Chapter 12
Chapter
I recognize the owner of the Cruelty Free Exorcism Collective from his profile photo.
He’s behind the counter with a burlap-colored apron and a man bun, at the coffee shop where he told me to meet him: a bougie little place in Santa Monica with Pinterest-worthy interior design, every nondairy milk I’ve ever heard of, and a couple that I haven’t.
There’s a framed picture on the wall—a beaming white couple posing with farmers in a field in Nicaragua—with text beside it explaining the relationship they’ve developed with the people who grow their beans.
He spots me and nods as he finishes serving a customer her oat milk latte. Then he comes out from behind the counter and gives me a firm handshake.
“Jonah,” he says. “Like with the whale.”
Oh great. A man with a tagline.
“Do you own this place?” I ask as I follow him up the stairs in the back. “And the exorcisms are…a thing you do on the side?”
“Everyone needs a side hustle these days,” Jonah says with a slight chuckle.
“Yeah, the cost of living is killer,” I mumble as we enter the second-floor apartment.
The living room furniture has all been pushed close to the walls, and there’s a card table and two folding chairs in the center of the Persian rug.
Jonah motions me to sit, and I’m vaguely wondering if this guy is going to murder me when he hands over a glossy brochure.
BANISH GHOSTS WITH KINDNESS, it says in a serif font over a soothing pink-and-white gradient background. I wonder if he used Canva Premium.
I flip it open and there’s a clip-art picture of a priest wielding a cross with a red X over it, alongside a list of benefits to their cruelty-free approach. “Other exorcisms are cruel, then?”
“Oh yeah,” he says, “are you kidding? We’ve heard horrible reports. The process can be super painful for the ghost.”
“H-how…did you hear that?” I stammer, but he slams a hand on the table, and I startle.
“So! We have several pricing plans. You can pay up front or in installments.”
“We take Klarna,” another voice says from behind me, and I turn around to see the woman from the Nicaragua photo wearing a white linen dress, her flaxen hair tied up in a bun. She settles in next to Jonah. “I’m Krystal. Hi. Tell us about the scene of the haunting.”
I feel like I’m sitting across from Ed and Lorraine Warren, reimagined by Goop.
I slide my phone to the center of the table. “The ghost is in here. In Slack.”
Jonah’s eyebrows shoot up. “The whole server?”
“It seems, um—” I clear my throat. “Localized? To one channel. Specifically, the DM with myself.”
“Interesting,” he murmurs. “Well. New situation, old methods. Let’s give it a shot.”
He motions to Krystal, and she takes some items out from below the table. A wooden box, a silver lighter, a long, shallow ceramic dish. (Is that…an Urban Outfitters price tag on the side?) She sets the sage burning with the lighter, lets her eyelids droop mostly closed, and begins to chant.
At first it just seems embarrassing. I can’t believe I sat in traffic on the 405 for this.
But then there’s a piercing scream—Mom’s voice, unmistakably, louder than when she discovered I’d broken curfew, more bloodcurdling than when I cracked her favorite vase.
It sounds like she’s being torn limb from limb.
“STOP!” I yell, jumping to my feet. “STOP IT!”
Jonah looks scandalized. “Once we interrupt the ritual, we have to start it all over again!”
I stomp my foot. “Can’t you hear that?”
They’re both eyeing me like I’ve lost my mind.
I snatch my phone back and press it to my chest. “You’re hurting her.”
Krystal extinguishes the burning sage. “You won’t get your deposit back.”
“Such bullshit!” I yell, sounding so much like Mom when she’s mad.
I’m down the stairs in the blink of an eye, out the front door, and running along the palm-tree-lined street, typing frantically, barely watching where I’m going.
ruby.ocampo:
Are you okay mom? mom? are you there?
All I can think is I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, my heartbeat and footfalls thumping in time with those words.
sampaguita72:
That was awful! So smoky
I couldn’t breathe!
Did I ever tell you I think I’m allergic to sage?
ruby.ocampo:
I’m so sorry mom!!
sampaguita72:
What are you sorry for?
She doesn’t realize it was my idea? Tita Wendy’s voice rings out between my ears, saying, There will be no shortcuts!
I’m so distracted, face glued to my screen, I crash right into someone.
“Oh sorry!” I exclaim, clutching the phone in my sweaty palms.
“Ruby Ocampo!” Mark Winterson’s standing before me, grinning like this is the funniest unexpected development of his entire weekend. “This is a nice surprise.”
I feel like someone beaned me on the head with a Frisbee.
Does he think of me by my full name too? The way I can’t bring myself to think of him as just “Mark,” because there’s something cartoonish about him, like Charlie Brown?
It’s strange, seeing him in casual clothes instead of a suit. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that flatters his broad shoulders, and sweats that are more streetwear than sloppy. The briefest impure thought about what’s beneath the gray fabric skitters across my mind.
He’s even paler than I remember, in the bright light of day—less like Jacob Elordi and more like the ghost of a Victorian child who started hitting the gym in the afterlife. The man looks like he’s lacking in vitamin D. And is that…a pimple on his chin? Maybe he’s human, after all.
“You live around here too?” He points with his thumb over his shoulder toward Jonah and Krystal’s place. “I was going for coffee—want to join me?”
The offer goes straight to my head, champagne on an empty stomach. But there’s no way in hell I’m going back to that coffee shop. And how can I even be thinking about this when Mom is trapped, and I have to make a plan to get her out?
“Um, I’d love to, but…but I was—I have this—” I let out a deep sigh. “This…family thing.”
“Oh.” He looks like he’s trying to parse my words for hidden meanings.
“It’s just—” I squint up at him in the bright sun. “Not to be a downer, but there’s a lot of things to take care of, still, after my mom…”
“Oh God, of course.” His brow furrows, and he takes a step closer. “Is there anything I can—?”
“Raincheck for coffee?” I say in a rush, walking backward away from him, sage still stinging my nostrils.
“Gonna hold you to that!” he says jovially, pointing at me as I jog off.