Didi
All I can smell is tea.
The tea Mama and I used to have for the precious years growing up. I used to love having tea parties with Mama—the little cubes of sugar, a touch of milk to make it just right. She was the best at throwing tea parties, especially after church.
It was my favorite smell in the world. It was safe, spicy, and warm.
Mama used to give me tea to help me sleep when the nightmares got bad.
Soft hands run along the side of my face. Gentle strokes and humming. I try to open my eyes, but my head is spinning and pulses through my skull.
I snap to my senses.
Tea.
Mama gave me tea that made me sleepy.
“Mama,” I moan and try to jerk up but can barely move. My body is weak. My mouth and lips are dry, and I’m nearly paralyzed.
The room is dark, just how I like it. My cheek is smashed against the side of the coiled mattress, and I can make out the bloodstain on the floor a few feet away. The bloodstains no one ever bothered to clean up.
As the moon shines in my window, a draft hits my white curtains, and I see her standing there watching me.
The girl who used to live here shimmers along the wall.
Her hair is in pigtails, and she looks a couple of years younger than me.
Eyes thick and ashen, she tilts her head and smiles as if she wants to say hi.
My stomach twists in every direction. As if seeing her means I am on the wrong side of heaven.
I keep my eyes peeled on her. “Mama,” I cry out again. “Mama!”
My back throbs as the memory of Mama punishing me with those lashes rushes back and the darkness that followed.
“Mama,” I moan again, and the girl disappears into the moonlight while the blood spot seems to get thicker. Mama’s music is playing in the other room. That song plays on repeat and will haunt my dreams forever.
Who wears white satin anyway?
“Mama, please come here,” I weep as the ghost girl disappears entirely. I’ve learned one thing about living so far away from others: screaming is pointless, so I don’t bother.
Mama comes rushing in with a candle, casting a dull light that nearly blinds me. My eyes adjust to see her wearing her Sunday church dress—the red one with puffy sleeves—and her hair is curled so nicely.
Why does Mama look so pretty?
“Diana, sweetheart. You’re finally awake.” She kneels and presses a warm cloth to my forehead. I’m sweaty, I realize, hot like I’m burning up from fever.
“Mama, what’s going on?” I ask under a layer of fog.
I’m not sure what she gave me, but I can barely move. Sometimes she takes pills, so I wonder if she gave me one of those pills that helps her relax.
“Don’t worry about anything, sweetheart,” she whispers. “It will all be over soon.”
What will all be over?
A darkness spreads over my skin, as if the devil himself is caressing me. She grabs my hand and rubs my wrist in slow circles like she’s doting on me. The same way she acted when she didn’t feed me for five days; the way she acts after she hurts me.
“How long was I sleeping for?” I ask groggily. It’s nighttime still, but my body is stiff, and my hips hurt from the coils deep in the mattress. I honestly have no idea how much time has gone by.
“Shh. Don’t talk. It’s best if you keep silent. Can you do that for me, Diana?”
A tall shadow fills the doorway, and I startle. A man walks in wearing robes…cold and unforgiving. A cross falls across his chest.
“Mama?”
“This is Father Malcolm, Diana. He’s going to help us cleanse this house.”
“Hello, Diana,” Father Malcolm says, stepping inside. The sight of him makes me sick. A spitting image of his precious daughter Cindy.
No wonder Mama put on red lipstick.
I push myself up to my elbows, goosebumps pebbling my exposed flesh as I realize I’m only in a small nightgown. Mama must have changed me while I was sleeping.
“Hi.” My voice is broken, weak. My mind’s eye flashes to Remy’s knife under my mattress, where I put it when I got home.
Mama squeezes my hand. “Everything is going to be so much better after this, Diana. Father Malcolm is from the local church; his daughter goes to school with you. He’s agreed to help us.”
He smiles at Mama, and Mama smiles back.
“This house carries so much evil, and he will make it better. He will make this place holy again.”
I don’t like the way Father Malcolm is looking at me right now, like he’s not here for the house, like he’s only here for me. He takes a couple of steps closer, and I flinch and remember Cindy telling me that her father gets rid of demons, showing me how he did it.
Mama hands me another cup of tea. “Drink this, Diana. Father Malcom isn’t going to hurt you. He’s also here to cleanse you of the demon you were born with, my sweet angel child.”
Ilay silent for a few minutes, refusing to utter a single word—and if it weren’t for my body forcing air into my lungs, I would refuse to breathe.
