It makes me feel like I’m the one who’s at fault. Like this is my fault. Father Albert looks at my bed and it’s like he’s thinking that it’s pathetic.
It makes me mad.
Really mad.
When he looks back at me, waving me in—“Dear son, please, be by my side”—I want to punch him. I want to push him to the ground. I come up with a dozen things I want to do to him and they all end the same way: he leaves and never comes back. I’m like, Why do you get to judge me? Can I judge you? Can I tell you how fake you are? How you probably never had one single original thought in your head? How you probably never did anything interesting in life? You just followed the same footsteps and ended up where you are, Father Albert.
But there I am, standing at his side.
He places a hand on my forehead and I’m surprised by how warm it is. It’s like almost scalding hot.
He starts reciting another prayer.
In this moment, I start to feel a little sick.
“Hunter, stay with me, son,” Father Albert says.
I want this to end. That’s what I’m thinking.
I want this to end.
I want this to end. I repeat it in my head, like some kind of message that won’t send. I want this to end.
I start shaking.
I want this to end.
Father Albert says, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit…”
I want this to end. Now.
Suddenly the bedroom door shuts.
Father Albert stops praying.
We start hearing the scratching sounds.
It gets colder. I remember the cold. I see my breath and Father Albert’s too. I can still feel the heat on my forehead. I know that you never left, and then I also see what’s about to happen.
I start to feel better.
Father Albert keeps telling me, “It will be okay, son.”
He holds on to my hand. The look on his face, the way his lips still move, he’s reciting the rosary. I see the beaded necklace in his hand. Oh, so that’s what it is. I didn’t know until just now what that was.
Then we hear the rumbling again.
Father Albert closes his Bible, tells me, “It appears as though the situation is far more advanced than previously specified.”
Like that’s my fault. Right? My fault?
“I told you what I knew.”
Father Albert nods.
I ask him, “What are you going to do now?”
Just because I’m curious.
Does a priest get afraid?
Father Albert keeps cool. Of course Father Albert always keeps his cool. I kind of want him to just be real. I want him to jump in fear. I want him to start praying for his own safety. I want him to be like, “Damn, man, this is bad.”
Something like that.
Instead he tells me, “Perhaps it’s best to leave before we provoke the spirit any further.”
I know what’s going to happen next.
He tries the door.
It doesn’t budge.
Yeah, I’ve been there, man. I’m right here with you, but really, I’m just watching. I’m convinced that it’s all an act and Father Albert’s the star of this prank. Father Albert, come on — do you really think that’s going to work? He keeps trying the door and then he starts ramming the door with his shoulder. He wants to break through the door. But he doesn’t need to do all that.
The door. It’ll open the moment I try turning the doorknob.
Father Albert stops and straightens his collar. Says to me, “My apologies, Hunter. Let us both pray and the activity will pass. The spirit only has so much energy at its expense. It shall soon tire.”
I shake my head. “Let me try the door.”
I walk over and it’s like some planned stunt, I turn the doorknob like it wasn’t ever a problem.
The door opens and, yeah, Father Albert looks at me different, a loaded look, because of course he’s going to blame me. I’m at fault. And then he tells me that things need to speed up. He says that he’ll be here tomorrow. And I’m all about pretending that I don’t need any of this urgent care but that’s not going to work. Of course it isn’t going to work. So Father Albert says one last prayer and leaves, wishing me luck.
Right before he steps outside, he whispers to me, “Stay strong. You are in a battle for your soul.”
I watch him leave.
The house is quiet after he’s gone.
I whisper, “All for show.”
It was all for show.
Back upstairs in my room, I feel more like myself.
I stand at my bed, looking straight ahead. Time seems to pass.
I busy myself with the thoughts that should come, but instead, I’m left standing, waiting for anything, anything at all, to pop up. It’s like you know that you’re supposed to be doing something but you forgot what. That’s the way this feels. It feels like I was thinking about something but I misplaced that thought, or it was taken from me. I stand there, looking for it. Eventually it makes me tired. I find myself in bed, sheets up to my chin. I close my eyes, waiting for sleep to arrive. I can hear movement nearby, the air changing to the left of the bed. A knot forms in my throat. I feel like my heart is going to burst from my chest. Then I remember what it was that I was trying to think of, which really helps me settle down. There are more thoughts, but they keep their distance. I’m pretty calm, waiting.
I’ll be asleep in no time. It’s not like before, when I kept waking up. Now I just want to sleep through the entire day. Maybe I will.
H will be waiting.
This time I’m nobody. I’m nobody named. I’ll probably yawn, shiver, and scream in my sleep… but something about seeing everything from your eyes makes it better. It keeps me going. I’d be lying if I didn’t mention that the danger, the sheer worry that should be here, is misplaced and made into something that seems like another reason to have fun. Like watching horror movies back when I was a kid: I didn’t want to keep watching, because everyone knew that it’d only get crazier and scarier, but I’d keep watching. Even if I needed to cover my eyes, I kept watching.
That’s how I feel about this dream.
My dreams have become far more interesting than my days.
It starts like the others, which tells me that this one will be different. I just don’t know how. Not yet.
You stay in one place, near the bedroom door, watching as I turn on all the lights in the house. I look like an idiot, all nervous, thinking random thoughts. I keep thinking that I’m going to be able to ignore you, thinking about how there’s nothing in the attic, nothing going on that isn’t just a symptom of the haunting.
Nothing is “just” a symptom though.
I am beginning to understand that.
You are everywhere I couldn’t have imagined. It’s like I’m part of a reality television show for demons or something. I watch what you saw, and I half expect to be graded like I just finished singing or dancing. How did I do?
It’s only just begun.
I should be afraid but I was really afraid then — does that make up for now? I’m watching intently, and this feels kind of like how you watch your home movies later in life and critique how bad you were: Man, what was I thinking? Always better in the future, always better in the future.
So we’re watching as I walk up to the attic. I’m so damn slow.
No, this isn’t in slow motion, is it? Man, why am I hesitating? Just go!
If only I knew back then that you were right behind me… following me everywhere…
Most of the time, it seems, you are close enough that I can never be completely comfortable. Wait, I’m comfortable? It’s amazing to think that I can get used to that. After long, it’s a normal situation.