Father Santos laid his pen down on the desk. "Why don't you tell me exactly what happened?"

"Didn't Monsignor already fill you in?"

"He did," Father Santos said quietly. "But I want to hear it in your own words."

Ugh. She so didn't feel like going over this again.

"It's important."

"Fine." She cast her mind back to the last night she'd babysat for the Fergusons. The night that changed everything.

It had taken three readings of Curious George Goes to the Hospital, but Bridget finally got the Ferguson twins to bed. Remote in one hand, tub of Ben & Jerry's in the other, she'd just settled in front of the TV when she heard the footsteps.

At first Bridget thought it was one of the twins. But the steps were plodding and heavy, and echoed out from the upstairs hall like boots marching down the parquet floors. Clop. Clop. Clop. Definitely not the patter of bare feet.

"Danny?" she called, her voice more casual than she felt.

Clop. Clop. Clop. They were coming down the stairs.

"Manny?"

No response, just plodding footsteps. They reached the bottom of the stairs and came down the hall toward the living room. Steady, unhurried.

Bridget's stomach backflipped. There was someone else in the house.

She slid her legs to the floor, cursing the creaky sofa, and tried to keep her voice calm. Maybe she could fake out the intruder. "Funny, guys. Go back to bed." She tiptoed over to the fireplace and carefully pulled the metal poker out of the stand. "Your parents will be home any second, and they're going to be pissed if you're still awake."

The footsteps grew louder, stronger, so forceful she could feel their vibrations through the floor. They were almost to the living room, and Bridget positioned herself behind the door, poker raised over her head like she knew how to use it.

How the hell did someone get into the house? She had seen Mr. Ferguson set the security system when he left-an intruder would have set the alarm off.

Unless he was already in the house.

Okay, don't panic. The phone's in the kitchen. Just hit him as hard as you can and run for it.

A shadow slid across the floor, black and massive. Definitely not the twins.

Oh, shit.

The footsteps stopped. Bridget held her breath. Did he know she was waiting for him? Her arms ached as she held the poker overhead, and blood pounded in her ears. Just as her arm muscles were about to give way, the shadow withdrew and the steps retreated down the hallway. Where was he going?

Bridget bit her lip and peeked around the living-room door. The light in the hall was on, but there was no one there. Huh?

She crept out of the living room, expecting at any moment for Jason or Freddy to come at her with an array of cutlery that would make an Iron Chef drool.

The footsteps continued up the stairs; she could hear each step straining under the weight of an invisible body.

Hear, but not see. What the hell was going on?

A door slammed from upstairs. Then the silence of the house was pierced by the terrified screams of Danny and Manny Ferguson.

Poker in hand, Bridget sprinted up the stairs to the twins' room. She had no idea what was up there with them, only that she had to get the boys out of house. They were her responsibility.

She reached the top of the stairs: Their bedroom door was closed. Bridget dropped the poker and gripped the handle with both hands, but it wouldn't turn.

"Mommy! Mommy!"

Bridget pounded on the door. "Guys, it's me. Open up!"

All she got was more screaming.

"Danny, listen to me," she pleaded to the more levelheaded of the six-year-olds. "Open the door."

The door flew open so violently that it knocked her across the hall. Her skull smacked into the wall, and as she crumpled to her knees, Bridget caught sight of the twins through the open door, huddled together on the floor in the corner of their room.

"Guys, run!" she yelled. Too late. A cacophony of slamming doors filled the hallway, and Bridget froze in horror: Every door in the house was opening and closing by

itself.

They needed to get the hell out of there. Like, now.

Bridget scrambled to her feet, waited for the door to swing open, then sprinted into the twins' bedroom. She grabbed one of the boys with each hand and hauled them up, ready to make a beeline out of the house. Whatever was in there with them wouldn't be scared off by a babysitter wielding a poker, that was for damn sure.

The bedroom door slammed shut before she could drag the hysterical twins out of the room. As quickly as it had started, the banging doors stopped and the house fell silent.

