Possess (6 page)

“He’s getting a lot better,” Matt continued. “You know, I think once he gets over his fear of the ball, he could be pretty good.”

“Yeah?” Bridget said, despite herself.

“Totally.” Matt turned to her with a grin. “His timing is pretty impressive.”

Bridget couldn’t help smiling. Anything that might help Sammy get along better at school made her happy. “Thank you.”

Matt slowed down for the stop sign. “No problem. I like Sammy.”

Bridget laughed. “You and I might be the only two people on the planet who do.”

They smiled at each other, and Bridget couldn’t suppress the warmth spreading over her. There was something so familiar about Matt. Homey. Comfortable. Something that reminded her of a happier time in her life.

A honk from the car behind them snapped Matt’s attention back to the road, and he accelerated through the intersection. As they drove in silence, the radio DJ bumped out of a commercial break into the next song, and Coldplay blared through the speakers once more.

Without thinking, Bridget reached to change the station. At the same time, Matt’s hand shot forward and his fingers grazed the top of hers. Bridget was surprised how soft his fingers felt; she’d assumed a pitcher would have rough, calloused hands. Matt let his fingertips linger, and even though Bridget’s first instinct was to pull back, she didn’t.

What the hell was wrong with her? Bridget shook herself and whipped her hand away from the radio. Matt’s hand fell to his lap.

“Why are you so difficult?” he blurted out.

“Me?”

“Yeah. You know, I’ve tried really hard to be your friend since I moved back to San Francisco. But you’re so prickly all the time. Always looking for a fight.”

“I am not!”

“See?”

Bridget threw up her hands. “What?”

That look of concern crept back into Matt’s face. “You weren’t like that when we were kids. You were more fun. You used to smile. And laugh.”

His words struck a chord. At one point in time there’d been a happy, laughing Bridget Liu, content to wear her school uniform and play peekaboo with her baby brother, or hide-and-seek with the son of her dad’s best friend. But somewhere along the line, that Bridget had been lost, masked by a hard, sarcastic shell complete with steel-toed boots and a don’t-mess-with-me scowl.

Bridget sighed. She was so tired. Tired of fighting with everyone. Tired of having no one to confide in. Hector wasn’t exactly a confidant, and Peter would only get two seconds into a serious conversation about her feelings before the words “I love you” came spilling out of his mouth. Her dad had been her best friend. Now that he was gone and her mom had a revolving door of boyfriends, it was like she had no one to talk to.

She glanced sidelong at her chauffeur. Maybe Matt understood? They’d been close once, a long time ago, and in a way, he’d also lost a parent. Although in his case it was to a dot-com millionaire who moved his mom to Dubai. Still, they must have been close since he’d lived with her for all those years after his parents divorced. When she left, it must have felt like she’d been ripped from his life too. Just like her dad.

The truck slowed as Matt pulled into her driveway.

“Are you going to Winter Formal?”

His question caught her so off guard, she burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t do dances.”

“Why not?”

“Well, the lameness factor for starters.”

“You ever been?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then you can’t judge.”

Bridget shook her head. “Dude, are you applying for my mom’s job?”

Matt ignored the jab. “You should go.”

“To Winter Formal?”

“Yeah. You should go with me.”

Did he just invite himself to her school dance? “No way.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of a dance? You’re kidding, right?”

Matt looked right at her. There was a hint of a smile he couldn’t suppress. “Then prove me wrong.”

Bridget wasn’t a complete moron. She knew when she was being played. Matt had found her sore spot: her inability to refuse a challenge.

“Fine,” she said, meeting his steady gaze. “Hope you don’t mind a date in combat boots.”

Matt smiled, flashing that lethal combination of perfect teeth and hazel eyes. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Eight

B
RIDGET DRAGGED HER BACKPACK THROUGH
the front door and dropped it on the spiral carpet, then sank to the floor herself and leaned back, clicking the door into place. She reached up and bolted it. The way her day was going, it was only a matter of time before someone else showed up at the house: Monsignor, Father Santos, Matt Quinn. Nope, she was locking them all out.

Bridget closed her eyes and sucked in slow, deep breaths. The house was so quiet. A-freaking-men.

