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My fingers run along the keys as though they were made to create the hymns blowing from the pipes of all sizes behind the organ. It’s only been a few days away from my baby, but it feels like a lifetime of untuned repression and creative buildup. Though, Marcelo has been a great outlet in its place.

We got maybe five minutes into the movie last night before his hands began to wander, before I started to trail soft kisses along his neck, and then, the rest was history. It didn’t matter that my body was still sore all over, he’d made love to me on that couch, then again in his bed, slow and steady, his eyes never leaving mine as he drove into me, deeper and deeper with each thrust.

This morning, there was a plastic bag on the kitchen counter when I woke up.

“I ran out and got this for you,” he said. “But . . . only if you want it.” It was the morning-after pill. Catholics aren’t supposed to believe in contraceptives of any kind, but—screw that. I didn’t even need to think it through, I picked it up and swallowed the little pill dry.

Now, Marcelo stands below my little perch, assisting with Mass next to Father Callum as I play a closing hymn before the final prayer. During the liturgy, I peeked over the side of the banister and saw my mother and Daren, who has been sporting a nasty bruise on his chin.

I couldn’t help the grin on my face every time I thought of that punch, Daren’s head being thrown back as Marcelo’s fist made impact, repeating in a constant loop in my mind.

My fingers play the final notes, and as Father Callum says the final blessing, I stand and stretch, my back tight from hunching over for the last hour and a half.

I reorganize the sheet music, smooth out the wrinkles on my dress, and go to meet Marcelo downstairs just as Father Callum booms, “Go in peace.”

A cacophony of everyone in the building echoes the same words, “Thanks be to God.” The voices boom through the wooden door at the bottom of the spiral stairs, drowning out the patter of my steps.

But as the voices end, the spiral becomes . . . heavy. Almost as if now there is an absence of all sound rather than the abundance of it from just a moment ago. Gone are the sounds of the parish, of the shuffling of people shimmying out of the aisles, of the congregation moving down the center to say goodbye, of . . . everything.

Suddenly, the stairwell is too dark. The doors above and below me are shut, and the journey down is so short, I didn’t bother flicking on the only light to illuminate the space. I don’t notice how shallow my breath is until I feel the ache in my lungs, the heaviness on my chest.

Something isn’t right.

Trapped, trapped, trapped in the dark, my head screams.

I try to take a few steps down, but my legs won’t move save for the slight tremor in my knees. I’ve felt this before. I recognize this fear, this . . . oppression.

I think of small, sharp teeth on baby faces. Of hooved feet and goat-like eyes.

Demons.

I hurriedly scan the room, ready to see the tall black shape with horns I’ve come to expect. Only . . . this heaviness doesn’t feel the same as when the shadow man is around. With him, it’s definitely eerie, but not hostile. Not malicious.

Right now, I feel like a fly caught in a spider’s web.

Like death is just around the corner. Like a hand is already wrapped around my throat, it’s just waiting to squeeze.

“ Junia. ”

I feel the tickle of air against my neck before I hear the voice, and it makes me want to leap from my skin. But my body doesn’t move, it’s frozen in time and space—the web finally tangling me within, the spider finally approaching.

“ My pretty little heathen, how sweet you are. ” The voice is cracked, husky. Not quite like that of a smoker’s but something close. But every word is said too slow, drawn out, as if this . . . thing . . . is taking its sweet time purposefully.

Suddenly, a pair of hands grab my arms from behind, too rough, too painful, with skin like leather covered in sandpaper and nails sharp enough to pierce skin—one of which slides under the seam of my sleeve at my bicep. It’s so simple, yet it feels like such an invasion.

The hands keep me rooted in place, absolutely petrified. It chuckles behind me, against my neck. The heat from its breath is searing, burning me with each huff. Finally, I try to move, try to fight out of the creature’s grasp, but it only tightens its grip and pulls me against it.

“No!” I manage to let out, but it only makes the thing laugh more.

“ Mmm, ” it hums. “ Say that again. It drives us wild . ”

All at once, I feel so much more around me. The stairwell had just been like a deprivation room, and now was a sauna, dungeon, and Hell all in one. The room heats like an oven, my skirt is torn up the length of my thigh, and three terrifying imps just appear on my legs, holding me back from taking another step. As if they’d been the reason I couldn’t move all along.

The imps smile up at me, those tiny teeth gleaming white as their light blue eyes grow wide in ecstasy as they hump against my legs.

“ You’ve no idea how long we’ve wanted you, Junia. How long we’ve waited. ” The hands at my arms pull me in close and wrap around my front, circling my waist. The body pressed against my back feels like black concrete on a summer day. It burns my back through my clothes everywhere it touches, and I fight to get away from it. “ I’ve been preparing you for me. Preparing your body to accept me. ” Its hands begin to wander, slowly trailing up my sternum. I feel the creature’s hard erection press into my ass, sharp and hungry. But just as it’s about to take what it wants, the creature hisses and draws back as if burned. Thank the Heavens Marcelo’s rosary is tucked under my shirt, the cross resting between my breasts.

But the reprieve only lasts a moment. The creature grabs my hips, yanking me into him once more. “ I wanted to be your first, ” it snarls against my neck. The demonic hand slides between the slit in my skirt, rubbing my upper thigh with its sandpaper skin.

“Let me go,” I whisper, pleading, my voice too shaky to come out any louder.

“ Beg me. Fight me. I don’t want your consent. In fact, I prefer to do without it. You’ll be so much prettier as you cry, so much sweeter as you scre— ”

The imps stop humping, the figure behind me freezes, and the heavy energy shifts into something so much more. The air feels thin, as if I were on top of a mountain, and my vision begins to swim, darkening in the corners.

“ Let her go. ” I know this voice. It’s gruff and ungodly deep, with a timber strong enough to knock the entire cathedral into the dirt. It’s the same as the horned demon in my dream, the same from the convent.

Though he is still just a shadow, the demon grabs the creature behind me, yanking the hand at my thigh away. The imps flee, or try to—the moment they turn to run, their entire bodies burst into a plume of smoke, as if an invisible fire had already overtaken them, burning them through and leaving nothing but the scent of charred flesh and hair. They scream in an agonized cry that rattles through my ears, finally freeing me from the spider web.

A large hand finds my shoulder and pulls me forward, down the stairs, and behind the shadow.

“ Boston. Find Marina Morales, ” the shadow demanded. I don’t know why, but I lock the name to memory, and do as he says, hurrying down the steps.

“ I knew you’d come back. ” The shadow chuckles just as I reach the door. And though my back is to the pair of demons, I can practically feel the creature with sandpaper skin smile against the back of my neck. I hear the laugh in his tone, the smirk in his eyes.

“ I never left .”