Chapter 21: NEW YEAR, NEW DANGERS
The case file landed on Ed's desk with a thud that echoed through the Warren study.
January 5, 1970. Five days into a new decade. Outside, snow fell on Monroe in fat, lazy flakes. Inside, the fire crackled and the air smelled of wood smoke and dread.
"Ashford family," Ed said, flipping open the folder. "Michael Ashford, twelve years old. Possession suspected for three weeks. Escalating violence." He looked up at me. "This one's bad, Paul."
I knew it was bad. I'd read the preliminary report twice, and the nightmares I'd had afterward had featured more than just the nun.
"Local priests tried twice," Ed continued. "Father Callahan from Our Lady of Mercy—good man, solid faith—performed a blessing and ended up with a broken arm. Father Rodriguez from St. Anthony's attempted a preliminary exorcism and had to be hospitalized. Stroke symptoms. They think the thing inside the boy attacked his mind directly."
Lorraine sat in the armchair by the fire, her expression unreadable. She hadn't spoken since I arrived, but I could feel her attention like a weight on my shoulders.
"The parents are desperate," Ed said. "They've been through psychiatric evaluations, medical tests, everything modern medicine can offer. Nothing explains what's happening to their son." He closed the file. "This is the real thing. Mid-tier demon, at least. Maybe higher."
"I want to lead it."
The words came out before I could second-guess them. Ed's eyebrows rose. Lorraine's eyes flickered to me but revealed nothing.
"You want to lead," Ed repeated slowly. "Not assist. Lead."
"With you backing me up. I'm not suggesting we go in blind." I leaned forward in my chair. "But I've been training for two years. I've closed over fifty cases. I've faced Malthus in the artifact room and didn't break. If I'm ever going to be ready for something like this, it's now."
Ed didn't respond immediately. He glanced at Lorraine, and something passed between them—the silent communication of a couple who'd been together for decades, who could read each other's thoughts without words.
"You understand what happens if this goes wrong?" Ed's voice was quiet. Serious. "The boy could die. You could die. His family could be destroyed even worse than they already are."
"I understand."
"Do you?" He stood, crossed to the window, stared out at the falling snow. "Two years ago, you were a kid with gifts and no training. A year ago, you almost got yourself killed in a basement. Six months ago, you faced something in our artifact room that's been trying to break free for years." He turned back to face me. "You've grown. I won't deny that. But growth doesn't mean you're ready for everything."
"Then how will I ever know if I'm ready?" The question came out sharper than I intended. "How does anyone know, until they're in the moment and it's too late to turn back?"
Silence.
Lorraine spoke for the first time since I'd arrived.
"He's not wrong, Ed."
Both of us looked at her.
"We've been talking about succession for years," she continued. "About training the next generation. About making sure this work continues after we're gone." Her eyes met mine. "Paul isn't a student anymore. He's an investigator. And investigators need to lead, eventually, or they stay assistants forever."
Ed's jaw tightened. But after a long moment, he nodded.
"Alright. You lead. But I'm with you every step, and if I say abort, we abort. No arguments, no heroics. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"Lorraine will provide psychic support. I'll handle the exorcism if it comes to that. You coordinate everything else—reconnaissance, preparation, family management, tactical decisions in the field." He picked up the file and handed it to me. "Study this until you can recite it in your sleep. We leave in three days."
The next seventy-two hours blurred together.
I read the Ashford file until I knew every detail by heart. Michael's favorite foods. His school grades. The day the behavior changed—November 14th, three days after his grandmother died. The progression from night terrors to speaking in tongues to levitation to violence.
I reviewed exorcism protocols, memorizing Latin phrases and their precise pronunciations. Father Mancini quizzed me over coffee, correcting my accent, drilling pronunciation until my tongue ached.
I checked my equipment twice, three times, four times. Rosary—Ed's father's, warm against my chest. Saint Michael medal. Warding amulet. Spirit camera. Holy water in six vials, blessed by three different priests for redundancy. The investigation kit I'd assembled over two years of fieldwork.
And then I visited the Store.
[STORE — INTERMEDIATE TIER]
[FAITH POINTS AVAILABLE: 1,650]
[BROWSING...]
The options scrolled through my mind. Weapons. Talismans. Protective gear. I needed something for close quarters—something that would help if the demon got past my defenses.
[BLESSED KNUCKLES — 800 FP]
[SILVER-INFUSED BRASS, SANCTIFIED BY PAPAL BLESSING]
[PROVIDES: +50% DAMAGE TO SPIRITUAL ENTITIES, MINOR HOLY DAMAGE ON CONTACT]
I made the purchase. The knuckles materialized in my hands—heavy, cold, humming with purpose. They fit over my fingers like they'd been made for me.
[FAITH POINTS REMAINING: 850]
I flexed my hands, feeling the weight. Two years ago, I'd run from a basement demon with nothing but panic and desperation. Now I was walking toward something worse, armed and trained and ready.
Or as ready as anyone could ever be.
The night before departure, I returned to the Warren house for a final briefing.
Judy found me in the study, packing case notes into my bag.
"Are you going to fight a monster?"
I looked up. Six years old now, dark hair in pigtails, wearing pajamas covered in cartoon rabbits. She should have been in bed hours ago.
"I'm going to help a sick little boy," I said carefully.
"Daddy says you're going to fight a demon." She climbed into the chair across from me, legs dangling. "He said demons are really bad. Worse than the things in my closet."
"There's nothing in your closet, Judy."
"I know. But if there was, you'd fight it, right?"
I set down my bag.
"Yeah," I said. "I would."
She considered this with the gravity only children could muster.
"Don't die," she said finally. "I need you for my birthday. It's in March. Mom's making cake."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world."
She hopped down from the chair and hugged me—quick and fierce, the embrace of someone too young to understand death but old enough to fear it.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She padded back toward the stairs, rabbit pajamas disappearing around the corner.
I stood in the empty study for a long moment, thinking about promises. About the weight of them. About all the people I'd promised to protect, to help, to return to.
Thomas Brennan. Danny Miller. Emily McCormick. Daniela Morrison. The Henderson family. Judy Warren.
And now Michael Ashford. Twelve years old. Possessed by something that had already broken two priests. Waiting for someone to save him.
"I'll try," I thought. "God help me, I'll try."
That night, I dreamed of the nun again.
The corridor was the same—stone walls, dripping torches, endless darkness waiting at the far end. But this time, she didn't wait silently. This time, when I approached, she laughed.
The sound was wrong. Too deep. Too layered. Like multiple voices speaking through a single throat, each one competing to be heard.
"You think you're ready," she said—and it was the first time she'd ever spoken directly to me. "You think training and prayers and blessed trinkets will be enough. You think you understand what you're facing."
I stopped walking. Stood my ground. The cold pressed against me like a physical force, but I didn't retreat.
"I know I don't understand everything," I said. "But I'm going anyway."
"Why?"
"Because someone has to. Because there's a boy being destroyed, and I can help him."
"You can't save everyone."
"No. But I can try."
The nun's smile widened—that terrible, rotted grin that split her face in ways faces weren't meant to split.
"Then come, little anomaly. I've been waiting."
The voice shifted. Deepened. Became something else entirely—something that had been hiding behind the nun all along.
"We all have."
I woke with sulfur on my tongue and certainty in my heart.
Tomorrow, I would face a demon. Maybe the one that had been watching me. Maybe something worse. Either way, the time for preparation was over.
The time for action had arrived.
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