Maybe being grounded wouldn’t be so bad. It gave her an excuse to spend her time at home doing whatever she wanted. Yeah, this could be awesome. Like a break from everything. No chiding about Matt Quinn, no training with Monsignor, no voices in the walls . . .

The silence was broken by the patter of feet—paws, to be exact—trotting across the hardwood floor in the dining room.

Bridget’s eyes flew open and swept the room. She thought for sure she’d see an animal of some sort disappearing down the hall. But there was nothing. Just a gentle
swoosh swoosh
from the swinging door that led into the kitchen, as if something small had just pushed its way through.

Bridget scrambled to her feet and crept to the kitchen door. Had the neighbor’s cat gotten in somehow? Bridget cringed. She hated Mr. Moppet, the Shaughnessys’ longhaired Burmese. Or maybe it was a rat? Bridget wasn’t sure which was worse. She slowly pushed the door open and heard the sound of scurrying feet again, this time more of a clacking sound as the animal padded across the cushiony linoleum flooring. It had to be Mr. Moppet, who was always wandering into open garage doors in the neighborhood. But how had he gotten inside the house? And more importantly, how was Bridget going to get him out?

Bridget peeked around the door, hoping not to scare the stupid cat, but there was nothing there. No cat, no rat. Nothing.

What the hell?

She tiptoed into the kitchen. “Mr. Moppet,” she said, trying to sound nonthreatening. “Here, kitty, kitty. Here, stupid kitty who hates my freaking guts.”

Silence. She checked the pantry, but the door was firmly latched. She checked under the table, behind the recycling bins, even under the sink. No Mr. Moppet. No nothing.

Had she imagined the footsteps? Possible, but then why had the door been swinging back and forth like something had gone through?

A sickening thought hit her. She’d heard animal noises in the walls at Mrs. Long’s house, grunting pigs and stomping hooves. Could this be the same thing?

See? She was right. Demonic activity
was
following her around.

Okay. She could handle this. She was a trained exorcist, after all. Bridget stilled herself and took a deep breath, trying to sense the room, just as Monsignor had taught her. Twice before in the presence of a demon, she’d been able to feel it in the air—the heaviness, the oppression, and that strange dizzy sensation of the walls stretching and skewing. Not this time. Her kitchen felt exactly like her kitchen.

There was one other test, one other way to know if there was an entity in her house. She reached a tentative hand toward the wall. If there was something there, she’d definitely hear it.

BRRRRRRRRING!

Bridget let out a muffled yelp as the telephone broke the silence. Out of breath, her heart racing, she picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” she panted.

“Bridget?” her mom asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay? You sound like you just ran home from school.”

“I’m fine,” she lied. “I was in the bathroom.”

“Oh.” Her mom sounded less than convinced. “Well, I left you a note on the refrigerator. Do you see it?”

Bridget scanned the fridge door and saw a list in her mom’s neat, schoolteacher print, held up by a San Francisco Giants magnet. “Yeah.”

“It’s your list of chores for today. You’re grounded, not on vacation.”

Perfect.

“And the last one is most important. Put the roast in at four forty exactly. I’m taking Sammy to math club, so we’ll be home after six and I want dinner ready to go, okay?”

Pat pat pat pat pat.
Bridget spun around, searching for the source of the footsteps. Still nothing. Was she losing her mind?

“Bridget, did you hear me?”

“Roast. Oven. Got it.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

Bridget held the receiver to her ear even as the dial tone buzzed. Her eyes were frozen on the kitchen door, swinging madly back and forth. From beneath the sleeve of her sweater, Bridget felt the charm on her bracelet give one violent lurch.

Bridget stumbled backward, holding her arm as far away from her as she could. Animal footsteps, maybe, but she sure as hell didn’t imagine
that
.

Bridget dialed the number for the St. Michael’s rectory from memory.

“St. Michael’s,” the little old church lady who volunteered in the kitchen croaked forth. “How can I—”

“Monsignor Renault, please,” Bridget blurted out.

“I’m sorry,” she drawled. Was she talking this slowly specifically to piss Bridget off? “Monsignor is not to be disturbed this afternoon.”

