really distressed, and her parents are inconsolable because she’s really sick and getting sicker. So my supervisor leaves the room, and this girl turns to me and she…she just starts talking about Toby. She doesn’t just give me details, she gives me his name. Toby Sinclair. No way she could’ve known that.”
“Fuck.”
“Right? I had no idea what to do.”
“So what did you end up doing?”
He turns to me and smiles. “What do you think I did? The only thing I could think to do. I called a priest.”
