Chapter Twenty-Five: For the Love of Holy Ghost Power

They arrive in Springfield, Missouri very early in the morning, two days after their conversation with Marjorie Burnham. The one in which Jonah agreed to, quote, "check out the haunting" without even consulting with Matt in private. To say the drive, several states blurring by over hours and hours of driving, was tense, would be an understatement. Jonah has explained himself till he was blue in the face, and Matt understands, he truly does—he just doesn't like it. He hates the idea of it, actually.

"How is this any different from your father exploiting you, Jonah? How? It's even for money and everything—"

"The difference is, Matthew, that I am allowed to exploit myself. I can use my powers however I wish. And I wish to use them for good. I also do not intend for her to pay us—"

"We could have just gone the fuck back to Connecticut, Jonah, we could have just gone the fuck home—"

"What, back to Hell House? You're so eager…what, are you going to order me to, Matthew? Considering I'm your very own fucking voodoo-doll Lazarus?"

That had shut Matthew up pretty quickly. Fear and guilt had settled, writhing, in Matt's gut—did the reincarnation know of the control his creator wields over him? Matt doesn't think so, but he isn't sure. Jonah is an accomplished necromancer, and a very powerful witch, after all. Had he figured out just how exactly, he exists, while Matt was gone?

Several hours had passed by in silence before Matt had finally broken down and apologized.

"I have my own agency, Matthew. You need to come to terms with that."

They check into a motel once in Springfield, the hour far too early to do anything, and Matthew is worn out from driving. The occultist downs a melatonin before offering one to Jonah, who accepts. They sleep dreamlessly together. The next morning, Jonah watches Matthew pack his canvas band-patched bag with all sorts of odds and ends—candles, fruit, a daith, chalk, crucifixes, deity statues, and worn religious and craft texts, including a Bible. Three different types of holy water, each blessed by different denominations of priests.

Jonah expressess apprehension as Matt also packs technical gear. Cameras, heat-triggered light bulbs, a tape recorder, a whole pack of batteries, lots of cables.

"There's no telling what you've signed us up for, Jonah. Whatever it is, I intend to capture as much of it as I can."

Before they leave, Jonah convinces Matthew to pray with him.

They sit cross-legged in front of each other, hands clasped, doing their best to clear their minds, to soothe the anxious energy roiling within the both of them. Jonah begins to pray aloud, and Matthew does his best to lend his belief, his faith, to his twin flame. He just finds it ironic, is all…that the resurrected medium prays to a capital-G God.

"Please listen to us, oh Lord, oh One. Please lend us your aid and energy so that we, Matthew and I, may best serve Marjorie Burnham and her family. Please help us to stand strong in the face of any entity or energy we may encounter, please allow me to be a conduit to exorcize whatever is haunting their family."

Matt also can't help but notice that Jonah clutches his pocket watch the whole drive to the Burnham house, a few hours away. The medium seems to be praying on and off, his head tilted back, eyes closed. His mouth moves, but Matt can't make the words out.

Matt feels sick every time he turns to look at his love, the soul he's devoted his entire life to meeting again. He considers the benign-looking pocket watch, and he prays, too. He prays for Jonah's safety, for the healthy continuation of the resurrection's fragile existence on this plane.

One wrong move, and Jonah's soul, his entire existence, could be displaced again, flung out into the ether, never to be seen or heard from again.

Marjorie Burnham sighs in relief as she watches the beat-up old Ford turn onto her long driveway. At the sound of the tires crunching on gravel, the girls behind her, all milling about listlessly, pause and stand and attention. They are all dressed and washed well for the first time in months, eager to make a good impression on their potential saviors, worried that the demonologist and his partner will leave at a moment's notice. Several of them go to the windows to watch as the truck rolls to a stop, the doors hinging open at the same time.