I’m naked, all the sweat in my body has long since seeped out.
My lips are parched, and my body’s trembling, not from the cold, but from something more sinister.
Father Malcolm used his Holy Water to expel the demon inside me.
I’m cleansed.
My eyes are open, as if I don’t have control of them, and no matter how hard I try to close them to sleep, I can’t take my eyes off him.
Still wearing his pastoral robe, he sits in the corner of my bedroom. He’s studying me, assessing me, deciding what to do next. The air in the room is thicker than usual, and his dark silhouette casts a chilling presence, resembling the devil more than a man of God.
It’s been at least an hour since he nearly drowned me and seems unaware of the little girl in pigtails standing next to him, watching him as he watches me. He can’t see her, but I can. And I don’t think she likes him very much.
Standing in the pool of her own blood, she’s trapped in this place for eternity—caught between heaven and hell.
A once innocent soul sucked dry of anything holy.
I’ve been watching her shimmering in and out of view.
But she’s here, her soul screaming throughout the room.
I can’t believe I hadn’t seen her before.
Exorcism involves a lot of prayer. He walked around the room, sprinkling salt and dripping water, all while the ghost girl watched him from her bloodstain.
The sedative kept my muscles weak as Father Malcolm slipped my dress off, leaving me cold and bare. I couldn’t stop him, couldn’t move as I lay docile while he undressed me and poured Holy Water down my throat until I vomited.
Mama went to bed, leaving me alone with him, though I’m positive she took the sedative herself, as she usually does. I am barely awake after whatever she gave me, and I drift in and out of consciousness, though my eyes remain open.
Father Malcolm rises and utters a prayer, walks toward me, and pulls out a cloth, dipping it into his bucket of Holy Water.
He kneels beside me, his movement’s fluid and graceful. He places a cold, wet cloth on my forehead, and I flinch at the sharpness of the cold. My body relaxes, and he wipes my brow, cheeks, and neck before placing it in the water again, then wipes my arms and back.
He moves the cold compress to my chest, washing the fleshy part of my breast and moves down to my stomach, taking his time washing each thigh, working his way to my feet.
The coolness of the water feels nice against the hot, sticky air.
I stare at the girl wearing a white nightgown as Father Malcolm, oblivious to her haunting, continues the sacred rite. I barely blink as we stare at each other, her mouth opening as if she’s trying to tell me something.
I split my body from my mind as Father Malcolm presses the cloth between my legs and over my scars.
I gave up trying to fight him, deciding cooperation would make it end faster.
Through suppressing my hunger, I’ve become skilled at separating my mind from my body.
Detached, like an observer watching through someone else’s eyes.
He stands, his robes flowing as he circles the bed again. He gently places a hand on my chest, fingers cupping just above my breast, and my heart races. I’m consumed by wicked thoughts about him, fighting the urge to throw up again.
In my mind, I’ve already clawed, kicked, and screamed; I’ve bitten him until he bled.
In my mind, he’s already dead.
Father Malcolm peers down at me, and my lips twitch into a smile. A flicker of something flashes through his eyes.
Fear perhaps?
I sense it now—the hatred inside me. It coils through my veins, slithering its way into my mind. It’s so…familiar, almost intoxicating.
Perhaps they were right about me all along; perhaps the devil lingers within me. None of the thoughts I have right now are holy. None of them seem like mine.
“Have you gotten rid of it?” I ask as our eyes meet, but I don’t recognize my scratchy, hoarse voice.
He flinches at the unexpected sound of my voice. “No.” His voice is a deep whisper. “The serpent still lives inside you.”
He pauses for a moment, then he removes his robe, and I remain motionless, obedient, as my upbringing dictated.
He slips off his pants and hovers over me, nudging my legs open as I keep them limp. My muscles are working again—the tea’s wearing off—but Father Malcolm doesn’t need to know that yet.
He’s fully erect as he sheds the rest of his garments and crawls on top of me. His unholy desire presses into the tender spot between my legs.
Dirty. Filthy. Man.
I lay there helpless, like the victim I am, the little lamb. It was only a matter of time before I was defiled. Everyone seems to try.
Father Malcolm licks my neck and fondles my breast. “You’re beyond salvation,” he growls, taking his time pressing the tip of his cock near my tight entrance. “And now you’re mine.”
I lay still but not entirely helpless, thinking of Mama in the next room, letting this happen. I grind my teeth as he moves his mouth from my neck to my nipple, his erection growing with each tug of his teeth.