She always said that. And he always took her call. “It’s Bridget Liu.”

As expected, the church lady grumbled something incoherent and put Bridget’s call on hold. A peppy rendition of “City of God” blared as hold music just long enough for Bridget to start to sing along with the chorus. Catholic brainwashing at its best.

“Bridget?” Monsignor said. “Is everything okay?”

“Um . . .” How exactly did she bring this up? There’s a ghost in my house? My jewelry’s moving by itself? She was going to sound like a lunatic.

“Is something wrong?”

“Kind of.” Monsignor was silent, waiting for her to explain. “I think there’s something in the house.”

“What kind of something?”

“I don’t know. It sounds like a cat, but I can’t see anything. Just footsteps and doors swinging like something went through them.”

“Did you calm yourself? Take a breath and try to sense the room?”

Bridget smiled. “Yeah, just like you taught me.”

“And the house feels normal?”

“Totally.”

“Interesting.” Monsignor paused. She could almost see him twirling that massive silver ring around his finger as he drifted into thought. “You don’t hear anything? No voices?”

“Nothing.”

“Very interesting.”

For him, maybe. Bridget was freaking the hell out.

“I suggest,” Monsignor said after a pause, “that you try to ignore it. If it
is
an entity, giving it attention will only serve to strengthen it. Try and go about your afternoon as normally as possible.”

Normal for a girl who can banish demons. Awesome. “That’s it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh.”

“But call me if anything changes or the contact escalates, okay?”

Bridget’s eyes crept toward the kitchen door that still hadn’t stopped swinging back and forth. “Okay.”

“Excellent. Good luck.”

Bridget’s mom hunched over her plate, trying to get some leverage as she cut a piece of pot roast with a flimsy table knife. Eventually she was able to tear a chunk of the overcooked meat free and get it into her mouth. Bridget couldn’t help but smile as she furtively watched her mom chew the meat for a full minute before she could swallow.

“Excellent job with the pot roast, Bridget,” Mrs. Liu said with a big, kind grin. “Really, really great.”

Her mom was a horrible liar. “Thanks.”

“Isn’t it great, Sammy?”

Sammy stuck out his tongue and made a slobbery motorboat sound.

“Sammy!” her mom snapped.

Bridget touched her tongue to the tip of her nose—one of Sammy’s favorite tricks—and sent him into a paroxysm of laughter, spouting bits of overcooked pot roast all over the table.

“Samuel Michael,” her mom said, wiping up bits of food with a napkin. “That is not something we do at the dinner table. How old are you?”

“Square root of sixty-four,” Sammy said, pushing the meat, potatoes, and carrots around on his plate in concentric circles.

“Yes, Sammy.” Her mom sighed. “Now finish your pot roast.”

“Gross,” he said.

Bridget couldn’t help but agree. She’d meant to take the roast out after exactly an hour and twenty minutes, just like the note said, but she’d gotten distracted. She had been at the piano, working her way through a Chopin prelude and trying to ignore whatever it was haunting her house, just like Monsignor said to do, when she heard the same scampering paws across the dining-room floor. She continued to ignore it, but every few minutes she’d hear that damn cat again, each time with the same quick trot, scooting down the hall toward her room.

The fifth time, she got up and closed every single door in the house: her mom’s room, her room, Sammy’s room, the bathroom, and the door that led downstairs to the garage. Closed tight, locking the cat in one of them. It wasn’t supernatural; it was just some poor, dumb animal trapped in the house. Mr. Moppet could just stay put until her mom came home.

As soon as she sat down at the piano, she heard the footsteps again, pattering down the hall toward her room.

She bolted from her chair and ran down the hall only to freeze in her tracks halfway. The door to her room was wide open, and from inside she heard a muffled sound.

MEEEEEEOW
.

That’s when the panic set in. All her training, all Monsignor’s words, went right out the window. Bridget attacked her room, desperate to find the source of the noise. She pulled her bed apart, threw her closet open and dug through piles of shoes and old school uniforms. She hauled her desk away from the wall and even yanked the grate off the heating duct, just in case the cat had gotten inside.