Then the closet door slowly creaked open.

Bridget turned. An imposing black mass filled the entire closet from floor to ceiling. It seemed to be made of shadows and darkness, sucking light, energy, and hope right out of the room. It seethed, growing larger and smaller as if taking deep breaths, yet it made no sound.

Sweet cartwheeling Jesus! This couldn't be happening. She backed up to the wall, keeping the twins behind her. She had to protect them as if they were her own brothers. As if they were Sammy.

The mass glided forward, blocking the door, and Bridget could sense its hate. Dark, focused hatred. As it came toward her, the room began to pitch, and Bridget was swamped with an overwhelming sense of dizziness. She staggered and placed a hand on the wall to steady herself.

That was when she heard them.

"There's no escape from us. No escape. We own it. We own this place. We were summoned and we won't go back."

"Back?" Bridget asked without thinking.

She felt a collective gasp, a hundred people inhaling at once.

"She hears us."

"No, she doesn't. She cannot."

"She does. Look at her."

"Impossible! The Master protects us. They cannot hear us unless we take their voice."

"I . . ." Holy crap, what the hell were these things? "I can hear you."

This time the voices in the wall shrieked like they'd just been set on fire.

"No, no, no, no, no, no!" they all screamed at once. Then gibberish filled her ears as the voices broke into a language she didn't understand. The black mass wavered.

It had to be a hallucination. Maybe they all had food poisoning? Food poisoning from pepperoni pizza. Sure, why not? It was the only way this made sense.

Bridget took her hand off the wall to brush a strand of hair from her face. As soon as her palm left the rough, stuccoed surface, the voices stopped. She held her hand an inch from the wall and could hear them again, muffled in the background.

She could hear them. They could hear her. Maybe she could use that to her advantage? Bridget placed her hand flat against the wall.

The voices were still speaking nonsense, louder now, arguing among themselves. They seemed less terrifying when she pictured them as bickering old church ladies. The thought actually made her smile and gave her the courage to speak.

"Get out," she said.

"It is speaking to us? Is the traitor speaking to us?"

"Get out of this house." Her voice sounded strong, even if she felt like she was going to ralph her vanilla ice cream all over the rug.

"We don't listen to you."

"We don't listen to her."

"We were summoned. The Master wants us here."

"Well, I don't want you here."

"Bridge?" Danny (or was it Manny?) sniffed.

"It's okay, boys. It's going to be okay."

"This is our home now."

"Don't talk to her. The Master wouldn't like it."

"I want Mommy," the other twin said.

Bridget inched toward the door, keeping one hand on the wall while she herded the twins with the other. "Leave us alone."

The black mass shrank into the closet. "We'll never leave. Never, never, never."

Bridget's hand was on the doorknob. "Let us out of this room."

"We won't! We won't! We won't!"

"Now!"

With another painful shriek from the voices, the bedroom door swung open. Whoa, they did what she told them to? Amazing. Somehow, she had power over them.

She shepherded the boys through the door. "Get out. Get out of this house."

"How are you here?"

"We only obey the Master."

"Her words burn like the white flame."

Bridget planted her feet on the floor and clenched her fist. "Get out of here!"

The house moaned. The lights in the hallway flickered, and the voices in the walls let out a soul-wrenching wail.

Then all was still.

Ten.

BRIDGET PAUSED. FATHER SANTOS FURIOUSLY scribbled notes, flipping new pages with mechanical precision. He seemed unaware that she'd stopped talking.

"And how did Monsignor Renault learn of the incident?" he asked without looking up.

"Can't you ask Monsignor?"

Father Santos still didn't look at her. "How did he find out?"

Bridget sighed. "Mrs. Ferguson called Monsignor and told him the whole story."

He glanced in her direction. "I take it they know each other?"

Bridget shrugged. "They're in the parish."

"Interesting. And Monsignor never mentioned anything about the Watchers or divine grace?"

Was he serious? "Pretty sure I'd've remembered that."