At this point, I fully recognize how loopy this long-term stay has made me. My sense of humor has devolved into little more than deeply sincere conversations with inanimate objects.
“Come on, Ivy,” I coax, pulling the hanger along as I hobble down this empty hallway.
I’m still shocked by how oddly sickening the atmosphere of hospitals tends to be, the aesthetic of this space making me feel wholly unwelcome even after all this time. Long tubes of fluorescent lightbulbs line the hall above, washing the scene with a strange bluish tint, and the lack of furniture or hanging wall art only adds to the cold design.
Soon enough, I arrive at the vending machine, standing before the rectangular device and gazing blankly at its assortment of sugary selections. There are some healthy alternatives, like carrots and dip in a small plastic pack, but I’m here for the good stuff.
I gradually narrow my choice to a dueling pair of chocolate-covered snacks, but before I can finish, something in a nearby room catches my eye.
I glance over to find the door wide open and a patient lying tucked in their bed, fast asleep. As I assumed, their television’s been left on and a movie I’ve never seen plays across a tiny, hanging screen in the corner.
The first thing I notice is the woman onscreen is absolutely gorgeous, yet casually dressed, with large round glasses covering her eyes. She looks disheveled and sports very little makeup, especially for what appears to be a large-scale, secular Hollywood film. Her eyes are giant, and the second I see them I feel a cold gust wash across my skin.
My gaze transfixed on the screen, I watch as another woman appears next to the first. She crawls across a bed in similarly casual attire.
The two figures stare at each other for a moment, their faces creeping closer and closer as their lips part and then, finally, once the tension has reached a breaking point, they kiss.
It’s so cold now that I’m literally shivering, my body unable to handle the sensations flowing through it.
The stimulation is too much.
I avert my eyes, pulling my attention back to the vending machine before yelping in terror.
Pachid, pasty and waterlogged, is somehow knotted up within this rectangular box, her face pressed against the glass no more than a foot from my own. Her bleached eyes are huge and glaring, staring daggers into me as she smiles with her filthy, broken-toothed maw.
I stagger back, hoping to cry for help but instead erupting in a sudden, hacking cough. A handful of flies spills from the depths of my throat, buzzing away.
Somehow, I manage to keep my IV from tearing out, the metal hanger scooting across the floor with me and remaining upright as I back away.
The demon watches me go, her fingers trembling against the glass for a moment before she slips back into the darkness of the vending machine. Pachid dissolves so smoothly it feels like the whole thing was nothing more than a brief waking nightmare, some powerful optical illusion that fades just as mysteriously as it arrived.
The frigid air seems to disappear with her.
My time in the hospital has been dedicated to unraveling a metaphorical ball of yarn, yet my focus has been on the church itself. I haven’t yet opened the mental Pandora’s box of these otherworldly encounters. I certainly can’t tackle these problems out of order.
However, fresh off of a visit from Pachid, my mind is racing.
I’m connecting the dots, considering all the times this demonic force appeared in my life and the circumstances surrounding them. There’s more to Pachid’s arrival than just her physical presence; there’s an emotional weight, a change in the air.
My heart pounding, I creep back to my hospital room with the vaguest spark of an idea swirling in my mind. I feel bonkers for even considering it, but at the same time I can’t deny a pattern that’s starting to emerge.
Memories from encounters with Pachid and her peers begin to cascade through my hippocampus, a complex equation of cause and effect. I begin to categorize them, and the more I analyze these events, the more my fear begins to drift away. There’s something comforting about the brilliant, illuminating light of rational thought.
I enter my room and sit at the edge of the bed, finding my remote and pointing it at the hanging television. I turn it on, immediately greeted by a flickering animation of Peter Pan. He’s wrestling his shadow, struggling to catch the mischievous silhouette as it prances and dives about the cartoon room.
Slowly, I begin to flip through channels, going from one program to the next in search of a particular storyline.
I witness all that secular television has to offer. On one channel there’s a troop of muscular men in the jungle, huddled around their wounded companion as some frightening parasite crawls beneath his skin. The next channel features two special agents kicking open a door to reveal an inhumanly tall woman with two pupils in each eye. She stands over dozens of crumpled bodies.
“Ugh,” I blurt, flipping through the channels a little faster. Secular media is frightening.
The moment two familiar, beautiful women appear onscreen, however, I halt. It’s a new scene with the same gorgeous ladies, but the sexual tension between them is just as palpable.
I watch intently, the chill gradually returning to my body as I allow this strange feeling to overtake me. I’m terrified of what it might mean if my theory is correct, but fear is not the only emotion lurking within.
I’m hoping to remain objective, to experience these sensations and categorize them in a way that fits, yet the real tension comes from an obvious truth looming large, staring me in the face and waiting for me to accept it.
My eyes are transfixed on the televised couple, and while their physical presence is just fine, the story they’re telling makes me ache in a pulpy, scintillating way.
There’s no question about it: this is the temptation I was warned about.
I glance over to see Pachid standing in the hallway, putrid grin wide and scraggly hair hanging from her scalp in awkward patches. Those empty white eyes are trained directly on me.
Immediately, I point my remote and turn off the television, forcing any thoughts of illicit sexual tension from my mind. Instead, I think of puppies in a field, the playful creatures bounding through brilliant green grass as they pounce on one another in a haphazard quarrel of furry canine mayhem.
My body is still yearning for those images onscreen, but I gradually manage to relax and let it all go. The ache within me slowly releases and disappears, and along with it goes the demon.
Pachid gently turns and walks around the nearby corner.
Once the demon is gone and my body has warmed back up, I take another pass at summoning her. This time, instead of turning on the television and watching the erotic scenes unfold, I simply dive deep within my own imagination.
I’m so embarrassed by the very notion of all this that I tiptoe around the carnal thoughts within my own mind, treating the ideas like caged animals that could attack at any moment. I’m anxious, not about what might happen when Pachid returns, but about the consequences for my identity once the whole truth is revealed.
You already know the truth, I remind myself.
I picture a perfect guy, the most handsome man imaginable standing before me as he delivers a grand romantic gesture with flowers in hand. He’s shirtless, and we’re on vacation in a tropical location far, far away. He surfs. We’re standing on a luxurious deck while the sunset blooms in glorious Technicolor behind us.