Out steps Dr. Matthew Campbell, wearing black jeans and an oversized rock t-shirt, patterned in some honestly satanic-looking font, his long curly hair tied back into a bun. His partner seems much smaller and younger, hoping down out of the truck. This boy has black hair and is dressed much more modestly, almost conservatively, in black cargo pants and a soft green sweater, bunching and belling out from underneath black suspenders. As Marjorie watches, the two men pause and produce cigarettes, seemingly committing to one last smoke before entering the home. They seem like they may be arguing, considering how intently they're talking, heads bent close. Dr. Campbell looks worried, exasperated, while his partner looks annoyed, rolling his eyes at the professor.

"They look like quacks." States Mia, watching out of the window next to her mother.

"I hope they're not," Marjorie replies worriedly, "they're are only hope…every priest has turned us down—"

"Are they priests? Or are they just out to make a quick buck? God, the old one looks like a retired mall goth, for fuck's sake—"

"Mia!" her mother snaps, turning to her, before waving all of her children forward, gathering her flock like a shepherdess. "I know we have gone over this already, but I need you all to be on your best behavior, alright? We really, really need Dr. Campbell's help. Just do as he and his partner says, and they may be able to solve our problem."

Mia sighs, turning away from her mother, watching out the front door as the two of them, the man and the boy, snuff out their cigarettes. As she watches, the older one says something, gesturing. He looks concerned. The younger one smiles in return and steps forward, reaching up to the 'professor' with both hands, pulling his face down. The boy presses their foreheads together and says something, the older man finally smiling in return. Mia blushes, averts her eyes, as the two men kiss, a soft, lingering thing that conveys years of devotion, love, understanding.

Jonah does his best to remember all of their names as Marjorie introduces them. Mia, the oldest at fifteen. Then Sylvia, at twelve, and the twins, Jamie and Jennifer, at nine. The two youngest, Elaine, six, and Lily, three.

"And girls, this is Dr. Matthew Campbell, and his assistant, ah—er, I'm sorry—"

"Jonah."

The girls give varying degrees of hello. Most of them wave or smile, looking tired and pale, unable to meet his eyes. Fair, as most people can't. Lily, on the other hand, toddles up to Jonah, her tiny hands on his knee.

"Hello there, little one. My, you are so lovely…Lily, right? I bet yellow is your favorite color, hmm? Smart girl."

The toddler beams and chatters up at him, enamored. Marjorie laughs, giving an exclamation of surprise, and the other girls seem to consider him with interest. Mia, however, is the only one who will meet his eyes. She's downright staring, in fact, and in her eyes, the same shade as her mother's, Jonah can see apprehension, disbelief, and anger.

Matthew says his hellos as well, charmingly shaking the hands of each of the girls, except Lily, in turn. The fact that none of them shy away from Matthew's touch, his scarred hands, is interesting, and Jonah wonders just what, exactly, these girls have been experiencing, to not bat a single eyelid at the appearance of the occultist.

Marjorie offers them coffee, and they accept, following her to the kitchen, the gaggle of girls a somber procession behind her. They pass through the living room, the floor of which is a maze of mattresses and blankets, all neatly made, stuffed animals looking worn and loved on each one.

"Have you all been sleeping in the living room?"

"Yes, we have. It's just…safer, and the girls find it comforting anyway, all of us being together. Except Rob, he sleeps in our room…he's asleep up there now, he's been feeling rather ill for the last month or so."

Jonah can't help but think of the entire Campbell family, piled like puppies in Sarah's bed, all except for Matthew. Judging by the look in Matt's face, the look they share, Jonah is absolutely sure Matt is thinking of the same circumstances.

Over coffee, they discuss the haunting events the family has been suffering. Matthew records it all on a tape recorder. The girls discuss experiences in turn, all of them having several. At her mother's insistence, Mia describes hers as well, and it's clear from her descriptions, and the look on her mother's face, that Mia has been suffering the brunt of many of the nightly disturbances.