Still no Mr. Moppet, and the only result of her mad search had been a disgustingly overdone pot roast.

“I think Mr. Moppet got in the house again,” Bridget said. That cat loved her mom and Sammy, so maybe they’d have an easier time finding the thing.

Her mom glared. “That’s not funny, Bridget. You’re going to upset Sammy.”

Had everyone gone insane? “Why would Mr. Moppet in the house upset Sammy? He loves that stupid cat.”

“He’s not stupid!” Sammy screamed. He shot up from the table, face red as a well-done lobster, and launched his fork right at Bridget’s head. She ducked just in time; the fork barely missed.

“Sammy?” she said. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“He’s not!” Sammy continued. “He’s not! He’s not!”

Without another word, Sammy dashed from the kitchen. Bridget could hear his sobs as he ran down the hall to his room. Dammit.

“Mom, what’s going on?”

Her mom sighed. “I forgot. You weren’t here yesterday when Mrs. Shaughnessy stopped by.”

A lump rose in Bridget’s throat as she realized what her mom was getting at. Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please don’t say the stupid cat is dead.

“They had to put Mr. Moppet down.”

Shit.

Bridget stared at the ceiling in the darkness of her bedroom. Mr. Moppet was dead. Could she have imagined it all? She wasn’t insane; she’d heard an animal. She’d seen the door moving. And she was pretty sure there was no demonic presence in the house. Yet a phantom cat and her self-
propelled bracelet charm hinted otherwise. Was there another explanation?

A light tapping at her door made her jump.

“Bridge?” Sammy poked his head into her room. She could see his mess of dark hair in the soft glow of moonlight. “Are you asleep?”

“Nope,” she said.

“Good.” She heard his bare feet pad across the floor, and with a sigh, she scooted over and held up the comforter for her little brother.

“What’s wrong?” she asked to the back of Sammy’s head.

“Nightmare.”

“Elephants again?” Sammy had been terrified of elephants ever since he’d seen the psychedelic dream sequence in
Dumbo
.

“No.”

Phew. Getting him back to sleep after one of his elephant nightmares was almost impossible. “Was it about school?”

She felt Sammy shake his head back and forth, then he pulled the comforter up to his ears and his body shuddered with a sob.

“Sammy?” He rarely cried, or showed much emotion at all. What was wrong with him tonight?

“Mr. . . . ,” he began, then his voice choked off.

Ugh. The damn cat. “Mr. Moppet? You had a nightmare about Mr. Moppet?”

“Mmhmm.” Sammy scootched toward her until his frigid feet just touched her knees. Bridget froze. Sammy
hated
being touched.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” she said. She laid a hand on his back, but he flinched away. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d known he was . . .” Dead? Stone-cold dead and
haunting our freaking house
?

“Had a dream,” Sammy said. His voice cracked. “Had a dream about Mr. Moppet.”

Bridget stiffened. “A dream? Was he . . .” Flail, how did she bring it up? “Was he in the house?”

“In the house,” Sammy repeated. “Running in the house.”

Yeah, not a dream, kiddo.

“Running up and down the hall,” Sammy continued. “I could hear him.”

Bridget wasn’t sure if she was happy someone else could hear the phantom cat or sad that Sammy was plagued with this nightmare. “It was just a dream.” Bridget hoped her voice sounded convincing. “Mr. Moppet was sick, and now he’s . . . he’s in Heaven. He’s happy there.”

Sammy glanced back at her. “Cats don’t go to Heaven,” he said. “Sister Monica said so.”

Stupid freaking nuns. “Well, he’s in a better place, okay?”

“Promise?”

“I promise. Now try and get some sleep, Sammy.”

He snuggled down into the pillow next to her. “Okay.”

So Sammy could hear the footsteps too. Ugh.

Good news, Bridget wasn’t crazy, although having Sammy as her sanity touchstone wasn’t exactly the most comforting thing in the world. Bad news, she couldn’t pretend the footsteps weren’t really there. Something was in the house. Something she couldn’t see.

She rolled over and stared at her alarm clock, the deep red glow of numbers telling her that she’d be lucky to get five hours of sleep before she had to get up for her meeting with Father Santos.