Page 294 of Sinister

“Your daughter is possessed, and she is a danger to us all.”

“I must see her for myself.”

“No!” I shout. Grabbing one of the metal candle holders off the wall, I aim it toward him. “You will go inside the other room, now!”

His eyes widen in fear at the sight of the heavy item. But somehow, he thinks a frail nun wouldn’t hit him, so he charges at me. Before he can get too close, I raise the candle holder and hit him over the head.

He drops down to the floor. His wife screams in shock.

“Sister Mary, come here,” I tell her. She raises herself off the ground and slowly comes to my side. The blow must have affected her quite a bit because her steps are wobbly. “Check his pulse.”

She does as told while I give the wife a look. She understands my meaning and backs away into their room.

“He’s alive,” Sister Mary whispers.

“Good. Now help me drag him into the room.”

We manage to get his body inside, after which I close the door and lock the spouses in. This should buy us some time, though I am aware I can’t keep two people hostage forever.

“What about the girl?” Sister Mary asks in a small voice.

I tell her the situation and that the entire convent, potentially the entire town, might be in danger.

“Good Lord,” she mutters, making the sign of the cross. “What will we do?”

“I . . .” I sigh. “I don’t know.”

Another scream thunders through the halls of the convent, followed by an unnatural shake of the walls. Sister Mary regards me with trepidation.

Just then, someone knocks at the main door—three loud knocks in slow, measured succession.

“Should we . . .”

“I’ll go,” I say, marching toward the front entrance.

I raise myself on the tips of my toes to look through the peephole. It’s dark out, but I can somehow make out the outline of a man.

“Who is it?”

“I am a friend of Father Benedict,” the stranger replies.

I frown. “Father Benedict never mentioned a friend coming.”

“Perhaps he did not have the time.”

“What are you⁠—”

“You are dealing with something beyond your control. You require help.”

His words startle me. It’s almost as if he knows something happened to Father Benedict. But . . . how?

Against all common sense, I creep the door open just enough to look at the newcomer.

He’s young. In his mid to late twenties at most. He has dark hair that curls around his ears, and a pair of startling green eyes that seem to be staring straight into my soul. He has faint scars on one side of his face.

“Who are you?”

“I can help you,” he insists.