The girls describe the smells, and the sounds. They describe being touched, being hit, or yanked around. Being pulled right from bed, being molested in the shower, being drug across the floor. Some of them cry, and some of them laugh, as if disbelieving their own reality. It's sad, so horribly sad, how faded they all are. All of their auras are muddy shadows of their former energy levels. It's obvious how their life force is being drained so heavily, stuck in this house, so far in the country.

Matthew and Jonah listen intently to each story, Matt occasionally making notes in his small, leather-bound notebook. Matt watches as Jonah seems to listen, though the medium's eyes flit around the kitchen, never resting anywhere for very long.

"The apparitions," Jonah asks eventually, "can you describe them to me?"

There are several, apparently. An old man that wears a white night shift. A woman, dressed in colonial garb. A colored woman, in a house-maid's outfit. A little boy in jeans and a striped shirt.

"Have you been able to research any deaths that may have occurred on your property?"

"Yes, I have." Marjorie explains, pulling forth a manila envelope. "I have been able to identify all of them, except the maid. I've compiled all of my notes here. The old man and the colonial woman are actually related; Jonathan Marshall and his daughter, Abigail Marshall. Jonathan actually built this house in the late 1600s, though he died only a few years after the house was completed, sometime in his seventies, of natural causes. Abigail died ten years later, in her twenties. The records I found stated it may have been a suicide. The little boy is the odd one—his name is Denny Haddon, and he drowned in the pond, out in the backyard, when he was nine, sometime in the nineteen-seventies."

Jonah nods, his gaze finally fixed on her as she describes the histories of the ghosts she was able to identify. He accepts the folder from her, thumbing through printed news articles, photographs, and snippets from personal journals since published for prosterity.

"I'm impressed," Jonah eventually states, "that you've gathered all of this information on your own. That's actually the hard part, finding out just who is residing in a house. The next-hardest part is finding and securing help, which you have. Thankfully, this next part, exorcizing them from your home, is out of your hands."

"So you think you can? Make them all leave, I mean?"

Jonah nods, his gaze still flitting around the room. He stares at each of them, studies them—Jonathan, Abigail, Denny, and the poor Black woman. He will ask her for her name soon enough.

"I know I can."

Marjorie and her family seemed relieved, staring at Jonah. All except Mia.

"How, though? How do we even know you can, or that we can trust you?"

"Mia—!"

"Mrs. Burnham, it's entirely fine. Skepticism is natural, and it's a wonderful defense mechanism to have. I would be skeptical too, of people like myself and Matthew showing up, claiming they can help, after so many months of Hell in this home. As to how, I'm a medium, and Matthew is an expert regarding ghosts and demons."

Mia stares into his eyes, and does not back down.

"Would you like reassurance, before Dr. Campbell and I eventually get down to the nitty gritty?"

"Oh, really? Sure. How're you gonna prove it, hmm?"

"May I take your hands, Mia?"

Mia complies with a scoff, a look on her face like chewing gravel. Jonah takes both of her hands in his and leans forward, pressing one of the teen's hands to his forehead for a few moments. Mia looks nonplussed, before suddenly looking uncomfortable. She eventually struggles slightly, trying to pull away from Jonah's grip.

Jonah is only able to catch flashes. He's powerful, for sure, but not powerful enough to enter a conscious person's mind, even with consent.

A cloudless blue sky on a summer's day. A yellow plastic baby pool. A doll of a mermaid, wearing a purple bikini top, her long red hair submerged, her made-up face smiling. A ladybug flying, falling, landing in the water. The green tail of the doll scooping up the struggling insect, dumping it into the grass.

He releases her, and Mia pulls back as if burned, looking back and forth between Jonah, her mother, and Matthew.

"Your earliest memory is of saving a drowning ladybug, using the tail of a mermaid doll. I would guess it was because you were scared of bugs before this moment, in which you realized how much more powerful you are than them. Am I correct?"

Mia looks pale, her eyes as large as saucers. She can only nod.

