Father Carrigan’s voice shivered, but he continued reading from the Book of Tony. Amy’s head fell back, and her eyes burnt with malevolence.
“Daniel,” she purred the priest’s first name in an unsettling voice, “I know your sins.”
Father Carrigan froze – still holding the crucifix. She laughed horribly, her voice echoing through the house.
“Do you really think your faith can save you?” the voice taunted. “You will see me rip her soul apart, and then, I’ll come for you all.”
The room grew darker as shadows pooled in the corners. Margaret’s eyes, however, were fixed on her daughter. She reached out and clutched Father Carrigan’s arm, begging him, “You have to save her. Please, save my daughter.”
Father Carrigan took a deep breath, closed his eyes to concentrate on his prayer, and murmured a final prayer for strength, gripping the tighter. Then he commanded: “In the name of Christ, I compel you to leave this child, and I condemn you back to hell!”
And Amy let out a blood-curdling shriek. The shadows gathered in the corners crawled away, disappearing into thin air. The poor girl’s body convulsed, and she fell limp.
Silence enveloped the room, suffocating.
The priest took a sigh of relief and collected himself while Margaret and Martina rushed to Amy’s side. They looked at her: the beautiful, tired eyes were wide open, yet frightened. However, they were her own again.
“Mommy?” she whispered in a frail voice.
Margaret broke down into tears of relief and hugged her daughter tight. On the other hand, Father Carrigan, who was exhausted and pale, whispered a final prayer of thanks. However, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still lurking in the dark.
The following days proved good for the Johannsen family: Amy gradually returned to her old bubbly self. The shine of her eyes and the freshness of her skin returned; the bruises faded; and her laughter filled the house once more. Every morning, Margaret would get up with the hope that it was all over and that it was all a nightmare. The same couldn’t be said about Father Carrigan, for he visited often, praying for continued protection: he knew that the evil spirit was not gone for good.
One rainy evening, Margaret sat at her desk, trying to write as the house was quiet, save for the gentle patter of rain against the windows that seemed to somewhat spread a calm everywhere. Amy was asleep, and Martina had gone to visit her sister for the night. The tranquillity, sadly, didn’t last long.
Suddenly, a soft whisper caressed Margaret’s ear; she was alarmed, and before she could make sense of things, the whisper came again, unmistakable this time: “He never really left.”
The heaviness in the air was back, and so were the shadows. “Not again!” Margaret thought and rose slowly. “Who’s there?” she called.
The shadow in the corner of her office stretched into a tall and twisted form and, coming near her, growled, “This is only the beginning.”
Margaret screamed, and the nightlights exploded, plunging the house into pitch-black darkness.
The thick darkness swallowed Margaret’s scream; she lost balance; her chair crashed to the floor; and the shadow started approaching her steadily, with a red gaze fixed on her. Margaret’s legs were paralysed out of sheer terror. She could feel the hair at the back of her neck stand up. And then it spoke again, “You can’t save her.”
Even though she didn’t know where she got that power, she found her voice: “Leave us alone!” she screamed. The entity tilted its head in curiosity and vanished into a whirl of shadows and dust. The lights also turned back on, and the thickness of the air alleviated, yet the terror didn’t lift.
Margaret then bolted from the room, up the stairs, and into Amy’s room, who was sleeping like a baby. She seemed undisturbed; Margaret was relieved to see her daughter sleeping peacefully. She went on ahead to kiss Amy’s forehead, and she would never forget what she saw: the girl’s hands were clenched, and her face told the story of fear; it was so intense Margaret had to wake her up, shaking her gently.
When she woke up, Amy was panicking. She hugged her mother and gasped, “Mommy, he’s here. He’s waiting, and he hides in the shadows.”
Margaret hugged her daughter tightly, trying to get closer to her than the fear that clung to the girl’s heart. This couldn’t go on like this forever.
The next morning, Margaret called Father Carrigan again. Her voice cracked with desperation as she explained what had happened, but the priest listened silently.
“I’ll come immediately,” he said in a steady yet concerned voice.
When Father Carrigan arrived, he brought a fellow clergyman with him—Father Miguel Alvarez. He was a relatively younger but equally devout priest with experience in cases of spiritual torment. The two men entered the Johannsen home, carrying with them sacred texts, vials of holy water, and a quiet, determined resolve.
As Father Carrigan and Father Miguel began their preparations for another exorcism, Margaret felt a fragile sliver of hope as the haunting atmosphere in the house made it hard to believe in salvation.
The priests gathered in Amy’s room; Amy sat on the bed, traumatised and tired, to say the least. Her gaze constantly kept moving towards the corners of her room. Margaret sat beside her, holding her hand tightly, while Martina stood near the door, clutching her rosary.
Father Carrigan drew a deep breath, then began to pray. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…”
Amy’s head snapped up, hand her eyes began to narrow, and her expressions, harsh.
“You think your prayers can drive me away?” she sneered. The bed began to shake violently, and Amy’s body contorted in a humanly impossible way.
Father Miguel stepped forward, sprinkling holy water, “You have no power here.” The water sizzled where it touched Amy’s skin, and she shrieked while the shadows of the room played around the priests.
Margaret could neither watch nor turn her head away while Amy tossed and turned in visible agony; the room screamed with her, and the walls seemed to close in as if the house itself were alive.
Father Carrigan held his ground, reciting passages from the Bible: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures…”
His recitation of those words and his voice were unwavering amid the darkness, clawing from every direction.
Amy’s eyes snapped open; they didn’t seem like human eyes but rather pools of red. “You’re wasting your time,” she snarled. “She belongs to us now.”
Father Miguel’s voice rose, strong and commanding: “In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to leave this child!”
The shadows screamed a sound that cut through the room like shards of glass, and Amy’s body convoluted once more before collapsing. For a brief moment, silence took over the room. And then, Amy sat up, her eyes returning to their normal natural blue.
After this came her fragile voice, “Mommy?” Margaret rushed to her, letting her tears of relief spill down her face, cradling her daughter in her arms with a heart full of hope and lingering fear.
But Father Carrigan’s expression wasn’t relaxed even now. He exchanged a glance with his colleague, who nodded in response.
“It’s not over,” Father Carrigan said quietly. “This spirit is really strong, and even though we’ve weakened it, it’s still here.”
