"This is the place."
Once York could guarantee his daughter's safety, Peggy quickly led them to a doorway. She Drew a slow breath, forced down the storm inside her, and looked back at the group following her.
"Only Father may enter. I don't want too many people disturbing my poor girl."
Hearing that, York glanced at Ed and the others behind him. "Begin setting up the scene."
Ed understood. "Yes, Father Yorkes." With that he led Maurice and Drew downstairs.
Moments later the clatter of their hurried work rose from below.
"Drew, bring every piece of equipment. Be quiet—Lorraine's finally sleeping peacefully."
"I understand, Mr. Ed Warren."
…
York withdrew his gaze and turned to Peggy.
Peggy pressed her lips together, twisted the handle, and pushed the door open.
As the door swung wide the first thing to strike York was a sight that made his stomach knot.
The dim, cramped room was bare—no furniture, only walls—and every wall bristled with useless Crosses of every shape.
Deeper inside, on the only bed, sat a twelve-year-old girl.
She faced the sealed window, back to the door; even when the hinges creaked she did not turn, merely sat in lonely silence.
The Crosses ringed her like a cage, the whole image of a once-free bird now trapped.
"Janet," Peggy said, heart aching, "a priest from the Church has come to see you."
No answer came. The girl on the bed shifted a shoulder but never turned; the thin figure was drained of life.
Peggy looked at York and instinctively explained, "Father Yorkes, she may be tired…"
"It's all right." York stepped inside, grasped the edge of the door, and faced Peggy.
"Ms. Peggy, may I speak with Janet alone?"
Peggy glanced at her lonely daughter on the bed, hesitation in her eyes.
"I…"
"Just for a moment," York soothed. "I believe I can help Janet return to the way she was."
"All… all right." Peggy took one more look, then slowly withdrew her hand.
"Thank you." York gave a gentle smile and quietly shut the door.
The click made the room darker, and in that darkness a heavier, nameless dread gathered.
York turned, indifferently surveying the Crosses, then walked slowly toward Janet.
"Child, may I sit beside you?"
He stopped at the bedside and looked at the room's true occupant.
A girl who should have been lively and sweet now sat listless, face blank like the depression patients he had once seen in hospital.
Janet gave no reply, eyes fixed on the window.
"Very well—silence means consent."
He sat beside her and together they faced the planks nailed across the glass.
Sunlight slipped through the cracks, thin yet sharp enough to prick the eyes if stared at too long.
"Child, I know you're different. You were born seeing what others cannot."
He received no answer, but continued gazing at the sliver of light.
"I see those things too, so I know how it feels when no one believes you—how helpless that is. We are the same, child; I understand."
He smiled faintly at memories of this life and spoke on in soft tones.
"Once, someone shining with light helped me. Now, do you need help? Try to trust me—trust that I truly can help you…"
When he finished, York fell silent, simply keeping her company by the window; he knew Janet would speak.
The room was still. At last a tiny, careful question broke the hush.
"Father… can you really see?"
York looked down at her, meeting the faint hope in her eyes, and smiled warmly.
"Of course. It's because I can see that I came to help you."
Janet lifted her head; life flickered across her young face, then she quickly lowered it again as if stepping over a threshold only to retreat.
Pity showed on York's face as he glanced at the Crosses lining the walls and the drifting, malignant haze—the very weight in the air that marked this room as a thoroughfare for something evil.
"Child, if you'd rather not speak, may I ask you something?"
Janet stayed silent; York asked anyway.
"Do you think these Crosses help?"
"No." Her voice trembled.
"It still comes every night."
"It?" York raised an eyebrow, noting the pronoun; he suspected she meant more than Bill Wilkins.
"You mean…?"
But the girl lapsed into silence once more.
Still, York was patient; he knew this twelve-year-old medium was living through terror deeper than fire.
All he could do was make her believe in his power—believe he could truly help.
"Child, do you believe in light?" He looked at Janet, who still stared at the floor.
"Whether you do or not, lift your head and look. Trust me—you'll see something wondrous."
His tone was that of coaxing a small child, and it worked.
Janet gathered her courage, lifted her head—and froze, eyes reflecting a bloom of light.
Seeing her stunned, wide-eyed stare, and feeling the spell he had just whispered settle, York smiled and opened his palm.
"I told you, didn't I?"
Through Exorcio—the system-like converter—a pristine flower of mana blossomed above his hand, radiant yet dangerous.
[1 Mana spent]
York's eyes narrowed in a smile; he had guessed rightly. This girl's gift was extraordinary—strong enough to perceive mana shaped by spellcraft.
"Then, would you like to see something even more incredible?"