Chapter 43: THE MARKING
The bruises multiplied overnight.
I found Carolyn in the kitchen at dawn, staring at her reflection in the window glass. Her sleeve was rolled up, revealing what had been a single handprint the day before. Now there were three—climbing her arm like stepping stones, each one perfectly formed, each one unmistakably the shape of grasping fingers.
"They weren't there when I went to sleep," she said without turning around. "I didn't feel them happen. I just woke up and—" Her voice cracked. "What's happening to me?"
I activated Spirit Sight, studying the marks with perception that went beyond the physical. Dark energy clung to each bruise like oil on water—threads of malevolent power that wound through her skin and deeper, connecting to something in her core. The energy pulsed in slow rhythm, like a heartbeat that wasn't her own.
[ENTITY BEHAVIOR: CLAIMING RITUAL DETECTED]
[TARGET: CAROLYN PERRON]
[STATUS: PHASE 2 OF 4]
"Come with me," I said. "Ed needs to see this."
We found Ed in the study he'd commandeered, surrounded by historical documents and case files. Lorraine sat beside him, translating the Latin from last night's EVP recordings. Both looked up as we entered.
"Three more marks," I said. "All overnight. All hand-shaped."
Ed stood immediately, crossing to examine Carolyn's arm. His expression darkened as he traced the pattern—not touching, just following the progression with his eyes.
"This isn't random haunting behavior," he said slowly. "This is deliberate. Methodical."
"It's a claiming," I said. "She's being marked for possession."
The word hung in the air like a death sentence. Carolyn swayed slightly, and Lorraine was at her side in an instant, guiding her to a chair.
"Possession," Carolyn repeated. "The thing in this house wants to—to take over my body?"
"Not just any body." I met her eyes directly, knowing the truth would hurt but lying would hurt more. "Bathsheba Sherman targets mothers. She lost her own child—sacrificed it, according to the historical records. Now she takes other mothers. Uses them."
"Uses them for what?"
I couldn't answer that. Couldn't tell her about the pattern I knew from the movie, from the case files I'd studied in another life. Couldn't tell her that Bathsheba's victims had tried to kill their own children while possessed.
"That's what we need to find out," Ed said, saving me from the silence. "Paul, you're with me. Historical society opens at nine. Lorraine, stay with Carolyn. She's not alone for any reason."
The Harrisville Historical Society was a single room in the back of the town library, staffed by an elderly woman named Margaret who clearly didn't get many visitors.
"Bathsheba Sherman," she said when Ed mentioned the name, her face going pale. "You're investigating the Arnold Estate, aren't you? The Perron family."
"You know about the house?"
"Everyone in Harrisville knows about that house. We just don't talk about it." She led us to a filing cabinet in the corner, pulled out a folder thick with yellowed documents. "Bathsheba Thayer married Judson Sherman in 1844. They lived on that property until her death in 1885."
I scanned the documents as Ed took notes. Marriage records. Property deeds. And then—a newspaper clipping from 1848, the paper so brittle it nearly crumbled in my hands.
"Infant death," I read aloud. "Week-old child of Bathsheba Sherman found deceased in crib. Mother claims natural causes. Neighbors report unusual circumstances."
"The unusual circumstances were never specified," Margaret said quietly. "But the rumors... people said she offered the child to the devil. Said she was seen in the barn the night before, performing some kind of ritual. The local minister refused to baptize any more of her children after that."
"Did she have other children?"
"Three more. All survived to adulthood. But none of them would live in that house after she died. They sold it within a year of her death and never came back to Harrisville."
Ed flipped through more documents. "Her death—it says natural causes."
"It says that, yes." Margaret's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "But she hanged herself from the tree on the property. Everyone knew. The coroner was her cousin—he ruled it natural to spare the family the shame of suicide."
The tree. The massive oak that radiated wrongness, that even now I could feel like a splinter in my consciousness despite being miles away.
"Before she died," I said carefully, "did she say anything? Leave any kind of... message?"
Margaret was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached into the folder and pulled out one final document—a hand-written note, the ink faded but still legible.
"They found this in her pocket. The family kept it hidden for decades. My predecessor acquired it in 1952."
I read the words, and my blood went cold.
"I curse every mother who dwells in my home. What was taken from me, I shall take from them. My children for their children. Forever and always, until the land itself remembers my name."
We returned to the farmhouse by noon.