Silence reigns for a few awkward moments, before Matt breaks the tension.

"Well, as Jonah said…shall we get down to business?"

Mrs. Burnham takes Jonah and Matthew on a tour of the house, going from room to room. At Jonah's insistence, she even shows them the basement, and cellar, and the backyard. She avoids only one room—the first bedroom on the second door, the one with the door shut, stating that Rob is asleep in the room.

Jonah asks to see that room as well, though Mrs. Burnham declines. After the tour, the girls are sent to a different room while the mother, professor, and medium discuss a game plan in the kitchen.

"Jonah, what did you see?"

"All of the ghosts are here, for sure. Talking to each of them, and freeing them, should be no problem. However, there is something else here, something far darker, lingering on in the shadows. I'm not sure what it is, yet. It may just be the combined energy of all of the souls trapped here."

"How are you going to free them?" Mrs. Burnham asks, wringing her hands.

"Well, as a medium, I am going to conduct a sceance of sorts, so I can commune with them each in turn. It should be rather simple, though there are quite a few of them…I've never summoned, talked with, and released so many spirits back to back."

Matthew makes a sound of worry in the back of his throat, and Jonah smiles.

"It should be alright, I know I can do it. I had a big breakfast at least, that'll help." Jonah quips wryly. Marjorie laughs, but Matthew does not.

"Alright, then. Shall we get down to business? Mrs. Burnham, if you can make sure the girls stay out of this kitchen—it would be preferable, even, if you can send them outside, or have them leave the house. I'm not sure how long it will take."

Marjorie excuses herself. Matt and Jonah can hear her on the phone in the hallway, asking her closest neighbor if she could watch the girls for a little while, potentially for the night.

"Matt, set up what devices you need to. I will need chalk, and some offerings, and at least one candle. We'll do it right here, on the kitchen table."

Matthew looks worried, and pale, as he sets things up. Jonah can feel the other witch's eyes on him the entire time, staring at him with a look of concern, and horror.

When Marjorie comes back into the kitchen, she's rather taken aback to see the men have begun to set up in her absence. A camera is recording on a tripod, pointing at Jonah. Jonah sits at the head of the table with a piece of chalk in front of him, along with a lit candle, a notebook at his side, just in case. They took it upon themselves to retrieve a bowl, which has been filled with various fruits. A glass of water has been prepared, and is resting quite a fair distance away from Jonah, near the center of the table.

They wait until the neighbor, a kind woman in her sixties, arrives to gather the children. Jonah and Matthew smoke another cigarette as they watch the kids pile into the back of the woman's minivan, watch as Mia argues with her mother. The teenager eventually wins, leveraging her mother's exhaustion and sense of honor. Mia begs to stay, not wanting to leave her parents alone with, quote, "two strange men and a bunch of fucking ghosts."

"It's fine," Jonah calls out to the two of them, "Mia should be alright, if she stays. We could use the witness, and the extra energy, honestly."

Cigarettes smoked and the argument concluded, the four of them return to the kitchen. Night has fallen quite some time ago, the clock in the kitchen revealing that it's nearing midnight.

"The witching hour." Matt states grimly, and Jonah nods in response. The energy in the room is terribly somber, and nervous, a knife's-edge of desperation and curiosity.

"Now, Mrs. Burnham, Mia…communing with the dead is never fun, and it doesn't look pretty. You might see and hear some things that are disturbing, or frighten you. After I have asked you all to join hands, I implore you, please do not break the circle—I will be relying on all of you as sources of strength and energy. The two of you closest to me will be touching me directly. I ask you humbly, please, to believe in me, and lend me your focus and energy during the session. I haven't done this in…well, a while, and it's draining every time."

Marjorie and Mia agree, while Matthew kisses Jonah's hand in assent.

"I'll never leave your side, kid, come Hell or high water."

