Possessed Pussy (6)

Possessed Pussy (6)
~ Calista ~

Mom comes home hours later, her face bright with satisfaction. A small smile curls her lips as she paces around the living room, humming a church hymn under her breath.

I track her every move from the couch.

Ever since the news broke about the old priest’s death, she’s been sullen. Nothing could cheer her up—until today.

A dark rush of jealousy burns through my chest. Could the new priest be the reason?

What else could explain the sudden change?

No.

Maybe I’m seeing what I want to see. Maybe Mom simply had a good day.

But the thought of her with him crawls under my skin anyway.

Across the room, Dad is buried behind his newspaper, completely oblivious. He’s too blind to notice the change in the air.

“Hey,” Mom says, pointing toward the counter with bright eyes. “Did you look through the basket of cucumbers I left for you?”

I don't answer.

Anger, envy, and disgust knot together in my stomach. She looks too virtuous to cheat on my dad.

“Mrs. Monroe asked for some,” she adds, ignoring my cold shoulder. “Go change your clothes and take them over.”

She turns and drifts into the kitchen. Her humming turns into a high-pitched whistle, which is very unlike her.

The new priest’s dick must have magic in it.

She spends the next few minutes clattering dishes and stirring something over the stove. Before long, a rich, familiar aroma drifts into the room.

It’s the exact same dish she used to cook for the old priest.

My jaw clenches.

Of course it is.

Father Romanus probably came to taste me after he’d already had his fill of her.

And to think of her fucking the new priest…

The thought makes my skin hot. I picture her sitting on his lap, riding him in the rectory or his office, throwing all her holy modesty out the window.

Mom steps back into the living room carrying a steaming plate of food.

She stops, her eyes narrowing as she looks at me. “Calista? You’re still sitting there?”

I stare back at her, barely concealing the anger in my eyes.

I despise her in this moment. I hate her voice. I hate her fake concern.

For one ugly second, I hate being her daughter.

“Calista,” she says, her tone rising. “I asked you a question.”

She sets the plate on the table and walks toward me, suspicion flickering in her eyes.

She reaches out, placing the back of her hand against my neck to check my temperature like she always does when she thinks I’m sick.

“What’s wrong with you?” Her voice softens, shifting into motherly worry. She cups my cheeks, tilting my face up to examine my eyes. “Are you feeling alright?”

As she leans closer, her scent washes over me. Beneath her perfume, I catch the sharp, unmistakable trace of men’s cologne.

My fingers curl against my thighs.

Father Martins.

My suspicion was right.

I should ask her.

I should demand the truth.

Instead, something hot and ugly tears through me.

I lunge forward, grabbing her neck with both hands and burying my teeth deep into her shoulder.

Mom lets out a blood-curdling shriek. I throw my entire weight against her, tackling her onto the floor.

I don't hold back. I sink my teeth deeper, tearing into her flesh like a wild animal. I pull back with enough force to rip a piece of skin clean off.

Mom screams hysterically, clutching her shoulder as she lies on the carpet.

I throw my head back and let out a demonic laugh, mimicking the possessive lore from the books I’ve read.

If I can’t get the new priest’s attention on my own, then I’ll play the demon—and force him to play the exorcist.

Heavy footsteps rush across the room.

Dad grabs me from behind, his hands locking around my arms. I thrash and scream, kicking blindly until his grip pins me down.

The moment he locks me down, I go completely limp. I let my head roll back and close my eyes, playing dead while taking in every panicked breath they draw.

I can’t believe I actually did that.

Then I remember why: Father Martins.

The thought steadies me.

“She’s possessed!” Dad yells, his voice cracking with terror. “Call the church! Call the priest!”

Mom sobs on the floor, cradling her bloody arm.

What if I was wrong?

No.

I recognize that scent.

“Get that monster away from me!” she cries out. “Take her to the church!”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

Dad lifts my limp body over his shoulder, stumbling as he hurries out the front door toward his red cad.

He sets me onto the back seat, slams the door shut, and scrambles into the driver’s seat. The engine roars to life, and the car peels out of the driveway.

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, but I keep my eyes closed.

All those hours spent reading dark stories finally paid off. Books teach you the best tricks when you need to get what you want.

But what will Father Martins do when he sees me?

Will he know I’m pretending?

How exactly will I pull this off?

. . . .

The thick scent of incense and damp earth greets us as we pull into the churchyard.

Night has fallen. The chorus of crickets, the distant chime of the chapel bell, and the hum of quiet organ music drift through the dark.

Dad doesn’t hesitate.

He kills the engine and jumps out. He pulls open the rear door and hauls me out into his arms.

He’s so gullible.

Mom would have seen through a fake fit, which is why I had to make her bleed.

A real bite leaves no room for doubt.

He carries me straight through the oak doors of the sanctuary. The interior is dark, smelling of burnt beeswax and old wood. His frantic footsteps echo against the stone floor.

“Lord, save my daughter! Drive this evil spirit from her!” he cries out, his voice echoing up into the rafters as he lays me flat on my back before the altar. “Deliver her from these evil spirits! She’s my firstborn—don't let the devil claim her!”

He drops to his knees and buries his face against my stomach, weeping hysterically.

A small part of me feels sorry for him, but his tears are useless now.

I open my eyes, let out a deep, rattled growl, and strike.

I rake my nails across his face.

Dad yelps and scrambles backward, terrified.

Taking advantage of his shock, I grab the front of my dress and tear it open, exposing my chest beneath the dim candlelight of the altar.

I thrash on the floor, screeching non-stop, putting on the performance of a lifetime.

Dad stumbles back toward the pews, clutching his rosary tightly in his trembling hands and shouting prayers to bind the evil spirits.

It takes everything in me not to sit up and burst out laughing at his face.

He really thinks he’s doing something with those beads.

The poor man forgets he’s not an exorcist.

He’s just a fucking catechist.