“I was never terrified,” you correct her.
“Then you won’t be now,” she says. “Your passengers, however, might be. The outcome will be the same, because it’s all you know of the experience and it’s all they know of the experience. It’s what happened.”
“How long will I be hypnotized?”
“Until everyone inside you has left.”
Emily rubs at her upper arms as if she is cold. “And there’s no danger?” she asks again.
“The spirits represent a danger to others while they have access to your husband-and they may represent a danger to him. But I think the element of the actual depossession that is most dangerous will be the effect on your husband of experiencing the crash once again. But he says he’ll be fine,” Reseda explains, and then she turns her gaze upon you, gauging your reaction. You shrug. Yes, you’ll be fine.
And so tonight when the girls are asleep you will go to Reseda’s. There, in the midst of the statuary and the plants in her greenhouse, a small world where, she insists, she is strongest and most persuasive, she will attempt to drive out the dead. Or, as she puts it, drive them home. It may all be over in an hour, but it may also take all night. When the Santa Fe shaman performed the depossession on her, liberating her twin sister, it had taken no more than forty-five minutes (though at the time, Reseda says, it felt as if it were taking all night). Twice before when Reseda herself has performed depossessions, once on a firefighter who was saddled with the dead from a house fire-an angry teen boy and his father, a man who had placed the very space heater in his son’s bedroom that would cause the electrical blaze-and once on Holly, who was coping with the dead from a car accident she had witnessed, it had taken hours. Reseda suggested this was because there had been multiple spirits trying to cohabit with the living. But she will take whatever time is needed.
“Is this an exorcism?” Emily asks as she walks the woman to the front door of your house.
“I don’t believe so,” Reseda replies.
“You don’t believe so?” Emily says, unable or unwilling to mask the bewilderment in her voice.
But Reseda merely shakes her head. “An exorcism would suggest that your husband has been possessed by demons. I’m not sure I believe in demons.” Then she smiles ever so slightly and adds, “I try not ever to be too sure of anything.”
As she speaks, you feel the throbbing in your head and understand that, at the very least, Ethan is listening. Perhaps Sandra and Ashley are, too. You have the distinct sense that Ethan is not going to leave quietly. He may not be a demon in any literal sense, but having to watch his daughter’s unquenchable loneliness in the purgatory he shares with her-a three-story Victorian to most of the living-has turned his anger to madness and made him by any definition more than a little demonic.
E mily put down the book she was reading-staring distractedly at words, she thought, because she was assimilating nothing-and leaned back in the blue easy chair in the living room. She contemplated what Reseda had said about her husband and then about the other herbalists. Early on, she had sensed a certain remoteness between Reseda and Anise, and today the woman had confirmed her instincts. Emily didn’t focus long on whatever schism might exist between Reseda and the other women, however, because she heard something outside-something other than the wind-and she sat forward, alert. She hoped it was Chip and Reseda finally returning. This was, after all, why she was waiting up. And then the house went dark.
For a moment, she remained perfectly still, trying-and failing-to convince herself that this was a power outage. The gusts of a fierce spring storm were rattling the windowpanes, and for all she knew there had even been thunder. Although it was only April, the weather reports had suggested there might be thunder that night. And up here on the hill, they seemed to lose power a lot, a detail of the house that neither Sheldon nor Reseda had ever mentioned. She told herself that the power would return any second, and well before it was time to get the girls out of bed and ready for school.
But she didn’t believe that. She didn’t believe that for a moment.
And then she thought she heard a thump, either below her in the basement or in the kitchen on the other side of the house, and she felt her heart drumming in her chest. If the cat had been alive, Emily would have attributed the sound to her. She listened intently, her feet flat on the floor in front of her rather than beneath her-the proper position for one’s feet when bracing for impact. Chip had told her that she should never put her feet below the airplane seat when a crash was imminent, because there was every chance that the seat would collapse on her ankles and crush them, making it impossible to exit the aircraft even if she survived the primary impact. Instead she would die in the firestorm that was likely to follow, choking on poisonous air or being burned beyond all but dental recognition. At the time, she had thanked him sarcastically; this was considerably more information than she needed to know. But then, of course, her very own husband’s plane would crash.
She cleared those thoughts from her mind and tried to recall where they kept a flashlight here on the first floor; she knew there was one beside her bed upstairs. She wondered if she had something nearby that could serve as a weapon-if, dear God, she needed one. Then she heard a noise above her as well, the sound of footsteps. It was the creak of the floorboards just outside Garnet’s bedroom. Already she knew that the boards there were more likely to wheeze when you walked upon them than was the flooring on the other side of the third-floor corridor or even the half-rotted boards on the attic side. She said a small prayer that her girls were awake, that was all it was, perhaps aware that the house had lost power, and it was only their footsteps she was hearing. Then she placed the novel on the floor and climbed silently from the chair, pressing her feet into her slippers. The house felt chillier than she would have expected, and she wondered if she had transitioned from a wool nightgown to a cotton nightshirt too soon. She thought she smelled the not unpleasant aroma of the musky, softening earth and the idea crossed her mind that the front door had been opened, but she tried to reassure herself that this was unlikely. Even though the door was on the other side of the house, she was on the first floor. Wouldn’t she have heard it opening? But the sad fact was, nothing was unlikely in this old house; even its acoustics were peculiar. The truth was, she should worry. She should be terrified. For all she knew, Garnet had opened the front door and was out in the greenhouse or the meadow right now. Once before the girl had wandered into the cellar in the middle of the night; what was to prevent something from drawing her outside now?
Emily didn’t like the way her mind had phrased that: something drawing her outside. It sounded either conspiratorial or suggestive of a belief that the house was haunted. Which it wasn’t. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Reseda did. Her husband did-at least he did now. But she did not. The issues dogging her family were mental illness and seizures and a group of neighbors who were either well intentioned but sociopathically intrusive or less well intentioned and interested in her daughters in a way that was delusional and macabre. Neither possibility seemed inconceivable to her. She hoped she had simply failed to lock the front door before settling in the chair to await Chip’s return, and one of those northeaster-like squalls she was hearing now had blown the door open.
After rooting around the kitchen in the dark, feeling her way across the room with her fingertips, she finally found the heavy metal flashlight. It was too long for most of the drawers and so stood upright like a column in a crevice between the Sheetrock and the side of the refrigerator. Then Emily went to the entry hallway and her heart sank: The front door was wide open and the glass storm door was an inch or two ajar, prevented from swinging shut because the entry mat was bunched up beneath it and serving as a doorstop. Some of the downpour was whipping into the hallway, and the frame looked to Emily like the side of a shower stall. She leaned outside into the pelting rain and waved her flashlight haphazardly, unsure precisely what she hoped to accomplish but starting to panic. Although it probably wasn’t much below forty degrees outside, the rain felt almost like ice when she pushed open the glass door and called out loudly into the dark-her voice filled with tears that she hadn’t even realized had started welling up in her eyes-“Garnet? Hallie? Girls?” But her words were lost to the storm well before they reached the greenhouse and the slope of the hill. She saw the greenhouse was dark.