The family was gathered in the living room—Roger pacing, Carolyn sitting motionless, the five girls clustered on the couch with expressions that ranged from teenage defiance to childhood terror. Ed called a family meeting.
"We know what we're dealing with now," he said, his voice calm but serious. "Bathsheba Sherman was a woman who lived in this house over a century ago. She died here—violently—and she cursed this property before she died."
"Cursed how?" Roger demanded.
"She targets mothers." Ed's eyes moved to Carolyn. "She tries to possess them. Control them. The marks on your wife's arm are part of that process—a claiming ritual that prepares the body for what's to come."
Carolyn's face was gray. "Can you stop it?"
"We're going to try. But I need to be honest with you—this entity is powerful. More powerful than anything we've faced in years. We need Church authorization to perform a full exorcism, and getting that takes time."
"How much time?"
"Days. Maybe a week."
Roger's fist slammed against the wall. "A week? My wife is being—being claimed by some dead witch, and you need a week?"
"Roger." Carolyn's voice was quiet but steady. "Stop."
"We should leave. Pack up right now, drive away, never look back—"
"If we run, it follows." Carolyn met her husband's eyes. "I can feel her, Roger. Inside me. Watching through my eyes sometimes. If we leave this house, she comes with us. I'd rather fight here, where we have help, than run and face her alone."
The room was silent. Roger's anger deflated into something that looked more like despair.
"Ed," Carolyn continued, "what can we do while we wait for authorization?"
"We protect you. You're never alone—always someone with you, day and night. We'll perform a house blessing tonight to try slowing the process. And we pray. Constantly. Faith is the strongest weapon against possession."
I stepped forward. "I'd like to teach the girls some prayers. Simple ones they can use if they get scared. It won't stop Bathsheba, but it might buy them time if she tries to reach them directly."
Carolyn nodded. "Do it."
That evening, I sat with the five Perron daughters in the upstairs hallway.
Andrea—fourteen, suspicious, trying so hard to be adult—sat closest to the stairs, positioning herself between her sisters and any threat that might come. Nancy and Christine flanked her, ten and eight years old respectively, their faces showing the particular exhaustion of children who'd been scared for too long. Cindy huddled against Nancy's side, seven years old and silent.
And April sat directly in front of me, five years old, cross-legged on the floor, watching me with eyes that seemed to see too much.
"The prayer is simple," I said. "You can say it out loud or in your head. Whatever feels right. Ready?"
Nods all around, even from Andrea.
"'Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.'" I spoke slowly, letting them absorb each phrase. "Can you say it back to me?"
April was first. Her small voice recited the words perfectly, without hesitation, as if she'd known them all her life.
The others followed—haltingly at first, then with growing confidence as the prayer became familiar. Even Andrea eventually joined in, her teenage cool cracking just enough to show the frightened girl underneath.
"If you get scared," I told them, "say those words. Out loud is better, but silent works too. The thing in this house—it can't hurt you when you're praying. Faith is stronger than fear."
"Do you believe that?" Andrea asked. "Really?"
I thought about everything I'd seen in three years of this work. The demons and ghosts, the possessions and hauntings, the families destroyed and the families saved. I thought about the system that tracked my progress, the foreknowledge that had brought me to this moment, the power I'd accumulated through faith and practice.
"Yes," I said. "I really believe that."
April reached out and took my hand. "The lady is scared of you," she whispered. "I can feel it when you're in the room. She gets quieter."
"Then I'll stay close."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Night three. The house blessing.
Ed performed the ritual by candlelight, holy water and prayer, the full Catholic ceremony designed to cleanse spaces of spiritual contamination. Lorraine supported him with her psychic gifts, reinforcing the sacred energy. I added my own faith to the working, channeling everything I had into the protection.
For six hours, it seemed to work.
The house felt lighter. The cold spots diminished. Carolyn's bruises stopped spreading. We allowed ourselves to hope.
Then 3:07 AM arrived.
The crack started in the living room wall—a sound like breaking bone, loud enough to wake the entire house. I was on my feet before the echo faded, crucifix in hand, prayers on my lips.
Every door in the house slammed open simultaneously.
The cold returned—not gradually but all at once, a wave of frozen malice that turned breath to fog and made every piece of metal in the house frost over. The candles Ed had blessed flickered and died. The holy water we'd spread began to boil, then evaporated entirely.
And from the master bedroom, Carolyn screamed.
I ran.
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