"I know," Jonah smiles, reaching out to fondle one of Matthew's stray, soft curls. They touch foreheads briefly, a look of piece washing over both of their faces. They pull away right as the clock in the hallway strikes midnight.

"It's time," Jonah sighs, making himself comfortable in his chair, "everyone sit and join hands, please? Whoever sits closest to me, please place a hand somewhere on my person."

All parties do as they are told. Matthew sits to Jonah's right and places a hand on the medium's shoulder, offering his other hand, extended. After some consideration and hesitation, Mia sits to the left of Jonah and mirrors Matt, placing her hand on Jonah's other shoulder. Marjorie is the one to hesitate the longest, looking confused and afraid. She sits and takes her daughter's hand, and Matthew's, in each of her own.

The laying on of hands, Matt can't help but ponder, as he watches Jonah, the love of his entire adult life, prepare himself to commune with ghosts for the first time in this phase of his existence.

"I'm about to start. It takes some concentration, so please do not speak until I have begun, alright? As I said before, do not break the circle."

Jonah takes a deep, settling breath, rolling his shoulders underneath the hands of his witnesses. He can feel their energy, and he does his best to find comfort and strength in their touch. He uses the chalk, purple dust staining his hands, to write a name on the white formica tabletop.

Jonathan Marshall

"Here we go," he whispers, cracking his neck in a side-to-side motion before settling back. He blows out the candle. He closes his eyes and sighs, breathing deeply. He can see the witness's energy, now, swirls of color in the white, sterile purity of the medium's headspace.

Jonathan Marshall, I am calling to you. Please come here, so we can talk. Come sit with me a while.

Unbeknownst to the medium, who is already beginning to drift into the astral plane, his shoulder sagging under Matthew's hand, the medium has spoken aloud. The witnesses all look at each other in fright before going back to watching Jonah, sitting ramrod straight in his chair. His eyes close, before opening again, his eyes rolled back to reveal only whites.

Jonah Aickman meets Jonthan Marshall in that pure white headspace. The man is older, surely, looking weathered by hard labor and harder living, but he is otherwise whole, having died of natural causes. He appears to Jonah in faded, smeared wisps of his former self, his energy having been on this earth a long time, his remnants slowly but surely having faded from existence. He probably would have passed on all on his own, given a few more decades or so.

The candle on the table lights itself.

As weak as he is, the spirit can give only brief responses, in a voice gravely and heavily accented. It's a tone Jonah has heard before in the mouths of long-dead colonial folk, a mix of Great Britain and New England, of the homeland and the new frontier.

Who?

"My name is Jonah Aickman. I came to your house to speak with you."

Why?

"It seems you are trapped here, sir. On your property. Why do you linger here so, sir? You've been passed away, caught in Limbo, for a few centuries now."

The witnesses watch and listen as Jonah speaks, writing Jonathan Marshall's responses on the table in purple chalk. His hand moves of its own accord, wiping his makeshift slate clean with a free palm as he needs to.

My house. Be damned if anyone takes it away from me. Destroy it. Unworthy.

"Sir, this is still very much the house you have built. But you are no longer alive in it. Others are, and they are worthy. A mother and several children, a hard-working husband, like you yourself had been. They do not intend to destroy it…only to care for it, to live on this land in joy and peace, as you did."

Trust? Family?

"You can trust this family, I promise. They called me here out of concern for you. They want you to rest peacefully in the afterlife, as you should. Aren't you tired, lingering on as you are?"

Jonah's body sags, his head tossing fitfully.

"Tired." He states, in a voice that isn't his. Jonah's hand, stained purple, wipes his slate clean, writing out:

Please? You are deserving. I will be sending Abigail along with you shortly. It is time to meet your God and creator, who accepts you with joy and love.

"I am lost."

You are here with me for now, and you will pass to the other side effortlessly. You will be lost no longer.

