Chapter Two

Khatri arrives at the Mchpherson house two hours after he left the church.

The sun is already making a descent, painting the skies in beautiful hues of orange and pink. He could have arrived earlier if he had hitched a ride from any of the Bible-thumping followers of Christ who confess at the church every day and dive right into their sinuous ways, convinced God will always take them back with open arms.

But he needs the walk and fresh air to keep his fraying self-control in some semblance of order. As he steps on the porch, a creak bounces off the peeling walls, loud enough to make him cringe as he’d wanted a few more minutes to mask his expressions and emotions. Yes, Khatri has to maintain his air of intrigue and detachment so nobody knows he’s been here, on this same spot too many times to count. Nights spent skulking in the shadows, mapping every creak of the floorboards, every turn of the hall that leads to him. His Matthew. 

That sharp guilt twists a hot knife deep into his chest and Khatri bites on the inside of his cheek, shoving down the emotion and burying it beneath the weight of his cassock.

Today, he’s not the sick prowler who stalks the pure soul cased inside these walls. Tonight, he’s a priest.

He raises his fisted knuckles to rap on the door, but it swings open–thanks to the creak earlier announcing his arrival–and a woman, Matthew’s mother, he assumes, stands there in the doorway, dressed in a faded floral dress. As he rakes his eyes over her, he catches the bad patching at the hem clearly from poverty’s wear. Nobody really knows where they spawned from, the Mcphersons that is, but it was clear to everyone in Hapeville that the family was impoverished. shaking his head, Khatri returns his gaze to the woman’s face, taking in her red-rimmed eyes and cheeks blotchy from tears.

Behind her, a young-looking girl huddles on a threadbare couch, clutching a shawl, face pale and drawn. The air in the house is so sour with grief and fear that Khatri could taste it on his tongue. It’s as though the family were already in mourning.

“Father, thank God, you’re here,” the mother whispers, ushering him inside. Her hand twists a handkerchief as she leads him to the sitting room, where another woman with hollow eyes joins them on the couch. they speak in hushed tones, voices barely above a breath. “It’s Matthew. It started a month ago. At first, it was just…mood swings. but then a few weeks ago, the violence started. the trashing. the screaming. He…he even threw a vase at his sister all because we won’t let him leave the house. We called physicians, but they couldn’t help him. In the end, they all said one thing. Witchcraft. my boy’s soul has been possessed by demons.” her voice breaks off into sobs that vibrate through her plumpy frame and the slimmer woman hugs her, patting her back as she ugly cries.

Khatri nods slowly, his pulse hammering in his veins. in his years of being a priest, Khatri has done many exorcisms that he already knew the signs just by being told, but a large part of him couldn’t believe that his Matthew, that sweet thing in white plaid shirts and khakis, sitting at the second row in the pew every Sunday could be possessed.

so he has to see for himself. “How long has he been like this?” He asks, but his voice isn’t the whisper the women were speaking in. It is strong, loud, and resonates throughout the entire house. Gasps immediately ripple through the women, their eyes going wide with terror. For a moment, Khatri wonders if the stress has made them lose their minds. The only thing he hears is the tick of the grandfather clock in the foyer but a loud shriek rips through the silence, followed by a crash. wood bangs against wood, as if something heavy slammed into the wall.

the teenage girl sobbed, clutching the rosary to her chest. “Oh dear lawd, have murcy.”

Khatri blows out a breath, steadying himself. He has done this before. He can do it again. when he speaks this time, his voice is low as well. “Don’t worry. By the power of Christ, I will bring your son back to you.” 

He stands, smoothing a hand over his black clothes, and turns to the right. But realization dawns on him and he freezes like a deer in headlights. Without the family’s directions, he’s already heading to Matthew’s room. As far as everyone knows, this is his first time in this house, he shouldn’t know every nook and cranny like the back of his hand. A lump forms in his throat and he turns back to them with a thin smile. “Please, show me the way.”

Thankfully stricken by grief, they pay no heed to his odd behavior and the mother leads him down into the hall. At the end of the short hallway, they finally stop in front of a door which she pulls open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. “We had to take him into the basement when he became uncontrollable,” she explains upon seeing the mildly confused look on Khatri’s face.

Oh. Khatri just gives her a nod. As he tries to move, she snaps her hands around his wrists, gripping them with clammy fingers. “Be careful father. that boy…we’ve never seen anything so…so…evil,” her voice cracks and cues in the waterworks again. But Khatri’s stomach lurches–not from fear, but from the flicker of arousal her words ignite. Jesus Christ. Has Khatri finally lost his last hold on sanity that the thought of being the only one to bring the boy back from the jaw of the devil has all the blood in his body rushing to his manhood?

ignoring that stab of guilt, he pries her hand away, grabs the lantern on the table in the hall, his briefcase, and, begins descending the stairs.

Cool air slithers down his spine as he steps down and the hairs at the back of his neck tingles. he can hear the stifled cries from Matthew’s mother at the top of the stairs before she finally shuts the door, as per his instructions. Once the door shuts him with whatever was in that basement, Khatri shivers even more. it takes a while for his eyes to acclimate to the darkness but once it does, the lantern's weak glow sways golden shadows across the walls, lighting up his path. 

thud. thud. thud.

Khatri hears that sound repeatedly as he continues walking down and at first, he thinks it's his boot slamming on the steps, but when he pauses for a bit, the sound echoes from deep within his chest. he’s not sure if it’s dread or anticipation curling in his gut.

finally, the basement yawns open at the last step, a low-ceilinged tomb of brick and decay. he hangs the lantern on a rusted hook, its light spilling across the room.

Khatri then turns around and God help him, there is Matthew. Tied to a bed in the center of the room, he’s spreadeagled, wrists and ankles pinned to the posts with coarse ropes that dig into his creamy flesh. Matthew’s back arches off the mattress, sweat, and dry vomit streaking his pale skin, plastering dark hair to his forehead. his eyes are squeezed shut, blood-red lips dried, flaky, and parted, chest heaving beneath a torn shirt. the sight of him…restrained and vulnerable makes Khatri’s throat tighten as a distant shameful heat stirs in his loins.

Clenching his jaw hard, Khatri forces himself to ignore that creeping arousal that slithers through his veins and moves. He sets his briefcase down, fingers fumbling as he unlatches it before he starts to take out the tools of his trade. holy water, a crucifix, and a Latin bible. He sets them carefully on a small table by the foot of the bed, avoiding Matthew’s face. 

Focus. he’s possessed. do your fucking job. “Most glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies, Saint Michael the Archangel, defends us in our battle against principalities, and powers, against the spirits of darkness and wickedness…” he entonces, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “Exorcizo te, creatura, salis. Adjuro te, maledicte diabole. Adjuro te, serpens, discedas ab hoc virgo. Et nomine Jesu Christi, qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos. Et nomine Patri et fili et spiritu sancti.”

He flicks holy water across Matthew’s chest, droplets sizzling as they hit skin, and the boy screams…a jagged, animal sound that rattles the wall. his body jerks, thrashing against the rope, the bed frame slamming into the brick with a force that shakes dust from the ceiling. Khatri’s heart lurches–fear, yes, but something hotter, something wrong, coils in his gut.

“Demon, I command you–reveal yourself!” He barks, raising the crucifix while chanting, but Matthew's screams morph into words that tumble out in a frantic broken rush. “No! There’s no demon—father, please–touch me--! I need it–” his eyes snap open just then, wild and glassy as they lock onto Khatri’s with a desperation that punches the air from his lungs. “I’m not possessed. I lied…I faked everything. I lied to everyone–need you—need you so bad it hurts—” Matthew babbles, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes.