by Hailey Piper
THE POSSESSION OF NATALIE GLASGOW
This is a work of fiction. All events and characters are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 Hailey Piper
All rights reserved. No part of this may be used in any form without prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in reviews.
Cover art by Eddie Generous
First Published as THE HAUNTING OF NATALIE GLASGOW, 2018
www.haileypiper.com
“One of the most original possession tales I have read. Ever. Full stop.”
- Steve Stred, author of The Stranger
“There comes a point when you think you've seen it all. What a lovely surprise.”
- V Castro, author of Maria the Wanted and the Secret of the Keepers
“A fast paced horror-mystery where the answers don't meet up until all else is exhausted.”
- Eddie Generous, author of Great Big Teeth and Trouble at Camp Still Waters
“A quick, frightening read that touches on the primal fear within us all …”
- Valerie, Cats Love Coffee Book Reviews
“Guess I am never sleeping again.”
- Nisa Malli, author of Remitting
THE
POSSESSION
OF
NATALIE GLASGOW
1
Connecticut, 1976
A match flared across a white matchbook and lit the end of Heather Glasgow’s cigarette. She had managed to quit before Natalie was conceived. Nathaniel drew a line in the sand on that, said he wouldn’t put a child in her until “you quit treating your mouth like a goddamn ashtray.” Never mind that he smoked his pipe abroad with his friends.
Never mind, because he’d been dead ten months now, because over a decade was a long time between cigarettes, and because after these past two weeks, Heather was entitled to a smoke. She cracked the window of her second floor bedroom and let the cigarette’s smoldering end stare into the dusky evening.
“It should be happening by now, shouldn’t it?” Margaret Willow asked.
She sat on the end of Heather’s king size bed and faced the door, her hands clasped around some gizmo with a microphone taped to the end. She was a stocky woman in her mid-forties, dressed in a black blazer, button-up shirt, and slacks. When she turned to look at Heather, the orange glow of dusk reflected in her slim spectacles.
Supposedly she was a midwife. Heather’s sister said she was a witch.
“It’s around now,” Heather said. She sounded calmer than usual. Witch or midwife, Margaret’s presence was reassuring. No one else had stayed in the house overnight these past two weeks. Besides Natalie, of course. Heather didn’t think that counted anymore.
Margaret peered close to her gizmo. “I’m not picking up any sound.”
“You can’t set your watch to her, Ms. Willow, but it’ll happen.”
“Do you believe there’s anything I can do?”
Heather blew smoke through the open window. “I don’t, really.”
“Do you believe there’s anything the doctors can do?”
“She has another test tomorrow. Deep down, I think I’ve exhausted their capabilities.” There was no other reason for Heather to call a woman like Margaret. She glanced down the length of the cigarette. “Will this upset your machines?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then do you want one?”
“It’s not my poison of choice, but thank you.” Margaret lifted her device and stretched it toward the door.
Heather wondered if she’d feel so relaxed when it actually started. Probably not. Best to take one more drag before she lost her nerve and the cigarette fell out of her trembling hands.
“It feels like when Nate would come home after a week or so away. Some of the time, I mean. Sometimes he’d come home and we’d be over the moon to see him. But some nights, he’d come home from his trips drunk. Went a few rounds with some of his friends on the way home, or with absolute strangers at the airport. I’d wake up hearing him stomp around out there, wait for him to come in and find out if he was angry with me.”
Elsewhere in the house, another bed’s springs groaned.
Margaret perked up.
Heather dropped her cigarette, as predicted. She picked it up again and snuffed it out in the ashtray. Her hands could scarcely hold onto it even then. Tonight, like every night since the first night, she was sure she would have to wriggle out this window and bust her leg in a jump to the first floor.
At least tonight she wasn’t alone. At the very least if Margaret was a weirdo, she was more likely to believe that one of Natalie’s nocturnal episodes was a terrifying ordeal.
Natalie’s bedroom door creaked open.
“Here’s our star.” Margaret tilted the device in her hands. “Strong signal.”
Heather licked her lips. She could still taste the fallen cigarette. “Could you please not speak?” she asked.
Margaret didn’t acknowledge her, just kept her eyes on her device. A black cord ran from the microphone’s box to a set of machines where black tape spooled between wheels. Watching Margaret’s nervous hands fumble with her machine almost made Heather feel brave.
Natalie’s door finished its awful opening cry, and then for the next minute or so there was nothing.
Heather knew the next part was coming. It was the same every night, but she dreaded it all the same.
The hallway floor groaned underfoot. Then again, as Natalie took another step.
Margaret sat up even straighter. Her right eye twitched at every creak in the floor outside, every note that said the wooden boards were sagging under a pensive force. “How much—” She swallowed and forced herself to turn back over her shoulder. “How much does she weigh?”
“She’s eleven years old,” Heather said. She didn’t need to give a specific weight. Whatever set foot out there and made those heavy steps had to be far stronger and heavier than any eleven-year-old girl in the world.
And each step brought it closer. It was the patient pace of a predator, every movement calculated.
The next footfall landed in front of Heather’s bedroom door. The floorboards bent enough that the gap between floor and door widened. Whatever prowled outside pressed itself against the door and set the wood leaning tight against its steel hinges.
Margaret inched backward, deeper into the bed.
“Don’t move,” Heather whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”
Margaret clenched her teeth and then pursed her lips. Her hands had gone white, latched around that device. Surely the microphone had captured every groan Natalie pressed into the wood. If it was even Natalie.
The presence held against the door. Then it took another step and the door relaxed, as if it had tensed up in apprehension the same as Margaret and Heather. The creak in the floorboards made a stiff line down the hall.
Heather’s heart found its proper rhythm when she heard the first stairway step groan. Natalie was headed downstairs.
Margaret scooted to the edge of the bed. She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her blazer and dabbed at her forehead. “I wish I didn’t sweat so damn much.”
Heather reached for another cigarette. “Was it everything you’d hoped for?”
“I don’t hope for this.” Margaret shoved her handkerchief back inside her pocket. She was still sweating. “Always, it’s better if I’m not needed.”
“And are you needed?”
Margaret looked into Heather’s eyes. There was no reflection of sunset in those spectacles now, only the clear glass that separated Heathe
r from Margaret’s stare. “I think so.”
“You’re awfully perturbed. I thought it would only be me.”
“I’m an expert on this kind of thing, Mrs. Glasgow. I’ll tell you something no other expert would. You’re never desensitized to the strange. It’s always fresh. And when it’s scary once, it’ll be scary again.” Margaret turned to the door. “Have you ever gone out there?”
Heather thought for a moment. “The first night it happened, I didn’t realize it was her. I went out while she was downstairs, thinking it was someone in the house, and went to her room. It was empty, of course. Hurried myself to the stairs, but that’s when I saw her. She didn’t notice me, but I saw the eyes.” She realized she hadn’t lit her new cigarette yet. “Imagine that. A mother running from her little girl.”
“You did the smart thing. I wish I could do the same.” Margaret approached the door and yanked it open.
Heather started up. “You can’t!”
“I have to confirm what we’re dealing with. Not because I want to. You have to understand that.” Margaret’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “It’s absolutely not because I want to.” And then she left the room, into the hall.
Heather didn’t follow. She couldn’t even manage to get out of her chair to shut the door.
Margaret would’ve liked nothing more than to retreat from the hall and lock the bedroom door until morning when, according to Heather, this episode would end.
But how would that help Natalie?
The floor looked worn, but Natalie’s path hadn’t caused any permanent damage. The stairway to the first floor appeared likewise unharmed. Down below, there came a familiar, sticky click, the opening of a refrigerator door.
Margaret took to the stairs one soft step at a time. Natalie would be distracted by her strange nocturnal diet. Margaret wouldn’t get a better chance to perform the church’s tests. The Catholic Church was a tedious and overly bureaucratic organization when it came to this kind of problem, but in many regards they were right to be. You couldn’t assume what was wrong. There had to be evidence.
The heat hit Margaret as she reached the last couple of steps. There was a dry atmosphere on the first floor of the Glasgow house that hadn’t been there when she arrived in the late afternoon to meet Heather in the safety of autumn daylight. This was a blazing summer afternoon. If she spotted steam rise out of Natalie’s mouth and nose, she supposed that would be a sign.
Only the ceiling lamp from the upstairs hallway cast any light through the first floor across the living room carpet into the tiled kitchen, but what little Margaret saw made her sweat even worse.
Natalie stood in the kitchen’s gloom. She wore a white nightgown. Her hair frizzed at the ends, each strand suffering in the heat. Her skin was flushed and a damp sheen coated her face.
She was rummaging in the fridge, attracted to the bait her mother left for her. Heather said the episodes could go on for five or six hours, but leaving food out seemed to cut the time in half.
Not just any food. Meat, the rarer the better. Heather said it was how her husband used to eat and Natalie had picked up the habit. Only now it was worse, because a few degrees beyond raw seemed too much for her. One morning, Heather found a frozen roast on the floor, still a block of meat-flavored ice, but Natalie had gnawed on its edges anyway.
Margaret could stomach all of that, even the unpleasant sight of Natalie’s mouth chewing at shredded red hamburger meat, its gristle painted across her cheeks and chin.
It was the eyes. When Natalie faced the glow of the fridge they looked normal enough, but if she turned her head even slightly, they were eyes in the dark. Eyes in the dark that reflected the light of the upstairs. Margaret was no biologist, but she knew human eyes didn’t do that.
According to the Catholic Church, the skin of one possessed by a demon would burn at the touch of water blessed by an ordained priest. Margaret drew a small, clear vial from her shirt pocket and unscrewed the cap. It would only be a few drops, hardly enough for Natalie to notice she’d been touched.
Unless it burned her, of course. She would notice then. How strong did she have to be to press the floor like that?
Margaret didn’t let herself think about it. She swung the vial and droplets sailed toward the kitchen. She tensed her legs to retreat.