"Thank you," the voice rasps from Jonah's throat. Jonah's head tilts back, and his eyes flutter. He whimpers, and tenses under the hands of his witnesses. Matt watches, entranced, gripping Jonah's shoulder tightly, rubbing circles with his thumb. Mia looks disturbed, but she holds tightly as well, even after Jonah eventually sags.

The candle blows itself out.

A few moments pass, Jonah's body lax, his mouth parted, eyes unseeing. His eyes roll back into place eventually, and he coughs, sitting back up in his chair.

"Abigail next," he mutters, scrubbing the table clean before writing out her name, Abigail Marshall, in chalk.

"One down," Matthew mutters.

"Three to go." Mia finishes, and they lock eyes, understanding written clear on Mia's face.

"How long has he been able to do this?" Marjorie asks in a whisper. Her expression is one of shock, hesitance, and rapture, an expression often seen on the faces of devotees in a tent revival. The expression of someone who's just undergone an experience of faith.

"Always." Matt answers simply.

Jonah Aickman meets Abigail Marshall in the pure white expanse of the astral plane in his head. She is a beautiful girl in her early twenties, with cornsilk hair and expressive brown eyes. She smiles when she appears, and she speaks first, her voice flowing freely from Jonah's mouth.

"You've sent Father on, then?"

Yes. scrawled in chalk, he waits for you.

"I shan't keep him waiting long, though I ask—why do this for us, Jonah Aickman? What do you gain? Who are you an agent of?"

Jonah struggles slightly, his closed eyelids flickering. He is silent as his hand moves, writing out his dialogue with the spirit he is speaking to in his head.

I spent a decade short of a century in Limbo, haunting a house built by my ancestors.

The house I was born and died in.

No earthly pain can ever compare to the hopelessness of being trapped in the ether, outside of God's sight.

Matt makes a stricken sort of sound, the woman and the girl reading the words before staring at Jonah, and then Matt, with a million questions in their eyes.

"What is he—"

"I'll explain later. Focus." Matt snaps, leveling the girls with an impatient gaze. "Abigail seems to be almost finished already."

I am an agent of no one but myself, Jonah writes, as a woman's voice speaks clearly from his mouth, interrupting his hand.

"What be ye, then? A witch?"

Yes, as you were, though I serve no deity in particular.

A laugh, wrestled free from Jonah's throat, his limp body shaking with the force of it, a smile that isn't his, clear on his face. The witnesses watch, stricken.

"A witch?" Mia whispers, a look of fear flashing through her eyes.

"Both of them, and me. We're everywhere. I'll explain later, as I said—"

Matthew is interrupted by Jonah moving, his back arching. A whimper claws its way from the medium's throat, his teeth clenching. The witnesses watch in pale, horrified shock as the conduit's body rises a few inches from his chair, levitating slightly. Jonah's body writhes, a choking sound escaping from him, as a string of clear fluid rises from his open mouth. The ectoplasm floats from him, snaking and undulating its way from his throat, before eventually breaking off, floating as a wispy cloud over their heads. The clear fluid writhes all on its own, taking the fleeting shapes of a woman, rising up to the ceiling.

Jonah comes crashing back into his chair, coughing and clearing his throat. The candle blows itself out.

All at the table flinch, though they do not move. Matt looks terribly concerned, gritting his teeth and staring hard into the face of his lover. He heaves a great sigh as Jonah's eyes roll back to blues, looking vaguely disoriented. The medium reaches out a shaking hand for the water, taking a sip of water before coughing and laughing.

"She would only leave after we discussed the treatment of witches over time…she was hung for it, apparently. Not a suicide, and technically not wrongfully accused, though her craft was white magic. You have her to thank for the steadfast, lush population of flowering bushes and fruit-bearing trees on this property, by the way, Mrs. Marshall."

Marjorie can only nod, staring at the remnants of ectoplasm hovering above their heads, looking almost manic in her disbelief and horror.

Jonah heaves a deep sigh. He's looking a bit pale, his eyes a little hazy. He takes a few more sips of water, Matt's gaze fixed entirely on his twin flame.

