Lost To The Devil

Chapter 10: infestation, oppression, possession

From where I lay on the cold kitchen floor, the world felt distant, like I was sinking beneath it.

My ears rang faintly, a dull hum that blurred everything together, but I could still just make out Mum’s voice as she fumbled with the house phone.

Her words came out rushed, breathless, and trembling.

“Father Robert’s, please, could you come over as soon as possible?” Her voice c.racked at the end.

The next thing I remember was the softness of the sofa beneath me. Mum half-carried me into the living room, her arms tight around me as if letting go would mean losing me completely. I could feel her heart pounding through her chest where she held me, fast and uneven.

The room felt dim despite the daylight; shadows lingered in the corners where the light didn’t quite reach. The air was still, heavy, like the house itself was listening.

We waited. Every second stretched. Every tiny sound made me flinch. Then the doorbell rang. Mum stood; I could see her shaking slightly as her trembling hands nervously brushed down her jeans as she stood to answer the door.

“Father Roberts, thank God, come in.”

It was the same priest who had seen me in town acting crazy; a wave of embarrassment went through me, but it barely touched the exhaustion weighing me down. I was too tired to care.

Father Roberts stepped into the room quietly, his presence oddly calming against the tension that filled the house. He sat down opposite me on the sofa, the cushions dipping softly under his weight. He turned towards me. “Hello Grace, how are you feeling?” He asked gently.

Something warm trickled down my temple. I blinked when it ran down to my eye, and I realised it was blood. I quickly wiped it and answered, “I'm fine, thank you. Just very tired and sore.” The words felt small compared to what I actually felt.

Mum sat across from us, perched on the edge of her seat, her hands twisted tightly together in her lap, while she was watching nervously as we spoke.

“I can see that,” Father Roberts said softly. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small notebook, the faint scratch of paper loud in the silence as he opened it.

“If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions, and you can just say yes or no if it’s easier.”

I nodded, and he proceeded. “So Grace, have there been any strange or unusual noises at all, that perhaps only occur around you, and are others aware of this at all?”

“Yes, but only I’ve heard them.”

He paused slightly; it was quiet enough in the room that I could hear the clock ticking on the wall behind him.

“If you don't mind me asking, when do you hear these noises, and what do they sound like?”

I tried to ignore the tickle I felt as blood dripped down the side of my head as I spoke. “They sound like something tapping inside the walls. I used to hear it mostly at nighttime or early morning. Then whispers, the tapping has stopped in the last few weeks, though.”

His head flew up from his notes, and for the first time he looked deeply concerned.

“You don't hear the noises anymore?”

I shook my head in response.

The air in the room seemed to tighten.

“Ok, how about you tell me what’s been going on since?”

So I did. I spoke about the whispers that crawled through my mind at night, the stereo turning on at all hours, and the TV screaming to life in empty rooms. The smashing plates, the drawers being flung to the floor, the dreams, and the attacks on me.

He looked visibly pale by the end.

As I spoke, the memories felt sharper, too sharp, like reliving them dragged something closer. The room grew colder, subtly, but enough to notice.

“Ok, a girl of your age and with all the horror movies these days, I take it you know what possession means?” I nodded and waited for him to go on.

He cleared his throat and said, “well, I'm afraid it sounds as though you’re already at the possession stage. There are three different stages,” he said, his voice measured now, controlled but strained beneath the surface. “The first is infestation; this is the beginning. This is where the demon will introduce itself in some way, normally in a deceitful way, like pretending to be a lost loved one or something harmless. In some cases it could be that it was already in the home when you moved in. By not doing anything about it, you are unknowingly inviting him into your life.”

A cold feeling crept into my chest.

“Stage two is oppression; this is where the demon picks out its intended victim and onslaughts them with torment. The victim will hear noises, furniture will move, electronics can turn on and off from their own accord, or the victim will smell a foul odour, and so on. The point is to isolate the victim.”

Mum shifted in her seat; I could hear her rapid breathing.

“Finally and lastly is possession; this is where the demon actually has control of the victim and their body. Now, this doesn't mean they have control all of the time; it can be small amounts of time and eventually build up and up. Finally, the victim can become so beaten and worn down both mentally and physically that the demon has a much easier job of taking over to the point of being there all of the time.”

I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights as I looked at him, awestruck by all the information.

Mum finally spoke up. “So what exactly does this mean? What stage is my daughter at?”

The priest looked somber; he looked at me, at the bruises, the blood, the exhaustion. The fear. His voice came out quiet, heavy. “I believe your daughter…” he said slowly, “is very close to full possession.”

The words settled over me like a weight. Cold. Final.

“And now,” he added, his expression tightening slightly. “I will need to gather enough evidence to request permission for an exorcism.”

The house creaked. Softly. Almost…in response.