Nothing. Natalie grasped another fistful of raw meat and shoved it between her teeth. No burning, but no anger.
Margaret lifted a golden crucifix. All the tests had to be performed, no matter how silly. Or scary. If there was a demon inside Natalie, perhaps it wouldn’t care for this symbol. Margaret didn’t care for the test, either. She couldn’t chuck the crucifix. She had to step into the kitchen and press it to Natalie’s skin.
The heat grew worse the closer Margaret came to the fridge. If only that hellish dryness in the air was enough proof, but it wasn’t. She readied to bolt. A moment’s touch would tell her everything. Just had to be sure she didn’t drop the damn thing.
She paused a foot away from Natalie. Drops of sweat raced along her face, around her cheeks, and down her neck. Her fingers were slick, but she kept a stern grip. Now was the time. She pressed the crucifix against Natalie’s arm.
Natalie’s head turned. Glowing eyes stared up at Margaret’s face and a mouthful of meat glistened in the yellow fridge light.
The crucifix didn’t affect Natalie, but Margaret didn’t notice at first because of the sound. It was almost worse than the creaking, too-heavy footsteps upstairs. No, it was worse, she decided. Much worse.
A clicking, guttural groan slid through Natalie’s throat and chest. It made her whole body tense and quake, like a muscle flexing itself into overexertion. The tremor spread through the kitchen and shook the food inside the fridge, the glasses in the cupboards, the pots and pans, the windows. It shook the crucifix out of Margaret’s hands and the bones up her arm, through the rest of her body. She understood the sound and backed away from the little girl.
Natalie growled and the kitchen growled with her.
Margaret almost cried out when something touched her from behind. Just the stairway’s banister. She grasped it tight. She hadn’t even noticed her retreat from the kitchen.
Natalie glanced at the crucifix on the floor tile, and then returned her attention to the hamburger meat.
Church doctrine expected that the demonically possessed might speak in foreign tongues such as Aramaic or older. Margaret couldn’t call that growl a proper language, but she felt if a priest was here with her, he would’ve counted it as a bad sign.
But the holy water and the crucifix had failed. There would be no help from the church.
Margaret turned to the stairs and started a slow climb. She supposed there was good and bad news so far in this case. Demonic possession could be ruled out. Now that only left every other possibility.
The first step creaked beneath her.
Margaret didn’t turn her head. If she turned her head, she would’ve seen too clearly, and then she would’ve run, and then—she didn’t want to know what would’ve happened then. Instead, she glanced out the corner of her eye toward the kitchen, her face unmoved from its attention on the stairway.
Natalie had left the fridge. The door hung ajar, its light showing only the abandoned plastic package and the hamburger meat that now leaked red fluid across the kitchen tiles. She had crossed the space between the kitchen, across the carpet and stone floor underneath, up to the bottom of the stairs without a sound, and only her first footfall on that creaky bottom step had given her away.
She was two steps behind Margaret.
A stillness took over. Margaret thought of a deer in headlights, but that analogy felt off. She was a deer in the woods, separated from her herd, while a creature fierce and terrible loomed over her.
Natalie was just a child. Eleven years old. Margaret guessed she outweighed her four times.
But there was something in her that growled at such a pitch that it made the kitchen tremble, that stepped
so hard it made the house cry for mercy. Margaret knew there was only a small, rail-thin child behind her, but she likewise knew she wasn’t as strong as a house. What lived inside Natalie could buckle her. It could break her.
Her eye fixed on that refrigerator, on the raw hamburger it illuminated.
Her hand slid up the banister, grasped firm, and she ascended two steps at once this time. Her leg carried her up. She reached for the step after the next. A little farther along the banister. It took every ounce of self-control not to charge up those steps as fast as she could, as if some primal animal fear lived inside her, perhaps all humans, a scrap of prey’s panic from days long past.
The steps below creaked again. Natalie was patient. What was inside her, it knew it had given itself away with that first step. It had ears, after all. Natalie’s ears.
The top of the steps wasn’t too far away. Running on the stairs was death. Margaret just had to keep that in mind. If she ran, Natalie wouldn’t follow with cautious, predatory steps. She would chase.
Margaret’s foot hit the top of the steps. Her hand left the banister in one slippery motion and reached for the corner wall. She felt the stillness coming again, an uncertainty of what to do now that she was past the steps, and a certainty that to freeze here would be a mistake. She dragged her back foot off the previous step, toward the top. Natalie was four steps below. She would have to ascend. Margaret had a straight shot to Heather’s bedroom, where the door still hung wide open.
She heard another creak. Natalie wasn’t going to wait for a decision.
Margaret took another step, and as she did, slipped her arms out of her blazer. Another step and she thrust it behind her without looking. Then she ran. She had to hope the flying blazer would distract Natalie, or that whatever hid inside Natalie’s skin hadn’t expected Margaret to run.
She didn’t hear anything at first. Then the steps creaked, a low rumble filled the space between the floors of the Glasgow house, and the steps groaned, the floorboards groaned, Natalie was on the second floor, chasing. Right behind her. About to grab her. Faster.