"Only two more to go," Matthew states in reassurance, and Jonah smiles. He wipes the table clean again.

"Only two more to go."

Jonah Aickman meets Venus Edgefield in the empty astral plane. Her rage quickly paints the space red, her energy a thunderous cacophony of emotion that literally makes the plane reverberate and shake, undulating with her soul.

The candle lights itself.

Jonah barely has time to write her name on the table, his eyes rolled back already, before he suddenly pitches forward, slamming his head hard to the table. Everyone flinches, though their grip holds strong, not losing contact with the medium for even a second. Jonah screams in a woman's raspy voice, and thrashes, his witnesses doing their best to keep hands on him.

"To the floor, please," Matt urges, and the three of them move as one, pushing Jonah sideways out of his chair and to the floor with hands still firmly on his shoulders. Jonah's hands, clenched into fists, bang insistently along the tile, hard enough to bruise, his head whipping side to side. The lights flicker, and Jonah's back arches. He whimpers in his own voice, and Matt grimaces, watching helplessly as his lover writhes in the throws of displaced rage.

The lights go out, the candle the only light in the house. All of the witnesses gasp, emitting various exclamations of fear as the woman appears, entirely corporeal, standing over Jonah, watching him struggle on the floor. She is covered in welts, bruises, her face misshapen and twisted in pain and anger. One of her lovely hazel eyes hangs from its socket.

"See?" she hisses.

"Yes!" Jonah cries out clearly, in his own voice. "Yes, Venus, Venus, Venus—"

"Do you see what he did to me? What they did to me?"

"Yes yes yes!" Jonah screams. "Evil, inhumane! God, the pain!"

Jonah thrashes harder, and Matt cries out in shock as he feels Jonah's shoulder dislocate under his hand, the sound of it, and other bones snapping, haunting.

"They're in Hell, Venus, they—ahhhh! Please, they suffer—they suffer with your name on their lips! They burn, and burn, they have and always will—"

"They better."

"Please, Venus, stop, I—I see, I feel, I can feel it, please—"

Red splotches, already beginning to bruise, bloom all along Jonah's skin.

"Suffering."

"What good does it do," Jonah hissess through clenched teeth, as her soul wracks his body, "to continue to suffer here in this house, even though they burn in Hell? Why suffer here, when you can—ahhhhhhh!" Jonah screams. "Ascend!"

The woman's head tilts to the side. She crouches to study Jonah's face. One of her hands, the fingers bent wrong, touches the medium's face.

"Ascend?"

"Yes!" Jonah screams. He is crying, the tears rolling hot down his face. "You can leave this Hell on Earth, Venus, you can ascend to a higher plane—free of pain, whole again, with your—with your God, and your family—"

"Do you lie?"

"No!" Jonah wails. "I do not lie! Look inside me, read me, possess me, and see—I do not lie—"

Jonah's eyes open, all whites again, as the woman leans close over him, her apparition suddenly disappearing. Jonah struggles for a few long minutes, panting and crying, trembling in her grasp. He gags suddenly, hard, and the woman appears again at his side for a moment. She is crying. She reaches broken, bloody hands to the sky, looking up, face uplifted, before she vanishes. The candle goes out.

Jonah sags, his eyes going closed, his body still. The witnesses can only watch as he lays there. Matt looks horrified, looking trapped and helpless. Mia is gasping, and her mother, Marjorie, is crying.

"Is he alright? What just happened?" Mia asks.

"He'll be alright, he has to be." Matt responds, his voice shaking.

It takes a few minutes, but Jonah finally comes back to them. He whimpers in pain and struggles to sit up, Matt and Mia helping him. They help the beaten medium back into his chair. He's crying still, miserable.

"One left," he whispers, his voice shaking and edged in suffering. "Please stay with me, we can—we can get through this, only Denny left."

