It’s taken a while for this conviction in my demonic visions to form, but now that it’s here the results are powerful. It feels amazing to say these things without qualification or doubt.
My therapist sighs, shifting his weight for a moment.
“People who witness the things you’ve described rarely know they’re illusory,” Dr. Smith counters. “Subjects think they’re real, because that’s what their senses tell them. They trust their eyes and ears and heart, but these are all easily corruptible things. You are trusting your flesh over God. And for what? For a murderer?”
“Parker Torrance didn’t murder anyone,” I retort.
“Kingdom of the Pine is paying the legal fees for Martina’s family,” Dr. Smith informs me. “I’ve seen the case against him and … it’s not great.”
“But why are they paying to go after him?” I press, growing more and more heated by the second. “Martina’s not a member of the congregation. Why is Kingdom of the Pine even involved?”
“Are you against charitable work now?” my therapist questions.
“It’s just…” I start, even more overwhelmed than before. I want to loudly exclaim that none of this makes any sense, that the two sides of my personality are threatening to tear me in half. I don’t say this, however, instead focusing on my next question, the one that’s been hacking through the stitches of my aching heart like butter.
“Have you ever heard the name Pachid before?” I ask.
Dr. Smith hesitates, the moment so slight that it barely registers. He’s been working a long time because he’s darn good at his job, but I’m beginning to wonder what Dr. Smith’s job actually is.
“I think I might’ve heard that name before,” he finally admits, sifting through the depths of his memory bank. “One of the minor demons, right?”
My heart skips a beat.
“So you’ve read Abramelin the Mage?” I continue. “Because Pachid isn’t anywhere in the Bible, only an obscure text from fifteenth-century France.”
“I read all kinds of spiritual texts,” Dr. Smith admits. “It’s part of my job, Rose. What’s your point?”
“I mean, I understand being familiar with some random nonfiction bestseller by a pastor who gave a TED Talk, but Abramelin the Mage? Kingdom of the Pine considers his work to be, and I quote, ‘an occult abomination of lies and sin,’” I say. “Why are you reading that book if nobody else is allowed to? More importantly, why are you suddenly telling me it’s canon?”
“Why are you reading it?” he asks. “You’re filling your mind with these satanic diatribes, then you wonder why your guilt has manifested as imaginary demons?”
“My guilt?” I shout. “Over what?”
“Over sin!” Dr. Smith bellows, finally losing his cool as his face turns red and he lunges forward in his chair, unleashing the words like a holy tidal wave. “Over temptation! I read these books because it is my duty to God, Rose. Do you understand? These texts are not meant for the impressionable minds of curious little girls who think they understand the world but know absolutely nothing!”
His intensity is so suffocating that I finally pull back, unable to withstand the torrential rage of the man before me.
When Dr. Smith finishes seething he takes a moment to pull himself together, removing his glasses and wiping them off before returning them to the bridge of his nose. The man straightens his tie a bit, then clears his throat.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says, returning to his usual soft-spoken demeanor. “This is just … difficult for me to see. Listen, Rose, I understand it’s your nature to question these things, but I think it’s time you started looking at the actual facts and accepting the reality of this situation.”
“That’s what I’m finally doing,” I inform him.
“Are you, though?” Dr. Smith counters. “Because, here’s the thing: it’s been two weeks since the murder, and during that time these demonic visions of yours have fully disappeared, isn’t that right?”
I nod.
“Maybe that’s because you’ve realized temptation just isn’t worth it,” my therapist offers.
I narrow my eyes, not quite sure I understand the meaning behind this.
Dr. Smith smiles. “Think about it,” he continues with a nod. “Consider what you can do to walk in the footsteps of Jesus, because blaming all this on Pachid isn’t going to fly. Your sin is real, but she is not.”
My body abruptly freezes.
“What?” is all I can think to reply, barely able to keep my voice from quaking as it tumbles from between my lips.
“Your sin is real, but she is not,” Dr. Smith firmly repeats.
“Who?”
“Pachid,” he confirms.
It feels as though the air has been sucked from this room, all of reality upended by a single statement.
After learning that name, I dove headfirst into my research, secretly pouring over volumes of biblical lore and far-reaching occult theories that would likely give my parents a heart attack if they had any idea what I was doing. Thankfully, these days I’m expected to mourn in deep thought and prayer, providing the perfect cover to let the most obsessive parts of my curiosity run wild.
I’ve moved on from fun facts about death.
At this point, it’s my sincere belief I’ve read every scholarly work on Pachid in existence.
And Pachid, like most demons, is always described as a man.
Your sin is real, but she is not.
Dr. Smith’s words repeat in my mind, washing through me as a vision of the pale woman emerges from the darkest recesses of my subconscious.
Regardless of how much research I do on these occult forces, I’ll never understand them completely. They are powers well beyond my mortal understanding, which I’ll gladly admit. For all I know, demons present themselves in various ways to different people, or change their physical manifestation over time.
But why, for the love of all that is holy, would Dr. Smith say she?
Unless he knows.
“Rose?” He breaks through my mental haze.
“Yeah?” I reply, refocusing my eyes on his.
“I’m gonna do something I don’t normally do,” he continues.
Dr. Smith stands up and walks over to a large iron cabinet at the corner of his office, the safe built into his wall like a bank vault. He bends over and enters a three-number combination, struggling to cover it up with his left hand and doing an absolutely terrible job.
11, 14, 15.
There’s a hollow metallic clang as the lock pops open and Dr. Smith reaches within. He pulls forth a small bottle of pills, bringing them over and placing them in my hand.
“While I don’t condone your flirtation with science over faith, I’m more worried about treating you than winning any sort of ideological battle,” my therapist explains. “This is an antianxiety medication. If you feel like you need to calm down, take one of these.”
I nod, gazing at the small white bottle.
The label indicates it’s a drug called Cebocap, a powerful substance that’s been used to treat all kinds of ailments in one form or another since the beginning of time. This particular version is made from lactose, something most folks coming in here would never realize because they don’t constantly devour seemingly random information like I do.