The Evil We Keep

II. THE PREPARATION

I jolt awake, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to my skin like sweat. My heart hammers in my chest, each beat a frantic reminder that I'm back in my own body. I hold my gold pendant close, trying to tether myself to it, to its multiple charms, focusing on one specifically, its upside-down star shape, its five pointy edges, counting them repeatedly one after the other in between my fingers, to create my own rhythm, my own sense of control. **One, two, three, four five.**

The room is dark, but not of the same oppressive darkness I have just left in the dreamscape. Here, shadows have edges, shapes. My shelves are cluttered with half-burned candles and mismatched crystals—tools of the trade. I suck in a deep breath, but it catches in my throat. I mechanically direct my gaze to the clock on my nightstand: **3:33...Damn it.**

I reach for the light switch, blinded by the powerful flash as soon as the lamp is turned on. and fumble for the bottle of pills next to the clock, knocking over a half-empty glass of water in my rush. It spills onto the floor, soaking into the edge of an old tarot card. I rush to pick the card up before it is all drenched. Weirdly, even though everything around it has been touched by water, the card remains, dry, untouched. I turn it around and can't help but to breathe a sigh, halfway between exasperation and laughter at the sight of the skeletal contour. **Death. Dry fucking Death.**

Great. Just what I need—more bad omens. I can't help but smirk. People always misunderstand this one. It's not an ending, not exactly—it's transformation, change. Still, it's not exactly a comfort. It makes a twinge of unease settle in my gut every time I am near the thing.

As my eyes meet the ripper's, my hand begins to shake, dropping the god forsaken card on the carpet in front of me. I mechanically get a hold of the bottle of pill, dry swallow two of them, my mouth bitter, then three for good measure. **Settle down, Maya. Get it together.**

I breath, deeply, three times before I can feel my hand slowly come back to normal. Steady, strong, in control. I am not afraid of these fits anymore; they have become a common occurrence but I fucking hate not knowing when I will lose control next.

I close my eyes, but the image of that twisted grin—those glowing eyes—flashes behind my eyelids. My stomach clenches.

I need a minute, maybe more, but my phone breaks the silence with an obnoxious buzz. I almost let it go to voicemail, but the name on the screen stops me. Father McKinnon. I swipe to answer, my voice still ragged.

"Yeah?"

"Maya," he says, his voice tense, like he's holding back something urgent. "I'm sorry to call you this late but...There's a case. A family has contacted me. They believe their daughter is...in danger. I have investigated it and it's unlike anything I have ever seen. Traditional means just don't seem to work. I think you should see it." **I know what that means: Possession.**

I press my thumb and forefinger against my temples, trying to ease the throbbing there. **The dream, the girl...**

"Send me the address," I mutter. There's no use fighting it. This is what I do. My body's shaking as I throw back the covers and plant my feet on the cold wooden floor. Sometimes, I wish I could turn this off—ignore the signs, just sleep. But this... this feels too pointed to brush aside.

"Good," he replies, a hint of relief in his voice. "I'll give you more details when we meet." I agree, letting out a noise sounding more like the growl of a bear than the voice of a human and hang up.

I stand, swaying for a moment, as the dizziness from the pills hits me. The apartment feels like it's spinning in slow circles, the shadows moving just enough to make me question if they're real or imagined. I take another deep breath, steadying myself. My mind is racing, but I need to focus. **Get your head straight. You've done this a hundred times.**