Riley's Excellent and Not-at-all Fake Exorcism Service

Preface

Well . . . Fuck

"This can't be real." He told himself, "You've just had too much to drink. It was a long day. Come on, man. Come on."

Music and idle chatter surrounded him as he hurriedly made his way to the mansion's front doors. A butler in a neat tux tried to ask him if he needed his jacket, but he was in too much of a hurry to hear him, let alone respond. Once outside, his quick pace turned into a sprint, across the large perfectly manicured lawn to the street, which was lined with high-end cars. Down, until he reached his house. The Sold sign was still placed out front. He ran inside, passing boxes they had yet to unpack, and dashed straight upstairs to the bedroom.

His back was pressed against the mahogany door. He wiped his brow while taking in a heavy breath and walked over to the mini-bar by the balcony window, where he poured himself a generous amount of amber liquor from the crystal decanter.

"Just one more drink, then you'll go to sleep." He gripped the glass in his trembling hand, between gulps of as much liquor as his throat would allow. "You didn't see what you think you saw." He chanted this over and over, until his heartbeat turned from a relentless beating to a steadier rhythm. He removed his phone from his suit jacket, opening it to Erica's number, but hesitated to call. He glanced over at the king-sized bed, covered in its crisp satin sheets. Just this morning, they were there together, tumbling around in sweet marital bliss.

"Stop it," he scolded himself, "Everything's fine. This is your new house, your new life. You're safe here. Erica will be back and she'll laugh at you for running out of the party like that. Yeah, she'll come back here . . . she'll be . . . normal." He polished off his drink, removed his jacket and tossed it on the lounge chair next to the bar. He walked into the bathroom connected to his and Erica's bedroom. Looking in the mirror, it took a second for him to recognize himself. His face was flushed, his pupils dilated to the point that they looked almost black.

He turned on the faucet, splashed water over his face, his neck. With his eyes closed, he repeated over and over. "This can't be real . . ."

That was when he heard the bedroom door open . . . slowly.

"Tommy?" It was Erica. But her voice, it sounded off, distant and cold. Not what he was used to. "You're here, aren't you, Tommy?"

The large door slammed shut. The room around him seemed to grow colder with every click of Erica's heels. He listened as she crossed the bedroom toward him. Glancing in the mirror, he peered at his reflection again. He was trembling. His eyes were still as black as the night sky. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a weak whimper.

"Tommy," From the corner of his eye, he saw her silhouette leaning against the door frame. "Why did you run away, Tommy?"

He didn't look at her. He couldn't.

"Look at me, Tommy," she commanded, her voice wasn't the kind, energetic one he knew. That he loved. This voice was cruel, full of distance. This was the voice of a stranger. "We're going to get everything, Tommy. Everything we've ever wanted."

"E-Erica," he sputtered, through chattering teeth. It was so cold. "This isn't real. I-it can't be."

"Oh, sweet Tommy," she said, chuckling. "This is so very real. More real than anything before. You'll see, you'll understand . . . soon."

"E-Erica," He mustered all the courage that remained within him and looked at her. But it wasn't her. No, not entirely. He stumbled back. His skin turned the color of fresh snow. He couldn't move his arms, hands or fingers. It was as if they had turned to ice. His eyes widened, turning even darker. Black.

His mind was unable to process what was before him.

All he could say was, "Well . . . Fuck."