“You miserable bastard,” López said, reaching for the box with salt and tossing liberal amounts of it across the table. “Leave. You are not welcome. My wards repel you.”
Tristán bent over the table. Something had shoved him down, something of great strength, and for a moment he feared it would crush his spine. The candles sputtered, and they were plunged into shadows. He felt Montserrat’s hand, clutching his wrist, as his chair squeaked and seemed to shiver. His mouth was coated in bile, and he clenched his teeth.
“My wards repel you,” López said again. Tristán could hear and feel the salt being scattered around the room, blindly tossed in all directions.
He dropped the pen and shoved a hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers sliding against his lighter, producing a dim flame.
“Light those candles again,” López ordered. He had thrust one hand inside the box with the salt.
Tristán obeyed, attempting to press the flame against the wick, but the tablecloth slid forward, slick as a snake, toppling with its motion both candlesticks and the glass. It launched itself against López with such force that the man was flung back. The box he was holding fell to the ground.
Tristán stood up and helplessly watched as López was wrapped in the tablecloth and pulled or shoved back fast, colliding against the sideboard with a resounding crash.
“José!” he yelled.
The man groaned in response, and Tristán stepped forward, but Montserrat yanked him back.
“Look,” she said.
The cold had intensified. Tristán’s breath rose like a plume of smoke, and his teeth were near chattering. The furniture creaked all around them, vibrating, as if the chairs and the table were about to splinter, and then the noises ceased. The room was quiet. For a moment he thought it was all over and the entity had departed, but Montserrat did not move a muscle.
With only the lighter to illuminate the room it was hard to see anything, but slowly she raised an arm and pointed to a shadow that stood close to López. The shadow had the dim shape of a man, taller than López, taller than Tristán, too. The shape had no features, it was a void, it drew the eye even though there was nothing there.
“Get the salt,” Montserrat whispered to him, and to the shadow she spoke in a louder voice. “Our wards repel you.”
Tristán bent down and grabbed the box. The lighter in his hand trembled with the motion of his body, and the shadow seemed to shift, to almost blink in and out of existence. The tablecloth fluttered a little, moved by an invisible wind. His ears ached, as if he was sitting on a plane during a landing. Montserrat’s voice had grown muffled, and the shadow stood still but it was breathing. He could hear it, faint as the whisper of an insect’s wing.
“Our wards repel you,” Montserrat said, stepping forward. “Tristán, say it.”
“I…our wards repel you.”
“Our wards repel you,” she said as she took another step and held up an open palm.
The sound of breathing quickened. Tristán wasn’t even sure he could hear it anymore, but the shadow rippled, as if it were gasping for breath, its chest rising and falling. Silver, then dark, a sharp, quick blinking, a flash frame.
“Our wards repel you,” he mumbled. The words were so muffled he doubted anyone would have understood what he said.
“At the same time as me,” she said.
“It’s not working!”
Montserrat pressed her hands against her ears and closed her eyes, grimacing, and Tristán felt the darkness crash like a wave against them, tinged with aggressiveness, with a need and a quickness that made him stumble back. The thing in the room had almost thrown him to the ground, as it had thrown López back, but he regained his footing.
“Tristán,” Montserrat said. Her hand grasped his arm, holding him as the darkness pushed against them. A chair slid and lurched up, shoving Tristán, attempting to knock him down a second time, and Tristán might have screamed, but he was too surprised. A candlestick flew through the air, then another, smashing against a wall. Dishes rattled inside the sideboard, cups and glasses crushing and splintering against one another. He shrank away, intending to reach the door to the dining room, but Montserrat’s hand was still on his arm, gripping him tight.
“Don’t stop!”
The table slid fast across the floor, and Montserrat pulled Tristán back, moving him out of its path, while he held on to his lighter. He dropped the box of salt, and it spilled in front of their feet. The grains of salt crunched underneath the soles of their shoes as they jerked away and stumbled against a wall.
Tristán groaned, and Montserrat’s hand was on his shoulder. “Say it with me.”
Darkness boiled up, making the tiny flame Tristán still clutched in his trembling hand blink into nothingness. Blinded, lost in the darkness, he panicked as he tried to flick the lighter back to life. But Montserrat’s hand slid down his arm, lacing her fingers with his.
“Tristán, don’t stop. On the count of three, all right?”
“Yeah…yes,” he said.
“One, two, three.”
“Our wards repel you!” they yelled.
Something hurtled against the wall. Perhaps it was a chair, or even the table. The noise was like a cannon being fired, and it made the walls shiver. He clutched Montserrat against him, hugging her tight.
The room grew still and quiet. The tidal wave of darkness, having crested, withdrew.
“He’s gone,” she whispered. “For now.”
25
Together they lifted López and hauled him to his room, with the man moaning and complaining every step of the way. He was not badly hurt, although there were bruises around his neck, as if the tablecloth he’d been wrapped in had been pressed tautly against his flesh. López’s skin was clammy, and Montserrat took out blankets and piled them atop him until the man spoke with a raspy voice.
“He shouldn’t have been able to sneak into my house. He’s more powerful than I thought.”
“Calm down, old man, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” Tristán said. He reached for a pitcher and a glass that were placed atop a table next to several images and statues of saints. “Here, have a drink.”
López nodded and took a long sip before he handed the glass back to Tristán.
“That monstrous, greedy bastard,” López said as he tried to sit up and Montserrat placed another pillow behind him. “You must fetch the film. Tonight. We cannot wait any longer.”
“You said it would be too difficult to attempt two spells in a single night,” Tristán protested.
“Yes, it would be too much for me. But I’m an old man and you’re not.”
“Now we’re going to exorcise Ewers by ourselves?”
“You know the general plan, and I’ll be here to guide you through it. We cannot wait. Ewers is becoming stronger. I think he’s feeding off you.”
“Ewers is dead,” Tristán said. “He’s a ghost. How can he be feeding off anything?”
“He’s not a ghost! He’s caught between life and death, manifesting in our physical reality.”