Year of the Rat

Chapter 4

The office was in an unmarked greystone partially shrouded by a tall catalpa tree and set off from the street with a tall wrought-iron fence. A soft lamp lit up the first-floor window.

Becca checked her text message to confirm the address—it contained an X just like Gilberto said. Definitely a paranormal address.

She unlatched the wrought-iron gate, walked reluctantly up the steps, and rang a silver-plated doorbell.

Quiet footsteps tracked through the hallway. A curtain in the front door parted.

A middle-aged woman with graying hair in a fringe-cut bob opened the door with a warm smile, enough to turn the wintry day into spring. She wore a purple sweater and cat eyeglasses, and she had an old-fashioned hardcover tome with golden deckled pages tucked under one arm.

“You must be Rebecca Grant,” the woman said.

“Becca.”

“Very good. Please, come in.”

Becca stepped into the vestibule, shivering. The woman helped her out of her coat and hung it on a hook on the wall.

“I’m Carolyn Davidson,” the woman said, extending a perfectly manicured hand with maroon nails. Becca took it. It was warm and soft.

The inside of the house was toasty warm, the kind of warmth that made you wish for Christmas cookies and hot chocolate. This lady had the right idea in reading a book. Becca would have been curled up on the couch reading a book too.

“You’re a few minutes early,” the woman said. “You won’t mind if I finish up a few notes from my last client, will you?”

“Not at all. I’m just glad you squeezed me in on short notice.”

Becca followed Carolyn into the parlor. It was like something out of a home magazine: a bookcase full of novels arranged by color, a coffee table with a prim stack of the latest magazines, and a television framed by two large poinsettias.

Becca sniffed and caught the aroma of lavender wafting up from an essential oil diffuser on the bookcase.

Next to the parlor, French doors led into a shadowed office with a Turkish lamp glowing on a neatly organized executive desk.

“Have a seat, and give me a minute. Can I get you a coffee, hon?” Carolyn asked.

Becca declined and sat down on a black leather sectional next to a radiator. Carolyn disappeared into her office and silence settled across the house.

This place didn’t look like a therapist’s office, but she had never been to therapy let alone a paranormal therapist. She expected the calm sterility of a doctor’s office, or a big Georgian manor with wood-paneled walls, like she saw in the movies.

Becca wondered how long this woman had been a therapist. Clearly, the office had just the right touch. What was it like sitting around all day and listening to other people’s problems?

Maybe Becca knew a thing or two about therapy too. Tending bar at the Wicked Cat was like being a therapist in a way. She knew all the regulars and their problems, and she often gave them advice to go with their drinks.

I’m in the hot seat now, she thought. Geez…

I’m in the hot seat nowGeez…Footsteps against the hardwood floor stopped her thoughts as Carolyn emerged from the office. "So sorry for the wait," she said, motioning her forward.

The office was fully lit now in a dusky orange glow. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered the walls. A single window let in the fading rays of sunlight.

So homey. The only thing missing was a cat.

Carolyn directed Becca to a soft leather couch in the corner. A tissue box sat on the table next to the sofa. The couch nearly swallowed her.

Carolyn sat down on the leather chair facing the couch. She unclipped the pen and began scribbling on a legal pad in her lap. "Normally, I would ask what brings you here, but I already have a good background.”

Becca"s eyes widened. "You do?"

"Honey, I"m not your average therapist," Carolyn said with a wink. “A gentleman named Gilberto stopped by earlier today and told me about you.”

“He...did?”

She didn’t know what to think about Gilberto telling her business to this woman. But apparently, he’d seen her too and they knew each other.

“And Desmond stopped by last week to give me a briefing too,” Carolyn said. “You’ve got a lot of people concerned about you, Becca. You should also know that Desmond is paying for your sessions. He said to come as much as you want and not to worry about a thing. And, so you know, everything we talk about is confidential. Desmond and Gilberto may have volunteered information, but I will never do that. You’re in a safe space.”

If Carolyn was a paranormal, Becca wondered what her powers were. Desmond told her never to ask, but she became obsessed with the thought. Witch? No, but weren"t there things such as white witches?

“I’ve heard about you, but now I want to know myself,” Carolyn said. “Who is Becca Grant?”

Becca settled on the couch. No one had ever asked her a question like that before.

"I don"t know who I am anymore,” she said after a while.

"Gilberto told me the following things,” Carolyn said, consulting her notes. “Entrepreneur. Devoted daughter and sister. I"d say that"s a pretty good identity to start with, don"t you?"

Becca lowered her eyes to the hardwood floor. "Everything you said would have been a perfect description six months ago. But ever since the demon possessed me, I"ve questioned everything."

"Like what?"

"I can"t do anything anymore without being watched," Becca said. "He"s here right now, listening."

She expected Garamanthus to make a witty reply. He did not.

"He talks to me all the time. I can never get a break from him. I have no privacy. He invades my every thought. He knows everything about me. I feel like I"ve slipped into some alternate timeline and am watching myself spiral into doom.”

Carolyn, who had been writing something down, stopped. "What does he say to you?"

Becca recapped their conversation of the last half hour.

Carolyn frowned. "When he starts speaking, what do you do?"

"I tell myself not to listen to him," Becca said. "I tell myself that he"s lying. And that nothing he says is true. I tell myself that I love myself and that the only person who decides what happens in my life is me. Not some demon."

"How do you feel that"s going?"

A tear jumped into Becca"s eye. She let it sit there for a moment.

She told herself, damn it, she wasn"t gonna cry to some random stranger she"d never met, but here she was. She swiped the tissue out of the box and dabbed her eye. "I miss my brother. I miss being myself. And even though I tell the demon to get lost, he gets to me every time. I just get so mad at myself. So mad I can’t even think.”

Carolyn leaned forward. "Becca, for what it"s worth, everything you"re feeling and experiencing is completely normal. Demon possessions are…tough.”

More tears fell down Becca’s cheek and she hated herself for it.

“This may sound hard to believe, but you"re grieving,” Carolyn said.

"Grieving?" she asked. "No one"s dead."

The words hit her like a slap.

Carolyn continued. “I’ve worked with numerous demon possession victims. All of them responded well and are now living meaningful lives.”

“Meaningful?” Becca asked. “What’s that supposed to mean? Did they get rid of the demons?”

Carolyn shook her head quietly.

“I can help you control it and mitigate it, but—”

The woman hesitated and chose her words carefully.

"Your old self is dead, Becca."

Carolyn’s words faded away as Garamanthus came alive, laughing so loudly that Becca couldn’t hear the rest of what the woman said.