Chapter 52: FATHER GORMAN
Father Gorman moved through the Perron farmhouse like a general surveying a battlefield.
I followed three steps behind, watching him stop at each manifestation point—the spot on the wall where blood had seeped through plaster, the corner where temperature readings consistently showed thirty degrees below ambient, the basement door with its blessed seals and desperate prayers. His face grew grimmer with each observation.
"How long has the entity had to establish itself?" he asked, not looking at me.
"The current family has been here fourteen months. But Bathsheba Sherman died on this property in 1885. She's had nearly a century to root herself into the land."
"And before that?"
"The basement predates the house by over a hundred years. Whatever rituals she performed down there—whatever deals she made—they've been accumulating power since before the American Revolution."
Gorman stopped at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the sealed basement door. His hand rose to touch the wood, then hesitated.
"I've performed forty-seven exorcisms," he said quietly. "Vatican-authorized cases across three continents. I've faced demons that spoke in tongues no living person should know. I've watched priests die in the rite and hosts shatter beyond recovery." He turned to face me. "This is one of the worst I've seen. The entity has had centuries to establish itself. Layers upon layers of curse and corruption, all focused on this single piece of land."
"Can you break it?"
"I can try. But you need to understand what that means." His eyes were hard but not unkind. "Where is Mrs. Perron?"
Carolyn sat in the living room safe zone, surrounded by her family.
She was barely conscious now—eyes open but unfocused, responding to touch and sound only occasionally, her body present but her mind somewhere far away. Fighting, I hoped. Holding on to whatever pieces of herself Bathsheba hadn't claimed yet.
Father Gorman knelt beside her, took her hand in his. She didn't react.
"Mrs. Perron." His voice was gentle. "Carolyn. Can you hear me?"
Nothing. Then—a flicker. Her eyes focused, just for a moment, finding his face.
"Father." The word was barely a whisper. "She's so loud. I can't... I can't hear myself anymore."
"I know. We're going to help you. But I need you to fight. Whatever happens tonight, I need you to keep fighting."
"I'll try." Her eyes drifted closed. "Tell Roger... tell the girls..."
She was gone again. Back to whatever internal battlefield she occupied.
Gorman stood, his expression set. "We proceed tonight. She won't survive much longer. Another day—maybe less—and there won't be anything left to save."
"What do you need from us?" Ed asked.
"Everything you have. Every prayer, every ounce of faith, every blessed object in your arsenal." He opened his case, revealing the instruments of formal exorcism—stoles and holy water, ritual candles and ancient texts. "The rite will take hours. Perhaps all night. Bathsheba won't surrender easily. She'll attack, she'll deceive, she'll try to break our concentration by any means necessary."
"We've faced that before," I said.
"Not like this." Gorman's voice was flat. "Rome has authorized extraordinary measures. Do you understand what that means?"
I did. The knowledge sat heavy in my stomach.
"If the demon refuses to leave," I said slowly, "you have permission to use techniques that could kill the host. To prevent the possession from spreading."
"Correct. If Carolyn's body becomes unsalvageable—if her heart stops, if her mind breaks, if the demon tries to use her as a weapon against the exorcists—we may have to make a choice. Save her soul by ending her life."
The room was silent. Roger stood by the window, his back to us, his shoulders rigid.
"Roger." Father Gorman turned to face him. "This is your wife. Your decision. I won't proceed without your consent."
Roger didn't move for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was hollow.
"What are the odds?"
"Of success? Perhaps sixty percent. Of survival? Slightly lower."
"And if we don't try?"
"She's gone within days. The possession completes, and Bathsheba has a new body to work with. Your daughters become targets."
Roger turned. His face was gray with exhaustion and fear, but his eyes were clear.
"She's my wife. She's their mother. Do it." He crossed to Gorman, took the authorization document, signed without hesitation. His hand didn't shake. "Just save her soul. Whatever happens to her body—save her soul."
I found Roger alone on the porch an hour later.
The sun was setting, painting the Rhode Island sky in shades of red and gold. In different circumstances, it might have been beautiful. Here, it just marked the approach of the worst night of our lives.
"Mr. Perron."
He glanced at me. "Paul. Drop the 'mister.' We're past that now."
"Roger, then." I stood beside him, watching the light fade. "I want you to know—I will do everything in my power to bring her back to you. Everything. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs."
"That's quite a promise."
"I don't make promises lightly."
He studied me—really looked at me, the way he hadn't in the chaos of the past weeks. "You're young. Twenty-four, twenty-five? I've got shirts older than you. But when I watch you work..." He shook his head. "You've seen things. Done things. The way you handled that creature when it manifested, the way you stand between it and my family—that's not training. That's experience."
"It is."
"Where does a kid your age get experience fighting demons?"
The question was casual, but I could hear the real inquiry underneath. Who are you? What are you? Why are you really here?
"Some people are called to this work," I said. It wasn't a lie. "I was one of them."
Roger considered this. Whatever he was looking for in my face, he seemed to find it.
"I believe you." He extended his hand. "Don't die doing it."
I shook. His grip was firm despite everything—the grip of a man who'd learned to hold on when everything around him was falling apart.
"I'll do my best."
The last supper—I couldn't help thinking of it that way—took place at seven o'clock.
Father Gorman had insisted the family eat together. "Whatever happens tonight," he said, "they need this. They need to remember what they're fighting for."
The dining room table groaned under food no one wanted to eat. Carolyn sat at the head, propped upright, barely able to lift a fork. Roger sat beside her, cutting her food into small pieces, feeding her like a child when she could manage to swallow.
The girls were silent. April pressed against my side—she'd barely left my vicinity since the attack on Sadie—her small hand gripping mine under the table. Andrea sat across from us, her teenage mask finally abandoned, her face showing every moment of fear she'd tried to hide.
I forced myself to eat. The food tasted like nothing, but my body needed fuel for what was coming.
[PSYCHIC STAMINA: 135/135 — RESTORED]
[SOUL INTEGRITY: 115/115 — RESTORED]
[SYSTEM STATUS: OPTIMAL]
The notifications appeared in my peripheral vision, confirming what I already felt. A day of rest, minimal expenditure, preparation for the battle ahead. The system was ready.
Whether I was ready was another question.
"Uncle Paul?" April's voice was barely audible. "Is Mommy going to be okay?"
Everyone at the table stopped. Even Carolyn's eyes flickered toward her youngest daughter.
"We're going to fight for her," I said. "All of us. And we don't stop fighting until she's safe."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
April nodded solemnly and went back to pushing food around her plate.
I caught Lorraine's eyes across the table. She gave me the smallest nod—acknowledgment, support, the shared understanding of people who knew what was coming and had chosen to face it anyway.
After dinner, the children were sent to Father Callahan's car. They would spend the night at the local rectory, protected by sacred ground and distance from whatever happened in this house. Roger hugged each of his daughters, holding them close, memorizing the feeling in case it was the last time.
Carolyn watched them go with eyes that weren't entirely her own.
"Sweet meat," Bathsheba's voice whispered through her lips. "I'll taste them soon enough."
Father Gorman made the sign of the cross. "Not tonight, demon. Tonight, you answer for your sins."
The sun set. The darkness came. And we prepared for war.
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