Chapter 22
twenty-two
. . .
After Meggie goes to bed, Kit moves to lie on his back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
He sucks in a breath. “I fucked up by taking you there.”
I want to say, “You fucked up by possessing me,” but I bite my tongue. He knows I’m unhappy with this situation—unless he is completely delusional. Though, I suppose that is a possibility. What I say instead is, “You were trying to help. We probably got some pretty good footage.”
“I don’t care about the footage,” he states seriously. “I care if you’re okay.”
“I’m as fine as I can be.” I wander to my bed, lying down atop the covers, mirroring Kit’s position. “Listen, I’m not mad. I’m just tired.”
He sighs. “That’s like a parent saying they’re not mad, they’re just disappointed.
I was trying to take you somewhere cool, but both the places I took you, you ended up getting hurt.
All I’m trying to do is keep you safe, and I’m doing the opposite.
Whenever I try to do something nice…people get hurt.
You get hurt. I get hurt.” He exhales again. “Sorry. I sound like a child.”
“Kit, really. It’s fine. I know you’re not trying to hurt me.” He needs my body, so of course, he isn’t.
“You should try to get some sleep,” he suggests.
“It’s not really sleep, what I do in here,” I say.
“It’s close.”
“Could you maybe—” I start but stop when I think better of it.
He prods, “What? I’ll do anything.”
Be with me in here, was my almost-request, but that’s a silly thought. I amend my suggestion with something else that would make me feel better. “Talk to me? I think…I need to think out loud.”
“Sure. I love talking to you.”
Are demons even allowed to use words like that? Love. I won’t push it. Talking to him is easy—comfortable. Just as comfortable as thinking is.
“So,” I start. “Ghosts are real.”
He doesn’t state the obvious fact that this was something I already believed. Something I already had solid proof of. All he offers back is, “They are.”
I flip on my side. “Ghosts like that are real. Not just the nice, normal ones I usually interact with. That was some shit straight out of a horror movie.”
I sense his smirk. “You say like you’re not literally possessed by a demon right now.”
“You’re different,” I argue. “I mean, Kit, I’m honestly not sure if I should be creeped out or flattered that you possessed my sister so you could give me a hug.” He gave me a hug in someone’s body who I feel comfortable hugging, who he knew would feel comfortable hugging me back.
“I’m hoping for the latter, personally.”
“Yeah, I think it was sweet.”
Kit doesn’t argue against the word this time. “I just wanted to help you feel better.”
“Like I said, sweet.”
What an odd adjective for a demon, yet I keep using it. He’s consistently sweet with me.
Kit. Is. A. Demon. I knock myself on the head a few times, trying to drill in that fact.
A demon. Like, the least evil demon probably in all of creation, but a demon, nonetheless.
And he’s young, for a demon. He’s young and perhaps that’s why he still has so much of his humanity intact.
Perhaps that’s why he is the way he is with me.
I’m sure any ounce of humanity, any semblance of a conscience, will wither with time, slowly exposing the true, soulless nature that resides inside him.
It’s there. I know it is. I can see it, I can sense it, in the little things.
The disregard for who or how he possesses people, the destruction of that ghost he painted for me, the casualness with which he commits petty crimes, the refusal to let me go.
I have to remember that. He is holding me hostage in my own body and mind for no reason other than he feels like it.
He is keeping me here because…he needs a body?
No. No, I’m sure that is part of the reason, but that doesn’t seem to be the entire reason.
There are better, stronger bodies he could take hold of.
He’s holding on to me because he’s lonely. Simple and obvious as that. Kit the demon is lonely, and for whatever reason, he has taken a liking to me. No matter what I do, nothing turns him off me. I mean, I literally almost died, and he still came back.
“Those thoughts are getting heavy,” he says, bringing me back to him.
I gulp. “Can you hear them?”
“No, but I can feel them. Sense the way they’re swirling around your mind. Anything else you want to talk about?”
I twirl a strand of hair around my finger. There are a lot of things I want to talk about—like how I got my hand to move again. I wasn’t even trying specifically, I just really wanted to do it, so I did. I don’t yet know how this will help me. Unless…
When we were at the old mill, Kit said that if I got control of my entire body, I could boot him out. I’m not sure how effective that will be in keeping him out, but it could be worth a shot.
“You,” I finally answer. “What’s your favorite way to wreak havoc?”
He snorts. “I think I’ve shown you all my favorites. Nothing too hardcore. Hot wiring cars is fun.”
“Is that a demon-specific skill, or were you pulling that one out in your human life?”
He answers truthfully, “I taught myself how to for the hell of it when I was nineteen on my grandad’s car over a summer I spent with him.
He lived about an hour away and it was getting hard for him to live on his own, but he was refusing to move into assisted living.
I understand why—he didn’t want to lose his sense of independence. ”
“How un-foreign a feeling,” I comment dryly.
Kit huffs in agreement. “Yeah. Sorry. But he couldn’t do much and wasn’t willing to let me cart him around town very often, so I was bored as hell.”
“Thus, the hot wiring.”
“Exactly.”
“So, I’m assuming your grandad is…?”
“Dead?” Kit finishes for me. “Yeah. He passed the fall after that summer. I’m incredibly glad I got to spend that time with him, boring or not.”
“I’m glad you got that, too.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“I understand the paranormal investigating, but how did you shift from paralegal to bookstore? Why not another paralegal job? Blanc & Hartman was the worst. Or, I mean, it seemed that way, but what about another office job?”
