Actually, to say Bennet was depressed would be an understatement. He was destroyed. My brother and I weren’t particularly close at that point, but it killed me to see him like that, not just because his dreams were ruined but also because of the cruel way my parents were behaving. They treated him like some dark secret they wouldn’t acknowledge, like a burden, like a disappointment… like me.
So I started to take care of him. When he couldn’t go to school, I brought him his homework. I cooked his meals and made sure he ate well. I even did his laundry—which, because he was a seventeen-year-old boy, required a firm constitution. We started spending so much time together that I found less and less time for Vivien, which she did not appreciate. She cut me out of her life and found some poor freshman girl to corrupt.
After much research, I found a physical therapist the next county over who was willing to treat Bennet. Three days a week after school, I would drive him back and forth. Those long drives in the car gave us some quality one-on-one time. Over the next few months, he and I would share our deepest secrets and our greatest hopes. We became as close as a brother and sister could be.
And by some miracle, Bennet got better. When he finally returned to the baseball field, I was his most enthusiastic and vocal cheerleader. Things started to return to normal for the Caine family—they were better, even, than they’d been before the injury. Bennet’s future was once again looking bright, and I was no longer the family’s black sheep.
Until I ruined everything. It started slowly at first. I felt ill—fever, nausea, dry skin. My mother believed it was because I drank too much soda. When I started vomiting toads, my parents thought it would be a good idea to take me to the doctor.
The hospital didn’t help. If anything, the situation grew worse. Levitation, speaking in tongues, physical contortion… the medical staff was baffled by what was happening. My father was horrified by the trauma my body was going through. My mother was convinced I was just trying to get attention. Bennet was worried sick.
One good Christian doctor at St. Samaritan Something-or-Other instructed my parents to take me home and contact the church. Even with all his medical and scientific knowledge, he correctly believed I was possessed by a demon—an honest-to-God denizen-of-hell demon.
There was nothing else the hospital could do. Under the cover of night, so as not to alert the neighbors about my disgraceful condition, my parents brought me home. My mother called the pastor of our church, but he could do little to help. When it came to demonic possession, it turned out there was only one group out there who knew their shit: the Catholics.
That was a bitter pill for my Baptist mother to swallow, as she couldn’t stand Catholics almost as much as she couldn’t stand Methodists. Rumors about my situation began to spread around town, and my mother became increasingly resistant to reaching out for help. She didn’t want anyone to know what was happening in her home.
So Bennet made the phone calls. He was the one who sought recommendations and lobbied the archdiocese for evaluations from priests. With no help from my parents, he succeeded in getting two exorcists to come to our home.
They performed the Rite of Exorcism in an attempt to rid me of this demon. At that point, I was completely unaware of what was happening. The demon had control, and I was in an oblivious slumber. Later, I was told that it was unlike anything the priests had ever seen. The demon would not let go of my body.
Two days after they began the ritual, things went from bad to worse. I was never given all the details of exactly what happened. They’d bound me in my bed for the exorcism, but at some point during the rite, I was able to break free of my bonds. I attacked the priests then escaped the confines of my room. I rampaged through the house, obliterating everything in my path. My father and brother tried to restrain me, but I had grown too powerful. I turned my attention from destroying the house to attacking my assailants.
Eventually, they were able to restrain me again, and the priests resumed the rite. It took another two days before they were able to subdue the demon and I could regain consciousness. But the damage was done.
Bennet was dead. And I had killed him.
I was devastated. My brother with the bright future ahead of him… my brother who’d fought to help me… my brother whom I’d come to love more than anyone else in this world… had died by my hands. No matter how much the priests tried to convince me that it was the demon who had committed this act, I could not shake the guilt.
Then they gave me more bad news. The demon was not completely exorcised. I remained what the priest called a demoniac—a girl possessed.
Just as the demon had kept control of my body while my mind and soul were subdued, I now had control of my body while the demon lay dormant within. They had done everything in their power to rid me of the evil spirit and had managed to suppress it, but it would return. The episodes would be shorter, only lasting a few hours, before I would resume command of my body. But during that time, there was no telling what kind of destruction and terror I would dispense.
Before he left, one of the priests gave my parents information he believed might help me purge the demon from my
