Familiar Spirit

“I don’t expect anyone would believe me,” Sarah said. “You two, maybe, because you’re my friends, and you’re receptive to bizarre ideas . . . I can imagine what my landlady would say if I went to her with some crazy story about an evil spirit. I don’t imagine she would leave the house empty at my request. Anyway, that’s not enough. This thing has got to be destroyed. There must be some way of destroying it.”

“You could call an exorcist,” Beverly suggested.

Sarah shrugged. “Well, maybe, but the idea gives me shivers. I can just imagine some poor innocent priest getting savaged by that thing—maybe if I was religious myself I’d believe in the power of prayer, but as it is—”

“We just don’t know what the rules are,” Pete said. “Still, there must be things we could try, old spells in ancient books or something.”

“We?”

He grinned. “As if I’d let you fight it alone! You need reinforcements. Maybe we could recruit some more friends . . .”

“Pete, it isn’t a game,” Beverly said again.

“I’m serious,” Pete said, looking steadily at Sarah. “I want to help. Many hands make light work, and all that. I can help you research, if nothing else. I once took a course on magic and religion from Dr. Fischer—you know, the head of the anthro department? He’s something of an expert on magic rituals, so it might make sense to talk to him. I don’t know how much he believes in them, but he can certainly rattle off some spells. And while we’re doing all this, I think you should stay away from the house. Stay with us, just until you have a plan of action.”

Sarah nodded. “Yes, I . . . don’t really like the idea of going back there just yet. But I’m sure we’ll come up with something. There has to be a way to send it back, or destroy it. There have to be rules in magic like everything else. And if Valerie—who frankly didn’t strike me as being all there—could figure out the way to call up a demon, I’m sure we can figure out the way to vanquish it.”

“Why not ask Valerie what she did?” Beverly suggested.

Sarah stared at her. A grin dawned on her face, and she slowly nodded. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll find Valerie and make her tell me.”

Chapter Seven

But how to find Valerie?

Sarah didn’t know how to begin. She didn’t even know Valerie’s last name.

Waking Thursday, still at the Marchants’ apartment, Sarah thought of her landlady, Mrs. Owens, and the scrap of paper Valerie had given her. She retrieved it from the blue-jean pocket where it had been since she took it from Valerie’s fingers. She recognized the name of the street; it wasn’t far from her own house. She might as well stop by, since she would be in the neighborhood.

A cold wind was blowing and the sky was overcast. Sarah zipped up the front of her jacket and hurried through the rows of parked cars to her own. She felt the beginning of a dull depression and wished Beverly had been free to spend the day with her. Company might cheer her and keep her thoughts from circling hopelessly back to Brian. She tried, as she drove, to concentrate on the immediate problem, but the depression was already spreading, tingeing every avenue of thought with its greyness. She would not find Valerie. Even if she found her, Valerie would be unwilling or unable to help. After all, Valerie had fled the house after meddling in forces beyond her control. She had been able to save her own skin, but she couldn’t vanquish the demon she had summoned.

Mrs. Owens’ house was on a short street that ended abruptly, a ditch and a high wire fence separating it from the expressway. It was the last house on the street, covered in pale green aluminum siding, with white shutters framing the curtained front windows. The small, flat lawn was littered with the big leaves of a slippery elm and the smaller brown curls of a young ash. A car the color of tomato soup was in the driveway.

As she parked her car and got out on the street, Sarah felt uncomfortably as if she were being watched. But when she looked around she could see no one. The windows of Mrs. Owens’ house presented her with the blank, cream-colored backs of long draperies. She stared hard at them, but they did not stir to reveal the presence of a watcher.

Listening to the doorbell, Sarah did not believe it rang through an empty house. There was someone inside, she thought. She could feel an intangible presence. But no one came to the door.

Finally, Sarah turned away. She had taken only a few steps towards the street when she heard the soft but unmistakable sound of a door being opened. She turned.

There was no one there. But now the door was slightly ajar, as if a breeze had pushed it.

Sarah frowned and looked around, almost expecting someone to tell her what to do. But there was no one in sight; only the open door waiting for her decision.

Wondering what she would say if challenged, Sarah stepped forward and pushed the door wide.

“Mrs. Owens?”