Then the flash was gone.

Vera was again standing in the bedroom, Maxwell at her side, while the priest recited prayers that Vera knew wouldn’t work.

“You. Have. No. Power!” it screamed at Father Chuck. “I give life. I give death! I feed the mourning, the grieving, the damaged!” Its throaty intonation held dozens, maybe hundreds, of chanting voices inside. “I bring the claws that slice the flesh of this Earth. They will all join me soon, and together we will fight as one. We will win. We will win! We will win over all!”

“Hold her down! Help me!” Father Chuck rushed toward the bed. “Grab my bag!” Vera didn’t think. She lifted the leather case and raced after him. Max was rooted behind.

Then the priest pointed toward the window, arm stiff, eyes wide. “Vera! No!”

She turned to look.

So did the demon.

The scream of a trumpet rang out from the depths of its throat, and when Vera turned back, a giant syringe was plunged into the beast’s neck. The priest beat the devil with a made-you-look trick. Wow. This really wasn’t his first rodeo.

“The straps! Now!” He pointed to his bag, and Vera dug into the satchel, navigating past a plastic bucket to find hunks of thick leather. She yanked them out, metal clasps clanging.

Maxwell’s mom writhed on the bed. Its eyes rolled upward, neck so rigid Vera could strum the protruding veins.

Then the priest yanked a tan strap from Vera’s hands and began securing it to the bed frame. He looped it around one wrist, unafraid to touch the demon, its body now sedated. Whatever was in that needle worked fast.

It let out a roar. Putrid wind gusted from its slobbering jowls, blowing the hair from Vera’s cheeks.

Father Chuck darted to her side of the bed, not asking for assistance, and she was not sure she could give it. Whatever he injected weakened the body, but not the mind. Its infernal gaze still burned.

“You like him in your house, don’t you?” It hissed. “You like him on your pretty floral sofa. Tell me, does your mother know your impure thoughts?”

Vera bit her lips, drawing blood, refusing to respond, to feed it.

Its bulging eyes blazed toward Max. “Maybe I should tell the girlfriend your thoughts? How relieved you are to have that little brat off your hands? How you resent the day your sister was born?”

“Shut up!” Max snapped, stepping forward with a clenched fish.

The corners of its mouth twisted in a sneer.

“Don’t speak to it!” hollered the priest, struggling with the second set of restraints as it jerked and twitched. He reached for the plastic bedpan.

“Rather close, aren’t you, Father?” It flicked its tongue, licking a glob of spittle from its mouth. “Tell me, am I hiding my true face now? Do you like my mumbo jumbo?”

A spiked ball lodged in Vera’s throat. That was what Father Chuck had said an hour ago while discussing TSC. It sounds like this group is hiding its true face, drawing in folks with its self-help mumbo jumbo, and before they know it, they’re leaving offerings for the devil.