The view off the front porch was panoramic—Lake Union spread out before him, a fleet of sailboats and kayaks speckling its grey surface with color. The Cascades were still socked in. Farther up on the north bank, the hulking ruins of Gas Works Park loomed over squares of bright, rain-fresh grass like the skyline of a steampunk novel. Grant couldn’t see the people, but he imagined them on picnic blankets, children scrambling up the hill, dragging kites in the breeze behind them.
He drew in a deep breath.
Took a step down.
Then another.
As if this day was just something he could walk out into.
What had been a dull, painless throbbing behind his eyes ratcheted up a few degrees until it felt like someone was rolling his optic nerve between two meaty fingers.
He descended two more steps.
The meaty fingers became a poking needle.
His stomach contracted into a ball of molten iron, and the agony doubled him over, Grant clutching his gut as he tried to backpedal up the steps.
By the time he reached the landing, clawing desperately for the door, the pain had begun to moderate.
Grant stumbled back into the gloom of Paige’s brownstone.
His sister was sitting up on the mattress in the living room, her knees drawn into her chest.
“How far did you get?” she asked.
“Two steps from the bottom.”
Grant made his way over to the couch and collapsed onto it.
“Did you throw up yet?” she asked. “That’s how I start the morning these days.”
“First thing.”
“It’s not a hangover.”
“I know.”
“It only gets worse.”
“Is this you trying to help?”
“Sorry.”
“It’s warmer outside than it is in here,” Grant said.
“I think it’s your body temperature, not just the house. Chills?”
Grant hadn’t noticed chills specifically amid the grocery list of other symptoms, but he did feel feverish.
“Yeah. I’m gonna build a fire.”
“We’re out of firewood.”
“We aren’t out of furniture.” He sat up, wrapped the covers around his shoulders. “What’s going on in this house, Paige?”
“I don’t know.”
“No idea.”
“None.”
“Nothing weird has happened to you lately that you’re forgetting to tell me?”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You haven’t desecrated any sacred Indian burial grounds lately, have you?”
“Not lately.”
“No deals with some guy in a red lounge suit holding a garden tool?”
She just smiled.
“So what then?” Grant asked.
“I don’t know. This isn’t a Halloween special.”
“You’ve been living with this thing for a month.”
“Well aware.”
“So what do you think it is?”
She shook her head.
“No matter what you say, I won’t judge you.”
“You remember going to church with Mom and Dad?”
“Barely.”
“Remember how it was only ever about Satan and demons?”
“That’s all I remember about it.”
“Me too, and it scared me atheist. When we stopped going after Mom died, I still couldn’t get that stuff out of my head.”
“I remember your nightmares.”
“Right,” Paige said. “They were horrible. I used to dream that this demon I could never see was crawling down the hall toward our bedroom. I knew it was coming, but I couldn’t move. My legs had stopped working. Its shadow—Jesus, it still creeps me out big time—would stop in the doorway behind me. I could feel it standing there, and every time I tried to sit up and turn around to see it, I’d wake up.”
“That’s pretty standard nightmare material.”
“But that’s what these last four weeks have felt like. The same kind of fear—of being alone in a house, but knowing you aren’t really alone.”
“And not being able to do anything about it, including leaving.”
“Exactly. It’s this helpless, claustrophobic feeling.”
“So you think it’s something demonic?”
“I don’t know. All I’m saying is that it feels like the kind of thing I used to be afraid of.”
“Have you called anyone?”
“Who would I call?”
“A professional.”
“You mean like an exorcist?”
“I know, I can’t believe I’m suggesting it.”
Paige cocked her head. “You think we should?”
Grant didn’t want to say it. Every ounce of training, years of collecting facts and scrutinizing them screamed that there was a corporeal explanation here that could be booked down at the station. He based his life, his choices, on empirical evidence. Aristotle and all that shit.
“It doesn’t matter whether we believe in it or not,” he said. “There’s something happening in this house and it doesn’t look like we’re equipped to deal with it. I say we bring someone in. You got a phone book?”
“In the kitchen.”
“I could use some coffee now that I mention it.”
“We still don’t have power.”
“You have a French press?”
“Nope.”
“No worries. Long as you’ve got the beans, I can save the day.”
Chapter 18
Grant opened the gas on one of the back burners and struck a match. It ignited with a whoomf and settled down into a neat blue circle of quietly-hissing flame. He set a copper-bottomed pot filled with tap water onto the burner.
“Whole bean all you got?” he said, peering into the stainless steel canister where Paige kept her stash.
“Sorry.”
He thought for a moment.
“You have anything made of silk?”
A few minutes later, Grant was pouring a handful of beans into one of Paige’s socks and beating them into grounds with a meat pulverizer.
On the other side of the kitchen, his sister was fishing through a drawer jammed to bursting with junk that either didn’t have a home or had fallen out of use—a refuge of forgotten toys.
Paige fished out the fat Seattle phone book, let it thud against the counter.
“Haven’t seen one of these in awhile,” she said.
It was waterlogged and dogeared. Grant imagined it sitting on the front steps like a lost kitten for days in the rain before Paige had finally surrendered and brought it inside.
She fanned it open.
“E for exorcist?” she asked.
“I guess.”
Grant looked over her shoulder as she thumbed back to the yellow pages.
“It’s not in the Es.”
“Don’t priests handle these things? Maybe we can talk to whoever’s in charge of whatever-the-hell parish we’re in.”
“It’s so easy in the movies,” she said, prying the pages apart. “They make it sound like there’s this whole industry. Okay, here we go. St. James Cathedral. It’s that big church on First Hill. Bunch of phone numbers.”
Grant scrolled the list with his finger.
“Not seeing anything related to exorcism. What about demonologist?” he said.
“Is that a real thing?”
“I think so.”
Paige flipped through the Ds.
“Nope. No wonder people don’t use phone books anymore.”
“You think it’d be possible for me to get my phone back?”
“Why?”
“So I can call the church. Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“Seriously. Go get my phone.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Did you turn it off when I handed it over last night?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You understand that when we run out of battery power, we’re pretty much cut off from the outside world in here.”
Paige rushed into the living room. Grant heard a drawer squeak open, papers shuffling. She came back holding his phone and hers.
“You’ve got a little less than a quarter of a charge,” she said. “And fourteen missed calls from someone named Sophie.” Her right eyebrow went up. “Lady friend?”
He grabbed his phone.
“She’s my partner.”