"We've got you, baby, don't worry." Matt supplies, his voice rough with grief. He leans forward and presses a hard kiss to Jonah's forehead, and the medium smiles. "Can you do it? Do you need a break?"

"No. I need to finish this, please. Just…all of you, sit tight. One left."

Jonah Aickman meets Denny Haddon in a wash of color and water. The boy is sopping, shaking and scared. He reaches for Jonah with blue hands, crying steadily.

"Momma! Momma, where are you, please help—"

Matt groans, and Marjorie cries harder, as the young, scared voice rings forth from Jonah's mouth. His expression is pinched, confused and upset, tears still rolling steadily down his face. He scrabbles with the chalk, slow and pained, the handwriting messy, almost unintelligible.

She's just over there, Denny.

One the other side. Follow her, Denny.

"Why'd she leave me?" The boy sobs, "What's happened to me?"

You had an accident, Denny. She didn't leave you, she didn't mean to. She loves you so very much, she's been waiting for you all this time. You'll be alright, Denny, just go along, now—

"So cold! And dark, I—hate it here, so—w-wet and cold—"

I know.

It's warm over there, I promise.

It's warm in Heaven, and Momma is there, and Daddy, and Billy and Sammy and Pawpa—

Jonah sniffles and sags again, dropping the chalk to cover his face, smearing purple muddily along his tear-streaked skin. He cries, and he cries, his shoulders heaving with great sobs. The witnesses stare on, confused and unsure, before his eyes finally open. It's Jonah, lucid and himself, just greatly, deeply troubled.

"God, he died in so much fear," he whispers, his words hitching and breaking, "he'd never liked the water, and then he fell in—"

Matt breaks the circle, dropping Marjorie's hand and standing, crouching in front of Jonah's chair to gather the shaking, sobbing medium into his arms. Jonah wails, burying his face in Matt's chest, gripping Matt's shirt in white-knuckled, swollen hands, reddened and bruised from all the thrashing and beating of the exorcism of Venus Edgefield.

"I know, baby, I know, I'm so sorry for Denny. But you're here, dearest, my Jonah, you're here and fine and alive—"

"Is it over?" Marjorie asks, and Matt nods at her. Mother and daughter rush to each other, holding each other tight.

"That's it, that's all of them. God, I can't believe he was able to do that in one fucking sitting—"

"No!" Jonah cries out suddenly. He wriggles free from Matt's grasp, looking around the room, his eyes wide and staring in horror. "It isn't over, Matthew, it's not, there's—-someone, something—still here in the house. It's black, inky, sticky filth, clinging to the shadows—"

Jonah gags hard and coughs, standing slowly but surely on shaking legs.

"God, it stinks." He moans.

"It's time! Look, Jonah, Dr. Campbell, see—" Marjorie exclaims, pointing at a clock. It has stopped right at three-oh-seven in the morning.

"We have to find it," Jonah states, stepping forward, stumbling and wavering on weak legs. Matthew rushes to support him, hands gripping his lover's hip and shoulder, moving helplessly along with the medium as Jonah exits the kitchen, staggering with purpose through the living room. The women rush to follow, watching as Jonah makes his way to the foot of the stairs, staring up them.

"It's up there, in that room—the room, yours, with Rob—" Jonah states, one foot on the bottom step, wavering precariously.

"It? What? With Rob? What do you mean?" Marjorie questions, her voice shaking in fear and panic. "It's not over?"

"Far from it," Jonah hisses grimly. "It's as I feared. The black, evil energy in your house wasn't from the ghosts…oh no, they're from something else entirely. An entirely different breed."

The medium struggles onto the first step, almost losing his balance. In one fluid motion, Matt scoops him up, carrying the conduit up the flight of stairs quickly, bridal style. Jonah hisses in pain, cradling his still-dislocated arm as Matthew bounds up the stairs. Mother and daughter rush after them, Marjorie begging them to reconsider, as the necromancer and his creation bust into the master bedroom of the Burnham household.