Page 113 of Possession

Could this be a false alarm, or fake in some way? I barely entertain the thought. The horror on the stranger’s face was real.

So someone, or something, has come here.

A scream comes from outside, a grunt, and then nothing. I press my ear against the door to see if I can hear anything else, but it’s quiet. I wait a full minute, counting in my head, before I unlock the door and peek out, freezing at the sight of a body.

It’s the boy from before, dead already. The rest of the hall is empty, his murderers having abandoned him and moved on quickly. No other students are in sight, but I hear grunts and yells in the distance—screams of pain.

I cover my mouth to muffle my breathing and inch into the hallway with my bag. My gut churns with concern for Henry, but I can’t bring myself to look for him just yet. Simon is my next-door neighbor, and my friend.

I knock and wait by his door for as long as I dare, swiveling my head back and forth. There’s no answer. And, finally, I force myself to leave. It takes everything in me. It feels like I’m abandoning him, but there’s no telling if he’s inside, or even alive.

I race down the hallway, the bag banging against my hips with every step. I’ve explored the dorm area before, but the endless hallways play tricks on me now. I can’t remember which leads where.

Nearby, I hear someone call, “Mary, where are you?”

Silva. The voice sends me skidding to a stop, and my heart threatens to do the same. So the Following has come for me, and they don’t sound too far away.

There’s a pause, as if Silva expects me to respond. Finally, he snaps at someone else, “Find her!”

The ground rumbles with feet scrambling in different directions, some coming what sounds like my way. I start jiggling the knobs of the doors closest to me as murmured voices get closer. After what feels like an eternity, I find one that’s unlocked and dart inside.

There’s no one there, and the room is dirty with socks and half-finished snacks scattered about. I shut the door behind me and realize with a sinking feeling that I can’t lock it without the key. I deliberate moving something in front of the door, but that might take too long and could be too loud. I look for a hiding place instead, almost hysterical at my lack of options. Finally, I just rush for the closet and cram myself as far back as I can, piling clothes on myself.

I try not to shake, but I hear them rattling door knobs and calling out to one another. Their words aren’t clear, but my name is being said—and not nicely. I don’t know what that means. Are they here to kill me, or to take me back?

I’ve no way to fight if they find me. No way to resist.

Unless…

I reach for my bag, articles of clothing falling with each movement, and I pull out my books. It seems the choice to use magic has been made for me.

The light is on in the bedroom, but the door obscures the majority of it. Opening the book, I can make out the sigils, but the words beneath seem to blur together as I look between the spellbook, scraps of paper, and translator.

In my own room, on my own time and in peace, it took forever to get anything done. There’s no telling if I can even pull off what I have in mind, but I don’t have a choice.

I get to work, wincing at each scrape of my pencil against paper. Paranoia tells me the attackers can hear every noise, but I can’t write any quieter. I keep going, tense and hardly able to focus.

I’m not sure how much time passes while sitting there. It could be hours; it could be minutes. Every breath feels like a thousand. Every sound is amplified. The more I try to focus on writing, the louder the people in the hall become.

It feels impossible, like it’s stupid to hope. Nothing has ever gone my way, so why would it now, when it matters most?

And then, like a true deus ex machina, I see it.

Hydan

My eyes skim the dictionary frantically. H, H-Y, H-Y-D…

Hydan - Hide

Hide. It means to hide. This is the one.

I take a deep, shaky breath, chest going light from relief. I could almost cry, but I’m terrified it’d turn to sobs.

This is only the first part, I remind myself. Now, I have to use it.

I break my pen in half, flinching at how the noise echoes. For a moment, I could swear that someone is right outside of the room, but the knob doesn’t turn, and I keep going.

Tearing the ink sac isn’t as loud. Black immediately stains my hands and shirt, but I pay it no mind, dipping the sharp point of the safety-pin in a pile of dark ink.

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