Downstairs, in the kitchen...
The clatter of dishes and running water hummed through the quiet house. Jeanette passed a plate to Steve, who dried it with the edge of a towel, his eyes thoughtful.
"That went well," she said softly, smiling to herself. "It was nice to laugh. It's been a while."
Steve gave a hum of agreement. "The Lyons are always good company. That wine was strong though."
Jeanette chuckled. "You're getting old."
"I'm aging gracefully."
They shared a smile, and for a moment, it felt like a pocket of calm in the world. But then Steve cleared his throat, the shift in his tone so slight it was almost missed.
"Father Thomas called earlier."
Jeanette paused, hand still holding a damp fork. "Oh?"
"It's been approved by the Vatican city, we are going to the orphanage tomorrow. Afternoon."
She turned to face him now, brows narrowing. "That fast?"
Steve nodded. "It's official. They've confirmed... it is a possession. First one in decades."
Jeanette blinked, the weight of those words settling in her chest. "But—there's not supposed to be any demonic presence here. That was the whole point. Of this town."
"I know." His voice was low. "But this is real. The orphanage already did their assessments. Thomas was briefed thoroughly. And it has been approved. We bed to act. Fast."
She looked down at the soapy water, her voice barely a whisper. "Something's changing."
Steve didn't argue.
"And Simon?" she asked after a beat, her jaw tightening.
"I'm bringing him."
Her head whipped up. "Steve—no. No. He's not ready for that. You saw him after the crash. He's barely holding it together—"
"He's turning twenty next week, Jeanette. We can't keep pretending he's a child."
"He is my child!"
"And he's not just yours," Steve said, voice sharp for once. "We both agreed, to this a long time ago. I can't start going over the past right now."
Jeanette's eyes glossed for a second, but she blinked it away. "What if it triggers him?"
"Then we'll deal with it," Steve said firmly. "But he deserves to see this with his own eyes. To face it. That's the only way he'll be strong enough for what's coming."
She didn't respond, just turned back to the sink with stiff shoulders.
Upstairs, the floor creaked softly.
Simon still unaware of what tomorrow held, flew down the stairs, skipping two steps at a time, adrenaline still screaming through his veins. His breath hitched as he reached the bottom floor, rounding the corner into the kitchen like he was being chased.
"Mom! Dad!"
Jeanette gasped and turned, hand instinctively flying to her chest. The plate she'd been rinsing nearly slipped from her fingers. "God, Simon!"
Steve straightened sharply, towel frozen mid-dry in his hands. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Simon blinked, opened his mouth—then stopped.
The image of the thing standing in his room flickered behind his eyes: those jagged horns, the teeth, the cloak that moved with no wind. The voice that wasn't a voice.
You will obey me.
He felt it again. The cold. The way the air had shifted and turned on him like it was alive.
Tell them what he just saw?
No. Not yet. Not when he didn't even understand it himself.
Instead, he latched onto the easier question.
He swallowed hard, throat dry as bone. "I… heard you both earlier. Upstairs. You were arguing."
Jeanette exchanged a glance with Steve. That look. The parental silent debate kind—one of those silent, heavy ones, like they'd been dreading this moment. The shift in energy was immediate.
Jeanette turned off the tap, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "We weren't arguing," she said, calm but guarded. "Just... talking loudly."
Simon narrowed his eyes. "About what?"
Steve sighed and set the towel down, stepping forward. "We were going to tell you tonight. Before bed."
Simon waited.
"There's been a case," Steve said slowly. "Down at the orphanage."
Jeanette picked up where he left off. "Possession. Confirmed. The Vatican's approved an exorcism."
Simon's brain stalled for a full second.
"A real one?" he asked, voice almost too quiet. "Like… an actual possession?" like he wasn't already aware.
Steve nodded once. "Yes. We're going in tomorrow. And you're coming with us."
Jeanette's eyes tightened. Simon caught the flicker in her expression—she wasn't fully on board with that decision. But she said nothing.
Simon blinked. "You're serious? You're really letting me come?"
"You've wanted to for years," Steve said. "You've asked. Watched the tapes. Studied the rites."
Jeanette exhaled slowly, glancing at Simon like she could already see the weight he didn't know he was about to carry. "It's different in person," she said gently.
He didn't answer that. He couldn't.
His thoughts were spiraling—what just happened upstairs, what he'd seen, the voice that felt like it had carved itself into his chest.
He almost told them. The words sat right there on the edge of his tongue, trembling like a glass about to tip off a shelf. There was something in my room. It spoke. It told me to... It—
But then he looked at them—his mom, watching him like he was glass already cracking. And his dad, standing a little too straight, like he was bracing himself for impact.
If he told them now, they'd never take him. They'd bench him. Say he was "disturbed" or "unsettled" or "not ready"
They'd protect him the only way they knew how: by keeping him away.
And he needed to go.
Whatever that thing was… it wasn't random. It was a message. That's what his mind told him. And tomorrow might hold the key to what it meant. What're the odds of two strange occurrences in one day?
So Simon swallowed it. Pressed it down like a burn. And said:
"Okay."
Steve's brow lifted. "You're alright with that?"
Simon nodded once, forcing a weak smile. "Yeah. I'm good."
Jeanette tilted her head slightly, the way she always did when she didn't believe him but didn't want to push.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked, voice soft now. "You look… pale."
"I'm fine." Another lie. "Just tired."
A beat of silence passed.
"Alright," Steve finally said. "We leave by noon."
Simon gave a small nod and turned away before either of them could say more. He walked back upstairs—slower now, the weight of the night pressing down on his shoulders. Not just fear. Anticipation. Confusion. Guilt.
In the stillness of his room, everything was calm again.
The window was closed now. Curtains still. No black feather in sight.
For a moment, Simon almost let himself believe it hadn't happened. That his mind had betrayed him. That maybe he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open and dreamt something out of a horror movie.
But no. That cold he felt in his bone wasn't a dream.
That smell of ozone.
The echo of that voice.
You will obey me.
He clenched his jaw and shoved the thought away, crossed the room, and shut the window tight just in case. Locked it, drew the curtains. Every small action felt like it might keep something out.
Then he crossed to his bed, sat down heavily, and reached for his earbuds.
White noise. The soft, artificial hiss filled his ears within seconds. He didn't usually need it. But tonight?
Tonight his brain was a war zone.
And white noise was the only thing that ever shut it down.
He laid back, eyes on the ceiling, heart finally slowing, but the dread stayed curled in the corner of his mind like a watching creature.
He told himself he'd sleep.
He told himself tomorrow would bring answers.
But deep down, Simon already knew—
Something wasn't right.