Page 289 of Sinister

The nuns are all trained to deal with such cases, too, and if Sister Mary suspects this might be a case of abuse rather than possession, then I trust her judgment; she’s experienced enough to tell them apart.

“The Father will know best,” I reply succinctly, and we proceed toward the room.

Father Benedict O’Roark is an Irish-born Jesuit priest who’s been serving in the colonies for over twenty-five years. Though his order was technically dissolved, he continues to serve as an exorcist, citing it as his divine calling.

We’ve been working with him for as long as I can remember, and though he is a firm believer in demonic possession, he is also skeptical of most cases.

Due to his caution, we have not had any casualty in a ritual, and that is the main reason why many people all along the coastline travel days, if not weeks, to come to us for help. And as is our duty, we do our best to help.

I light up a candle and walk down the dark corridor that leads to the quarters reserved for outsider guests.

Sister Mary shows me to the room in which the young girl has been placed. Inside, her family is with her, but they keep a cautious distance.

I place the candle on a desk and assess the situation.

“Why is she chained?” I demand.

“Her family asked for it,” Sister Mary whispers.

The father, a bald gentleman of about forty, steps forward.

“She’s been hurting herself,” he mentions. “We’ve been keeping her like this since she started exhibiting the symptoms.”

I nod and go to her side. “What is her name?”

“Claire.”

“Hello, Claire,” I say softly. She doesn’t react.

She’s wearing a dirty gown, once white but now a greyish hue. There are specks of blood all over. Her hair is flat and oily atop her head, as if she hasn’t washed it in weeks.

I move my gaze to her face. There are bruises under her eyes. Around her mouth, there are oozing sores that continue down her neck. She’s staring at the ceiling, her eyes dark, her pupils dilated.

I purse my lips. That is concerning.

Her arms are full of scratches. Long, deep lines that go from her shoulder to her wrist. They are a dark color, the skin around them red and swollen.

I grab her hand and look at her nails. They’re dark with dirt and caked blood as well as some pieces of flesh. She’s done this to herself.

“Has anyone cleaned her wounds?” I look at her family.

They shake their heads.

“Sister Mary, bring me a bowl of water and a clean cloth.”

She leaves the room and returns with what I asked. I pull a chair near the bed and start cleaning some of the girl’s wounds, though from what I can see, they’ve begun festering.

As I clean the deeper injuries around her wrists, she slowly turns her head toward me. Her eyes are empty . . . soulless.

Her lips slowly twist into a grin.

“Te exspectābam,” she says in a low, thick voice.

My lashes flutter at the sudden use of Latin.

Her parents gasp loudly and take a step back.

“Does Claire speak Latin?” I ask calmly.