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Eleanor sets her sights on him next, “And you.” She lumbers over to him slow and deliberately, like a wild cat stalking its prey.
“We meet again.”
“I always knew this day would come,” Dante says. “Now, leave my friend alone.”
Eleanor laughs again, “Oh, Dante. If only it were that simple! I am this house, this beach, this island. You can try and cast me out with whatever paltry magic you have at your disposal, but it won’t work!” Eleanor cackles gleefully and approaches me again.
She sits on my lap, kissing my neck hungrily. Her teeth raze my throat. “We’re finally together, my love. I have dreamed of this day.” Eleanor exclaims.
“Get away from my son!” My mother thunders. Eleanor turns her head toward her so slowly that I can see every muscle in her neck moving.
“Iphigenia, you look well.”
“Spare me the pleasantries, Beatrix, leave.” My mother demands.
Eleanor runs her hand along my jaw again, “No.” She gives me a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, shoving her tongue into my mouth.
On the table, the EVP reader emits a high-pitched cry, and the needle on the front of the reader thrashes wildly in multiple different directions.
“Join hands,” Dante demands. Eleanor still licks my neck as I take Dante’s hand in mine.
“Tonight, we call upon the solstice to destroy all evil energy existing under this roof and in these walls.” Dante declares. The chandelier above the dining room table starts to shake.
“You wish,” Eleanor hisses. She gets up from my lap and starts to crawl slowly across the table. Her movements are stilted and mechanical. There’s a manic glint in her eyes as her hands arc into claws.
“Evan, hand me the diary,” Dante whispers. Evan passes Dante the diary from under the table.
“Beatrix, tonight we cast you out. We are surrounded by good. We call upon the white light, upon the solstice, to cleanse you from this home. You are not going to be bothering Joseph, Iphigenia, or any of the remaining Idylewylde’s any longer.” Dante yells.
Evan flicks something onto Eleanor from a tiny, clear bottle with a cross painted on it. Eleanor starts to howl. She arches her spine like a cat. I hear a sickening crack as her shoulder juts out from the socket. Something is warring inside of her. She’s panting. Her forehead is soaked in sweat.
Dante continues to yell. “You are not welcome here. Evil is not welcome here! Vacate Eleanor, now!” A guttural cry fills the dining room.
Eleanor thrashes, knocking the candle holders off the table and kicking the tablecloth. She digs her nails into the ancient oak of the table, scratching so hard that her nails come back bloody, with bits of wood beneath the cuticles. Outside, the wind is whipping the snow against the windows; the howl of the wind mingles with Eleanor’s.
“Be gone!” Dante continues. I’m scared now. She might not be Eleanor right now, but that’s still the body of the woman I love on the table, and it hurts me to see her in pain. Evan continues flicking what I presume is holy water onto Eleanor, but nothing’s working. A river of spit threads its way down Eleanor’s chin. She’s foaming at the mouth. A blood vessel burst in one of her eyes.
Eleanor’s back arch at what would be an undeniably painful angle. My mother gets up from her chair with Beatrix’s diary in hand.
“Beatrix, be gone!” She declares. She looks around frantically before slamming the diary against the back of Eleanor’s head, almost as if she’s unsure of what else to try. Eleanor shrieks, continuing to claw at the table, but soon, she’s unable to fight my mother off. She grunts, “Fuck you, Iphigenia.”
My mother rolls her eyes, “Beatrix, you messed with the wrong Idylewylde. Now, get out!” She slams the diary back against the back of Eleanor’s head. Eleanor pauses mid-lurch. Suddenly, her muscles relax. Her fingers flatten, and her breathing steadies. We lock eyes briefly, and I know it’s the real Eleanor.
“Joseph,” Eleanor says weakly. The warmth returns to her eyes before her chest lurches upward. She gasps, her hand clawing at her throat before she falls back onto the table with a loud THUNK.
The wind continues to howl, and then silence soft as falling snow fills the room.
“Eleanor!” I rush over to her side and check her pulse. It’s slow but steady.
“We need to go to the hospital,” I say. Evan gets up and calls 911. The thought of waiting for an ambulance feels like it would take too long. We load Eleanor into the car. Dante and Evan stay with her in the backseat. My mother white-knuckles the little handle above the passenger seat while the gas pedal squeaks from exertion. My foot hits the floor of the car as we round the corner.
I can see the faint red glow of the emergency bay’s sign-up ahead. The tires squeal as I slam the brakes. The parking lot is icy. We skid a bit as we stop. The exertion throws me forward, and I almost hit the steering wheel with my chest.
“Help me get her out,” I tell Dante.
I rush to the passenger door, and Dante transfers Eleanor’s limp body into my waiting arms. Her breathing is slow and shallow. She shakes in my arms as the whoosh of the automatic doors ushers us through the entrance. I’m frantic with worry.
The receptionist looks at Eleanor’s body in my arms, and her face pales. The next half hour is a flurry of activity. Various nurses transfer Eleanor onto a gurney. My arm remains curled for the rest of the night, instinctually holding her to me. They rush down the hall. The wheels squeak and groan against the linoleum floor. It smells like antiseptic and Clorox.