“I figured anything in corporate America would be too soul-sucking for my very tired soul,” I answer quietly.
“Not that retail isn’t soul-sucking in itself, but the bookstore is peaceful.
My boss is great. I like my coworkers. And the schedule allows for time to work on my channel, my socials, editing, and the actual investigating. ”
“Makes sense.” He shifts on the couch. “What did your dad do for a living?”
I narrow my eyes. “Weird pivot for someone who doesn’t already know the answer to that. He was a lawyer.”
He chuckles lightly. “Okay, fine. I did know that. I don’t dig on purpose, I swear. It just happens. Why didn’t you want to become a lawyer? Why a paralegal—assuming that choice was made as a way to be close to him?”
“Stop psychoanalyzing me,” I scold. “Law school was too daunting. I wasn’t the best student, because I had a hard time paying attention in class.
And I’m a horrible test taker, so passing the bar seemed impossible.
I would have hated it, anyway.” My eyes close.
“You’re right about my reasoning, of course.
But I found there are other and better ways to be close to him, like carrying his lighter around or drinking his favorite beer, even though I find it disgusting. ”
“You’re doing what you love now,” he observes. “I hope you can keep doing it.”
“Me, too.” I adjust myself in the bed so I can snuggle down under my sheets. “Hey, Kit?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“Thanks for talking with me.”
“Thanks for talking with me,” he counters.
In the morning, Meggie gives Kit a hug and says, “Get home safe.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” I echo.
Meggie stares at me, gripping the door tightly.
“What are you doing?” Kit asks.
In the void, he repeats, “What is she doing?”
I know what she’s doing—staring at my pupils. “I’m not high,” I snip, which Kit repeats, matching my tone.
“Something about your eyes, Lace.”
My heart lurches. She can tell I’m not me.
She blinks slowly. “Sorry. You sure you’re not on drugs?”
“Positive,” Kit says.
“Fine. I believe you. Text me when you get home.”
Meggie closes her front door as Kit walks down the driveway.
He asks, “Are you okay to go get your car right now, or would you rather steer clear of that place?”
I shrug. “I don’t care. I’m going to write a little.”
“Cool, okay.”
I grasp for my pen and paper so I can go back to writing.
It really is the one thing I can focus my mind on that keeps this from all just being terrible.
I write about my childhood, trips to amusement parks and New York City, plays in school Meggie forced me to participate in, holidays back when those still seemed magical. I write and I write and I write.
I’m not sure how long I do this, but I have gone through at least ten pages front and back by the time I toss the pen and paper aside.
I sigh. You know what I really want to do?
Take a bath. I love baths. Soaking and relaxing in a tub overrun with bubbles and fizzing with salt.
It’s been so long since I’ve taken a bath—my apartment doesn’t have one, so I usually only do if I spend the night at my mom’s.
I suppose I could try to conjure up a bath.
Though, whenever I try to create anything, it’s the most basic of basic things, so if I do, it’ll probably be a dirty porcelain tub with hot water.
No bubbles, no bath salts. But I’m going to try.
I focus intently and picture the exact kind of bath I want, squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as I can.
When I reopen them, I shriek with joy. I did it!
Before me is a white tub with large golden claw feet filled to the brim with bubbles.
Steam is rising from the tub. There are even a few candles around the rim of it.
I sniff. I can’t smell them, but at least they look nice.
I peep around, like Kit may be spying on me from some hidden corner. It doesn’t matter. He’d deny it, but I know he has already seen me naked. Whatever. The man has washed my ass, does it matter if he spies on me naked in my mind? At this point, boundaries with him feel ridiculous.
I strip, and let the discarded clothes puddle at my feet.
I lift my leg over the side of the tub, my other leg following shortly after, before I sink into the water.
It’s perfectly warm and comfortable. I suppose I have taken enough of these baths out in the real world to remember exactly what they feel like.
A good bath is akin to true bliss, in my opinion.
I lean my head back with my eyes closed and breathe in. I almost think I can smell the lavender that normally consumes the air around my baths.
And for the first time since I was trapped in here, my mind relaxes, but stays present. Exactly what I wanted.
Since time is not real in here, I have no idea how long I spend in the bath. It feels like hours. Multiple, wonderful, blissful hours.
So, it surprises me when Kit’s voice rings out, “Knock knock.”
I hardly lift my head to crank open one eye. “Yeah?”
“How are you?”
“Naked. How are you?”
“Trying not to think about you naked, which is exceedingly more difficult when you disrobe in here.”
I lean back, smiling to myself. “Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not. “Since you’re here and I’m assuming you still feel guilty about a whole mess of things, can I ask you a question?”
“Gaining information by holding guilt over my head is not the key to a healthy relationship,” he chides.
“This isn’t a relationship,” I shoot back. “Listen, I know you don’t want to tell me, but…you know a lot more about me than I do about you. I deserve to know more. What was the deal you made? What did your sixteen-year-old brain think was so important that you needed to sell your soul?”
He’s quiet for a while. So long that I think he’s left, but then he says, “It’ll be easier if I show you.”
“Thank you. Let me get dressed.”
I take myself out of the tub, and then glance at the clothes I was wearing before.
I was in the outfit Kit chose prior to our little adventure with the vengeful spirit—jean and a fitted T-shirt.
Putting jeans back on sounds like actual torture.
I wonder… I squeeze my eyes shut. When I reopen them, I’m in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt. Much better. I sit on my bed.
I say, “Ready.”